Chapter Two
Lacey
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, an open document screen blaring harsh white light into my dimly lit room. Whatever Olly’s planning, he isn’t going to change my mind; I need to switch genres.
My phone screen lights up a moment later.
Excitement surges in my belly, my body springing into action as I clamber toward my bedside table and snatch my phone.
How’s the women’s fiction going?
My brows pull together, and my lips turn down.
Olly wanted me to sit by my phone all night to ask how my writing was going?
I flop back onto the bed, the downy comforter puffing around me as disappointment deflates the bubble of anticipation I pretended I wasn’t floating in all night. You are hopeless, Lacey.
I snap a photo of the blank document on my laptop and press send.
Bubbles appear before his reply.
Olly: I told you. Changing genres isn’t a solution.
No, it’s a necessity.
Bubbles appear again, Olly’s fingers typing quicker than my thoughts can process.
Olly: New inspiration?
Is he asking if I’ve found new inspiration, or is he offering some?
This is my cue to pull away, reinforce my career’s new direction, and say goodnight.
My screen flashes with his next message before I can reply.
I squint and peer closer at the screen. A dark, grainy photo shows a guy on his knees with his lips wrapped around a… “Oh my gosh.”
Heat pools in my belly before morphing into a kaleidoscope of butterflies swarming down low. I drop the phone and clap my hands on both cheeks. Did Olly just send me porn?
He’s divulged raunchy tales painting vivid pictures in my head, but he’s never sent visual accompaniments.
Rolling onto my side, I pick up my phone, my hand trembling as I scan the photo. The angle is from above, a zipper peeled open like wrapping paper around a… yep, that’s definitely a penis.
I’ve only seen one in real life and only a few on-screen late at night when thinking about Olly became too much.
I don’t have a lot to compare to, but this one is very… thick, based on how wide the guy’s mouth is stretched around it.
I don’t recognize the face, but I’d recognize the white sneakers he’s kneeling between anywhere.
Olly.
He sent me a picture of his dick being sucked.
I try to suck air into my lungs, but each shallow breath causes the cotton of my top to scrape like teeth against my sensitive nipples.
His name flashes on the screen with an incoming call, and I freeze, panic slicing up my spine.
I can’t answer. What would I say? Thanks for filling my spank bank?
The call ends, and another message flashes.
Answer the phone, Lovely Lacey. You know you want to.
I do… desperately.
Which is why I can’t.
Another image appears, clearer than the last, as light illuminates his entire length for my hungry gaze. I’ve pictured Olly’s penis in my fantasies and described him in intimate detail in my stories, but imagination doesn’t compare to reality.
My fingers trace his outline over the screen, circling the head and picturing myself in the stranger’s place, feeling the heavy slide of his shaft against my tongue.
Saliva fills my mouth, and a heaviness settles in my breasts.
This is the worst antidote for getting over a crush.
Olly’s name flashes with an incoming call again.
There’s a sudden quickening of my heart, my pulse erratic and thunderous in my ears.
Answering is a bad idea—I’m never getting over this crush if I give in to indecent curiosity, but the wanton, pornographic author in me slides my thumb across the screen.
“I knew the kinky side of you would answer.” Olly’s low chuckle is hoarse, almost breathless. “Inspired yet?”
Scenes form in my head, and snippets of dialogue follow as a new story weaves through my consciousness with Olly as the star.
I lick my lips; my mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert. “A little.”
My voice sounds hoarse, all the moisture in my body pooling between my thighs.
Olly sighs in mock disappointment. “A little isn’t good enough. We can do better.” His voice drops into a low, erotic moan. “Do you want to watch?”
“Watch?” I squeak.
“Mmmm.”
Air escapes my lungs in a rush, leaving me breathless and light-headed. I clutch my throat. “You’re with him? Right now?”
“That’s… what I… said.” Heady breaths punctuate each word. “Wanna see?”
Yes. Blood thunders through my body so fast that my vision blurs and I feel faint. I grip the edge of my mattress to keep myself sitting upright. “I… I’ve decided to write women’s fiction, remember. I don’t… need to.”
No matter how much I swallow, my throat is too dry and scratchy, my voice a hoarse whisper.
“Fuck women’s fiction,” Olly grunts. “And I didn’t ask if you needed to—I asked if you wanted to. Tell me what you want, Lacey.”
Olly’s voice is a low purr, seductive and tempting. I close my eyes and imagine his hot breath on my lips, trailing down my neck to the tips of my breasts.
What do I want?
The strength to hang up…
Olly lets out a frustrated groan before shuffling sounds replace his breath. I hold the phone in front of my face. Is the connection bad?
Color blooms on the screen as the audio call switches to a dimly lit video. Even in the muted light, the call is full definition compared to the grainy photos.
I take in the scene as Olly zooms in, past the arch of a back to the solid length of Olly’s cock buried between two ass cheeks.
Heat surges through my middle, twisting and tugging until a rush of sticky arousal seeps from my core, soaking my panties.
“Can you see?” The screen shakes as Olly pulls out, then rocks his hips forward, his entire length disappearing again.
“Yes.”
“He’s gripping me so tight,” Olly’s breath is a low rumble. “And he has that raw, masculine scent you always write about—sweaty and dirty.”
My nose twitches, and my mouth waters, seeking a hint of cherry cola on the back of my tongue, wanting to drown in the euphoria tasting Olly would evoke.
I shouldn’t watch this.
But I can’t stop.
The camera pans around Olly’s lover’s hip. It dips until a hand fills the screen, gripped tight around a cock, and tugging furiously. Wet fap-fap sounds replace the thunder of my pulse in my ears.
“Still want to write women’s fiction?”
“No,” I whisper.
How can I when it means giving up this?
I will make it work. I have to. I just need to separate my crush from my work.
Be professional.
I grab my computer.
Olly moves the camera back up and zooms until I can clearly see the ridge of his cock head beneath the thin latex cover. Is he really that big, or is it the camera angle?
Heat swells in my breasts until they are heavy and full, my entire body weighed down by intense arousal.
My fingers hover over the keys, but even as plotlines form in my head, I can’t focus; the real-life scene playing out is too enticing to look away from.
Olly lines up the head of his cock again and pushes inside. “Are you inspired now?”
I clamp my thighs tight together, desperate for some friction. “Yes.”
But it isn’t writing Olly inspires. Lust clouds my vision, making me desperate.
Making sure my side of the call is voice, not video, I let the laptop slide onto the bedspread, forgotten, and tuck the phone upright against a pillow.
I’ll start being professional tomorrow.
Settling onto the bed, I run the pads of my fingers over one breast, tracing the swell of skin until I reach my nipple and pinch. Sparks zip like lightning up my spine and ignite in my belly, the sharp sting fueling my growing arousal.
Using my other hand, I stroke the skin just above the elastic waist of my pajama bottoms. Imagining it’s Olly’s touch driving me wild, I shove the fabric aside and slide my fingers down.
Hot, sensitive flesh flutters beneath my touch—so wet and puffy.
Olly lets out a low moan, almost like he can see what I’m doing. I feel dirty, naughty, and insanely aroused, touching myself in secret while watching my own personal porn show.
Olly’s cock is brutal as it thrusts, so thick and perfect, making me want what I shouldn’t. I’m too on edge, too needy to think about how unprofessional I’m acting.
My fingers mimic his movements—pushing and pulling, curling and stroking—trying to get me to that same edge his pumps seek.
But it’s not enough. I need to feel stretched and used. Olly is right; I need a messy fuck that makes my toes curl and my pussy weep.
But I’m in bed, alone, as usual.
Pushing the ache in my chest aside, I reach into my bedside table, pull out my favorite purple toy, and switch it on. The vibrations are loud… too loud.
Quickly, I shove it beneath my pajamas to muffle the sound.
Olly’s movements become more frantic, the screen wobbling, but his cock is still clear enough for me to focus on.
“Lacey.” My name on his tongue is kindling to the fire scorching my insides. The coils in my belly splinter, threatening to crack and send me into oblivion. “Are you watching?”
“Yes.” My voice catches at the end as I swirl the toy around my clit, pretending it’s the swollen tip of Olly’s cock.
“You want this?” He punctuates his question with a thrust, his hips punching faster, the smack of skin on skin louder. “You want my cum?”
I nod, pretending he is talking to me, that it’s my body driving him to the edge. I line up the head of the fake cock at my entrance, and as Olly thrusts, I push.
Pleasure tingles beneath my skin and sprints like lightning through my nerves as I work the rigid toy in and out, stroke for stroke, in time with Olly’s fucking.
“Are you ready for my cum?” He growls again at his lover. “I want to give it to you.”
Yes. I want it all over me.
His lover’s hips spasm and muffled groans hint at his release.
“Fuck.” Olly thrusts forward, then pulls his cock out.
Ripping off the condom, he reveals his cock in all its naked glory—fat, pulsing, and ready to burst.
Olly grips the base with his free hand and tugs it up and down in a frantic rhythm.
My hand matches his speed, pushing the toy deep into my slick hole, fucking myself like I wish Olly would.
He jerks his fist up once, twice, and ropes of cream shoot out of the slit, coating his lover’s back.
The sight of my best friend coming apart sends me over the edge. The dopamine flooding my system ignores reality and consequences for later. My thighs clamp around my hand as white-hot sparks burst beneath my clit in a fiery explosion.
I grab a pillow and slam it onto my face to smother my desperate sob as my hips convulse.
The orgasm rolls through me until I’m a panting, sweaty mess.
“Lacey.” Olly’s voice is muffled, the phone face down on the comforter beside me.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart as I reach for it. “Yeah.”
His face appears on the screen, dark strands of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, eyes glazed with that post-orgasm glow. “Turn on the camera.”
My heart flies into my throat. I’m flushed and sweaty and look like I just had the most intense orgasm of my life.
He cannot see me like this.
I jump up and quickly flick off the bedside lamp, leaving only the distant glow of the kitchen light filtering into my room. Settling back onto my pillow, I blow out a steadying breath and switch to video.
“There you are.” There’s a soft huskiness to his tone.
It’s quickly becoming my favorite sound.
“Here I am,” I say, my voice a little too breathless and shaky. “When you said to answer your call, this is not what I expected.”
Cushions puff around Olly’s head. His eyes are hooded but his smile is turned up. “Since you are too busy to go out for sex, I decided to bring it to you.”
And ruin all my plans.
“Did you touch yourself?”
His question is unexpected and so blunt that it’s both arousing and terrifying. My traitorous heart flutters. “You wish.” I lie.
His smile spreads slowly, turning seductive as he watches me.
Can he tell that my cheeks are flushed and my breathing is too fast?
“Did I inspire your next story at least?”
I lick my lips, wishing moisture would come back so I didn’t sound so croaky. “I have a few new ideas.”
“Good. No more talk of switching genres.”
“Yes, sir.” I salute him, then regret it when my hand trembles.
“Keep talking like that, and I’ll be ready for round two.” He bites his bottom lip playfully.
I gulp. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
“Sweet dreams.”
I hang up as new, dirtier scenes roll through my mind, one after the other, but instead of imagined characters that a professional would use, Olly and I star.
My dreams will not be sweet tonight.
I grab the pillow again and scream into it until my lungs ache.
So much for keeping it professional.
I toss the pillow across the room in frustration. Obviously, I can’t say no to Olly, and if I want to keep making money to pay my way through school, I can’t ignore the scenes playing out in my head, waiting to be written.
How am I supposed to watch my friend screw around and not beg for a try?
I can’t cross that line with Olly, no matter how much my body wants it.
Because even though one night with Olly would be worth one thousand nights with someone else, we want different things, and I love him too much to risk losing him.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe writing about sex isn’t enough anymore. Perhaps this crush—or obsession—is because the only sexual experiences I’ve had since meeting Olly have been via Olly.
The thought solidifies into a decision.
It’s time to find a messy fuck that makes my toes curl and my pussy weep.