CHAPTER 8
Palmer
My comment has the desired effect.
Bailey chokes on his water, and it spews out of his mouth, down the front of his shirt. He places one hand on the island and beats the other against his chest as he coughs.
I watch the water drip down his chin. Bailey’s eyebrows are up and drawn together as if he can’t quite believe what he just heard.
Good.
He’s spent all day flirting with me, and I’ve let him. I wasn’t sure if that’s what was happening at first, but the way he undresses me with his eyes every time he thinks I’m not looking gives me the confidence to think that if I asked, he probably wouldn’t say no.
I would be lying if I said that doesn’t feel good. Whether or not he actually wants me is a separate matter, which I’m using this exact opportunity to examine.
This is either about to go really well or be incredibly awkward.
In the meantime, I can’t stop thinking about how I would love to run my tongue up Bailey’s chin to his mouth, then follow the path of the water dribbling down his neck, trailing down what I know are muscles rippling beneath his shirt until I reach the buttons on his pants.
I would kneel at his feet and unbutton them ever so slowly, eyes trained on his, watching pleasure overtake his features until I free his cock and take him in my mouth, then…
Focus, Palmer.
I’m here to play mind games on him, not trick myself into stripping naked and begging him to fuck me, whether that’s been his goal all along, or not.
As much as I’m tempted.
Instead, with an amused grin on my face, I ask, “You good?”
The coughing continues, his face and neck turning red, but he’s able to rasp between coughs, “Yeah. Wrong pipe.” He clears his throat a couple of times then turns toward me to ask, “You’re going to have a what now?”
“A ho phase,” I state matter-of-factly.
“I see.” He takes another swig from his water bottle, never taking his eyes off me. “And what exactly does that entail?”
I shrug, attempting to act as if this conversation is nothing other than what my favorite pizza topping is, then lean forward, resting my elbows on the island in front of him.
“Long story short, it means I want to be fucked, and fucked well and often, by whomever is interested.” Despite my casual tone, I find myself looking at him through my lashes because I can’t bring myself to look at him head-on without blushing.
“Mm-hm,” Bailey murmurs, continuing to sip from his water bottle. His hips lean heavily against the countertop.
Continuing, I say, “I’m not looking for a relationship. I don’t even know if I know how to have a healthy one of those right now. It’s just about sex.”
I see his jaw flex, his teeth and resolve clenching, and hear the plastic bottle crinkle in his tightening grip. I’ve got him right where I want him… for now.
With any luck, I’ll have him in my bedroom shortly.
“And why now?”
The question catches me off guard and, for a moment, I’m not sure how to answer it. “Well.” I pause. “I mean, I was in a relationship, so it wasn’t really an option before.”
“I see.”
His clipped responses make me a little anxious.
Are they clipped because he’s annoyed? Or for some other reason?
Anxiety turns my stomach, and I find myself overexplaining something he doesn’t need to know about.
“Prior to this past week, it had been eight months since I’d had sex.
Before that, when Clay and I slept together, it was always centered around getting him off.
Then when he stopped wanting to sleep with me, I thought maybe it was because something was wrong with me.
I realize now he was getting it elsewhere. ”
I stop, gauging his response. His gaze is steady and trained on my face, although I don’t miss the glance down at my exposed chest when I begin speaking again.
“I’ve only ever had sex with a few people, and Clay has been the only one for the past five years. If we’re being honest, I don’t know if several of those times counts as sex, but we’ll count it for numbers’ sake.” I wave my hand flippantly.
Bailey crosses his arms over his muscular chest, his gaze unwavering, much like it had been at lunch, but there’s a barely masked hunger shining in his dark eyes.
His biceps strain against the sleeves of his shirt, and I nearly start to drool.
Instead, I do what I always do when a situation feels a little awkward: keep talking.
“Plus, there’s so much I want to try!” I ramble. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never had an orgasm during sex, because I’ve used my vibrator and done it myself, but it’s never felt like that with a man.”
His eyes flash, and the heat in his gaze becomes palpable, but he stays quiet, watching me. Listening.
“I want to be fucked, but not like a good, little church girl or a pity fuck for the fat girl. I want to be fucked hard by men who want to fuck me.” I gesture widely around my house.
“I want to be fucked in a car because I looked sexy at dinner, and he can’t wait until we get home.
I want to be bent over the counter when I’m cooking dinner, and for him to fuck me with his tongue until I come on his face, because he’s always been more of a “dessert first” kind of guy.
I want to be fucked on the couch where I caught Clay fucking Sonny to erase any memory of it and replace it with only the memory of my own orgasmic ecstasy.
I don’t care about romance, because look where that’s gotten me. Starting now, my pleasure comes first.”
I push myself up from the island and take a seat on the counter behind me, never taking my eyes off Bailey. I scratch Mouse between her ears, and from my perch, I can see the bulging erection straining against his pants despite him shifting his legs to try and cover it.
However, he makes no effort to hide his eyes trailing lazily up my legs to the apex of my thighs, disappearing beneath the denim. Slowly—deliberately— Bailey’s gaze wanders up the rest of my body, heating my skin, stopping only when he reaches my eyes.
Bailey rounds the island and stops between my knees. He rests his hands on either side of me and leans in; my mouth goes dry.
This plan might be working a little better than anticipated.
“Y- you know what I mean?” I stutter, significantly less confident than I had been mere moments ago.
Bailey’s eyes are nearly black with desire, his pupils pools that I’m tempted to jump into and never come up for air. The muscle in his jaw ticks as if he is straining for control. His lips hover near mine, breath hot against my skin.
“Palmer,” Bailey says, his voice gravelly.
I inhale a short, stuttered breath, waiting for his lips to crash against mine. “Yes?”
The shrill ringing of a cell phone cuts through the sounds of our ragged breaths, shattering the tension stretched taut between us.
Dammit.