Chapter 7
Blake
So hot. Too hot. Why am I—
There’s someone in my bed.
Holy shit.
Cracking open my eyes, I peer over at the lump beside me, wrapped up in my blanket, taking the majority of it, except for a small corner, for herself.
In fact, I realise as I stretch out a long limb, connecting with a much smoother leg than my own, she’s hogging ninety percent of the bed too – her arms and legs spread out like a starfish. The only part of her I can make out is her long blonde hair; locks mussed up against my spare pillow.
I try to swallow but my mouth is as dry as the desert. Not to mention disgusting tasting stale breath mixed with an unidentifiable aftertaste of alcohol.
What the hell was I drinking last night?
Beer—definitely beer—and…
I wince to myself as I recall the burn of tequila searing my throat, my lips twitching at the phantom memory of the tart wedge of lime coating my tastebuds—
My memory kicks into fifth gear, images of last night beginning to sprint through my consciousness.
The bar.
The hen party.
Dancing.
Salt. Tequila shots. Lime.
Somebody’s lips on mine.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes.
Calla.
Calla.
Parts of our journey home are a little hazy, mainly the taxi ride, but I recall perfectly clear what we got up to as soon as we fell through my apartment door.
The filthy things I said, and the way Calla’s body responded.
Her plush lips wrapped oh-so-sweetly around my cock, the tight squeeze of her around my fingers, around my length, the drip of her slick coating my heavy balls…
Ignoring the kick of my cock swelling against my inner thigh, I tense my abdomen, carding my hands through my hair as I sit upright.
God, last night…
My cock bobs against my lower stomach reminding me just how much my body would like a repeat. I’m not even going to try and deny it. Why should I?
Scrubbing at the crust of sleep coating my eyes with the heels of my hands, I glide my fingers upwards into my hair, fisting the short strands as I contemplate what to do next.
Do I wake Calla up? Do I let her sleep in? Should I make breakfast for the two of us, or is it an unspoken rule that you don’t make breakfast for your one-night stand’s?
I press my lips together, unsure.
This… this whole situation… it’s not my usual style. My youngest brother Hudson, yes, but me… not so much.
I’ve never had a one-night stand before. Typically, I date a woman first, get to know her, before we sleep together. That way there’s never been any awkwardness or unsurety about what’s right or what I’m supposed to do next.
I don’t know Calla well enough to know what she’ll want – which, I think, is pretty silly considering I know what sound she makes when she comes and what her pussy feels like gripping my fingers.
Is breakfast too affectionate? Too boyfriend-y?
Kicking her out seems rude, but…
I blow out an unsteady breath, feeling my right eyelid twitch with anxiety.
What would Hudson do?
I bat that thought away as quickly as it comes.
Hudson would probably have kicked the girl out by now or have slipped out of her apartment door without another word while she was still sleeping, never to be seen again.
I’ve heard his stories a million times over Sunday dinner at our parent’s and they’ve always leaving a sour taste behind.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be so careless.
To not be plagued with what-ifs and maybes and—
Regardless, my younger brother’s days of fucking around are over now ever since he fell head over heels in love with Gee.
But if there was ever a time I could do with his advice…
Swinging my legs out of bed, I blink back the silver stars permeating my vision from standing too quickly. The sides of my temples thrum with an oncoming headache. Christ. Who let me mix my drinks?
What’s that saying again? Beer before liquor never sicker. Liquor before beer you’re in the clear.
Well, I’m certainly not in the fucking clear.
The floorboards creak beneath me as I take a step towards the bathroom, the Calla shaped lump shifting in my bed at the noise. I stop still, glancing back at her, watching as her furrowed brow relaxes back into sleep.
I brush my teeth, swilling my tongue with mouthwash and piss, pulling away the thin, single blonde strand of hair wrapped around my length.
Yanking on a grey pair of tracksuit bottoms over my hips, I will my morning wood to give it a break as I boil the kettle, grabbing a mug, and then a second, from the cupboard above.
While my coffee cools, I shake up a pre-made juice shot, dislodging the seeds from sitting at the bottom of the bottle.
I knock back the orange-coloured liquid with a purse of my lips; the burn of ginger and turmeric reminding me way too much of the devil’s liquor I’d swigged back last night.
Although this time, I don’t have a lime, or the sweet taste of Calla’s lips to chase away the sourness.
I busy myself with making some porridge, my usual go-to breakfast seeing as how I can’t stomach bacon or eggs, adding a spoonful of raspberry jam and a handful of organic almonds on the side.
Licking the back of the spoon clean, I push the refrigerator door closed with my hip just as a croaky voice sounds out. “Any coffee going?”
Turning, I find a tired looking Calla padding towards me. The white shirt she’s wearing – one I recognise from my own wardrobe – flirts around her upper thighs. Dangerously so.
It doesn’t help that the t-shirt is practically see through, allowing me to see her lack of knickers and the exact colour of her nipples poking through the thin fabric.
My cock perks up again at the sight as my mouth waters.
Reaching for my own coffee cup, I take a sip and swallow back the phantom taste of Calla on my tongue.
She takes another step into the kitchen, wiping the pads of her thumbs beneath her eyes, until we’re almost chest to chest. Up this close, I can just make out a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, no longer hidden by last night’s makeup.
“Coffee?” she asks again, hiding a yawn behind her palm and peering up at me.
God, she’s pretty. A fucking knockout.
“I’ll make you a cup,” I say. “How do you take it?”
“Two sugars and a dash of milk, please.”
I nod. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No, thank you.”
Turning, I begin to fix Calla’s coffee order, all the while able to feel the heat of her eyes searing into my bare back. I clench my jaw, pouring in the boiling water, wafting away the billowing steam, unsure of what to do next.
Do I catch her gaze? Do I—
Calla decides my next step for me.
I hear the soft movement of her bare feet on my tiled kitchen floor moving further away, the tired exhale of my well-worn sofa as she sits down upon the leather cushions, the slight tapping of her nails against the pixilated screen of her mobile phone.
For a heartbeat, I mentally berate myself for missing my chance with her and then catch myself.
What chance? There is no chance.
It’s a one-night stand, for God’s sakes.
I don’t see Calla making any sort of move to show she’d like to get to know me any further than sleeping together for a night, and believe me, I think if she wanted to make that clear to me, she would.
It’s pretty obvious after last night, when Calla let me know exactly how she wanted to be touched, that she isn’t afraid of speaking her mind. She isn’t someone who just sits and lets an opportunity she wants pass her by. She goes for it. All in.
So, why should this morning be any different?
“Here you go.” Gathering our mugs, I round the back of the sofa, dropping down beside Calla. Our fingertips brush together for a heartbeat as she takes her mug from me, but then she’s pulling back, placing a wedge of space between us.
I take a sip, watching Calla blow across the scalding liquid, from my peripheral vision.
The shirt she’s wearing – my shirt – rides higher on her thighs now she’s sitting, silky legs folded beneath herself.
I try not to let myself stare, but I fail within seconds, eyes fixing on the soft skin of her upper thighs.
I bet I could mark them a pretty shade of red with my teeth, working upwards until I could tongue fuck her tight pussy.
I just know she’d taste as sweet as the rest of her; addictive and downright sinful.
As if she can read my mind, the sight of Calla’s smirk swims into my vision.
I meet her eyes, holding her gaze as I take a gulp of coffee and bring a knee up, foot resting on the edge of the sofa, to hide the tenting of my crotch.
After getting what she wanted last night, Calla certainly isn’t jumping on me again and I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable because of my body’s natural reaction.
Inhaling, stomach and ribcage expanding, I desperately try to ignore the sweet scent of Calla beside me.
She still smells of the perfume she wears, the aromatic scent less dominant than it had been before, but still there, nevertheless.
But now it’s intermingled with the familiar scent of my laundry detergent embedded into the fibres of the thin shirt she wears.
I clear my throat into the rim of my coffee cup, scratching at the nape of my neck. The skin there prickles with heat. In fact, my whole body feels alight; skin stretched tight across my bones.
“How did you sleep?”
Unsurprisingly, Calla is the one to break the silence between the two of us, rubbing her thumb along the square outline of the photograph printed onto the side of her coffee cup.
It was a gag gift from my younger brother, Grey, a couple of years back, showcasing all four of us Millen brothers.
I can’t remember what we’re celebrating in the photograph, but it’s something, what with the grins we’re wearing, and the bottles of beer clutched in our respective hands. Noah’s stag do, perhaps?
I watch Calla’s gaze flick over the grainy faces staring back at her before she turns her attention back to me.
“You sleep like a starfish, limbs spread out all over the place.”