Chapter 17 – Pookie
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
POOKIE
The ocean waves crash onto the shore, the claws of the sea grabbing the sand back into its grasp as the dark, stormy night retreats into the Atlantic, replaced by the early morning sun.
I'm bent over the balcony at the waist, peering down at the empty beach that'll soon be packed.
My package bounces with every thrust from behind, but it's held in place by a yellow jockstrap.
Braxton's thrusts become erratic as he whimpers out unspeakable profanities. The next thing I know, he pulls out, and I feel the hot spray of cum coating my cheeks—a feeling that's become all too familiar over the past month.
I wrap my hands tighter around the balcony railing, because Braxton isn't done yet.
He's outed himself as a cum connoisseur with the caveat that he only enjoys eating his own cum.
The official excuse is that it's packed with protein, but that argument doesn't hold up to scrutiny when he refuses to put his mouth anywhere near my dick.
That's one of two lines he claims he's not ready to cross, but promises he's working on it.
He brushes his tongue over my ass, lapping up every bit of his jizz like he's starving.
He's nowhere close to starving. He stopped swearing every time was the last time about two weeks ago.
Now, he crawls into my bed every night. It's even easier to do so when we're sharing a room on a group trip to South Beach.
A knock on the door sends a jolt through my heart. I cock my head over my shoulder as Braxton jumps to his feet and climbs into a pair of loose-fitting boxers.
"Shit," he whines, leaving me on the balcony as he rushes inside.
One of the two beds looks slept in—fucked in—while the other looks just as it did when we arrived last night.
Braxton tosses the pillows around, wads the comforter into a twisted mess, and rustles the sheets to make it at least look slept in.
He sprays himself down with cologne before approaching the door.
I grab a change of clothes, scatter into the bathroom, and turn on the shower.
I'm quick in the shower as I've already had one this morning.
Just need to clean off Braxton's scent all over my ass.
When I'm done, I wrap a towel around my waist and step out into the room to find Jules and a camera crew.
Braxton sits on the bed with his hands held between his legs.
He's fully dressed in a pair of short trunks and a white tank.
He's sporting a serious case of bed head, but we're on vacation, so I doubt production is thinking too much about that.
They're certainly not thinking, damn, it looks like that man spent all night in a fuckathon.
"Shocker," Jules says while chewing aggressively on a piece of gum. "Nobody is fucking ready on time."
I twist my gaze to the side. "What are you talking about? I thought we didn't have anything scheduled until noon?"
She chuckles, shakes her head, swipes through a tablet, and approaches, thrusting it into my face.
"You were sent this updated schedule right before midnight.
And don't pretend you didn't see it." She tosses the tablet onto the bed where it bounces on the mattress.
"The two of you look like you just stepped out of a tornado or an all-night bender.
We're in Miami, so I'm going to assume it was the latter. "
I choke on a muffled laugh. Of all the times we've been absolute party maniacs, last night was not one of them. We didn't drink a drop nor did we snort a single line. We were too preoccupied doing otherthings and missed the text messages and emails.
"You two need to be downstairs and in the Sprinter van in the next five minutes." She huffs as she pries the door open and snaps her fingers. "Pronto."
The cameraman follows her out, closing the door behind him.
I get dressed in a hurry, pulling on a neon orange Speedo and a pair of matching orange shorts over them. For the top, I choose a white tank top. Sure, it matches Braxton, but what the fuck other color can I wear that goes with neon orange?
Braxton scrolls through his phone, lifts his gaze, and grumbles. "You're not going to like this."
"What?" I sigh, but I'm pretty sure I already know what it is in the pit of my gut. "Cameron?"
He nods, shoves the phone in his pocket, and grits his teeth. "Please, just let me punch him again."
"No." I glare at him. It's been a month since our last run-in with Cameron. Since then, Gunnar and he have continued to date. However, I'm almost certain it's nothing more than a storyline. For starters, Gunnar isn't Cameron's type because Gunnar can't be controlled.
Braxton braces his hands on his hips, eyes aimed squarely at me. "Just tell Gunnar," he pleads. "He's an asshole, but if he knows the truth, do you really think he'd keep parading that monster around?"
"No." I sit on the edge of the bed, but I know we don't have a lot of time. "We've talked about this. I don't want what happened to me to become a storyline."
"It kind of already is," he points out, and he's not wrong. He joins me, taking a seat beside me. He wraps an arm around my back and holds onto my shoulder, pulling me in close to him. "You know the whole world would be on your side."
I drape my head into the crux of his shoulder. "I think you have too much faith in people."
"Maybe I just have a lot of faith in you.
" He massages my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.
It's oddly intimate, which is a ridiculous thing considering everything we've been doing behind closed doors.
"He's like this shadow. Every time he's around, the smile fades from your face. I much prefer seeing you in the sun."
I rise to my feet, but I'm not there for long.
I straddle his lap, my knees sinking into the mattress.
I throw my arms around him. Typically, when I find myself in this position, it means a pounding is imminent, but we don't have time.
This is a comfort thing, which I know is weird.
The fact that I'm the one who needs to comfort him right now, but his rage towards Cameron has been building up over the last month, and I need it to simmer.
"We're in Miami," I say. "The sunshine capital. Let's get through this quick meeting with Dumb and Dumber, and then we'll spend the rest of the trip in the sun. How does that sound?"
He peers upward with those damn ocean eyes that drag me out to an endless sea—a place I'm stranded, but I don't mind it.
Not at all. This thing between us, this secret thing, is my favorite thing in the world.
I don't know how it ends, or even if it does, but for now, sitting in his lap is the safest place in the whole goddamn world.
"Okay," he says flatly, swallowing his pride. He pushes the hair from my forehead and combs it to the side. "If you change your mind, tap my foot underneath the table, and I'll gladly swing."
"Deal," I promise him, but no such foot tapping will occur.
A hand moves down to the small of my back, and he forces me onto my back, climbing between my legs. He grinds against me, his cock hardening in his shorts. My own cock hardens too.
"We don't have time for this," I grumble, but that's the beginning and end of my protestation.
He tugs on my earlobe with his teeth. "Don't have time for what?" he groans into my ear. "I just want to kiss you one last time before cameras follow us for the rest of the day." His breath is hot and ragged as he makes his way to my mouth, pressing his mouth against mine. "I'm so gay for you."
I stopped arguing the semantics with him about that particular phrase. He can label himself however the hell he wants. It doesn't affect me. And though he hasn't explicitly said it, I know that he's mine and I am his.
Cameron's dark emerald eyes leer across the table.
Of the four of us, he's the only one not wearing sunglasses, even though we're dining on a boardwalk patio of a tourist trap—one of the few restaurants that would let us film on Ocean Drive.
Cameron's sunglasses are clipped to the middle of his shirt.
He has to constantly squint to see anything, which makes me think the only reason he's not donning the shades is because he wants to make sure I can read the threats in his eyes.
The Miami sun razes my skin, threatening to tear through a thin layer of sunscreen. I take a quick sip of water as we wait for our server to come back to take our orders. Since the time we've sat down, not more than a handful of words have been said.
I look to the left to find Jules standing with pursed lips.
She's not happy her show ponies aren't performing.
She raises a hand to the crew and steps into frame.
"We all remember we're filming a reality show, right?
Do I need to pass out a fucking script?" Her eyes dart around the table, waiting for someone to respond.
Nobody does. She settles her gaze on Braxton.
"I have an idea. Why don't we start this conversation with an apology? "
Braxton peels the shades down to the bridge of his nose. "What am I apologizing for?"
"Seriously?" Gunnar scoffs. "You attacked him unprovoked."
"There we go." Jules claps her hands together and backs out of frame. "That's your script. Now do your fucking jobs."
It's awkward because the cameras never stopped filming, so they capture a complete rewind of the conversation.
This time, Braxton begins the confrontation. "I know you brought me here for an apology, but there are two things I don't do. I don't eat spaghetti for breakfast and I don't apologize for shit."
Gunnar shakes his head. "I don't know how you've made it this far in life without getting your ass beat."
Braxton pushes his shades back up the bridge of his nose and smirks. "You sound kind of violent, Gunnar. Would you like to talk about that?"
Gunnar leans forward and seethes, "I'd like you to apologize for the bullshit you pulled at the Spritz. You attacked him unprovoked."