Chapter Thirty #2
“Exactly,” she says and kisses me. “Give the woman more credit.”
“Sorry, Madame Nicole,” I say mockingly.
With piqued interest, she asks, “Which one is the lie?”
“I was only arrested twice as a teenager,” I say. “Rude of you to assume so poorly of me.”
She holds her hands up in surrender. “My bad for not assuming you made your mom clean your jizz socks.”
Bobbing my head uncertainly, I say, “You have two brothers.”
“Ew!” She laughs. “So, stealing the sailboat and …?”
“I got caught spray painting an abandoned warehouse,” I say easily.
“Wow,” she draws out. “Teenage Calypso would have loved you.”
I smile. “She liked trouble?”
Calypso sways her upper body, thinking it over. “She was always looking for trouble but never found the kind she craved.”
“And now?” I ask.
Her eyes find mine. “Maybe sometimes, but—” she shakes her head, “—I think I’ve grown too attached to my own peace. It’s lost its sparkle.”
That makes me laugh. “Fair enough. It’s not as fun once that adolescent fearlessness starts to wear off.”
Maybe it was the day I turned eighteen, or it could have happened gradually.
But one day, I woke up and just felt different.
That sense of maturity I always carried with me, similar to the one Calypso holds like a comfort blanket, felt a lot more fragile.
As I was stepping into the world, I realized I didn’t actually know nearly as much as I had always believed.
That’s when life got real, and all of my past shitty choices started to come into perspective.
Her lips tilt in sad understanding. “God, I miss that feeling.”
I nod in confirmation, familiar with that particular nostalgia.
“Your turn, honey,” I say after a few quiet minutes.
She slips her cold hands up my shirt and runs them along my stomach. “Alright, well …”
We play another few rounds, learning the most random things about each other.
Calypso started ballet at eight, the year they moved to Amada Beach; her favorite movie is Sugar and she pierced her tongue when she was sixteen and got grounded for a month.
That last one surprised me the most, but she said she only had it in for less than a year.
I used most of my best truths and lies in the first round but I was able to pull out a few more. I was on honor roll all through high school despite how often I was suspended; as well as the fact that my first car was a bright red mini van and I wanted to be a whale-watcher when I was a kid.
The game came to an organic ending as we became more interested in talking about all these new facts than in trying to guess.
It’s almost midnight but neither of us have made a move toward the bedroom yet. The whiskey is about a quarter empty and a few of the strawberries remain.
Forgetting the glass, Calypso lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a swig before chasing it with the chocolate-covered fruit. The boat jolts a little and the liquor dribbles down her chin.
With tender affection, I reach up and wipe the mess with my thumb.
There’s no embarrassment in her eyes, only sweet appreciation, and she snickers happily.
“You’re so beautiful,” I muse up at her.
Calypso is still straddling my lap and trying to hold her hair when the wind picks up. She’s wearing a little red striped knit set that hugs her body like a fucking glove. I’ve seen her smile more tonight than I ever have.
She’s not as grumpy as one would think, but she’s discerning with who she opens herself up to, even in small mundane ways.
It makes those deep belly laughs and amused smirks all the more precious.
Even the times when she’s in a bad mood or too far gone in her own head, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
She preens at my compliment but retorts, “You say that a lot.”
“I can stop,” I say and shrug.
Scoffing, she lightly smacks my stomach. “Don’t you dare. It was just an observation.”
“Tell me some others you’ve made.” I bend an arm behind my head.
She hums, thinking it over. “I know when you’re stressed because you check your pockets a lot, like you’re looking for something.
But I know when you need to talk to me about something because your eyebrows furrow—” she presses her pointer finger between my brows, “—right here. It’s the only time you get this little tiny wrinkle.
If we weren’t living together, you’d probably have another pet.
I’ve seen the shelter’s website pulled up on your phone a few times.
You don’t play video games but love watching streamers.
” Ha, that’s true. She continues, “You prefer oat milk, which you could have told me from the beginning.” She gives me a disapproving look.
“I was just happy you were paying attention to me,” I say with a cheeky grin.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t stop. “You always do things with your right side first. When you’re getting dressed, it’s your right arm and leg first. When you’re putting on your shoes, you start with your right foot. It’s made me hyperaware of my own changing habits.”
My head tips back on a laugh. “Yeah, I had no idea I did that. Too late to change now.”
She snickers and walks her fingers up the sliver of skin from where she unbuttoned my shirt. “And you really, really enjoy eating pussy.”
That was probably the first “observation” she made.
“Your pussy,” I say in a low tone. “I really fucking love eating your pussy, Calypso.”
“So,” she teases with a smirk, “it’s a new hobby of yours?”
“Nah,” I say. “I’ve always enjoyed it, but you are fucking intoxicating—an addiction I never want to recover from.”
“It’s a very talented mouth,” she muses. “You won’t hear me complaining.”
Chuckling, I run my hands along her legs, trying to warm her up. It’s chilly despite the nearby heater.
With a hand on my chest, she leans over me. Our mouths hover only inches from each other. I stretch forward, trying to catch her lips for a kiss. Her hand slides up to my throat and she squeezes. Not hard but with enough pressure that I fall back into the cushions.
Tsking, she grabs the bottle of whiskey and uses a thumb to open my mouth.
With a heady gaze, I keep my eyes on her, letting her do whatever she wants with me.
Calypso pours a shot into my mouth then closes it. I swallow the spicy liquid, loving the burn as it goes down. Whiskey always reminds me of Calypso now, adding to my taste for it.
“Good boy,” she says with a saccharine lilt and swipes her tongue along my bottom lip, cleaning a drop of the amber liquor.
I grab the back of her head and kiss her passionately. We’re a needy, messy clash of teeth and tongues. It’s not a battle for control—she has all of it already—but a desire to be closer.
With my hands on her ass, I flip us so she’s under me. She’s panting, staring up at me with a slightly parted mouth and heady gaze. Sitting back on my heels, I grab the bottle of whiskey she is skillfully still holding and take a large swig.
Calypso watches all of my movements, noting that I don’t swallow. It stings against my gums but it’s worth every second when I slip my thumb along her chin and pull her mouth open.
Willingly, she opens her mouth wide and sits up on her elbows, closing a few inches of distance between us.
Bending over her, I spit the liquor into her mouth and watch the way she swallows it down with the same eagerness as when it’s my cum on her tongue.
My eyes trail down her throat, watching the way it bobs, and to her peaked nipples.
With a wolfish expression, I open my mouth but she immediately covers it. “Don’t say it.”
Good girl.
More often than not, it’s a safe bet when hooking up with a woman. Calypso fucking hates it, and she told me immediately after those two words left my lips in the hotel room.
Her guess was correct, but I would have only said it as a joke, never seriously.
She is the first woman to ever call me a good boy, and I love it more than I expected. Only with her though.