3. When The Cat’s Away, The Mice Will Play #2
It’s not a sweet kiss. It’s hungry, and a little clumsy, and more honest than anything that’s happened tonight. I feel it all the way down to my toes. My hand goes to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and his other arm wraps around my waist, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll evaporate.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the pulse in my ears. Then I pull back, blinking, and realize I’m grinning like a fool.
“Wow,” I say, because it’s all I can think of.
He laughs, low and soft. “Yeah. Wow.”
We stand there, caught in the afterglow, until the cold finally seeps into my bones.
I shiver, and he pulls me in tighter, tucking me under his chin.
It’s a little weird because I feel like I should be more attracted to him.
He’s tall, handsome, athletic, and genuinely nice.
But there’s no danger to him, no spark of electricity that makes my body hum.
But I should make the most of the situation because how often do you meet a bona fide “nice guy”? I pull away, smoothing my hair, and look him straight in the eye. “Want to see the rest of the house?”
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Lead the way.”
We slip back inside, unnoticed, the party still thumping on somewhere in the background, but for us, the world has narrowed to just this: the hush of empty hallways, the whisper of our footsteps on the runner, the fizz of anticipation between us.
At the top of the stairs, I pause and glance back at him. He’s looking at me like I’m a riddle he wants to solve, and I like the feeling of it. I gesture down the hall, and he follows, his hand never leaving my waist.
We walk together, side by side, through the dark, echoing house.
A plan starts to hatch in my mind. It’s not cute, nor all that nice, but if things stay on course, then Brad is going to get the surprise of his life tonight.
The hallway is so quiet it feels like we’ve slipped into another dimension, the world below muffled to a distant, persistent thump—pulse of the bass, the ghost of laughter, the memory of a party still spinning in the bones of the house.
Brad’s hand is a steady weight at my back, and I realize, as we walk, that I’m not breathing.
Or maybe I’m breathing too much—lungs working overtime, chest tingling, each step toward the guest suite calibrated so precisely it might as well be choreography.
We pass portraits of my family, all rendered in the same impossible gloom.
Their eyes don’t follow us, but they don’t need to.
The guilt is baked into the air, a sweet, embarrassing aftertaste, and I want to laugh but instead I smile up at Brad, making sure he knows I’m cool.
I’m calm. I’ve never done this, but it needs to come off like I’ve done this a million times.
The guest room I pick isn’t even the nicest one.
It’s the one at the far end of the hall, a space no one ever uses, dressed in cold grays and a single, stunning blue painting above the headboard.
I flick the lights on low. The sheets are crisp, the air smells like cedar and linen, and everything is too neat, too pristine, like a hotel nobody’s ever checked into.
Brad stands just inside the door, shoulders squared, eyes raking over every inch of me like I’m a particularly confusing equation.
He’s got a dimple I never noticed, deepening when he grins, and for a second I imagine him as a little kid, awkward and shy.
The image is oddly comforting, and I draw on that as I walk to the window and draw the blackout drapes.
The room plunges to twilight, the only light a thin white bar under the door and the cool, blue pool cast by the painting above the bed.
He clears his throat, then, as if suddenly remembering he’s meant to be suave, steps forward and puts his hands on my waist. I let him, feeling the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of my dress.
“You sure?” he asks, voice gentler than it was on the patio.
“Yeah,” I say. The word comes out so soft I hardly hear it myself. I smile anyway, tilt my chin up, and kiss him.
This time, it’s softer. There’s a new hesitation—maybe from him, maybe from me—and I wonder, for one dizzy second, if he can sense it.
My inexperience. My secret. I force the thought away, and let my hands slide up his chest, fingers tracing the line of buttons on his shirt.
He’s warm, solid, the kind of boy who’d catch you if you jumped and never let you fall.
He tugs the zipper of my dress down, slow and careful.
The fabric peels from my shoulders with a whisper, pooling at my feet, leaving me bare except for the lacy black thong I picked specifically for the purpose of being memorable.
My skin tingles, goosebumps chasing themselves down my arms, but I don’t flinch.
I hold my pose—one hip cocked, shoulders back, big breasts bobbling, a look I practiced in every mirror from here to Nicolette.
I hope it says: I want this. I hope it says: I’m not new.
Brad’s hands are a little shaky when he touches me, fingers glancing across my ribs, then my hips.
Oh my god, is he a virgin too? Surely not, right?
I thought boys these days lost their virginities at fifteen.
But he seems unsure too as he steps out of his shoes, toeing them off, then undoes the buttons of his shirt, one by one.
His chest is smooth, hard, dusted with a line of hair that disappears under his belt.
He smells faintly of aftershave and something warm, almost animal.
I swallow, then reach for his belt buckle.
He lets me.
The leather makes a soft popping sound when it comes undone.
I work the fly open, and his jeans slip over his hips, revealing boxer briefs stretched tight by anticipation.
But when I reach for him—really reach—something goes sideways.
Instead of the flash of intimidation I was bracing for, there’s…
less. Not nothing, but not the war hammer I’ve seen on screens, not the impossible promise of ten inches, not even what I’d imagine for a guy who’s six two. It’s smaller. Manageable. Almost cute.
I freeze. For half a second, I don’t know what to do.
Brad sees my surprise. His eyes flick up to mine, and I know, in that flash of blue, that he’s seen it before. He’s braced for it, the way people brace for a joke that’s always at their expense. For a split second, I feel his shame like it’s a physical thing, sharp and fast.
I want to make it better. I want to be cool. I want to be so far above it all that he never remembers the look on my face right now.
So I smile, wide and slow, and reach out, running my fingers over the length of him.
“Nice,” I say, and even I don’t know if I’m lying.
“You’re hot.” It’s not the right word, not the word I’d pick if this was a game or if I knew what I was doing, but he relaxes.
His shoulders drop, his jaw unclenches. The moment softens.
He steps out of his jeans and tugs me onto the bed, pulling me onto his lap. My thighs are trembling, but I steady myself with my hands on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart—fast, uneven, like mine.
His hands move over me, stroking and squeezing, thumbs brushing the points of my nipples.
My body reacts before my brain does—heat spirals out, my breath catches, and I tilt my head back, letting him kiss along my neck and jaw.
I fake a low, throaty moan, the kind I’ve practiced in private, and he growls, a real, hungry sound.
We fumble together, two kids playing dress-up in adult skin.
His hands are everywhere, and I do my best to match him, trying to remember everything I’ve seen and read, every whispered story traded in dorm rooms or in the Nicolette fitting room.
When he slides my thong down, he does it with an almost reverence, and I want to thank him, or maybe warn him.
He reaches between my legs, and I tense, not quite ready, but unwilling to break character. He must feel it, because he pauses, then kisses my forehead, the gesture so gentle I almost lose my composure.
“Still good?” he whispers.
I nod, biting my lip. “Yeah. Better than good.”
He lines himself up, and for a terrifying second, I’m sure I’m about to be exposed as a fraud.
That he’ll see the way I hold my breath, the way my whole body locks down in anticipation.
But he’s careful, so careful, and when he pushes in—just a little—he groans, a real, desperate sound, like he’s been starving for this all his life.
Unfortunately, I don’t feel anything. Literally, he’s so small that I don’t feel anything enter me, or exit me, for that matter. I pause, unsure what to do.
“Um, is it in?” I finally ask.
Brad’s eyes flip open, gaping holes in the dark.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just that I’m not sure if you’re in or not. I mean, you could be, but I’ve been using numbing gel so I can’t feel anything down there,” I lie furiously when I see the hurt pooling in his eyes. “Vaginal numbing gel,” I add quickly. “It’s not you, it’s me, I swear—!”
Oh shit, I’ve completely screwed up. Brad’s eyes go glossy as his eyes fill with tears because it’s obvious I’m lying. What the hell is vaginal numbing gel anyway? But then, the door bursts open and I’m saved by a dark figure who lets out a loud, nasty laugh.
Sure enough, it’s my Uncle Hunter.
And the alpha male just caught us en flagrante, with my bare pussy hovering over a small, male penis.
“Got what you were looking for, sweetheart?” Hunter chuckles.
Hot shame heats my cheeks even as my cunt moistens at the very sound of that deep growl because Hunter’s the man I want … as Brad squirms below me, his penis small, deflated, and oh so sad.