Just that one word—my name on his lips— has me snapping to attention, dammit. I lock onto his blue gaze and force my eyes to stay there. It should be strange or unsettling, mirroring eye contact the way we are. Instead, there’s something unexpectedly soothing about focusing all of my energy on Blue. It gives my mind something to do while my body reels with pleasure.
The vibrations change to pulses, and somehow, that’s even better. I pump my hips slowly to the rhythm he’s setting, silently begging him for more. He grants my wish, letting his two thick fingers join the vibrator. I feel a delicious, intense stretch as my body adjusts , and the smile he gifts me in return makes my defenses melt.
The pleasure I feel is ratcheting upward and my body is humming with desire. I feel…needy. There’s no other word to describe it. I’m getting exactly what I want, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting more of it. Blue’s eyes close for just a second before his voice comes out low and gravelly.
“Yes. Touch those perfect tits,” he says, urging me on. “I’d do it for you, but I’m a little busy right now.” It takes a second for my brain to process what he’s saying, and that’s when I realize my hands have migrated to my breasts, caressing and squeezing.
The combination of his words, the look on his face, and the things he’s doing to me? It’s the very best kind of sensory overload. My body feels hot and achy and I know for certain that I’ve never been this wet or this turned on in my entire life. Mylegs start to shake and I should probably be embarrassed by my body’s reaction to Blue, to all of this, but I’m not. All my energy is being used for a much higher purpose now. Who knew sex could feel this good?
The answer is everyone. Everyone, but me.
Maybe I’m finally understanding what all the fuss is about or maybe I’m making up for lost time, but something clicks in my brain that allows my body to release the last little bits of tension it’s been holding onto.
“Give it to me, Liza. Soak my fingers. Let me hear you. I want to remember the hungry sounds you make.” His words are low and soft, meant only for my ears, but I can’t hold back the cry of pleasure that pours out of me. It’s too much and not nearly enough all at the same time. His thumb on my clit is insistent and in a matter of seconds the universe shrinks down to just these four walls. To Blue and to me.
We’re an unlikely pair—and we’re only paired up for one very temporary reason—but something about our circumstances gives me the freedom to lean into what’s happening right now. The high-pitched moan that fills the room belongs to me. The sweat dotting Blue’s brow is all my doing. The need thrumming through my veins right now is proof that I can do this. I can want this. I can have this.
“You look so damn hot right now,” Blue says, his voice rough and deep as his warm breath reverberates against my sensitive flesh. That’s all it takes for me to go over— a little praise, a deep voice, and his magic touch. It’s completely unfair, but it feels too good and I can’t resist it. My body feels like it’s being pulled tight and I feel my hips still for a moment before a rush of sensation courses through me. I hear my voice cry out just as I hear Blue mutter a curse. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me as the most powerful orgasm I could ever imagine takes hold of me.I ride it out for what feels like forever, and when I open my eyes, Blue is smiling at me.
He reaches up across my body and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ve got to be honest with you, okay?”
All the exhilaration of the last few minutes goes down the drain as panic starts to bubble up inside me and words just start spilling out of my mouth. “Oh. My. Freaking. God. Am I bad at sex? Did I just make a fool of myself? Was it so awful that you have to give me notes? “
Blue’s shaking his head before I finish my sentence. “It was hot as hell.Youare hot as hell. But that reindeer vibrator has got to go.”
13
Blue
I’m finding it hard to concentrate right now, and not just because my dad is droning on about his glorious frat days. For the past two days, all I’ve been able to think about is the look on Liza’s face as she fell apart for me. The fact that she questioned herself right afterwards gutted me, and I feel like a fucking dumbass for not making sure that she had absolutely no doubts about how scorching hot it was to watch her unravel.
I’m an idiot.
But I’m a lucky idiot, because we have plans to meet up later today. It won’t be nearly as exciting as Friday night, because we’re grabbing a coffee at Drip right after my team meeting and before Liza heads off to her shift at The Gatehouse. Unless part of Liza’s self care study involves getting busy in a public bathroom stall, I think our meeting will be G-rated, and that’s okay with me. Now, that doesn’t mean I’m not already brainstorming a million creative ways to help Liza get familiar with her body and what she likes. Hell, that’s the one track my mind has been driving on for days now. But I like spending time with her, too. And yes, I know that sounds crazy because she’s despised me since the minute we met, but the truth is that Liza’smy fucking catnip. That sassy mouth of hers, those sharp as hell one-liners? Yes, fucking please. She makes me work for even the slightest bit of attention, and I should hate that. Hard work and I are nothing more than acquaintances, unless you’re talking about hockey. And even then, all my hard work isn’t going to amount to much. In a year and a half, when undergrad is over, I’m going straight to grad school to be molded into the image and likeness of my father. The very thought of it is terrifying, and not only because the man’s combover is the thing nightmares are made of.
Will that be me in thirty years? Well, certainly not the combover part. I love my luscious locks, but if they start to fade and my forehead starts to grow? I’m shaving that shit right off, no questions asked. I’ll take bald and beautiful over thin and wispy any damn day of the week.
But it’s not just my dad’s poor style choices that have me dreading the future he mapped out for me the day I was born. I’m not cut out for the wide world of finance, and it has nothing to do with crunching numbers. That’s the easy part. The hard part is going to be stifling my personality and pretending I give a shit about growing some guy’s portfolio. It’s going to be sitting at lunches and dinner parties and staff meeting with a bunch of assholes and faking my way through life for the next, what? Fifty years or so? It should be safe to pull the mask off once I hit retirement, right?
I sure as fuck hope so.
I’m not a guy with many shits to give, but the few I do have? Those I freely give to my family, the fine art of pranking, and the greatest game in the world.
Just so we’re clear, my family consists of my best friend, Dutton, and my cat, Hazel. Pranking is as fine a craft as painting or playing an instrument, and hockey is the greatest game ever invented. Obviously.
“The salmon’s delicious, isn’t it?” my dad asks , shoveling another bite into his mouth.
There’s a wedding or a christening or something at the club, so we had to pick a different spot for lunch. I don’t even know the name of the restaurant we’re dining at, but we’ve got a view of the water, and my dad’s on his third martini, so it’s got his stamp of approval.
My meal is good, but it pales in comparison to a stack of French toast. I’m practically salivating as I imagine a pat of butter melting in a pool of gooey warm syrup atop a tower of cinnamony, doughy goodness. You know what, I’m amending my list. I hereby declare that I’ve got one more shit to give and I’m proudly bestowing it on French toast.
My father does not share this opinion, and I bet if I ever order it in front of his cronies or the junior partner broskis at his firm, he’d be horrified. He’d probably disown me or claim that my devotion to the sweet treat that doubles as a breakfast food is proof that I was switched at birth. Maybe he’d venture off on a quest to find the true heir to Halliday Financial, LLC. Honestly, the guy shouldn’t be too hard to find. We’ll just go on a nationwide hunt for a twenty-one-year-old man with bad hair, a penchant for boring ties, and a love of grilled lean proteins. That should narrow the field a good bit. And if it doesn’t, we won’t mess around with paternity tests. We’ll just do a playoff round to determine the winner, kinda like they do in golf. My dad loves that shit. After a round of sudden death, the guy with the highest score can have my life. And maybe I can have some freedom. Hell, maybe I can even play hockey.
It’s a pipe dream, for sure. It’s something that’s nice to fantasize about, but it’s never going to happen.
"Something's got you smiling, and I don’t think it’s the honey bourbon marinade they use on the fish,” my dad observes, smiling like he knows something I don’t.
“Just happy to be here,” I shrug. “And the food is great,” I say, because all lies should have a thread of truth to them.
