I crossed my arms over my abdomen and pulled my sweater over my head before letting my thighs spread as I ran my fingers up the front of my thigh highs. The same thigh highs Nolan had rolled up my legs and over my knees until his hands were so close to the damp heat pooling between my legs. I’d forgotten to take them off at the toy shop, and after this morning, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to give them back. No, I’d sleep with these babies under my pillow until I was on my deathbed and pass them on to one of my grandchildren in the hopes they’d have the same joy of fucking—or almost fucking—their former celebrity crush one day.
Instead of taking the time to strip down completely, I pulled my skirt up around my waist and let my heavy breasts spill out of the light pink lace bralette I’d changed into after getting out of the corset.
Propped up on one elbow, I slid my other hand down the front of my soaked lace boy shorts.
I didn’t last long. All it took was the thought of Nolan, a few doors down with his phone in one hand and his hard cock in the other.
Bee was nice. She could survive the next few weeks without a whiff of naughty behavior.
Bianca? Not so much.
Chapter Eleven
Nolan
Sticky with fluids both gingerbread-scented and not, I set my phone down on my bed and scrubbed at my face with my not-sticky hand.
Would this be any easier if we hadn’t shared a petite mort together in the costume department this morning? Surely, it would be; surely not having felt her, the soft wet heat of her, would mean I’d be that much stronger when it came to resisting her siren Bianca song. It was always easier to quit when you didn’t know what you were actually quitting, when you could pretend it was probably an overblown fantasy anyway.
But unfortunately for me, nothing about that fantasy was overblownat all. Which meant that my dick was still stirringvaliantly for more, even after treating myself to her live video. A live video that felt like a slightly cruel touch, by the way. She knew I was a Honey Pot subscriber, so surely she’d known I would see it. Did that mean something?
Did it matter if it did?
I decided to take care of my renewed hard-on in the shower—might as well put all that soaping and rubbing to good use—and then afterward, I dressed and gave myself a sermon about making sure Bee and I had plenty of room for the Holy Spirit between us whenever we were together. Maybe I’d cave and satisfy myself with her ClosedDoors posts from time to time, but Bee needed her identity to stay a secret, and I needed my new identity to remain so clean that it merited an Outkast song.
It made me wonder, though. Whoever had taken the picture from the other night, certainly they knew about Bianca von Honey? And if they knew, did that also mean they got to—
I tried to cut that line of thinking off at the root. It wasn’t my business. Bee got to touch whomever she wanted, and if she felt safe enough to be with someone else while filming, then that was her right. The main thing was that we stayed away from each other and didn’t do anything to mess up our respective opportunities with this movie.
No Bee, I told myself, like a prayer.Pure as the driven snow.
No Bee, pure as the driven snow.
Silently repeating my new mission and vision statement, I went downstairs and out to Frosty’s, where I caught up on theater TikToks and had the best BLT of my life. Kallum texted right as I was contemplating ordering five more.
Kallum with a K:Have you talked to Isaac today? This week is the week.
He’d capped off his text with a crying emoji—the one with the single teardrop, not the super dramatic one—and then he added:
Kallum with a K:I tried calling, but he didn’t answer.
I sat back in the vinyl booth, a new heaviness in my chest. Isaac hadn’t answered a call from Kallum or me since his wife’s funeral, which was almost exactly a year ago. While Isaac and Brooklyn’s relationship had initially been manufactured—him the boy band heartthrob, her the mega pop starlet—they really had been in love. Not the way Kallum had always thought himself in love, calling me at all hours of the night to dissect three-word DMs or to do a blow-by-blow of a six-week anniversary date. But likereallove. The kind of love boy bands sing about.
So when Brooklyn died so unexpectedly, it was like a part of Isaac had died along with her. And while there had always been a quiet gap between Isaac and both me and Kallum before Brooklyn’s death, that gap had turned into some sort of uncrossable chasm after she’d gone. Isaac’s normal songwriter brooding had turned into outright seclusion—including from his former bandmates.
Me:I’ll try calling him too. And texting. Sometimes he answers texts?
Kallum with a K:He needs to get out of that house. It’s got to be like living in a tomb.
Isaac was still in the Malibu home he and Brooklyn had shared, the Malibu home Brooklyn had died in, cradled in Isaac’s arms as she breathed her last breath. It was very sad, very Victorian.
And so Kallum and I worried about Isaac still living there sometimes.
Kallum with a K:Also I dropped some garlic knots by the house tonight. Everyone is doing fine. Maddie had a boy over.
Me:WHAT???!?!
Kallum with a K:Hey there, big guy. Sun’s getting real low.
