Barely even friends, p.15
Barely Even Friends, page 15
He leaned back, eyes heavy lidded, watching me, my breasts bouncing as my hips rolled.
“You’re too good at this.” He moaned, falling further, landing on his elbows, pulling me down with him, nipping along my neck, fingers clutching at my hips. “Don’t hold back.” He growled, shifting his hips, his erection pressing along the front of my pajama pants, hitting all the spots that made my toes curl.
Every part of me was turned on watching him enjoy this, as my body clenched on nothing. He brushed his fingers against my nipples, my palms landing on either side of his head, squeezing the comforter.
He overwhelmed me, his clean scent surrounding us, the taste of his skin, every growl from the back of his throat, the flush covering his body. Kissing him in the library hadn’t been a blip—it was a taste, and now I was getting another course, hungry for more.
I rocked into him, stars flashing behind my eyes, building, and building. And burst.
“Petal,” he breathed against my lips.
We ignited together from nothing more than grinding in our pajamas. I liked it way too much. The gentle way he kissed me, thumb brushing against my cheek, smiling again, like for tonight, we had a secret.
We cleaned ourselves up and ended up back on the bed.
“You’ll stay?” His hand grabbed at the thick part of my waist, holding me to him. Every single part of him was telling me he wanted this, wanted me, at least for tonight.
I avoided glancing toward the couch. “Yeah, I can stick around.”
“Good.” His eyes were at half mast, and it was hard not to be smug. “In a minute, I’m going to get my hands on you.”
“Sure you are.” My fingers scratched along his scalp.
“I have,” he yawned, “to keep feeling you.”
“I know, stud.” My limbs were heavy, sated.
I should have moved, gotten under the covers, lain on one of those flat pillows. But I couldn’t, mesmerized by the peace on his face, no scowls or frown lines. Relaxed. His enormous palm gripped my hip, keeping me partially on top of him as he slept.
My eyes tracked the darkened room, seeming larger with so few possessions in it. In his space, his heartbeat under my ear, it was too easy to fall asleep.
* * *
119 Days Until the Deadline
A pocket of sunshine forced my eyes open, one curtain pulled back, head resting on a too flat pillow in the middle of a mattress. I was in Oliver’s room, in his bed.
My palm swiped out, but I was only met with cool, soft cotton that Ambrose had probably ironed before he had made the bed.
I was alone.
It was for the best. Made things simple. I could slip out, avoid any awkwardness.
I hurried, fixing my clothes, throwing my hair back in a ponytail, hoping my room was empty now so I could shower and change.
As I reached for my cell phone, the en suite bathroom door opened, and my heart leaped in my chest, ending any chance of a simple escape.
“Morning.” Oliver stood in front of me, water glistening on his shoulders as he toweled his hair. Another towel was swung across his hips, leaving his delectable chest bare.
My cheeks were still flushed from his beard as I watched a drop dip down his skin, my body lighting up for a moment, tingling from the memories of the night before, how he’d gripped my hips, the grunts he made, the intimate way his gaze held mine as he came.
“Morning.” I bit my lip hard.
“Did you sleep okay?” He took another step into the room.
“Yeah, uh … did you slumber restfully?” I was focused on the newly exposed freckles on his shoulders, which I had been too distracted to discover the night before. I wanted to count them, memorize them, trace their pattern.
“Yes.” His face contorted, almost confused. “I did.”
“I should …” I gestured toward the door, inarticulate. But what do you say? “Hope the make-out and grind session was as good for you as it was for me?” I was a walking disaster and had to leave before I said something embarrassing. Like, can we do it again sometime?
He took another step, but he seemed miles away from this room. Probably figuring out the best way to let me down gently. “Petal, I—”
“It’s okay—I understand. We don’t have to do the morning-after thing.” It was safer. He had mentioned he hadn’t done this in a while. No need to make it worse with my awkward tumble of morning-after feelings as messy as my hair.
“The morning-after thing?” He genuinely seemed confused.
Why couldn’t he let this be easy? Give me one of his stiff nods and let me overthink all of this in peace.
“Where you ensure I’m not in love with you and am not going to expect sleepover privileges from now on. We’re good, I promise.” I held my hands up as if I could convince him, or at least clarify I wasn’t trying to act out every romantic comedy I had ever watched.
His hand fell to his side, face unreadable. I was baring my heart as I shifted my stance, fingers curled around the hem of my sleep shirt. My body screamed, Defenseless soul! Try not to break her, please.
“Are those the only options?” he asked.
“What else is there?” It was tempting to tell him he was relying on an expertise I’d never had that didn’t fit into my escape-as-soon-as-feasible plan. He was vulnerable, lonely in a way I understood. He didn’t want a fuck buddy; this had been a one-time-only thing.
When he said nothing, I accepted it as my cue to leave. I gave him a small salute, which was guaranteed to ensure I was never getting laid again, especially by him.
My room was blessedly empty as I stood in the shower, hoping to release some of the tension that had wrecked my body moments after I’d awoken.
Worse, I was still keyed up from the night before. I circled my clit in smaller and smaller circles, desperate for relief. But it wasn’t enough, my fingers were too small, it wasn’t enough pressure, and I was still aching.
Unable to stop myself, I imagined the roll of his hips, the weight of his erection as he thrust against me. Touching myself, I fantasized it was him, wondering if anything could ever compare.
The shower didn’t get rid of my embarrassment, but helped it melt into my skin, releasing the tension so I could face the day. The grumble of my stomach reminded me I couldn’t avoid going downstairs forever. One hookup didn’t have to change everything. One night to knock it out of our systems, that was all it was. Now things would be less … tense between Oliver and me.
I passed Finn, pausing briefly, even though he was absorbed too deeply to give me more than a nod before bringing his brush to the wall in that deliberate manner of his. Every time I saw him paint, I was struck by his talent. He’d taken the inspiration Oliver’s mom’s notebook provided, putting his own spin on it. His work inspired me on how to reupholster the dining room chairs, helped me decide between my carpet options.
Hopefully, Oliver would feel the same way.
Sebastian’s eyebrows lifted in surprise as I strolled into the kitchen. Traitor. Even with my shame, the deadline didn’t allow for horny breaks.
“And where have you been?” Sebastian’s voice was filled with laughter.
“Oh, now you care?” I not so accidentally stomped on Sebastian’s foot as I grabbed a bagel, placing it in the toaster.
“I may have deserved that. But you are suspiciously well rested for someone who didn’t sleep in her bed last night in a house with a shortage of beds.”
The desire to pick up a bagel and smack the smugness out of him with carbohydrates filled me. “I don’t wish to talk about it.”
He squirmed, slightly contrite. “I’m sorry. We didn’t exactly plan it, and trust me, you didn’t want to come in when you knocked.”
“Yes, thank you for the favor you did me.” I reached for the cream cheese and a plate. The aroma of the coffee carafe was calling my name as I prepared my breakfast, sitting across from the man formerly known as my best friend. “Don’t make me stab you with this knife.”
“Did you get stabbed with something else last night?”
“You are the absolute worst.” I avoided all eye contact as I took a bite out of my bagel. Given what had happened with most of our clothes on, I wasn’t sure I could handle a naked Oliver. “Besides, I thought you didn’t like him.”
“It’s hard not to empathize with someone who’s survived something horrific and got a bit stuck.” His foot nudged mine under the table. “I can’t be mad at the person who put that flush on your cheeks, or is that beard burn?”
“Anger. It’s an angry flush.” I defended my body’s betrayal.
“Hate sex is great too. Finn and I role-play sometimes, and I’m the—”
I covered my ears in desperation. “I beg of you, what do I have to do to stop this conversation from happening?”
A not-very-subtle smirk erupted on Sebastian’s face, but he didn’t continue pressing. “Come on. You can tell me anything.” Switching tactics, he pulled out the puppy eyes, blinking a few times. No matter how cold the soul, those eyes had a seventy-six and a half percent rate of success, though it was one hundred percent with Finn. “I’m filled with guilt.”
“Yeah, I’m sure we’re the reason you didn’t get any sleep last night.” I was going to have to make sure the sheets were washed before I went to bed, not that Ambrose would allow me to use the washing machine.
“It’s possible.”
I took a vicious bite out of my bagel. “Live in mystery. Your betrayal does not earn you information.”
“Think of the story you can tell your grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren?” I snorted. “How my best friend sexed me out of my room? A heartwarming tale.”
“Fine, we’ll decide on something better. But come on, did you spend the evening with the grumpy owner of the castle?” Since Finn, Sebastian believed every good love story was a fairy tale brought to life. Preferably a queer one that was not rated G. His cynicism that had bonded us initially had been forever wrecked once he found love.
“Trust me, he’s not Prince Charming.” It went without saying that I wasn’t a damsel in search of someone to order me around for the rest of my life. “He and I, we’re … barely even friends.”
Work was what I knew: how to reconstruct a house. Reconstructing my heart was not something I was equipped for.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
99 Days Until the Deadline
What’s worse than someone avoiding you for weeks, even though you live together?
Them not avoiding you, like that bump and grind brought you closer together as friends and not a single thing more.
I was fine, things were fine, everything was fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
It didn’t help matters that Cousin Carter had stopped by for another surprise check-in. But even he wasn’t enough of a distraction. Every time I ran into Oliver, my heart gave an extra beat, palms sweaty with expectation, as if this would be the moment he would want to discuss the way I could not stop staring at his thighs or noticing how he kept shoving his fists into his pants pockets. Which only tightened the fit of his pants, and I was not staring at his dick. I wasn’t.
It was nothing. Not a thing. Just walking around with the slightest breeze turning me on. The brush of my suspenders against my breasts made me … okay, there might be some residual tension.
During the day, I survived, mostly. When I was absorbed in the work, I was able to ignore him. Except for every time he walked into a room I was in, his gaze catching mine as he put all his effort on whatever task I had assigned him for that day—sanding the tables or removing the hardware from the walls—no matter how menial. Or all the times he checked in with me, making sure I ate.
But at night, I stood under my showerhead. The hot water beat on my back as I tried to relieve the tension that had built up. Tonight was like every other, me putting the pipes to the test. Fingers buried deep in my pussy, trying to make that ache that haunted me go away. My forehead pressed to the tile, thumb brushing my clit, having long given up the pretense I bore during the day that I wasn’t fantasizing about Oliver storming into my room, glaring, heated, searching for something to complain about, chest heaving. Which would only lead to me shoving him into a closet, my shorts ending up on the ground, his mouth, fingers—any of him—on me, in me, scratching that itch because my delving fingers were not doing it despite all my attempts.
Oliver would make that growling noise in the back of his throat as he—
The pipes clanged, and I screamed—not in pleasure. The water sputtered as it sprayed freezing cold. I hastened to twist the knob all the way, but the hot water didn’t return, as the banging sound continued, the icy deluge breaking up in spurts, smacking me in the face.
I switched the water off; the banging immediately ceased. The water heater was probably busted, a common thing in older homes. I’d call Jeff, get another here in a day or two. Nothing to be concerned about.
Then the thumping started up again, louder than before. My eyes pressed closed as I made a wish. With a final clang, a pipe burst through the wall directly outside of the shower, chunks of plaster dropping, water gushing on the floor, spraying wildly, soaking everything in its path.
Chaos erupted around me as I stood buck naked, water dripping down my body, trying not to shiver, my brain struggling to comprehend how I had gotten here.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I screamed as I ran to my bedroom. Bellamy disaster mode activated. My suitcase contained an emergency kit—a necessity after so many builds. I was no contractor, but I could handle basic things. The after-hours repair person always ended up being me, with Dad’s oversight.
“Turn off the water, turn off the water,” I chanted to myself. There was no room to worry about anything else, like the cause or the damage, as gallons of water poured out of the rusty pipe.
The door slammed open as I continued my search, but I didn’t have time for distractions.
“Bell, are you okay?” Oliver called out before sprinting into the bathroom, feet slogging through water.
“I have to find the water shut-off valve,” I yelled from under the sink, over the sound of damage happening in real time.
“Uh, I …”
“Success,” I muttered mostly to myself, using the wrench to twist the pipe. Most people figured I was pretty weak because of my weight. That I was out of shape, not capable. With a final yank, everything ceased, the water still dripping for a few moments. I plopped on the toilet hard, surveying the devastation, my stomach sinking to my toes.
The water was an inch deep by the time the chaos had—well, “calmed” wasn’t the right word, but the situation was less urgent. The carpet in the bedroom had soaked up a lot, to its sopping detriment. But it was the spraying that had caused the bigger mess. From where I was sitting, I could see the damage done to my clothes hanging in the open armoire, leaving them soggy and unwearable.
“Bell, Petal, you are—”
“I’m fucked is what I am. This means there’s a problem with the pipes.” Now that the immediate issue had been addressed, I absorbed how royally screwed I was. This was not a simple fix. My deadline, three months away, beat against my brain. Between the damage the leaky roof had caused and now this, I’d be lucky if the estate was still standing by the time Mr. Killington’s party rolled around.
It would be countless hours of work, replacing all of the pipes, and if it had to be done for the entire house? The damage to the walls, leaks, searching for water damage, mold. My mind ran worst-case scenarios as I folded my legs underneath my body, my sock floating by Oliver, who stood with murky water to his ankles, feet bare.
“What? What did you want to tell me?” I buried my face in my hands, every inch of me damp too, still dripping from the shower. “How everything that could go wrong has? The roof, water damage—if there wasn’t mold before, there probably will be now. I just—”
It hit me then, and I gasped with the pressure of it. It wouldn’t be possible to make the deadline. This dream job I had been holding deep inside, that I tried to pretend I wasn’t thinking about constantly, it was floating away with my sock, drowned with the rest of my belongings.
I glanced up, catching sight of the framed photo of Dad and me, arm in arm, floating by. My favorite photo of us, the one I took everywhere with me, the first one I always set up to help me settle in. I didn’t know how to feel at home, but at least I had that. Sprinting, I snatched it up, but it was already too late. The water had seeped in, warping the memory.
And everything in me crumpled, my body turning into itself. I hugged myself, shivering, as I clutched the picture frame. Now my face was wet for a different reason. There was no coming back from this. All I could do was—
“Well, I was going to point out that you are, uh, naked.” Oliver’s voice broke through my panicked thoughts as I hiccupped.
“I’m what?” I glanced down, and yes, things could in fact get worse. I was absolutely boobs-swinging-in-the-wind naked. Perfect. This was absolutely perfect and exactly how I’d pictured Oliver seeing me nude for the first time. Dripping wet from the shower, standing in a puddle of stale water as we stared at each other.
I sniffled, trying to get my emotions under control and failing at that impossible endeavor. Here I was, rock bottom, with the last person who cared.
I reached for the towel I could never wrap around my full-figured body, wishing I had somehow had the forethought to grab it in all the chaos before he had come racing in, trying to be a water cowboy.
As I struggled to drape the too small fabric around my not-one-size-fits-all figure, I was tugged in the opposite direction. Oliver lifted me with ease, setting my body against his.
“I’m going to get you all wet. Put me down.” I sniffled, too pathetic for this moment, my hands trying to clutch the edges of the towel together and pretty much failing.
“Uh, Petal, look around.”
Everything was soaked. Nothing had escaped the rage of the pipes, not even Oliver. As he softly chuckled, another sob escaped from my chest. My normal glass-half-full philosophy broken, the glass had spilled everywhere.
