The Deal Dilemma

I did not hear her right. There’s no fucking way I heard her right.

My head cocks to the side, heat brimming beneath my skin. “What?”

“I need to, you know…”

“Come?”

She nods, a pretty pink polishing her cheeks. “I want you to watch.”

Fuck me, I heard her right.

Watch her come.

Watch her fucking come?

There’s no way. I’d lose my shit. Grab her and take her to my room. Toss her on the bed.

I’d spread her legs and then her lips, her pussy lips. Push inside her in a slow, measured move. I’d fuck her senseless, stealing her moans and claiming her mouth.

The mouth she put on me when she got nervous.

It’s fuller now than it was when she was seventeen. Softer.

Ready for more.

Ready for me?

My tongue was two seconds from shoving between the folds, from tasting her—when we were younger and when she pressed her lips to mine at Willies.

Just one taste. That’s all I wanted.

Lie to yourself some more, dumbass.

“Please,” she whispers. “I have all these thoughts and images in my head.”

What kind of thoughts? Images of what?

Who?

Fire flares in my groin.

“But maybe if you’re watching,” she continues, “It could be like it’s not me doing the work, maybe even be more intense.”

It will be. So much more.

I’d coax you through, tell you what to do, ask you how it feels and what you want to do next.

“It could be a lesson, maybe?” She grips for straws.

I swallow, forcing my head to shake. “I’d call that some advanced shit.”

“I’ve taken advanced classes all my life,” she argues.

“We ain’t there yet.”

“Figured not, but it was worth a shot… and you did say ‘ain’t there yet,’ so that’s promising.”

My mouth waters.

My eyes tail her into the kitchen. She pulls open a drawer, grabs something and closes it with her hip. She walks by, rolling something in her palm, and the heavy click-clack can only be one thing. Batteries.

My muscles flex, tightening and loosening over and over.

She reaches her door, peering at me over her shoulder. “Night, Crew.” She closes herself inside, and my dick is well aware of what she’s about to do.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I try to erase the images of her blushing and breathless.

Try and fail.

I lock myself in my own room, realizing as I do, the sound of the bolt turning never came from Davis’s door.

She left hers unlocked.

Just in case I change my mind?

Slow and cautious, I peel my shirt from my body, unwilling to allow even the sound of shifting cotton to break through the air, and press my back against the wall. The wall we share.

My eyes close, my ears perked and waiting to find out if it’s solid or hollow, if it is hollow, will I hear her?

Is she loud when she plays?

When she comes?

Yeah, I think she is… if she knows how to do things right.

She would be for me.

The thought has me gritting my teeth.

No, motherfucker. Don’t even fucking start.

The moment I think it, she does. Or at least that’s when her moans break through.

Soft and fucking sugary, just like her. Just like I imagine her body and the taste of her would be. My cock swells instantly, straining against my jeans, so I quietly flick them open, and dip my hand inside. My large hand wraps around myself, and I give my base a good squeeze, tugging once. Twice. Three times.

My head falls back with a silent knock, my lips parting as I picture hers doing the same thing. Her eyes closed in pleasure, tongue poking out to wet her dry, plump lips, teeth sinking into her fuller bottom one the way mine does.

Her moans grow into desperate little whimpers, and I pump myself harder, faster, my hips working with my hand, anxious for release.

I picture Davis in the center of her silky sheets, head bowed back into the pillows.

Her legs fall farther open, begging for more, her back arching, pleased when she gets exactly what she asks for. I would give her all she fucking wanted.

I groan, grinding my teeth, sweat building along the nape of my neck.

She reaches for me, and I dive down, clamping her lips the way they are meant to be claimed, owned.

Fucking devoured.

My cock swells, heat building low in my groin, and it doubles when her gasp pierces the air.

My head still pressed back, I roll along the wall until my body is spun completely, my forehead pressed to the cool, white-painted wood. My palm slaps against it, my fist forming as my muscles lock, my head falling back.

“Crew.”

My chest rumbles, low and deep.

She said my fucking name.

My body clenches, my orgasm on the brink. Right fucking there.

I press my ear to the wall.

“God, yes, Crew…”

And there it is.

Cum spills from my cock, and I jerk harder. Squeezing.

Sweets…

Davis

With pancakes stacked two times too high, and maple sausage ready to be draped in syrup, I knock on Crew’s door.

It’s his prize for delivering an epic ending… even if it was simply his voice on replay inside my head that sealed the deal. Sure, he’s unaware he’s the inspiration behind my masturbation, but still. Breakfast has been earned. Punishment for last night at the bar has also been put into effect, though, which is why there are no strawberries and whipped cream to be found.

I knock again. “If you don’t answer, I’m taking the bottom stack, and I know how much you love the overly buttered ones!”

No groan, no shout, nothing follows.

Hesitant, I turn the knob and peek inside, frowning when I’m met with a bed in disarray, but missing a giant male body.

I check the bathroom, and when it’s as empty as it was when I left it, I look outside.

Crew’s car is gone.

Huh.

With a shrug, I text Jess.

Me: I’ve got a pile of steaming pancakes I could use a hand eating. Come over for breakfast?

He replies as I lower into the seat.

Jess: Damn, I would, but I’m already on my way to the library. Study tonight?

Me: All my assignments are in. I don’t have to be on campus unless I want to be until finals in two weeks.

Jess: Nice! Call you later?

Me: bye

I look to the giant stack of yumminess, large enough to feed a small army, and dig in. I’m on the second pancake when my shoulders begin to sag, and the silence becomes too loud. Almost mocking.

It’s worse when I pause to play around on Instagram and come across Drew’s story. It’s a picture of him biting into a giant breakfast burrito, and in the background sits Layla and Willie. And next to him is Crew, a plate of his own before him.

They’re at Layla and Willie’s house.

A small smile curves my lips, happy Crew has found himself a group of friends he can trust. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t give them the time of day. He’s withdrawn like that.

With that happiness, though, comes a teeny hint of longing.

I miss before and everything it entailed.

Saturday brunch with my family, Crew being the fifth member of it, with Drew in tow too on occasion. Sunday’s making donuts and quick dips in the cool bay waters. Weekly baseball practices and traveling for tournaments. Walking around selling beef jerky sticks to raise money, so Crew could play in said tournaments.

He never would allow my parents to cover him, and my dad would have done it in a heartbeat. He loves Crew as his own, even when he had to step into the fatherly role that made it a little less obvious. It’s like I said before, reprimand was new to him, so I imagine it was easy to sometimes confuse discipline with dislike.

Maybe that’s why he distanced himself from us after Memphis’s accident.

I had thought about it many times, assuming he didn’t feel right about being so easily loved by a man who suffered physical and mental pain loving his own son, but it could have been the opposite.

Maybe it was both.

A sudden wave of homesickness washes over me, so I pick up the phone and call my mom.

When she doesn’t answer, I try my dad.

He doesn’t pick up either, and I remember they joined a tennis club on impulse.

Maybe they’re with their new friends having brunch. Either way, they’ll call me the second they realize I tried them. They always do.

After clearing the table, I straighten the pillows on the couch and take out the garbage, mindlessly searching for something else to do, but I’m not a keeper of many things so my house pretty much stays clean and clutter-free, the most common mess being piles of papers and school supplies.

I’ve yet to experience a point in my life when I didn’t have something to study for, or a class or a shift at work to get to. I’m not so sure I like the whole “clear schedule thing,” especially now that I have a taste of what having someone I truly want to spend my time with is like.

It all reminds me I’ve been flying solo out here, something I never quite had the time to consider before now.

It’s with that thought I grab my keys, head out the door, and make my way across the street.

Maybe Rachel needs me at the diner today.

Maybe she’ll let me work a double.

Crew

“So, what happened, Davis had to work?” Layla asks, collecting our plates and dropping them in the sink.

Davis had to come, and when she did, it was with my name on her lips.

“Yeah. She had work.” Pretty sure that’s a lie. With school, she doesn’t work mornings and when I quietly snuck from my room this morning, she was still closed inside hers.

“Heard she was out with a good-looking pretty boy last night?” Layla crosses her arms over her swollen belly.

“Course you did. Your husband has a big mouth.” I think about what she said a second, adding. “And shitty taste in men. He wasn’t good-looking. He looked like a douchey motherfucker.”

“A tall, blue-eyed, chiseled-jawed, white-picket-fence-wanting, Polo-wearing douchey motherfucker.” Willie waltzes in with a grin.

My glares slices to him.

“Admit it, the dude had Barbie Dreamhouse written all over him.”

“I admit you’re a dumbass.”

Layla laughs, cupping her stomach. “So this is the friend that lives next door to her?”

“Yes, the Jess that is not short for Jessica.” Her husband thinks he’s fucking hilarious.

“I’m out of here.” I stand, turning toward the door.

“Love you, Crew.”

“Fuck off, Julius.”

Climbing in my truck, I pull out my phone, checking to see if Davis’s location tracker still works. It does, and when it shows me that she’s at the diner, I breathe an annoying sigh of relief.

With any luck, by the time I get home, Davis will be asleep.

I can’t look at her, not when I pictured her lips wrapped around my cock while I fisted her hair between my fingers and tugged to test her reaction. Not when I imagined she loved it and took me deeper. Sucked harder. Longer.

My dick hardens, straining against my jeans at the thought.

Pressing my palm over my zipper, I close my eyes, hers flashing behind the lids when they do. I lick my lips, and I snap out of it.

Throwing my car in drive, I pull away, trying to come up with a plan to keep my shit together. To keep my feet on the right side of the line.

To do what I should and not what’s so damn tempting.

’Cause, fuck me, the mere thought of Davis Franco, someone I’ve denied myself for a long fucking time because I know thoughts would lead to actions, drives me mad.

The damage the girl could do to me.

The damage I could do to her.

I need to keep my mind right, and my dick on the same page.

That’s fucking that.