I’m not sure I know how to do that anymore. But deep inside I know it’s worth a try.
Candy has weird chicks for friends. I won’t say they’re psychos—although the bookstore owner, Donna, my boss, is one crazy bitch—but they’re unusual, for sure.
Take this Simone chick. She sits there, twisting her hands together in her lap, not looking at everyone, and then goes, “Hey, Bry, you should try anal if you wanna become a fairytale sandwich between two princes, yo.”
Or something in that vein.
And then there’s Brylee herself, the chick who still doesn’t believe what Candy, J and I have is real, but who called her when I was stabbed, and…
I rub at the scar on my chest, and I swear it fucking burns as the memory replays in my mind.
Anyway, the chick is such a bunch of contradictions, I can’t even. She’s educated, works in a big company, believes in fairytale happy endings, and apparently likes my art.
I think.
It’s not so clear. Take now, for instance. She pulls up my stash of drawings that was leaning against the side of the sofa and aaahs.
Then she says the following, and I’m not making this shit up:
“You’re like a crazy scientist, Jet. You know? Frigging crazy—only without the scientist part.”
Man. Wow. I grin at her and lace my hands behind my head. “You mean like a crazy artist?”
“Yeah. Something like that. How did you know?”
“Uh.” I glance at my drawings, back at her, and I shrug. “Yeah. No idea.”
“It’s so weird,” she says.
Right. She said it. There you go.
Joel’s jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache in sympathy. He grabs Candy around the waist, startling a yelp out of her, and wanders back to me. Instead of sitting on the armrest like before, though, he hauls me up and drops in my place, settling us both on his lap.
“Jeez, J…” I’m torn between snickering and bitching about being manhandled like this outside of the bedroom—I may like being dominated in sex, but not in the living room with Candy’s friends watching, dammit.
His arm around me tightens, and he lets out a low growl that speaks of frustration, so I settle down, not fighting him. I lean back against his chest and I throw an arm around Candy’s shoulders, drawing her sideways to me.
It feels good, I admit secretly to myself, having the two most important people in my life like this, Joel’s arms around both of us, his muscular thighs underneath us.
Candy makes small talk with the girls, or maybe she’s discussing sex positions, I couldn’t fucking care less. I think about how tense Joel is, like everything in his life is too much right now as he’s trying to decide what to do professionally, and with the fucking burden of his parents not knowing, or pretending not to know. How to help him do what he has to do.
How to help him relax.
I could give him a blow job, and let him finish this time. Man, I’d love to tie him to the bed before I go down on him, have him helpless to pleasure.
Or have him fuck me as I fuck Candy. Damn, that image always gets me hard in seconds—although the image following on the heels of that is even hotter: Joel fucking Candy as I pound into him.
And once Candy comes, I’d pull out and have him lie on his back, to see his face as I push back into him, as I fuck him and mark him like he has marked me. Tell him he’s mine, too, mine to protect from this fucking world, the same he does for me.
Jesus Fuck.
Would he like it? Would he trust me like I trust him? Trust himself to give it a try, to allow himself to be taken care of, to be pleasured like that? Give over the control to me, let down his walls.
Doesn’t have to be all the time. Hell, it doesn’t have to happen more than once, if he doesn’t enjoy it. I just need to see him surrender, even just once, to me.
Thing is, I have this sinking feeling that it will never happen—and I’m not only talking about the sex.
***