Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

“Water,” I say. “You need water.”

“Mmm. That sounds delish,” she says sleepily.

I head to the kitchen, fill a cold glass, and bring it to her. “Sit up,” I tell her, and she manages to scoot back in bed. I hand her the glass. She downs most of it. “Drink it all. I’ll leave another glass on your nightstand. Drink that one when you wake up in the middle of the night to pee.”

Nodding, she sets down the glass. She throws her arms around me, and tugs me into bed. She tries to pull me next to her.

“I have to go.”

“Stay with me. Please,” she says, patting the soft, comfy bed. “Just sleep next to me. That’s all I want.”

Sleep next to her? With this boner? With her wild hands crawling all over my body? No way. I’m not that strong. I’m not that good.

“I need to go. I’ve got to feed my cat.” It sounds like the lamest excuse in the world, but it’s actually true.

There’s a flash of hurt in her eyes. Maybe even disappointment. Then it passes, and she smiles faintly. “Good night, Captain Fiancé. Give the pussy a kiss for me.”

Oh, how I would absolutely love to.

Her head hits the pillow, and in seconds she’s snoring. It’s so fucking cute, the little sounds she makes. I scratch my head—how is it possible that her snores are adorable? But they are. I stand and look at her in the dark, the moonlight streaking across her covers, cutting a crisscross pattern through the blinds. Her blonde hair is spread over her white pillow, her blouse slinks down her shoulder, revealing a cherry red bra, and the skirt of her dress rides up her thighs. I could undress her like they do in the movies, or I could leave her in her clothes.

Undressing her feels like a violation. Instead, I do what I told her I would. I fill her glass of water and leave it on the nightstand. I open her medicine cabinet, grab two aspirin, just in case, and place them next to the glass. I hunt for some paper, and I find a Post-It notepad in her kitchen and a pen in the utensil drawer.

I write: Two aspirin in the morning, and call me when you get up. I need to take you out for the final hangover prevention step.

I leave, and I should earn a commendation for self-restraint. I’m going to contact the Guys’ Committee and let them know what I accomplished tonight in the resistance category. I’ll fully expect a gold medal in the morning and, frankly, an awards ceremony, considering the level of difficulty.

A cab blows past me on Lexington, but I don’t shoot my arm into the air to flag it down. Instead, I turn south and walk home, even though I’m many, many blocks away. I need the time and the space and the distance from those five minutes in the cab when I wanted to fuck my best friend’s brains out.

This city should take my mind off Charlotte, so I soak it in—the bodegas peddling fruit and flowers, the Chinese restaurants offering greasy noodles, the twenty-four-hour pharmacies selling anything and everything. I cut across town, surrounded by throngs of people, so many still out late at night.

But when I unlock my door at one a.m., I’m still turned on. The walk didn’t work. I’m horny as hell. I feel like I’ve taken Charlotte Viagra, and this hard-on is a cruel and unusual punishment for lusting so badly after my best friend.

Fido meows, then stretches up to greet me, his paws on my leg.

“Hungry?”

His tail twitches. I head to the kitchen, open his bag, and scoop out some cat food. It’s this all-natural, organic, eat-like-your-ancestors food. Harper got it for him when I took him in, telling me that store-bought food wouldn’t cut it. My man is addicted to it; maybe it makes him feel like a tiger.

I set the bowl down, and he purrs as he eats. The dude is so satisfied from a bowl of dry kibble, and a knot of jealousy tightens in my belly. Great. Now I’m envious of my cat because his life is simpler than mine. Note to self: Go to the store tomorrow and order up some perspective, because you’re losing yours.

I head to the bathroom. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and try to put the evening behind me. Look, it’s not hard to turn down a drunk girl, because that’s just wrong. But it was hard, for some unknown fucking reason, to turn down her. Those things she was saying. Those wicked, dirty words falling from her red lips. They torched a path up my body. They stirred something inside me. Some wish. Some want.

That kiss on the street was one thing.

The session on her couch was entirely another.

But the cab was a whole new wrinkle. She just combusted, like a rocket of lust, firing off in every direction, jumping me, climbing me, grinding on me.

I wanted it all.

I wanted her.

I still do.

I undress and toss my clothes into the hamper in my closet. Naked, I get into bed, turn off the lights, and park both hands behind my head. Faint sounds of late Saturday night in New York filter through the window, even from six stories high. Shoes clicking on cobblestoned streets, friends laughing, cabs stopping and letting out customers, then picking up other fares.

Even after zoning in on all that, I’m still insanely aroused.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with this erection? Hammer some nails? Bang some wood? This is like a punishment erection. It’s got its own blood supply.

I shut my eyes, squeeze them tight, and press my palms into the back of my skull, resisting.

Because I can’t go there.

Can’t jack off to her. Can’t do it. Won’t do it. Won’t ruin the friendship by going that far. We’ve already done more than we should, and if we go further, we’ll lose everything she was saying was good at the bar tonight. She’s my steady, reliable, fantastic friend. She gives me hell, and she makes me laugh, and I can’t risk losing her by fucking her.

Or even thinking of fucking her.

But I am dying here. My skin is on fire, and my brain is stuck on repeat— sex, sex, sex.

I’ve got to do something about this persistent hard-on that has been working overtime today, like it signed up for a twenty-four-hour shift. I pad out to the living room, grab my laptop, and return to my bed, flipping open the screen.

Women. Lots of women. Hot lesbian porn. That’s what I need. Something totally removed from the last two days of torrential lust. Like, two hot chicks in stockings banging each other. No Tumblr gifs for me, please. I need video, and I know where to find it.

In seconds, a gorgeous redhead in black stockings and garters walks into a dimly lit living room. Perfect. Parking the laptop on the covers, I stretch out my naked body on my bed, my head propped up on a couple of pillows so I can enjoy the front-row seat.

A smoking hot brunette joins her, wearing only white thigh-highs and heels. This will do the trick, thank you very much. I take my dick in my hand and stroke. Moving my palm down my shaft, I skim lightly at first, down to my balls, which are heavy and aching.

Just what the doctor ordered. I’m going to enjoy every single second of this jerk. I tighten my grip. My dick is throbbing in my palm, but I’m thrilled to be on the road to imminent relief as the women move to their couch and get it on.

This is perfect, because neither looks like Charlotte. They kiss, and my skin grows hotter all over as I watch these naked beauties. Their mouths devour each other, and the redhead cups the brunette’s full, round tits in her hands. The brunette moans and slides her fingers between the redhead’s pussy lips. My shaft grows thicker as I watch the brunette’s finger flick across all that wetness.

My breath hitches, and I groan.

Loudly.

Imagining how hot and wet her pussy is.

All nice and slick and coated in arousal.

How she’d feel on my fingers.