She was looking at him. Her olive skin looked flawless in the dim light of the living room lamps. He could see the pulse beating at the base of her throat, a rapid, fluttering rhythm.
The cannabis was stripping away the layers of his consciousness, dismantling the carefully constructed architecture of his self-control. The rational, logical part of his brain — the part that knew he was in a relationship, the part that knew this was his friend — was being drowned out by a wave of sensory overload.
Talia shifted closer. The oversized sweater slipped further down her arm, exposing the smooth, bare curve of her shoulder.
"Andre," she murmured, her voice a low, husky vibration that seemed to travel directly into his bloodstream.
She leaned in.
When her lips touched his, Andre didn't pull away. He was stunned, his mind struggling to process the sudden, shocking reality of the contact. His body simply reacted as if not requiring conscious thought on his part.
Her mouth was soft, tasting of icing and wine. She kissed him deeply, her hands coming up to frame his face, her fingers tangling in his dark curls.
Andre's breathing stuttered. He hadn't been with a woman in years. The cannabis was distorting everything, but Andre knew that the sensation was entirely different — softer, rounder, lacking the hard, muscular angles he was used to with Blake.
Talia's hand moved down his chest, tracing the line of his stomach, before dropping lower. She pressed her palm against the front of his jeans. When her fingers found the hard, heavy ridge of his erection, Andre wasn't sure if this was real or just a figment of his imagination.
Without thought, he was kissing her, his hands dropping to her waist, pulling her closer. She was beautiful, the dim light casting shadows across her cheekbones and the soft curve of her mouth.
Talia pulled back slightly, her eyes dark and heavy with desire. She reached down, her fingers clumsy in her haste, and unbuttoned her jeans, pushing them down her hips.
She wasn't wearing underwear.
She took Andre's hand and guided it downward.
When his fingers brushed against her, the last fragile thread of resolve in his mind snapped.
She was wet, incredibly warm, the slick, inviting heat of her sending an involuntary surge of blood straight to his groin. His hand instinctively moved to slide a finger inside her. Talia let out a sharp, breathless gasp, her head falling back against the sofa.
Andre moved his finger slowly, exploring the soft, slick folds, his mind swimming in a haze of cannabis and arousal.What am I doing?a small, distant voice in his head asked.This is wrong! This is wrong!He stopped, his hand still between her legs, and looked up, scanning the room, suddenly remembering that they were not alone. He found Liam.
Liam was sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. He wasn't asleep. He wasn't laughing. He was watching them, his green eyes dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. His jeans were unbuttoned, pushed down around his thighs. He was gripping his own cock, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
Andre stared. He couldn't look away. Liam's penis was hard to ignore — thick, uncut, easily eight inches long, the pale skin flushed with blood, the head shining with pre-come in the dim light. The sight of it, combined with the slick, wet heat of Talia surrounding his fingers, created a cognitive dissonance so profound it felt like his brain was short-circuiting.
Liam caught Andre's eye. He didn't look away. He didn't stop moving his hand.
A slow, wicked smile spread across Liam's face. "Do you think you remember how to fuck a woman?" Liam asked, his voice a low, challenging rasp that cut through the heavy air of the room. "Show me."
The words hit Andre like a punch in the gut. The challenge, the voyeurism, the unapologetic obscenity of the request dissolved whatever remained of his hesitation.
Talia moaned, shifting her hips against Andre's hand, demanding his attention.
Andre forgot about the voice in his head. He forgot about the flat in South Kensington.
He forgot about the tournament in Melbourne.
He pulled his hand away from Talia and reached for the hem of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were small and perfect, the nipples hard and dark. Andre leaned down, taking one into his mouth, his tongue licking the sensitive peak. Talia cried out, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.
Yes. He remembered how to do this.
He unbuckled his jeans, pushing them down, freeing his aching, heavy erection. Talia shifted, straddling his lap, her knees bracketing his hips. She reached down, her hand wrapping around his cock, guiding him to her entrance. Andre pushed upward, sinking into her with a slow, deliberate thrust. The tight, wet heat of her, the soft weight of her body pressing down on him, the heavy, intoxicating haze of the cannabis — it was a sensory overload that left him breathless.
The sex was a complete blur. Andre felt as if he was floating above watching the scene below, not feeling, not participating.
But he was there. He was participating. And that part of him felt the tension mounting in his groin, a deep, relentless ache winding tighter and tighter.
"Andre," Talia gasped, her eyes flying open, her gaze locking onto his. "I'm on the pill."
