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“Give me a couple of hours,” I say. “I want to have a swim. And I have more questions to ask.”
“Business before pleasure.” True words from Clay, but I don’t feel guilty.
“The way it has to be.”
Now that my next rendezvous has been determined, the group relaxes, and conversation turns to football and baseball. I get a chance to sit back and watch their interactions. It’s fun to witness their back and forth, fun to see them laugh without artifice. When they’re not trying to prove something, they seem to get along so well, though I accept that Natalie’s suggestion that they could become my harem could only ever be in my fantasies.
After, I clear the plates with Tom and Russell and the rest move to hang out in the sun. Watching seven gorgeous men apply sunscreen to their glistening skin is enough to make me drop a plate on the floor, and Russell’s startled response gives me pause. Tom is quick to clear up the mess, using his hands at first, and then a broom to sweep up the smaller shards. Russell busies himself by packing leftovers in the fridge, but out of the corner of my eye, I witness him grasping the edge of the counter and drawing long deep breaths into his lungs. With white knuckles and a tense expression, I can feel the anxiety pulsing from him and my heart aches. I had a rescue dog when I was a kid. One who’d gone through trauma before finding his forever home with us. Russell reminds me of him a lot. They share the same watchfulness and jumpiness. The same quiet awareness, and the instinct to remain on the outside until they’ve gained enough trust and are encouraged in.
When the kitchen is spotless, I make my way outside to swim a few lengths before choosing a place in the shade. I interview Jonas and Jimmy about masturbation, and I find out a whole lot about their attitudes to self-pleasure. Both express that having a ten-inch cock makes masturbation harder. More surface area to cover. Longer strokes means more effort. Both acknowledge the size of their biceps and laugh when I mention that their non-dominant arm is equally proportioned.
Throughout the whole conversation, I feel Carson watching me from behind his sunglasses. He’s reclining on a sunbed, one arm resting behind his head. All that gloriously inked skin glistening in bright sunshine. He’s tugged his swim shorts up around his thighs, revealing quads so defined, the sight of them makes my clit pulse.
Time ticks past and with every passing minute, I’m more antsy for my next experience, and Carson’s gaze becomes more heated. When I’m close to melting into a pile of goo, I can’t take it anymore. I stand abruptly, drawing the eyes of every man, and smooth down my dress with damp palms. A shiver runs over my clit and lower and my nipples harden in the confines of my bra. I’m primed and ready in a way I’ve never been before.
The power of anticipation.
I’ll have to note the realization in my article.
“You’re up, Carson,” Jonas says with an expression so jubilant you’d think it was his turn.
Carson’s slow to rise, his body moving languidly. My feet feel rooted to the ground, but I force myself to walk. I catch Stefan’s eyes as I pass, and the intensity in his gaze is like a fist grip around my heart. Whistles erupt as Carson follows me into the house, the men becoming like frat boys encouraging their buddy to take the head cheerleader upstairs.
I want to trail behind Carson, to let him take the lead, but he hangs back and I end up climbing the stairs in front of him. The sway of my hips feels exaggerated now that I know his eyes are on me. The heat of him and his intention is palpable. Those hands that create such spectacular images hang at his sides, but they won’t be immobile for long. Soon those big artistic fingers will touch me. Soon they’ll be taking me to places I’ve only imagined before Stefan.
When we get to the top of the stairs, he reaches out and rests his hand against my lower back. “Hey.”
I turn and crane my neck. This close, he’s so much taller than me. A wall of intense, tattooed man. “Hey.” My voice sounds like a wisp.
His hand drifts to my upper arm. “Before we…” Carson’s attention drifts to the door of my room. “I want to know what you want from this experience.”
“Just you,” I say. “Just do whatever you like.”
His eyebrows raise, deepening lines across his forehead. “What if it’s some fucked up shit?”
I can’t imagine Carson being into anything deviant, but what do I know? I get why he’s asking, but for all his good intentions, putting me on the spot like this is a problem. How do I explain that I want to know each of them? What makes them similar and what makes them different?
It sounds ridiculous in my own mind, and the idea of expressing it fills my chest with buzzing moths. I have to come up with some kind of analogy.
“You know…well…ice creams can have a lot of different flavors. That’s what I want from this experience.”
“You want to taste different flavors.”
I nod. It’s the best explanation I have expressed in the least embarrassing way I can think of.
“Okay.” His hand grips my upper arm, and he walks me to my bedroom door with just a bite of force in his grip and movements.
Just enough to make the buzzing moths flutter like crazy.
When we’re inside my room, I don’t get a chance to relax. As Carson closes the door, he shoves me against the wall, his hand on my throat, his narrowed eyes fixed on my lips. “What flavor am I?” His voice is cold, as though the idea is something terrible.
I lick my lips nervously. “Dark chocolate.” Just the bite of his fingers into my skin is enough to sense it. But that’s not all there is to Carson. “With frozen strawberry pieces.”
“Why the strawberry?”
“Because there’s something bright and creative about you…something vivid.”
“Vivid.” He chews the word in his mouth, then kisses me hard. The press of his lips is so forceful compared to Stefan, the slide of his tongue into my mouth like an invasion. I moan, long and low as his hand slips into my nape and grips, taking full control of our movements. The thigh I was admiring by the pool is shoved hard between my legs, pressing against my clit in a way that aches so perfectly.
