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“Okay. Let’s make it about something else,” Stefan suggests, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Drink if you’ve ever been in love?” He leans back in his chair and rests his hands on his knees.
“What? Seriously?” Tom reaches out for a shot and knocks it back without bothering with the salt and lemon. He grimaces, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. “You’ve never been in love?”
Stefan shrugs. “Nope.”
“Dude.” Jimmy doesn’t down a drink either, but he seems more concerned about Stefan’s lack of a fulfilling love life.
Oliver drinks, as does Gabe, but none of the other men lift a glass, and neither do I. What a sad group. Three out of eleven have experienced a loving relationship. That’s terrible odds.
“So, this is interesting,” I say, waving my hand around the group. “We’ve talked a lot about sex, but do you think your size has impacted the progression of your relationships, either positively or negatively?”
“Big dick, less love, you mean?”
“Yes, Jimmy. I’m interested to hear your thoughts.”
Stefan raises his hand, and I smile in his direction. “I think there can be a certain amount of objectification. Like, you sleep with one woman and word gets around and then the women who are interested in you when they know are fetishizing your dick.”
“That’s true,” Clay says. “We’ve definitely experienced that.”
Carson jerks his head in agreement. “It’s like when a woman has giant fake tits. That’s all a guy sees. The great personality or the kind heart are overshadowed by the overt sexual part of her and the men who are into that kind of thing are fetishizing her chest rather than thinking about a longer-term relationship with her.”
“That’s deep, man.” Jonas isn’t serious for long, though. “I love big tits.”
Of course he does.
“How about you have to drink if you’ve never participated in a threesome,” Theron says, getting the game back on track.
“Sex, man,” Stefan reminds him, but Theron doesn’t revise the question.
I reach out for my shot glass, and some of the men drink, but I find it hard to keep track of who’s consumed the most alcohol. It’s too dark and they respond too quickly to the questions.
We play a few more rounds and thank goodness I don’t have to drink again. Instead, I lay back on the sunbed and stare up at the stars, trying to identify constellations and tuning out the conversation that drifts away from drinking games back to sexy teachers.
The food and alcohol have made me groggy, and I must fall asleep because I don’t register Carson leaving his seat until his weight shifts the sunbed and he’s looming over me.
His fingers trail my jaw and down my neck, his eyes flicking over my face. “Are you okay?”
“Was I sleeping?”
“I think so.” He smirks. “Are we that boring?”
“I’m just that tired.”
He laces his fingers through mine and brings my hand to his mouth, planting a soft kiss on my knuckles. “You looked like snow white, waiting for her prince to come and kiss her awake.”
“He doesn’t kiss her hand,” I remind him. “He kisses her lips.”
Carson takes my comment as the invitation that it is, not caring about the rest of the men around us who have noticed enough for the conversation to fade into silence. I’m sleepy and relaxed, and the kiss is gentle and easy, so different from the Carson I encountered in my bedroom. It’s like the conversation and affection we shared after the sex has altered the way he wants to interact with me.
A whistle breaks the silence and someone else yells ‘get a room’. Carson’s hand trails down my neck, over my shoulder and cups my breast and I freeze, holding a breath tightly in my lungs. A kiss feels natural and fine in front of others, but this is different. This is the start of making this exchange of affection a show for onlookers and that…well that’s a giant leap from where I am right now.
At least, it is until he brushes the point of my nipple with his thumb and whispers in my ear, “Let me show them how sexy you are.”
When his lips brush mine, all my attention is his. Flashes of his hand on my neck, gripping my hair, slapping my ass, fucking me hard, rush through my mind. When they mingle with his softer stroking touches, a fire ignites between my thighs.
It can’t be more than three hours since he made me come, but my body feels ravenous for more. All the years I’ve managed without sex, and now it feels like starvation to not be beneath a man.
When his hand strokes up my thigh, I moan against him, and when he pushes my dress up to my waist, I don’t object. Instead, a shiver of awareness stirs my clit, and the cooler night air licks my flesh.
