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“Maybe what?”
“Maybeyoucould be the one to give me my first orgasm.”
That stops me in my fucking tracks.
“If we were, like, friends, you know,” she says in a musing tone, still slung over my shoulder, as if she has no idea how the words she just uttered hit me like a fucking lightning bolt. “Then we could, like, do a friends with benefits thing.”
I play hockey, which is an unpredictable sport. I’m used to the unexpected, I’m used to living through shit you not only couldn’t have predicted, but could hardly have even imagined.
But I’m pretty sure the most unexpected thing to ever happen to me is for me to have a drunk Phoebe Sinclair slung over my shoulder, and her telling me she wishes we could be friends with benefits so I could give her an orgasm.
Wait a minute—herfirstorgasm? Phoebe’s never had an orgasm before?
As if she’s reading my mind, she answers my question.
“I mean, I’ve had orgasms before. But not, like, with someone else,” she drunkenly rambles.
I can feel my jaw muscles pop as my whole body tenses up.
Phoebe’s never been with a guy who’s been able to make her come?
It’s hard for me to believe. What kind of guy could get a girl like Phoebe all to himself and not take his time to wring out every bit of pleasure from her body that he can?
I know if I ever had Phoebe to myself, I’d make her writhe in so much pleasure she wouldn’t know what fucking planet she’s on, I’d make her come so many times she’d lose count.
That thing where I open my mouth because I feel like I should say something, but my brain refuses to cooperate and formulate any words, happens again.
“Well, since we’re not friends, maybe we could do an enemies with benefits thingy,” Phoebe blabbers, her advanced state of drunkenness very obvious. “I read a book with that trope a couple months ago. It was hot.”
“Phoebe …” I don’t know if I’ve ever been tongue-tied before, but I am now.
She sighs. “But, no, we can’t do that. It’d be weird. If things were different between us, maybe. If we got along better. I mean, I know how you look at me. How you’ve looked at me since, like, middle school. And I know you’ve seen how I look at you, too, sometimes.”
I can feel my erratic heartbeat in the base of my cock.
“My ex was so lazy in bed,” Phoebe begins again, her drunken stream-of-consciousness obviously not yet dried up. “He wouldn’t do anything. Just lame missionary for two minutes until he finished. But you …” My cheeks blaze with blushing as my cock starts to throb. “I bet you’d do a lot more than that.”
She’s right about that. I’ve dreamed for years about what I’d do if I ever got Phoebe to myself. And it sure as fuck wouldn’t be boring, lame, two-minute missionary sex before I blew my load.
Phoebe sighs again, disappointment laden in the sound. “But you wouldn’t want to. Even if I do see how you look at me sometimes, we’re still … us. You’d just think it would be too weird. So, I can’t ask you.”
What the hell am I supposed to tell her? She’s drunk off her ass. I sure as fuck can’t talk to her about this rationally.
I want to tell her that she’s wrong. That I would want to. That, if she were sober and actually asked me to do this arrangement she has in mind, I’d say yes in a fucking heartbeat.
But it’s pointless to tell her that when she’s wasted like this.
“Oh … oh, no,” Phoebe groans, her voice suddenly different.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m going to be sick—put me down!”
I lightly set Phoebe down on her feet, and the second I do, she wobbles towards some bushes on the side of the sidewalk.
I hurry behind her, managing to grab two handfuls of her rich, luscious, orange hair on either side of her hand and pull it behind her neck before she bends over and pukes into the bushes.
Holding Phoebe Sinclair’s hair back as she pukes right after she told me she wishes I could give her her first orgasm.
