Chapter Six
Levi
I must pace the entire length of my apartment fourteen times before I find myself in front of my own computer. Grabbing the laptop, I head into the living room. First thing I notice when I glance at the mirror above the couch is that my hair is all crazy and standing on end from grabbing it and running my hands through it while I practically walked grooves in the carpeting. Next thing I notice? The flush of annoyance and possible rage coursing through me. You can practically see it radiating from my body.
Why would she want to date? She doesn’t need to date. At all. She’s perfectly fine sitting in her apartment all day, working her ass off, and then hanging out with me at night. What’s so wrong with that?
Then my mind flashes back to the things Tuck said. How would I feel if she met someone who treated her the way she deserved to be treated? Fuck. Me. She’s going to meet someone who’ll treat her the way she’s always deserved to be treated, isn’t she? Isn’t she?! My head pounds and my heart gallops. This can’t happen.
She’s my friend and it’s my civic duty as part of the friend code to watch out for her. So much can go wrong on those stupid dating sites. What if she chats with a guy who seems perfect, then he turns out to be a serial killer who wears women’s skin as clothes? No, not likely, but the danger is still very much alive and out there.
And my danger? I’m at risk of losing my best friend.
Fuck that.
Powering up my laptop, I know exactly what I have to do. There’s only one way to keep her safe from becoming some psycho’s skin suit and that’s to monitor the situation and keep a close eye on her. It’s the most logical thing any good friend would do, right?
Fuck no, I’m not going to tell her. Would you?
She’ll get all pissy and claim I don’t trust her enough to do this on her own. She’ll accuse me of being overprotective and slightly stalkerish. But it’s what I have to do. Keep watch on my girl – my friend, excuse me – and make sure she doesn’t fall victim to the woos of Internet dating.
First thing’s first: set up my own profile.
I type in PerfectDate.com into my browser and wait for it to pop up. My leg is bouncing so much, my computer practically jumps off my lap. Running my hand through my hair once more, I click the button to sign up. It only takes me a few minutes, but I’m in, in no time.
Profile name? Has to be something she won’t recognize. Can’t be my name, right? I mean, I’m not that big of a dumbass. Got it! She used her favorite song, so I’ll use mine. SimpleMan. Everyone knows Skynyrd, right?
Up next, profile pic. Well, again, can’t use my pic, even though she used a really great picture from last Christmas. It was actually one I took, believe it or not. We had just finished up our gift exchange and were getting ready to head to her dad’s place for lunch. I’m always invited to every family function, and try to go to every one when I’m not working. My own family isn’t nearly as close as hers, and my parents had planned on a late Christmas dinner. Therefore, it was completely logical that I go with Abby.
Anyway, back to my point, I took that damn picture with my new camera. She bought me an expensive Nikon since I was always complaining about the quality of pics on my phone. She helped me set it up and then let me snap a few pics of her while we were messing around. No – not that kinda messing around. I don’t take pics during those times. Well, not anymore. Always comes back to bite you in the ass. Know what I mean?
Yes, I’m off track here. Back to my point. I took that damn pic. I own the rights to it and I didn’t give her permission to use it as a profile picture on some fucking dating website. She looks stunning and radiant in the picture, which is why I sent it to her. Now she’s using it against me.
Traitor.
Well, I can’t use my own picture or she’ll know it’s me, so I grab a folder on my desktop and strum through some of the band photos. There I find a close-up shot of my favorite guitar. It’s not one I use on stage, but one that sits in my spare room on a stand, and only brought out for special occasions.
Like when I’m playing for Abby.
I quickly upload the photo to my profile, and fill out the rest of the garbage they require to set up shop on their stupid site. I don’t need to lie to make sure I’m compatible with Abs; I already know I am. I just have to be vague enough that she won’t realize who she’s dealing with.
Once I get myself all squared away, I wait while it pairs me up with other singles in the area. Sixty-five matches. What the fuck? Okay, so I might have left some of the categories a little too vague. I’m not interested in sixty-four of them, but I have to click through them until I find my girl. My friend.
Not bad face, click past. Huge knockers, click. Bird-beak nose, click. I run through them all, taking in their profile pic, but not reading anything about them. I’m not here to date, I’m here for my friend.
After what feels like ten thousand clicks, I finally find her. Her gorgeous face smiles at me from the screen and my heart flops around in my chest like a fish on the sand. Her hair is down, hanging loosely around her shoulders, just the way I like it best on her. Her green eyes radiate excitement and happiness. You can’t tell it from the picture, but she’s holding the hardback book with her name folded in the pages. It’s a specialty shop I found online that does all kinds of book projects. She loved it.
Again…moving on.
I click the like button on her profile and pull up a message. It takes me only a few moments to think of what I want to say before I hit send. There. Sent.
Feeling much better and lighter about the whole situation, I shut down my laptop and get ready to head back to Abby’s. Before I can open my door, I remember that I was supposed to have come back over here for a reason. Checking my place, I find a bottle of bourbon on top of the fridge that I pull out for special occasions. No, this doesn’t constitute as one of those times, exactly, but if I go back over there empty-handed, then I basically just look like one of those douchebags she’s going to be talking to on the Internet.
Bottle in hand, I head back over to her place.
Letting myself in her front door, I walk into the kitchen like I don’t have a care in the world. She’s standing there, wringing her hands together, and wearing a look of concern on her face. “Everything okay?” she asks, worrying that lush bottom lip of hers between her teeth. I almost groan.
And my cock turns to stone.
“Yep, great,” I say, a little too chipper for my own liking, turning slightly to cover my hard-on.
“Are you sure? You were gone quite a while for only grabbing a bottle of alcohol,” she says, causing me to glance down at the bottle in my hand. Of course she’d notice that I was gone for roughly twenty minutes and only returned with booze.
God, I’m a dumbass sometimes.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I had to use…the bathroom.” Really?! What. The. Fuck.
“Oh. Well, you could have used mine,” she says meekly.
The only response I have to the statement is that I needed the privacy of my own bathroom, but I really don’t want to focus on my shitting habits right now. “Anyway, I brought this. To celebrate.”
“Celebrate?”
“You know, the whole…dating thing. That’s a big step. Good news. Really great news. Fantastic, actually.”
She just looks over at me with concern and disbelief in her eyes. “If you say so. It’s no big deal, really,” she says casually, walking over to the kitchen table. She has it all set and ready to go. Setting the bourbon down on the counter, I join her.
Walking her way, I stop directly in front of her. Unable to stop from touching, I grab a hold of her recently cut hair. It’s a small change, only a couple of inches of length, but I noticed right away. It’s the extra colors that have me all beside myself. They somehow bring out her green eyes even more. “You changed your hair,” I say, not letting go of that strand.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice gravelly and deep.
“It looks…great.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Eventually, when the touch borders on creepy, I drop her hair and take my seat. “I had lunch with Tuck today,” I say as a way to steer the conversation to anything other than the elephant in the room: dating.
“Yeah? What’s he been up to?”
“Same ol’ Tuck.”
“Sleeping with everything with a vagina?” she asks with a laugh, but I also know she means just that. Tuck’s a bit of a manwhore. He’s definitely working his way through all of the single ladies in town, and some that aren’t so single.
“You know him well.”
As we finish dinner, we talk about the book she’s working on for an up-and-coming author from California. Her technique needs a bit of work, according to Abs, but her stories are unique and keep you flipping the pages.
“Does she write girl-porn too?”
“No, she’s not an erotic writer,” she chastises me with a shy grin.
“But you’ve edited some, haven’t you? You’ve had your hands on some of those dirty office romance novels or the ones where the girls are supposed to call the Dom Daddy, right?”
The blush is fast and furious, and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. My mind wanders rapidly to all of the different storyline scenarios that she could have read, working her tail off on making the book as polished as ever. But then my wayward dick creeps into the equation, and suddenly, I’m wondering about a different kinda polish. Guys have to either find a willing female to take care of the problem, or they take care of it themselves. Lately, my problems have all been solved on solo runs.
But what about Abby? Does she get turned on reading about Doms and subs and find herself with her own little problem that needs solved? Does she take matters into her own hands, which frankly, is fucking hot. There’s nothing sexier than watching a woman making herself come with her own fingers. Suddenly, the very idea of Abby doing just that, late at night when no one is around, could quite possibly be the sexiest thing I’ve ever pictured.
And cue the massive hard-on, folks. My cock is unexpectedly so hard I could pound nails through concrete.
“Did you hear me?” she asks across the table.
“I’m sorry, what?” I mumble, mortified, trying to picture everything under the sun that could kill this boner. Emma and Orval using their playroom is usually a surefire way to ease the tension in my pants, but for some reason, now I just picture what it would be like to have Abby in one of those pleasure rooms.
Fuck.
“I offered to get the movie ready to go while you grabbed the cookies,” she says again, standing up and collecting the paper plates from dinner.
My eyes are riveted to the sexiest pair of tight grey yoga pants that I’ve ever seen. Are those new? Does she always wear slick body-hugging material that makes her ass look good enough to eat off of? I watch as she walks into the kitchen, her hips swaying gently with each step, and I realize that nothing short of a good ol’ fashioned spanking is going to get this boner to go away.
My mind replays dirty images of my best friend over and over again, and all I want to do is act them out in real life. Especially the one where I watch her finger herself. That fantasy is all-star spank bank material.
“I went ahead and grabbed the cookies. I know how much you want it,” she teases, holding the plate out for me to see. But my eyes aren’t on the plate extended in front of her. Oh, no. My eyes are captivated by the lush mounds of creamy tits, barely concealed behind a black tank top.
Kill. Me. Now.
Where in the hell did that thing come from? Has she always worn something so revealing, so provocative?
“Are you okay? You’re looking all flush,” she says as she heads towards the living room. I have yet to stand up, because if I did, she’d have a front row view of my soldier standing at attention.
“I’m fine,” I choke out.
I watch as she walks to the TV and turns on the DVD player. She bends over and places the cookies on the coffee table, my dick practically crawling through my jeans. I should look away, and really, I try, but it’s futile. My eyes betray me and watch every move she makes as she heads to the couch and plops down on her end.
“You coming?”
Not yet, but hopefully soon.
“Yep!” I chirp in a high-pitched voice that sounds like the one I had at thirteen. Clearing my throat, I carefully stand up and adjust my body so that she can’t see my front. “I’m just gonna use the head first,” I tell her as I head towards the hallway.
Inside the bathroom, the walls start to close in on me. Glancing at the tub, I picture her naked body with water cascading down her smooth skin. I actually have to bite my lip to keep the moan from slipping out.
I’m trapped inside my best friend’s bathroom with a boner that won’t quit, and there’s only one thing to do. I should be embarrassed about what’s about to transpire in her private space, but I’m not. I can’t be. I’m too wired, too horny, to even give a flying fuck right now.
I practically push down my pants like they’re on fire. My cock is throbbing, pushing against the cotton boxer briefs trying to conceal it. Oh, but there’s no concealing this baby. I’m more excited than a John on two-dollar BJ day. There’s a huge wet spot on the front of my skivvies from pre-cum seeping from my dick. When my underwear are somewhere down around my ankles, I take my cock in my hand and give it a squeeze.
And I groan.
Clamping my mouth shut, I listen for Abby. Did she hear me? Will she realize that I’m in here cleaning the pipes just so I can sit out on the couch with her without her knowing there’s a third person in the room with us: namely, my dick.
Hearing no movement, I start to stroke. Oh, this is going to be embarrassingly quick, but I don’t care. My balls are already aching and probably bluer than Papa Smurf. I start to move my hand in long, quick strokes, pleasure coursing down my spine. I close my eyes and try to picture anything but the one person I shouldn’t. But there she is, in bright Technicolor.
Abby.
I picture her hand in place of mine, her mouth and tongue licking the wetness off the tip. God, I’m such a fucker and shitty friend, but I can’t stop. I want her to be on her knees in front of me, her eyes looking up at me, vulnerable and trusting. I want her hand to slide up and down my rock-hard erection. I want her soft fingers to stroke my balls. And above all, I want her tongue on me when she discovers just how fucking amazing a dick piercing can be.
Before I can stop it, my orgasm barrels down on me. My balls tighten as lust tickles the base of my spine. I fire off more cum than would probably be considered normal, but I don’t care. My legs practically give out, my body sagging against the sink. Wave after wave of pleasure rips through me until I’m left spent and content.
Finally opening my eyes, I realize that in my rush to come, I didn’t exactly have a plan for the mess. And since I’m pretty much considering this to be the most embarrassing day of my entire life, I blink my eyes to find white beads of jizz all over her soft pink robe hanging from the hook on the wall in front of me.
Just fucking great.
I rush to pull up my pants, balling up my boxer briefs in the meantime, which makes it pretty much the most uncomfortable thing going on in my pants right now. Grabbing a handful of Kleenex, I try to clean up the mess as much as possible. Have you ever gotten cum on your clothes? Yeah, it pretty much leaves a white, hardened residue behind which basically just screams spoodge.
Before I can toss the Kleenex in the wastepaper basket, a soft knock sounds on the door. “Levi, are you okay?”
Fuck a duck. No! No, I am definitely not okay!
“Yep, fine. I’ll be out in just a sec,” I tell her. She doesn’t say anymore, to which I am most eternally grateful for, and heads back into the living room.
I try to right my boxers and my jeans, clean up the result of my jack session, and head back out into the living room to face the firing squad.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right? You’re all flushed and your ears are bright red.” Her concern would be welcome and comforting if I didn’t feel so guilty about jacking all over her robe.
“It must have been something I ate,” I tell her, gingerly sitting down on the couch. I’d rather her think I’ve been shitting my brains out than what I was actually doing in the bathroom.
“Come here,” she says softly, setting a pillow in her lap. Of course, my dick takes note of her innocent little phrase.
I should definitely head home and end this mass of embarrassment right now, but I’m too weak. When it comes to Abby, I’m all puppies and roses and sunshine. So instead of running for the door, claiming I have food poisoning, I opt for door number two and lie my head down on the pillow in her lap.
Welcome to my own brand of heaven and hell.