Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel) (12 page)

Mr Happy: Mmm …

The things you do to me, love.

I want to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours.

Hold your head.

Fist your hair.

Drill my cock into the back of your throat.

I swallowed, hard, practically feeling his hand on my head, his dick in my mouth, and the tears springing from my eyes as my gag reflex fought his strength. I could feel him, but not really—such a strange sensation. But I never would really feel him, so instead, I felt myself. I felt myself with an arduous twitch of my finger, the sweet tingle in my clit escalating rapidly.

Em: Keep going.

Almost there.

My hips bucked against my hand, sloshing water all over the bathroom floor.
Fuck it.
I didn’t care. I was beyond caring, too close to the point of no return. The point where the world could be crumbling down around me; the earth dividing at my feet; buildings disintegrating to the ground, and all that mattered was my teetering orgasm, that pending burst of pleasure driving me to the brink of insanity or perhaps ecstasy. That was all that mattered, and it was all that mattered when my phone beeped once again.

Mr Happy: Bring it home, sexy girl.

Strum your fucking perfect clit like a guitar.

Let go and moan your delicious music.

I did what I was told and strummed. I strummed as if I were Eddie Van Halen playing “Eruption”, and boy did I erupt. I erupted with an explosion of pleasure, my orgasm hitting me full force. My body thrashed in the water and I cried out, nearly dropping my phone as I rode the out heavy pulses waving through me.

Oh. My. God!
What a finger sesh!
And I hadn’t even used BOB.
Wow!
BOB should be jealous.

Slowing my breathing, I opened my eyes and typed back to H.

Em:  Thank. You. xo

Mr Happy: That better?

Em: Yeah. But hang on a minute …

Scrolling back to his guitar message and reading it once more now that I was lucid, I laughed, but was equally impressed at his choice of prose.

Em: “Strum your fucking perfect clit like a guitar”?

And

“Let go and moan your delicious music”?

Wow! Those are pretty words, babe.

Mr Happy: You like?

I was looking at my guitar while stroking my cock.

It just came out that way.

He’s a musician? He’s never told me that before.

Em: You play the guitar?

Mr Happy: Sure do.

Em: Nice. I didn’t know that.

Mr Happy: You never asked.

Em: True.

Mr Happy: So what’s wrong?

Em: What do you mean?

Mr Happy: Something must be up.

You don’t normally need me like THAT.

One thing that I could categorically state about H was that he never missed a beat. Pun unintended. He’d always been extremely intuitive, from the very beginning of our communications. I didn’t know why; perhaps I was an open book where he was concerned. He’d figured out my struggle with depression earlier on without pushing for information I hadn’t been ready to give him. H was definitely tactful when required and blunt when needed.

Em: I guess not. Sorry. 

Mr Happy: Hey! I’m not complaining.

But what’s up? What happened?

Em: I like Brad.

I like him more than I normally like guys.

Mr Happy: Who’s Brad?

Em: One of the guys I’m hanging with.

Mr Happy: One of the strippers?

Em: Yes. And let it be known I’m rolling my eyes at you.

Mr Happy: Why? I haven’t done anything.

And are you sure?

Em: I can hear the sarcasm in your words.

And sure about what?

Mr Happy: No sarcasm here. It’s all in your head.

And are sure that you like him

and not just because he’s a stripper?

Em: NO! It has nothing to do with him being a stripper.

Mind you, we both kinda do the same thing, right?

Mr Happy: No. He takes his clothes off in front of women.

You take your clothes off at home.

I’d say that’s different.

Em: I didn’t mean it like that.

I meant that we both earn money by getting people off.

Mr Happy: Hmm …

Fair point.

So, what’s different about dancer boy?

I laughed out loud.

Em: Ha ha!

BRAD makes me feel lots of different things.

I never feel lots of different things.

Only some things.

Mr Happy: What kind of different things does BRAD make you feel?

Sighing, I closed my eyes and recalled the moments we’d been together the past couple of days, and how’d I felt. I opened my eyes and typed back.

Em: I don’t know. Warm. Fuzzy. Safe.

Mr Happy: So he makes you feel like a soft toy?

I laughed out loud again, this time sloshing more water on the floor.

Em: Stop it. Stop making me laugh.

There’ll be no water left in the bath.

But no, smartarse, he makes me feel good.

I like him. A lot.

Mr Happy: So what’s the problem?

Em: Exactly that.

I don’t want to hurt him. Disappoint him.

Mr Happy: And what makes you think that will happen?

Em: I have depression, H.

You know this.

You’ve bared the brunt of my mood swings.

I also sext for a living.

Mr Happy: You’re a woman. You all have mood swings.

Stop worrying.

You’ve only just met him.

It probably won’t go anywhere.

My heart sunk in my chest. Stupid heart. Yet H was probably right.

Em: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

I guess you’re right.

Mr Happy: Look, love,

I’m only going by your track record.

But if you’re asking me if I think you’re good enough,

then you already know the answer to that.

I think you’re amazing.

I think you’d make any man happy.

I know you’d make me happy.

You DO make me happy,

and could make me happier.

My heart climbed back up from its sunken spot in my chest and began to pound a little harder. I wish he wouldn’t say things like that. He knew I couldn’t be with him. For one, he lived on the other side of the country. And two, I’d always felt I was largely at fault for him not getting back together with his ex-wife. I’d tried desperately to ignore his messages during that time, tried to give them space to reconcile their differences, but H wouldn’t leave me be, and deep down I hadn’t wanted him to. I’d needed him.

A lone tear escaped my eye and fell to my cheek. I wiped it away and typed back through my blurred vision.

Em: Don’t.

Mr Happy: Don’t what?

Tell you how I feel about you? Why not?

Em: Because it doesn’t matter.

Mr Happy: How can you say that, love?

Of course it matters.

Em: No. It doesn’t.

You and I can never be more than what we are.

Mr Happy: And what are we?

Em: Words.

Your words. My words.

… they’re just words.

Vowels and consonants of

lust, lies and nevers.

I waited for a response, a response that never came.

His words are a poisoned blade at my throat.

I like them.

I crave them.

I provoke their slice into my skin.

After getting out of the bath and climbing into bed, I’d kept my phone beside me while writing in my diary and then logging onto the SexyTexts interface. I’d even picked it up a couple of times to check if the sound had magically turned itself off. It hadn’t. The sound was on and working perfectly fine, cementing that H was ignoring me. Simple as that. I couldn’t blame him though. I was selfish where he was concerned, holding on to him but never tethering him to me. I wanted him there, needed him there, but never let him move closer or leave.

He was just …
there
. Always.

Picking up my pen, I scribbled another note in my diary, the pages full of doubt, sin, confusion and regret scribbled in ink.

It’s not him I crave,

It’s his desire for me.

I can’t have him.

I don’t want him.

But I can’t let him go.

My doctor’s concept of keeping a diary worked for the most part, because seeing my thoughts written before me often gave them new light. But not always. Sometimes they seemed darker on the page than how they had in my head. Like the one I’d just written. Reading it back now, you’d think I was a slut of mega proportions. But I wasn’t. I didn’t sleep around with a ton of men. I didn’t lead them on in real life. Okay, so yeah, I did lead them on while I was sexting, but that was my job. I was supposed to do that. My clients spent their purchased credits on my ability to do that and to do it well. But in reality, and despite my playful and flirty ways, I wasn’t a slut. And I certainly didn’t want to mislead anyone, especially Brad. It was one of the reasons why I’d pushed him away earlier in the evening, and it was also the reason I remained honest and blunt with H.

I just wasn’t girlfriend material. I had too many blemishes under my blemish-free exterior. But I did crave H’s words, his textual company … his friendship. And I’d be lying if I said that his desire for me wasn’t a turn-on, because it was. Of course it was. Desire was a provocative poison. Powerful. Delicious. It was an elixir that when swallowed, drowned you in need. Desire was addictive, hypnotic, a force near impossible to break, and no matter whether you were the object of desire or controlled by the spell it cast, the results were invariably the same. 

Desire was dangerous.

Desire was my biggest blemish.

My phone beeped beside me, loud and sharp, the sound coming out of nowhere. I flinched and almost gave birth to a fucking jellyfish.
Shit-fucking-fuck!

Grabbing it, I fumbled with what-the-hell-jitters and nearly dropped the phone on my lap. I knew it wasn’t H replying to the ruthless response I’d sent him, because the message tone wasn’t the one I’d assigned to his profile. Still, I was keen to see who the hell was contacting me so late at night.

Unknown: Hey, it’s me, Brad.

Cori gave me your number.

Hope you’re cool with that.

Just wanted to say I’m sorry for tonight.

I came on too strong.

I’m a cockhead.

Swallowing the guilt lodged in the back of my throat
,
I felt regretful. Ashamed.
So you should, you stupid mole
. I’d just left him standing there on the beach after he’d nearly impregnated my leg with his awesome mouth. I was a bitch—no doubt about it—albeit a confused bitch. I’d gone all
United States of Tara
on him, switching personalities and leaving him to think that he’d been at fault for my fleeing when he hadn’t. It was my fault, not his. Yet I’d worried for nothing because, according to H, anything more than a little fun between Brad and I was highly unlikely, and he was probably right.

I needed to apologise.

I needed to set the poor guy straight.

Quickly typing a response, I paused and bit my thumbnail before pressing send.

Em: Of course I’m cool with you having my digits.

And no, I’m the cockhead, not you.

I overreacted. It was stupid.

I’m sorry.

Brad: Don’t be sorry.

I came on too strong.

I shouldn’t have done that on the beach where people might see.

I made you feel uncomfortable, and I’m a dick for doing that.

Oh my God! Is he for real?

Em: Let me make this clear.

There was nothing uncomfortable about how you made me feel.

And you didn’t come on too strong. I like strong.

I just didn’t want you to think that I was a slut,

that I’d fuck you and then fuck off back to Melbourne in a few days.

I’m not like that.

Brad: Fuck! I would never think you’re a slut, Em.

I like you.

And I’m pissed that I fucked things up.

He likes me? Yeah, but it’s the wrong me. All men like the wrong me.
Sighing, I let him off the hook he was never secured on.

Em: You haven’t fucked things up.

I fucked things up.

Brad: Are you crazy?

You haven’t fucked things up.

Em: You sure? I feel terrible.

Brad: Is the pope an old dude with a white cape?

I laughed out loud and shook my head.

Em: Um … no. Technically, it’s a cassock, not a cape.

Brad: You have a great laugh.

You should laugh more often.

Em: What?

I blinked a few times and looked from one side of the room to the other, as if I were being watched by an invisible presence or hidden camera.

Em: How’d you know I laughed?

Brad: Because I’m sitting outside your hotel room.

And your sexy pixie laugh is loud.

What? He’s here?
Quickly closing my laptop, I scrambled off the bed and wedged my diary into my suitcase before making my way to the door and opening it.

I poked my head out and found Brad where he’d said he was, his back up against the wall with his long legs stretched out across the hallway.

“What are you doing?” I asked, surprised to see him.

“Cori and Josh are bumpin’ uglies in our room. Chief is probably flogging his log via Skype to Becca, and for all I know, Noah and Dimps are playin’ Dick Chicken.”

My eyebrow arched. “Dick Chicken?”

“Yeah. You don’t want to know.”

“Trust me, I do!”

He laughed. “Why does that not surprise me?”

I shrugged and offered my hands to pull him up from the ground. He took hold of one of them but chose to bare the brunt of his own weight as he got to his feet, his towering frame rendering me dwarf-like. I gulped. You’d think that such a robust, beast of a man would intimidate me, but he didn’t. Instead, his proximity blanketed me in warmth and safety. Rather than shying away from the dominance he held, I felt drawn to it.

We were standing there, face-to-face, our bodies pressed together with his hand still in mine, dangling from our sides. My eyes searched his blue ones for a sign that he was feeling what I was feeling—the incessant beating of my heart, the rush of heat to my face and the nervous flutter in my stomach.

Said stomach growled. Loud. And if I spoke tummytongue, I’d have no doubt it said, ‘It’s fucking empty down here in the dark depths of fucking emptiness. Food, woman, feed me food!’

My free hand shot to my growling abdomen and I stood back, feeling a little embarrassed.

Brad jumped back, too, and assumed what looked like a battle-stance position, his legs apart—one in front of the other—and his hands up, crossed and ready for attack. “What the fuck did you eat, a bear?”

I cracked up laughing. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s either that or I’m about to give birth to one.”

“No shit! Whatever that is,” he said, pointing to my tummy, “I think we’d better feed it.” He grabbed my hand and led me back into my room, guiding me to sit on the end of the bed while he rummaged through the mini bar. “What do bears like to eat?”

“Honey,” I blurted out, playing his game.

“You think you ate Pooh Bear?”

I shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“What kind of a person are you, sexy pixie?” Brad wore mock disbelief well—his mouth opened wide, and his eyes unblinking.
My God, he’s adorable.

I smiled sadly, feeling guilty once again for treating him the way I had. He really was a great guy. And he’d make a great boyfriend.

Remembering one of his earlier text messages, I responded to it at the same time as the question he’d just asked. “I’m the kind of person that likes you, too.”

He paused his rifling through the packets of chips and turned toward me. His eyebrows arched with surprise, yet he also seemed calm and accepting of what I’d admitted, especially when a slow, lazy smile crept over his face before he snatched up a packet of chips without taking his eyes from me.

Brad made his way to the bed and sat down, scooting backward until he was propped up against the bedhead. He patted the spot next to him and motioned with his head that I sit. “You coming? I found Honey and Soy Lay’s. They’ll have to do.”

My cheeks stretched uncontrollably, as a big grin spread across my face, so I leaned forward, opened the fridge, grabbed two bottles of Coke, and retrieved the TV remote before joining him on the bed. “What do you want to watch?”

“
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
,” he answered without hesitation, popping the bag of chips open and tilting them in my direction. “Eat. Feed the bear.”

“What is it with you and Willy Wonka stuff?” I dipped my hand into the packet and took some chips.

“Best movie ever! Who wouldn’t want to live in a chocolate factory with a chocolate river and Oompa Loompas?” 

He had a point. Mind you, the ever-lasting gobstopper had nothing on a Tim Tam.

“Speaking of Oompa Loompas, what were you and Cori talking about before we went up the Tower of Terror II?”

Brad tossed a handful of chips into his mouth, and when I say handful, I mean bucket-loadful. His hands were huge. “She freaked out when we climbed the Harbour Bridge just over a week ago. I knew she was a fan of the movie like me, so I hummed the Oompa Loompa song to calm her down.”

Wow! What a sweetie.
“Aw … that’s so cute.” I nudged his shoulder teasingly, and pinched some more chips. “But yeah, you’re right, she does like that film. She went nuts when she found out I landed the role of Veruca Salt in the national stage production a couple of years back.”

He snapped his body in my direction, his eyes wide, a chip dangling from his lip. “You were in that musical?”

I nodded slowly and reached out, stealing the precarious chip. “Yes.”

Brad screwed his face up until he realised what I’d done, then he sheepishly wiped his mouth. “I went and saw that with Mum.”

“You went and saw a musical of
Willy Wonker & the Chocolate Factory
with your mother? Did I just hear that right?”

“Uh … yeah.”

The look of doesn’t-every-grown-man-go-to-musicals-with-his-mum that Brad wore upon his face was super adorable, and I couldn’t help but lean over and place a soft kiss on his lips.

He tasted both sweet and salty.
Mm … yummy!
My Pooh Bear tummy growled. My Pooh Bear tummy wanted to gobble him all up.

Brad’s hand slid into my hair and held my head firm but with a gentle tenderness. I couldn’t help myself and let out a long, quivering moan against his mouth. Everything about him just felt, but was it? I wasn’t sure. And that’s what had sparked my earlier anxiety—the thought that he, us, could be something more but then wouldn’t be … because of me, because of what I had to hide. And so, really, what was the point? Why would I even bother starting something when that something had nowhere to go?