Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (7 page)

I don’t know what to make of all his rambling and now his quiet thinking. Honestly, knowing Ashton the way I do I naively thought I’d say, “Let’s have sex” and the horny boy that he is, he’d just up and jump my bones. What I always seem to do is underestimate our friendship and I think that’s what’s upsetting him now. 

Obviously he believes that I think very little of him and truthfully maybe that’s how it’s always come off, but in reality I’ve always been jealous at how easy life seems to be for him. He’s my hero. I mean, he’s been through some incredibly bad stuff and yet, he just keeps on going. He lives so big and right now, in this moment and just for once, I want to live that way as well.  I want all those ‘Yes’s and O’s to come from my mouth while lying under a beautiful man with rippling muscles for the love of Christian Grey! And now the only person I know who could do all the “it-ing” to me is clearly not interested.  How embarrassing. I think I’d rather him read my diary.

“Sorry. I’d like to take it back. And, also before this gets any worse, I’d like you to know that I do not really think you’re a man-whore,” he looks up at me wearing a shocked expression. “Maybe, I’m just a little, teeny, tinsy bit jealous (I whisper that word) of all the fun you get to have. I wish I was more like you.” When I look up he’s staring blankly at me. It’s been three days since I’ve seen him, going on four, and now I just want him to leave. I need to feel my rejection alone.

He gets up and I’m expecting him to turn and walk out the door but he doesn’t do that, not even close.  Surprising us both, he walks over to me, turns off the stereo playing the ever sexy JT over my shoulder, takes my sweaty palm into his very capable one and leads me down the hall to the bedroom. My pulse is beating like a jackhammer scraping away at the concrete around my heart. This is so going to happen. I’m going to have “it”, right now… with him.  He wants my O’s! 

Not to sound redundant or anything, but sweet baby Jesus! Then a thought strikes me. In my depression over the last couple of days I haven’t taken great care of, well, my body. I think I showered once and there was no shaving, at all. Just some soap, a loofah, and a bit of shampoo and conditioner. 

“STOP!” I shout so frantically at him we both jump and I was the one yelling. Then I’m rambling, “Shower! I need a shower,” my breathing is extremely shallow and rapid, I feel like I’m on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy about to get it on with McSteamy or McDreamy or whatever and for the love of Sci-Fi, I’m like an Ewok! He’ll never see me through all this fur. 

He bends down to look me in the eye, still holding my hand and says very matter of fact, completely unconcerned about the part where we are about to do the nasty, “I’m going to go play some games and catch up with Master.  You.  Calm Down. Take your shower and maybe while you’re in there think this through a little more.  If us doing the S... E... X… (he spelled it out for me, how thoughtful) is your way of trying to make sure I won’t leave again, stop.  I’m not going anywhere,” then he turns me to the bathroom and swats my butt playfully like he has a million other times, only this time when his hand makes the quick connection with my backside I feel it in a totally different place. Holy mother, I’m going to need sex insurance. Is that even a thing? If not maybe it should be, because I’m afraid tonight my parts may get totaled.

***

The shower does nothing to ease my fear or, oddly enough, change my mind about all the action I’m about to get. It does, however, rid me of every last visible hair below my neck and I’m feeling great about that. I’ve rubbed myself down with vanilla & cherry scented body oil so I’m good and slippery. I wonder if that matters?  Surely it must. 

When I exit the bathroom in nothing but my big, fluffy robe I find Ashton in my room lying on my bed  looking as if he’s about to take a spelling test. Seriously, he’s that excited. But then, he looks up at me and a smile that stretches from here to California breaks out across his suntanned face at the sight of me standing in the doorway all wrapped up like a present in downy pink cotton.  Unfortunately, this is also when I notice my open laptop on the bed beside him and immediately I face palm.  Good Lord, the last thing I was reading was that article about the friends with benefits on Playboy. This gig just got busted wide open.

“So, the old friends with benefits package, that’s what you’re looking for today on this sexy stay-cation of ours. You’d like to order the indoor-action-only portion of the trip with absolutely no fun in the sun.” He sounds like a travel agent giving me the details of my recent transaction.   His eyebrows start to waggle up and down in opposite directions from one another and I’m immediately reminded that this is my best friend, the douche.

Questions start spiraling around in my mind, rapidly firing one after another. Do we just do it the once or is this something we repeat every so often? Should we do it on my bed or would the couch make it less romantic and more F.W.B. appropriate? Which leads me to the next question: certainly we lock Master away from wherever we decide to do this? I mean, that just seems creepy, am I right? And, last but not least, the biggie. Does he even find me that kind of attractive? Usually his “ladies” are crazy hot, boasting a serious side of crazy that’s completely different than the kind I possess.

Suddenly I’m feeling extremely vulnerable.  Vulnerability leads to panic attacks. Panic attacks lead to gland stimulation. Gland stimulation leads to me being sweaty and gross. Plus, I’d swear on my X-Box that when my adrenaline is pumping like this my hair grows faster and now any second I’ll have to go shave again and then I’ll have proven to us both how crazy this whole thing really is and… well, he better act fast here or I see this going from sexy-town to crazy-town in 0.2 seconds flat. 

Understanding me the way he does, he gets up from the bed and approaches me calmly, as if he’s come face to face with a cornered, shaking Chihuahua (If you’ve ever watched The Dog Whisperer, you know those things are terrifying and unpredictable!). His every move is methodical and calculated. Slow and steady. Suddenly I feel like his prey and the penetrating look in his eyes is the weapon he’s using against me, morphing the way that I feel one slow heart beat at a time. I can feel his intentions in all the serious parts of my body in an unusually delicious way and I think I like it. Nope, I LOVE IT!

My palms begin to feel hot. Their steady heat spreading up my arms, through my shoulders and down the center of my body. I can almost feel my pupils dilating and I can see that his already have. Where his eyes are normally a light whiskey they are now a deep bourbon bordering on black. Suddenly I’m aware of my wet hair and the way the water is dripping one droplet at a time down the sides and back of my overheated neck, and I think he notices as well.  If you look close enough, I think you’d see an white hot electric current pulsating between us, bright, sexy, and pure enough in its coloring to appear like a perfect diamond reflecting off the sun with its intensity.

When he gets within one foot of me he stops. I’m visibly shivering. I’m tingling in every piece of my flesh, hyper aware of where he may choose to touch me first. I keep reminding myself that this is Ashton, my Ash, the guy I’ve taken care of and who’s taken care of me since we were the tender age of seven but right now, he’s more. More than my friend, more than a rocker dude, definitely more than the douche I tease him about. He’s more because I am going to give him something tonight that I never thought I’d be capable of giving away, myself.

I’m deftly aware that this will be one of those moments that become part of a very small catalog of important firsts; first tooth, first word, first steps, first day of school, first car, first kiss (which belongs to him as well), first “time”.  It’s only fitting that this belongs to the two of us, seeing that he’s been alongside me for so many of the other big milestones of my life. Through them he always kept me safe, happy and feeling secure, and I know this will be no different. He will make sure this is good for me and he’ll protect me like the friend that he is, my best friend.

His eyes flicker to where the knot of my robe is tied halfheartedly at my hip. One yank of the fabric and I’ll be exposed to him in a different way than I’ve ever been before. Sooner than he can do it, I surprise myself with my own boldness and pull the fabric loose with a single menial tug. The front separates only slightly and the cool air instantly hits my warm flesh and sends my body into hyper-drive. Still I don’t move and neither does he. Both of our chests are rising and falling visibly, rapidly as our nerves and hormones begin to rocket through our bodies at alarming rates. I never knew I had jet powered hormone infusers. Holy crap, it’s fantastic. 

He breaks the heady silence between our explosive breaths when he asks in a husky voice, “Is there a list of rules? Like the ones I just read on that website, or are we not going to worry about them right now? I’m fine either way. This is your show.” 

He’s serious. He wants me to be the one in control of the outcome of our coming together. He knows that if the control is not firmly placed in my hands there’s a strong possibility that things will take a nasty turn between us and we both know that is not the outcome that either of us wants. He’s proceeding, only he’s wisely using caution.

My tongue is adrift in a sea of horniness and hormones so I quickly say, “We’ll do rules after. Right now, I just need to feel…” 

My words are halted by the sudden force of his lips coming down on mine. His hands are at my neck, cradling my skull with such intensity that I can feel his body’s vibrations through his fingertips. His lips, they are steadfast, soft and erotic in their ability to move me with their talent. The last time I kissed him all I could do the next day was worry that I’d ruined his favorite new pants, now I’m just worried I’ll never feel this again. With him.  With anyone. But, this is not the time for worry, for second guessing. That’s the purpose of this entire expedition, to release control, feel pleasure for the sake of pleasure alone.  I can only hope that a side of capital Y-Yes’s and horrifically loud O’s will come with this order.

With the restraint of a lion in front of his defeated kill he pulls apart our desperate lips and stares at me and I back at him. We’ve just kissed each other stupid. I believe this kiss just permanently wiped out the memory of that first kiss from many drunken years ago. I don’t believe anyone else on this planet has ever shared a kiss like this one before.  It’s impossible, or surely I would have heard about it, like, in the news or on Wikipedia. I feel like we should call Ripley’s believe it or not to see if a kiss can be displayed somehow in their museum of awesomeness, titled “Best Kiss in the History of the Known World.”

“Holy crap, Hot Pants… I…” Ashton speechless is something I’ve never witnessed before. He’s always got some nonsense to blather on about, but right now he’s just rubbing his thumbs back and forth along my enflamed cheeks, my head still cradled in his palms, his eyes watching me, scrutinizing my reaction to see if I’m all right.  Is he alright I wonder?

“Is “it” better than that? Because, if it is? I don’t know if I can take it.” I’m dead serious; my body feels like it may implode from the delicious pleasure surging through it. Anymore may be overkill.

“I don’t know if I can, either. I’m being for real, Cee. I feel like a chick right now. My toes curled. My freakin’ toes just did that thing you girls say. They curled. I’m afraid I won’t make it past the kissing… holy hell. I think my leg may have kicked up.” 

I smile. He smiles.

He slips his hands from beneath my wet hair and slowly drags them down the front of my robe where it is still lying open, careful not to touch my scorching skin just yet. His strong hands grab a hold of the robes lapels and hold on, waiting for, I don’t know what? If he’s trying to torture me or if he’s afraid of this intensity between us, well so am I and yes, I’m tortured, get on with it already.  But, seeing as he’s just been scared straight and I’m in need of a release, I’m preparing to make a big move. Otherwise it’s entirely possible that I’m going to have some kind of sexual-frustration-induced panic attack, and that, my friends, feels like it has the potential to be the apocalypse.

“I want you to touch me, Ashton. Do it. Do it now!”   My pleading pays off. He quickly obliges…YAY ME! Woo Hoo for begging! It works!

His right hand starts first. It slowly releases its strong hold on my robe and finds its way to my aching skin. His left feels encouraged by the right’s progress and follows suit. His touch… I could die happy right now, it’s that good. His eyes are watching as his hands track across my flaming skin, burning me, mapping me out with their desire. 

Those glorious hands begin to rub small circles in time with one another, from the top of my chest down over the “girls” and to the soft skin of my outer ribcage to beneath, where I’ve grown heavy with want. I’m clearly panting and I can see that he is too. Especially considering that the robe I’ve been wearing is now slowly but steadily sliding down my forearms and about to hit the floor.

As the robe meets its mark and lands around my feet in a cotton-pooled puddle, he stops. His hands cut short their aching decent momentarily and I notice a pensive look in his eye, as if he’s taking mental notes on places he’s been and places he’s yet to explore. I giggle when I see him bite the corner of his lip like he does whenever he’s working out a problem. His eyes shoot up to mine, still enflamed with desire. I stop giggling.

“Is something funny, Hot Pants?” He’s very stern.  Mmmmm… me likey.

“You.” I’m stern back. Though right now I’m only interested in being the student to his very well-educated teacher.