Big Rock Read online

  What the fuck am I supposed to do with this erection? Hammer some nails? Bang some wood? This is like a punishment erection. It’s got its own blood supply.

  I shut my eyes, squeeze them tight, and press my palms into the back of my skull, resisting.

  Because I can’t go there.

  Can’t jack off to her. Can’t do it. Won’t do it. Won’t ruin the friendship by going that far. We’ve already done more than we should, and if we go further, we’ll lose everything she was saying was good at the bar tonight. She’s my steady, reliable, fantastic friend. She gives me hell, and she makes me laugh, and I can’t risk losing her by fucking her.

  Or even thinking of fucking her.

  But I am dying here. My skin is on fire, and my brain is stuck on repeat—sex, sex, sex.

  I’ve got to do something about this persistent hard-on that has been working overtime today, like it signed up for a twenty-four-hour shift. I pad out to the living room, grab my laptop, and return to my bed, flipping open the screen.

  Women. Lots of women. Hot lesbian porn. That’s what I need. Something totally removed from the last two days of torrential lust. Like, two hot chicks in stockings banging each other. No Tumblr gifs for me, please. I need video, and I know where to find it.

  In seconds, a gorgeous redhead in black stockings and garters walks into a dimly lit living room. Perfect. Parking the laptop on the covers, I stretch out my naked body on my bed, my head propped up on a couple of pillows so I can enjoy the front-row seat.

  A smoking hot brunette joins her, wearing only white thigh-highs and heels. This will do the trick, thank you very much. I take my dick in my hand and stroke. Moving my palm down my shaft, I skim lightly at first, down to my balls, which are heavy and aching.

  Just what the doctor ordered. I’m going to enjoy every single second of this jerk. I tighten my grip. My dick is throbbing in my palm, but I’m thrilled to be on the road to imminent relief as the women move to their couch and get it on.

  This is perfect, because neither looks like Charlotte. They kiss, and my skin grows hotter all over as I watch these naked beauties. Their mouths devour each other, and the redhead cups the brunette’s full, round tits in her hands. The brunette moans and slides her fingers between the redhead’s pussy lips. My shaft grows thicker as I watch the brunette’s finger flick across all that wetness.

  My breath hitches, and I groan.

  Loudly.

  Imagining how hot and wet her pussy is.

  All nice and slick and coated in arousal.

  How she’d feel on my fingers.

  I shift my hips, pumping faster. My other hand moves up my stomach. My fingertips brush against my own flat nipple, and I’m getting into this so much that the rest of the world is gone. It’s just me, and my body, and the women on the screen, and I’m fucking my fist.

  Soon the redhead is down on her knees, spreading open her partner’s legs. The brunette leans back on the couch, her mouth falling open in a moan as the redhead licks her. Nice, long, delicious strokes.

  “Yeah,” I say on a grunt, my eyes locked to the screen. I am in helping hand heaven thanks to these babes. My dick is out for a joyride, and I’m so fucking happy to be on the fast-track to coming.

  I picture myself sliding between the two chicks, servicing them both, eating one, fucking the other. Nothing is better than this.

  Until it gets astronomically hotter when a third one enters the scene.

  She has blonde hair and brown eyes, and she’s divine. I have blinders on, erasing the others, because she’s all I see. Sexy, strong, and completely captivating. I can’t look away. Soon, she’s not her anymore…she’s my girl…she’s Charlotte, and she’s naked in front of me, and I don’t see the other women. They’ve disappeared from my night, as I close my eyes and jerk harder and faster, and I can’t fucking fight it anymore.

  I’m losing this battle because it’s Charlotte I see.

  It’s not Charlotte from yesterday afternoon, or even Charlotte from this evening. This Charlotte is new, and she’s naked, climbing up on my bed, crawling to me on her hands and knees—her sexy, pouty lips, her soft, sweet belly, her strong legs, and her beautiful, hot, wet pussy.

  Wet for me.

  Aching for me.

  She sinks down on my shaft, and that’s it.

  My balls tighten, my spine ignites, and I squeeze my eyes shut as shudders wrack through me, and with an epic groan, I come so goddamn hard inside Charlotte. An orgasm that just sucks me dry.

  I’m panting.

  When I open my eyes, Fido is at the foot of my bed, licking his paw. He drags it over his furry face, then behind his ear. He stops his post-meal bath to stare at me, a disdainful look in his beady yellow eyes.

  This is the end to my Saturday night. My cat has watched me whack off to a vision of my best friend.

  “Don’t say a word,” I hiss.

  He looks away, lifting his chin haughtily.

  But he’ll keep my secret.

  I’ll keep his, too, the fucking little voyeur.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Let’s pretend I didn’t do that.

  Imagine I have amazing self-control and didn’t masturbate to the thought of my business partner last night.

  As she orders scrambled eggs, potatoes, toast, and black coffee at Wendy’s Diner the next morning, I can’t help but wonder if she knows she starred in my fantasies, riding me like a cowgirl.

  Then reverse cowgirl in the middle of the night, her hair spilling down her spine, my hands on her ass.

  In the shower this morning, too. I went down on her then, and she tasted absolutely heavenly coming on my tongue. So, yeah. That’s the thing about slippery slopes. Take that first step, and the next thing you know, you’ve completed a jerk-off hat trick to your bestie.

  But I’m on the wagon now. Straight and narrow. Those three times worked like a charm, and I’ve got her out of my system. One hundred percent. Scout’s honor.

  She wears a short gray skirt, a purple T-shirt, and her hair is knotted in a loose ponytail. I have no clue what’s on underneath, and I’m not even thinking about her bra and panties. See? I’m cured.

  “And for you?” the waitress asks me.

  “I’ll have the same. But well-cooked, bordering on burnt for the eggs,” I tell her, and she nods and walks away, past the open kitchen.

  The guy at the table next to us turns the page in the New York Post. A prep cook slaps butter on the griddle and it sizzles. The lights shine brightly, revealing every scratch on the faded mint-green Formica table and every nick on the beige tiled floor.

  This is the morning after, and as the door opens with a jingle, a quartet of dudes a few years younger than me walk in. They partied too long, and are wildly hungover—it’s obvious in their eyes.

  Wendy’s is a stark contrast to Gin Joint’s nighttime enchantment. The diner air is thick with the scent of regret. I don’t know if it’s coming from others, or from Charlotte.

  She fiddles with her napkin.

  “Head still hurt?” I ask, since she’s quiet today.

  She shakes her head. “Totally fine.”

  “Water helped?”

  She nods. “Always does.”

  “Good. But just to be safe, we need the full hangover prevention pack,” I say, since that’s why I took her here. “Nothing rebounds you better after a night of drinking than diner food. It’s a medically proven fact.”

  She manages a faint smile, and the waitress returns quickly with the coffee pot, pouring two cups. Charlotte wraps her hands around hers. “Is it now? Even though I didn’t have much to drink.” Her tone is lackluster.

  I don’t let it deter me. The more I talk, the more we banter, the better the chance we can get back to who we were before. “There was a study just last week in the Journal—”

  “About last night,” she begins, and the wheels of the conversation screech to a halt with those three dreaded words.

  But I’m nimble. I know how
to dart and dodge. I hold up a hand like a stop sign, shaking my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But—”

  “No, buts. Everything is fine.”

  “What I’m trying to say is—”

  “Charlotte, we both had some cocktails, and hey, I get it. I look better to you when you’re wearing beer goggles.” I wink, going for self-deprecating humor because I don’t want her to feel bad in the least for what almost happened.

  The corner of her lips quirks up, but that’s all. She’s not wearing lipstick this morning. She hardly has on any makeup. She still looks pretty. She always does, night or day, rain or shine.

  “They were gin goggles, but even without them—”

  I reach for her hand, wrap mine around it, and squeeze it in a nice friendly gesture. I need to reassure her. “We’re friends. Nothing can change that. Nothing is ever going to get in the way of us being friends. Well, unless you marry a total douche someday. So don’t do that,” I say, flashing my trademark grin and trying desperately to steer this conversation away from us, lest she figure out what my hand has done three times in the last twelve hours.

  “Don’t you marry a total bitch,” she says with narrowed eyes, and that’s my Charlotte. She’s back, and she’s just like me. She’s not going to let last night’s weirdness in the cab derail the best relationship either one of us has ever had. Though weirdness might not be the right word. More like hardness, wetness, and hotness. Which are exactly the words I shouldn’t be using as I think about her. “But the thing I wanted to say about last night is about us being friends.”

  “Me too!” I say, with far too much enthusiasm, but she’s just uttered the magic words. Friends. Us. I have to latch onto them so we don’t lose sight of what we are. “Our friendship is the most important thing to me, so let’s just keep being friends.”

  Her features freeze, as if a mask has slid into place. She fiddles with her ring, and the strangest thing is, my heart seems to beat faster as I watch her play with it. She doesn’t have to be wearing it now, but she is.

  “Yes. Friends. That’s the most important thing,” she says in a monotone.

  “Like we talked about last night, right?” I say, reminding her in case her gin goggles performed a blackout trick on her brain. “Binge watching TV shows, eating gummy bears or lemonheads, and drinking tequila or wine.”

  She nods. “Right. Absolutely,” she says, and flashes me a smile that doesn’t feel real.

  “We should do that again. Since we can,” I say, like a card player sliding chips into the pot to bet I can just be friends with her.

  “Sure.”

  “How about tonight?” I say, upping the ante again. I am going to blow my own mind at how good I am at just being friends.

  “Okay.”

  “My house?” Doubling down. Big time.

  “Really?” She arches an eyebrow. “You really want to just hang out?”

  “Of course. We were saying last night that we should.”

  She shakes her head, and I’m not sure if it’s amusement or some sort of resignation. She takes a breath, adjusts her ponytail, and shrugs. “Fine,” she says. “Friends don’t let friends eat gummy bears alone. I’ll bring the bears.”

  “I’ll eat the green ones for you.”

  She shudders. “Hate the green ones.”

  “And I’ll get the wine. If memory serves, you prefer a chardonnay with your bears?”

  “I do, but maybe virgin margaritas tonight instead?”

  I toss my napkin onto the table with a flourish. “Touched for the very first time,” I say, and again, maybe I should have thought first before those words came out.

  Mercifully, the waitress arrives.

  “Here are your eggs,” the waitress says, setting down the plates. “Well-cooked. Just like you asked for.”

  Those last words echo loudly as I realize what I’ve just done. What I’ve asked for with my cocky mouth. My big ideas. My I-can-pull-anything-off attitude.

  I just invited Charlotte into my house tonight. There aren’t enough sweaty basketball players in the universe for me to deal with the danger in that decision.

  * * *

  We spend the rest of the meal planning for the week ahead at The Lucky Spot. Neither one of us breathes another word about tonight, or last night, or our fake relationship. When we stop by The Lucky Spot and spend a few hours working before Jenny handles the Sunday afternoon shift—and before we head to the museum—we manage the slide back into being friends and business partners so smoothly, it’s as if last night never happened.

  But once we set foot in the museum, something changes.

  Handsy Charlotte has left the building. Sure, she’s still playing my fiancée, but she’s not as committed to the role as she was last night. I have no clue if my mom or Mrs. Offerman can tell, but as we stare at an Edward Hopper painting, I do my damnedest to make sure no one knows.

  “The painting is beautiful,” Mrs. Offerman says.

  “Yes, it is,” I chime in.

  I wrap an arm tightly around my fake fiancée, plant a quick kiss on her cheek, and say, “Like you. By the way, have I told you how pretty you look today?”

  Charlotte tenses, but manages a thanks.

  My mother glances at us and smiles.

  Emily does not. Emily seems to have zero interest in the artwork, even though this is her intended major.

  But that’s okay. I’m returning to the swing of things. I’m on my game. As we wander through Chagalls and Matisses, I make witty comments, and all the women laugh, including Charlotte. When we’re out at the sculpture garden, I’m confident Charlotte and I are on solid ground, and we’re good enough at playing pretend.

  Until Emily turns to her. “How long have you been in love with Spencer?”

  Charlotte stiffens, and a burst of red splashes across her cheeks.

  “I mean, were you attracted to him first before you started dating?” Emily continues. “Because you’ve been friends forever, right? So was it just one of those—”

  “Emily, dear. Some things are personal,” Mrs. Offerman says, cutting in.

  The teenage girl shrugs like this is no big deal. “I’m just curious. They went to college together. I don’t think it’s that weird to want to know if they were into each other back then.”

  Charlotte raises her chin. “We’ve always been friends,” she says, then presses her hand to her forehead. “Excuse me.”

  She takes off.

  My mother glares at me, and all I can think is, she knows. Her eyes track Charlotte’s exit through the glass doors into the museum, and instantly my mother beckons me. I close the gap. She speaks low, out of the corner of her mouth. “She’s upset about something. Go after her. Comfort her.”

  Right, of course. Super Fiancé to the rescue. Moms always know best.

  I rush after Charlotte, through the door and down the hallway, catching up to her as she reaches the ladies’ room. I call out to her, but she’s got her hand on the door, and she pushes it open.

  The door swings shut, and I stop.

  For a second.

  The hallway is quiet, far removed from most of the museum traffic. I push on the door and follow her in. She’s at the sink, splashing water on her face.

  “Are you okay?” I ask tentatively as I walk over to her. There are three stalls in here, but they’re empty. Footsteps echo then fade down the hall.

  She shakes her head. I reach her, place a hand on her lower back, and gently rub. She flinches, and inches away from me.

  “Are you not feeling well? Do you have a headache from last night or something?”

  The door creaks, and we freeze. It closes again, but I don’t hear anyone come in. The ladies’ room is silent; it’s just us.

  She swivels around, grabs my shirt, and tugs me into a stall. “I can’t fake this.”

  My shoulders drop. My limbs feel heavy. I’ve pushed her too far. “The engagement?”

  “No. That’s fine. The p
retend engagement is fine,” she says, staring straight at me. I’ve never seen her brown eyes so intense, like she’s about to scale a sheer wall. They don’t waver at all.

  I knit my brow. “Then what is it?” I’m genuinely curious because if she’s not talking about our pretend relationship, I have no damn clue what it is she can’t fake.

  Her grip tightens on my shirt. Her jaw is set. She huffs through her nostrils. I’ve never seen Charlotte like this. “What did I do wrong?”

  “Last. Night,” she seethes. Each word has its own breathing room.

  “What about last night?”

  Her eyes float closed, but she looks pained. She takes a deep breath and opens them. The hard edge seems to fade somewhat. “You’re just pretending like it didn’t happen.”

  “No,” I say quickly, trying to defend myself. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  But, in fact, it is what I’ve done all day. It’s exactly what I’m hoping to accomplish.

  “It is what you’re doing. It’s what you did at breakfast. We just brushed it under the rug, and that’s not me,” she says, her tone fierce, reminding me of one of the very many things I admire about Charlotte—her toughness, her tenacity. “You didn’t let me talk, and I need to know. I told you I’m a shitty liar, and I meant it. I’m rubbish at lying. Even last night, when I said the thing about my dad being a nurse—that was still true.”

  This is yet another thing I like about her—she’s so damn honest.

  “Okay, so what do you need to know?” I ask, and nerves don’t just skitter across my skin. They fucking descend on me like flying monkeys.

  The evil kind.

  As if there’s any other variety.

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you really this dense, Spencer?”

  I hold my hands out wide. “Apparently I am. Why don’t you just spell it out for me? What do you need to know?”

  She twists the fabric of my shirt in her hand, pulling me closer, and in a split second, the gap between us narrows. We were a foot away before—enough space to fend off the hormones. Now, they’re back. Swirling. Circling. Gripping. The temperature rises once more.

  “Are you not attracted to me?”