The Varlet and the Voyeur

  Will stiffened, recoiled, and shook his head, speaking before I’d finished my thought, “No. I can’t do that.” His words and expression were so adamant, I instantly believed him.

  And that made me sad.

  “Well then, I guess that’s that.” I sighed, shrugging my defeat and disappointment. “But, for the record, I’m so proud of us, discussing this like rational adults. At least we can still be friends.”

  But, could we though? Can I be his friend? Knowing that he wants in my pants?

  What other choice did I have? I wasn’t going to lie to get what I wanted—which was in his pants—and apparently neither was he.

  Will’s gaze moved over me, still hot, and then he said suddenly, “I want to propose something.”

  “Oh?”

  “I like you.”

  “Yes.” Goodness, I liked hearing him say those words. “And, as we’ve established, I like you.”

  “What I mean is”—his stare dropped to my mouth and everything about him intensified—“I want you.”

  Gulp.

  Well. Okay. Yes. He’d already said as much, I wasn’t surprised. But what he said paired with how he said it meant I was feeling too hot for my shawl.

  “And?” I squeaked, promptly clearing my throat.

  He ignored my question. “Do you want me, Josey?”

  His voice caressed my name and it took me a second to answer, then I said nervously, “Yes. I just said so. Earlier. Before. If you recall.” This appeared to please him. His gaze wandered from my neck to my jaw, lingering a moment before he looked me in the eye.

  “I propose an arrangement.”

  I wet my lips, and his eyes zeroed in on the movement. “What sort of arrangement?”

  “Dating isn’t an option.” He was distracted for a second, his eyes seemed to lose focus, and then he continued, “We’re going to Australia next week. While we’re there, I’d like us to be friends with benefits.”

  I stared at him, pretty sure my mouth hung open. This suggestion was so unlike Will. And yet, it was very like him to be up front, lay exactly what he wanted on the table.

  I looked away, the last of the alcohol leaving my system in the face of Will’s sobering proposition. When I looked back, he appeared disappointed, but also resigned.

  “You’re not interested.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that, it’s just…I have some questions.”

  “Ask me.”

  Under the table, I wiped my suddenly clammy palms on my thighs. “So, this arrangement, it would only be for the duration of the trip?”

  “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

  “What would you prefer?”

  “I’m going to be honest, despite the fact that I’m your boss, so you know where I stand.”

  “Yes. Okay. Go for it.”

  “I’d prefer to be eating you right now.”

  I blinked, tried to think of a response and came up empty. Again, it wasn’t just what he’d said, it was how he’d said it. Goodness!

  Will leaned both elbows on the table. “Does that embarrass you?”

  “A little. This just feels weird.” I couldn’t quite meet his gaze and I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, placing my hands on the table as another thought occurred to me. “I’m worried you’re only saying all this because you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not that drunk, Josey.” He shook his head, looking frustrated. “The alcohol is giving me enough recklessness to speak candidly, but that’s all. Everything I’m saying, I mean one hundred percent.”

  I flushed at his impassioned words. “Are you, um…”

  He reached out and used the tips of his fingers to open my hand and trace a line from my palm to my wrist. “Am I what?”

  I steeled myself to ask a personal question. “Are you interested in ordinary sex?”

  “No, I’m interested in extraordinary sex. With you.”

  I narrowed my gaze, while on the inside my heart did somersaults. “You know what I mean.”

  “Josey, I’m down for whatever makes you feel good.”

  Oh, man.

  His voice.

  Those words.

  And his face. His gorgeously handsome face.

  I struggled onward, not done yet with my questions. “I guess . . . I guess, if you like me, and you want to have sex with me”—I whispered the word sex, which seemed to draw a small smile from him—“then why not go with my first suggestion and date for fun? Why are you so adamant about a commitment up front?”

  For the first time since the dance floor, he looked uncertain. A moment passed before he began haltingly, “There’s something wrong with me. Every time I date a woman, no matter how long we date, I can’t bring myself to have sex with her.”

  My gaze darted over him. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t.” He shook his head, looking frustrated. “I can’t go through with it. I realized a few years ago, I need an up-front commitment, clear expectations. I need to know it’s going somewhere, or it’s going nowhere. And if it’s going nowhere, I need defined boundaries, rules. I don’t want to be responsible for hurting someone.”

  “You worry you’re going to hurt your date?” I was so confused. Without thinking too much about the question, I leaned closer, lowered my voice, and asked, “Do you have a monster penis or something?”

  Will’s solemnness immediately fell away and he was clearly fighting a laugh. “No.”

  “Well,” I sighed sadly, “that’s too bad.”

  He allowed himself a grin, but only for a split second before the solemnity returned. “My—my last serious girlfriend, I loved her.”

  My eyes widened as they flickered over him. “I thought you said, over drinks earlier, that you’ve never been in love.”

  “I thought I was. I thought she was, too. I asked her to marry me.” He frowned, glancing over my head, his expression tortured. “She wasn’t in love with me. And when I asked her to marry me, she broke things off, cut me out of her life. She said things were never serious between us—not for her—and I’d misread our ‘relationship.’”

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” I was on the edge of my seat.

  “I did not”—his face was scrunched, and he shook his head—“I did not take her rejection well. My dad, he had to—what I mean is—” Will huffed, rubbing his forehead. “I was very withdrawn.”

  “You were depressed?”

  He nodded, not meeting my eyes.

  A slight tingle, a suspicion, had me sitting up straighter. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  He swallowed thickly. “I seriously thought about it.”

  “Oh Will,” I murmured sadly, my frown taking over my entire face.

  “I have to know.” His eyes, haunted, came back to mine. “I won’t hurt someone like that, not if it can be helped. I wouldn’t be able to stand myself, especially when it can be prevented with the communication of clear limits. And I won’t go through that again, not knowing, being blindsided.”

  “So, that’s why you haven’t been able to do it with anyone?”

  He inhaled, nodding subtly. “Rules, expectations, boundaries, these things are important to me. They’re essential. And if someone breaks the rules, there’s nothing I can do about that. I’ve done my due diligence. But I have to have them.”

  Breathing out, I leaned back in my seat and thought this over. It was a lot to take in. No wonder he couldn’t make the magic happen since. The man was scared to death of sex.

  No. He’s scared to death of being hurt, or hurting someone else.

  “She was your last girlfriend?”

  He nodded, meeting my gaze, slipping on his stoic façade once more.

  “When was this?”

  He paused, seemed hesitant to answer, but eventually said, “Seven years ago.”

  It was a good thing I wasn’t eating, otherwise I might’ve spat out my food.

  “Seven years? You haven’t been with anyone since? I mean, other than watching peo
ple?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not even a hookup?”

  “Even before her, I was never someone who believed in sex outside of committed relationships. It’s reckless.”

  “But you do now?”

  He made a funny shape with his lips, an almost smile that looked self-deprecating. “I’d like to try.”

  Hmm . . .

  “Why me?”

  Will took a moment to reply. When he did, his gaze darkened. “I’ve already crossed so many lines with you, broken so many of my own rules.”

  “Really?” This was news to me. “You have?”

  “Yes.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Why?”

  “Because I think about you. In the shower. In bed at night. When I’m training and when I’m not. I think about you all the time. I think about all the ways I’d like to make you come. And I’m tired of only thinking about it.”

  I blinked several times, too hot, flustered and lost for words.

  Finally, after a herculean effort to find my scattered wits, I also managed to find my voice. “And when we get home from Australia, what then? Do we just go back to being roommates?”

  “If you want.”

  “What if I don’t want?”

  He didn’t seem to like this question; his jaw ticked and his eyes dimmed; even so, he responded evenly, “Then I’ll respect your wishes.”

  This all seemed way too good to be true. He was saying everything I wanted to hear, and being completely honest, and yet I was still intimidated. I’d never had sex with someone who looked like Will. I wouldn’t even know where to start. All my partners had been normal, ordinary-looking people, same as me. Will was a Greek god, made of marble, beautiful to look at but not to be touched.

  But I wanted it.

  I wanted him.

  So I threw caution to the wind—as was my habit—and shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” He looked stunned.

  “When we go to Australia we can be friends with benefits—” I picked up a chip and pointed it at him. “And just to be clear, that means no commitment, no strings, no hearts and flowers and romance, no ideas. It’ll be sex—just sex—and that’s it.” Despite myself, I still whispered the word sex, but I needed to hear the words. I couldn’t get any ideas or let my heart get away from me.

  We were not dating. He did not want to date me unless we were on the fast track for marriage. He’d been very, very clear about that, but I was convinced it would be a disaster.

  He wanted sex. With me. Just. Sex. And dammit if that didn’t sound fan-fucking-tastic.

  I was also in very real danger of melting into a puddle of arousal on the floor, so using my sergeant’s voice, I added, “Now let’s finish eating this food before it goes cold.”

  Will’s smile—with teeth—lit up his face and my heart skipped a beat.

  What have I done?

  Could I do this? Could I climb him like a tree, use his body, objectify him for my own pleasure, and keep the messy feelings on a shelf?

  . . . Honestly?

  I had no idea.

  But I was certainly willing to give it a go.

  Endeavoring to put on a calm façade to hide my inner freak-out, I ate another chip. I let my eyes wander over him as I chewed, appreciating the size of his shoulders, biceps, and forearms; remembering what he looked like with no shirt on; pondering whether he was telling the truth about his lack of a monster penis.

  I can objectify him. No problem. In fact, I will objectify him so hard, he won’t know what hit him!

  Friends with benefits.

  In Australia.

  With William Moore.

  Heart locked up tight.

  My brain parts were still a bit of a jumble, but my lady parts couldn’t wait.

  Twelve

  @ECassChoosesPikachu: I need a hobby other than playing video games. Any suggestions interwebs??

  @WillthebrickhouseMoore to @ECassChoosesPikachu: I’m sure @THEBryanLeech has some ideas if you’d ask him.

  @THEBryanLeech to @WillthebrickhouseMoore: You’re a good friend.

  WILL

  I woke up with the sense that I could conquer the world, like anything I wanted was mine for the taking, like everything was possible. I’d broken the rules. I’d admitted to Josey how I felt, and now we had an arrangement.

  Life was good.

  Josey was still asleep when I left for my morning run. I left a note on the counter letting her know where I was and when I would be back.

  The sense of omnipotence extended to my lungs and legs. I could run a hundred miles, so I stayed out an hour longer and ran just over seven miles extra. I could have continued on and on, but I wanted to get back. I wanted to see Josey.

  On my return trip to our apartment, I ran past a newsstand setting up for Sunday business. I stopped, searching for what I wanted, and stretching as I reached for the bundle of pink and red roses in a bucket of water next to the papers.

  “I’ll take these,” I said, pulling out a twenty euro note from the small zippered pocket at my waist. My attention caught on a picture of me on the front page of a gossip rag and a headline that bore my name.

  Is Dirty William Moore Debauching Angelic Ophelia?

  I picked it up, scanning the front page. There were several shots of me holding hands with the musician from the night before, walking from the club, and the subtitle read, How do Ophelia’s parents feel about the rising star’s depraved new love interest? And can she keep up with Will’s infamously voracious sexual appetites? Page 2.

  Infamously voracious sexual appetites? I snorted. Yeah. Right.

  Scanning the picture, I didn’t remember holding Ophelia’s hand as we left, but I did recall Josey pushing me forward to stand next to her and how frustrated I’d been. The musician seemed nice, but she wasn’t the one I wanted to be touching.

  “You want the paper, too?”

  I glanced at the woman operating the newsstand and returned the paper to the rack. “No. Just the flowers.”

  “Here’s your change.” She held out a few notes.

  “Keep it.” I waved the money away, grabbing the flowers and turning back towards home.

  Home.

  I chuckled, shaking my head at myself. I’d never thought of my apartment as home before. Home was Oklahoma, with my grandpa, father, uncles, and brothers. Home wasn’t a flat in Dublin, thousands of miles away from my family.

  I glanced at the flowers I’d picked up for Josey and warmth, a sense of rightness, set in my bones. I liked this. I liked having someone to come home to.

  No. That wasn’t right. I liked coming home to Josey.

  I’d never picked up flowers when Bryan was my roommate. I’d never thought of my flat as home when he lived there. I hadn’t minded going home, but I’d never anticipated it. Not like now.

  With these thoughts circling my mind, I pushed past the three photographers camped outside—one of them shouting at my back, “Are the flowers for Ophelia? Is she up there now?”—and took the stairs instead of the elevator. Arriving out of breath, I unlocked our door, tossed my keys on the table, and pulled off my shoes and socks. I went in search of Josey.

  She wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen, but the note I’d left on the kitchen counter was now on the table. Walking into the hall, I stopped abruptly upon hearing the sound of her shower. My heart ricocheted in my chest, jumping to my throat as I strained my ears and closed my eyes.

  Please.

  Please. Please. Please.

  A gasp. A sigh. A wanton whimper.

  My feet were moving. Before I knew it, I stood outside her bathroom with my hand on the door. I halted, common sense asking me, What are you doing?

  She moaned, silencing common sense. I opened the door.

  And there she was.

  It was . . . everything. She was everything I’d imagined, but more, different, better. She didn’t lean a hand against the wall like I’d imagined. No. She leaned her back against th
e tile, leaving her hand free to roam over her wet body, grabbing and massaging everyplace I wanted to touch, everywhere I wanted to taste.

  But, as I’d imagined, her eyes were closed, her head was lolled back, her hand moved in a steady rhythm between her legs, her hips rolled, and steam rose all around her.

  Watching her was the sexiest fucking thing I’d ever seen. Sexier, much more satisfying than any of the couples I’d watched. Just Josey, here, alone. So much better. She was perfect.

  And I needed—needed—to touch her. I needed to be the one responsible for those sighs and moans and whimpers.

  I must’ve made some noise, because her eyes flew open at just that moment, she flinched, and she screeched, “OH MY GOD!”

  Josey jumped into the corner of the shower, wielding the Pyrex dildo like a sword.

  I froze, instinctively lifting the hand not holding the flowers. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She fumbled for the towel hanging behind her and pulled it in front of her. She held the dildo in front of her as though to warn me off, her face a riot of emotions, but mostly terrified.

  And that’s when common sense made its return.

  What are you thinking?

  Clearly, I wasn’t.

  I should have knocked. Why didn’t I knock? What the fuck was wrong with me?

  I backed up toward the door. Based on how she was clutching the towel to her chest and blinking at me through the glass of the shower, I covered my eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Will!” she screeched, turning off the water. But then I heard her blow out a giant breath, followed by a disbelieving laugh, which was followed by a giggle, which was eventually followed by deep belly laughs. And snorts.

  I peeked at her from between my fingers.

  She’d lowered the dildo and opened the glass door. She was also laughing hysterically at the entrance to the shower, holding her forehead. “Fucking hell, Will,” she said between gasps for air. “You scared the shit out of me. I mean, I think I almost actually shit myself.”

  This confession made her laugh harder and she turned away, her forehead coming to the glass as she struggled against her hysterical laughter.