Telling Tales (9 page)

“Cam, seriously. It’s fine. Whatever you want to say—it’s fine,” I say, because that’s true. And also because I want him to keep talking. God, anything to just have him keep talking.

“Whatever you…uh…might have seen…” he starts, and I can practically feel him trying to squeeze it out of himself.

“It’s just because I was, you know. Worked up. From…the other stuff that happened.”

Hey, we all were, right? Wade’s story was
hot
.

“Perfectly understandable,” I say.

“And the picture I have of you…” He glances at the desk, where said incriminating photograph lies. “It’s just because…you’re my friend.”

“Obviously,” I say, because his answer sounds much more plausible to me than “I am secretly in love with you.” Much. Much. He’s clenching at the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles have turned white, but it’s still a completely reasonable explanation.

“And as for the stories…” He pauses, then, and this time I can see him really struggling. As though possible love and illicit masturbation is no big deal, but this…this is like some kind of awful insurmountable obstacle the likes of which the world has never seen. It’s like he’s trying to climb Olympus Mons with a toothpick and some dental floss as his only tools. “Which one did you read?”

He asks the question in this horrible, faux-casual sort of way. Raises one eyebrow and won’t meet my gaze. Seriously—how is someone this handsome
that
awkward?

“The first one,” I say, then for some reason wish I’d gone with a different answer. I bet there’s some nice romantic tale in there somewhere, about making love and buying people flowers and eating chocolates in bed or something.

But unfortunately for him, I read the one about two girls practically gang-raping a guy who resembles him in more ways than one. And so I have to watch his eyes kind of flutter closed in a way that almost makes me want to giggle. It’s an obvious expression of mortification, but there’s something about the way he almost rolls his eyes at the same time, and doesn’t quite close them…it’s very endearing.

“Oh that’s wonderful,” he says, while my mind flashes on every little detail of that particular story. The hand over his mouth, all the talk of
being
used
, the feeling-like-a-woman stuff…

Cam is just so self-contained. It must be like someone’s cut a hole in him and is letting all the stuffing spill out.

“I really, really didn’t mean to pry,” I say, but that’s a lie. I did mean to pry. I watched him jerking off and it infected my brain with some kind of sex fever, and then I simply couldn’t stop searching for further evidence of his…whatever this is.

However, I cannot use this as an explanation to him.

“It’s fine,” he says, and waves a casual hand. Everything is too casual. He’s never casual. “Like you said—I did it to you, first.”

“It’s not the same,” I say, because it isn’t. Him going through my stuff is not a big deal. Me going through his stuff is like breaking into Fort Knox. “And besides, this isn’t tit for tat. I didn’t…that’s not how I intended it. You just made me so curious!”

Ugh. Did I really just say that? And also: why did me saying something so dumb suddenly light up his face like that? As though he’s
happy
about my curiosity.

“Seriously?” he says.

I immediately want to back out of my own natural snoopiness.

“Well…uh…yeah. I mean—you’re not exactly the most forthcoming of people.”

This is true. Once, I asked him if he liked cereal for breakfast and he replied he’d have to think about it. Evasion is practically his middle name. I’m surprised he even got as far as “whatever…uh…you might have seen.”

I mean, the above actually implies there was something
to
see.

God, he’d make a great politician. I think his parents actually wanted him to be one, so that’s not really a shocker.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then for some reason I feel really bad about having that politician thought. I don’t even know why he’s apologizing, in truth—after all, it’s me who did the wrong thing.

“No, no—it’s me. I shouldn’t have come in here, and I shouldn’t have read your stuff—it’s up to you if you want to share, not me—”

He scrubs his hands over his face briefly.

“I
do
want to share. I just can’t. Not this.”

“Well, that’s cool. No one says you have to,” I say, which seems like a nice, calming thing to tell him. Only when he looks up at me there’s an intensity in his gaze I haven’t seen before. Not ever. He’s usually so still, so to see him like this is…unsettling. Unsettling and something else, something I can’t quite pinpoint.

My body is still on high alert from the story. Maybe that’s it.

“You don’t have any trouble,” he says, and makes his hands into fists as he does so. The high alert ratchets up a notch. I think…and don’t hold me to this…but I
think
I’m turned on. Because of the story, obviously. And maybe also because I’m still in just a towel and he’s showing some kind of actual emotional reaction to something other than a website crashing.

“Of course I have trouble! What are you talking about? I have a bag of stuff down there I’ve never dared read to anyone,” I say. Of course I then think of him reading that bit in “Hamin-Ra” where three men take advantage of my hero’s inescapable and utter horniness to…uh…do stuff. To him.

Which just makes me flush even redder than I am already.

“It’s different…” he starts, but I’m not letting him get away with that.

“Why is it different?”

“It just is. What you write about seems…normal.”

Did he seriously just say those words? I think he did. And for the first time I’m starting to wonder if Cam’s issues run a little deeper than
Oh
I’m a bit reserved and I like computers a lot
.

“Don’t say that,” I say, and it comes out a bit stronger and darker than I intend. He straightens, as though I’ve admonished him somehow—though if there was anything I wanted him to feel bad about, it’s this. He shouldn’t think of something as not normal, he just shouldn’t. Fair enough if he’d written a story about fucking himself on a horse’s cock or something, but even then I’ve got to say…I don’t think I’d be that bothered by it.

He spreads his hands, palms down. I’ve seen him make the gesture a thousand times before—a mea culpa move, a peacekeeping thing. And also, weirdly, very much like the kind of gesture a politician would make.

“I just meant—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“I’ve written about that kind of stuff. Are you saying I’m not normal?”

“
What?
” he says, and he looks appalled, just as I knew he would. “No, God,
no
. You’re the reason I even think about stuff like—”

Of course he stops short before he gets far with a thought like
that
. But oh, not quite short enough, no, not quite short enough. My skin bristles and that same deep down jolt of pleasure goes through me—like the one I felt when I read the line
Just
stay
still
and
take
it
.

“Stuff like…uh…you know…stuff like…um…” he says and it’s adorable, it really is. I never thought I’d live to see the day I called Cam adorable, but watching him fumble toward an end to a sentence like that is just…delicious.

He clears his throat, and tries again.

“It’s just how I feel about myself. It’s not anything to do with you.”

“Cam—it’s not a big deal.
Loads
of guys fantasize about two women,” I say, because really.
Really. This
is what he’s beating himself up about?

And he is beating himself up about it, because when I actually stop dancing around the subject and lay it out for him, he goes bright, bright red.

“Not like that, they don’t,” he says, and I have a sudden image of a bunch of beer-swilling, loudmouthed dudes watching two simpering girls getting it on with some big manly man.

“Cam—”

“Look—I’d just really rather we didn’t talk about this. I hardly want to think about it, so talking about it is, like, ten times worse.”

“OK, but—seriously.
Loads
of guys think about things like—”

He almost stands up then, but seems to think better of it. He does, however, make some pretty big gestures. And his hands are massive too, so it’s kind of like he’s assaulting the air.

“But you know what—it’s not just that, it’s not, it’s everything. There are literally hundreds of things I really don’t want to be thinking about, ever.”

Of course, I know he means sex stuff. But then he confirms it, so I can’t even escape the idea on any level whatsoever.

“In fact, I think I preferred it back when I hardly thought about sex at all.”

It’s weird that around twenty-four hours ago, I would have pegged Cam as bordering on asexual. If he’d said something like that to me when I hugged him in the boat room, I might have nodded my head in agreement. He
seems
as though he hardly thinks about sex at all. He barely dated anyone in college, and it’s obvious he’s not with anyone at the moment.

But when he says something like that now, it’s like a big sign painted across him in neon.
I’m lying, I’m lying
. He doesn’t prefer it and even when he spends time not thinking about sex it’s always there, humming beneath his surface. I can tell.

I was blind before, but now I see.

I think we’ve been sitting in silence for about five minutes when Wade shouts up, “Are you guys coming down for something to eat or fucking what?” Or maybe it just feels like five minutes, because I’ve just spent this whole pause in the conversation trying to work out what to say. The best option seems to be:

Whatever
you
want
to
do
is
OK
by
me.

But it seems too much like a come-on. I
feel
too much like a come-on. I’m all ripe and ready and I don’t even realize it until I stand up and go over to him—you know, maybe just to tow him downstairs for something to eat. But then he kind of jolts out of the reverie he’s sunk into and he puts a hand out—he actually puts a hand out to stop me—and says: “No, no, don’t come over here.”

And I’m pulled up short.

“What? Why?” I ask, but even as I’m saying it I know I’m being stupid.

He kind of…winces.

“Because you’re just in a towel,” he says, then the wince becomes a frown of incredulity. “Why are you just in a towel again?”

I try to think of a good answer to that, I do, I really do. But all I can process is:
he
likes
the
fact
that
you’re just in a towel, oh holy shit he really
likes
it. It’s making him think forbidden sex thoughts!

My cunt clenches once, around nothing. I’m too on edge, that’s the thing. I should have masturbated last night or let Wade fuck me today or just snuck out of this room before Cameron came back and seen to myself in my own bed, but I didn’t, and now I’m stuck. I’m stuck half-naked in a room with a big massive gorgeous amazing guy who apparently wants me.

I squeeze my thighs together, but it doesn’t help.

“I was cold after the lake, so I took a shower,” I say, like a total idiot. I should have focused on the reason he doesn’t want me close in just a towel, and I know it—but then again, do I really want to push him further, right now? He looks…harassed, to say the least. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and have something to eat, OK?”

I hold out a hand to him, but it’s a friendly hand. An innocent, nonsexual hand.

He doesn’t take it, however. He just eyes it like it’s about to explode.

“You know what—I’ll meet you down there,” he says and although it’s completely irrational, I can’t help it. I let the hand drop to my side with what can only be described as
Oh
fuck, I’ve totally just blown our friendship apart with my snoopy snooping.

And I think he reads some of this on my face too.

“No, no—look—you need to get changed, and I probably should get changed…everything’s cool, OK? We’ll meet downstairs.”

It does not sound as though everything’s cool. I can feel myself fidgeting, suddenly, even though I don’t mean to. I mean—he shouldn’t feel bad.
I’m
the one who fucked up; I’m the one who pushed him.

“Cam, I just want you to know I’m really sorry about all of this. I know it’s probably, like, messed up our friendship or—”

He stands up then, real suddenly. So suddenly that I almost take a step back, and not just because of his impressive height. It’s also because, well, uh, how should I put this…

“No, our friendship isn’t messed up. I just didn’t want to stand because now you can see I have a huge erection.”

He makes a little
voila
gesture, which drains some of the tension in the room. Some, but not all. Because now we’re kind of half-laughing and I guess it’s funny, but it’s something else too. It’s drawing attention to the real and obvious fact that we’ve just kind of talked about sex for ten minutes, and before that I spent a lot of time reading a dirty story he wrote.

“Listen…Allie…” he starts, and for one wild second I imagine him asking me for something. He could. I mean, I wouldn’t say no. His cock looks absolutely amazing through the barely-there material of his sweatpants, all thick and solid and pushing right up against the things confining it, and I can just picture him groaning and pumping his hips as I take him in my mouth.

But unfortunately, I can’t even conjure up the imaginary words he’d use.
Will
you
suck
me
off
just sounds too crude.
Please
go
down
on
me
too polite. There’s no middle ground with him—I can’t find it.

“None of this means anything, you know?” he finishes, but all I can see behind my eyes is that big, thick cock and all I can think about is how it would feel, sliding into me.

“I…have had feelings for you. But I totally understand how you feel about Wade. Totally.”

It doesn’t sound as though he totally understands anything. Hell, I don’t understand anything anymore either. I came here so sure—of my feelings, at least—and now everything is mixed together and upside down.

I look up at Cameron, and my stomach actually does this weird woo-woo thing. I mean, I always knew he was handsome—beautiful, even—but this is different. This is Tenar and Ged and secret stories and, dear God, I want to know more. I crave more, and not from Wade.

“We’ll talk more later,” he says, finally, and that’s that.

***

But the problem is—he doesn’t want to talk more later. In fact, by the time the next day rolls around and then the next, I’m fairly convinced he’s actively avoiding me. We’ve all fallen into a comfortable routine by this point, of course we have, but his routine consists of running from 6:00 a.m. to a million o’clock, and then finding every room in the house where I am not.

It’s like an elaborate game of hide-and-seek that I haven’t been invited to play.

And I don’t want to go looking for him, anyway, because that would just seem weird and desperate. I mean, he
might
have spent the last five years pining for me, but it’s only a might. I don’t know the whole story yet and, even if I did, I think I’d still feel pretty pathetic and horny.

I’ve never thought about cock so much in all my days. I find myself pacing outside his room at night, wanting to go in and just say hi, how are you, but with the subtext being, of course:
let
me
get
you
off.

My brain isn’t even subtle about it either. Suddenly I’m one of the girls in his story, pinning him to the bed. I imagine holding his hips down as I suck him off; I think about him struggling and squirming against all the things he thinks aren’t normal.

Is it blowjobs he’s bothered by? I can’t imagine it is. It’s probably something a little more perverse and sexually confusing, like a finger in his ass. Yeah—he mentioned that in the story. I bet he thinks about things like that, then writes three million lines of boring computer code as punishment.

Jesus, why is that hot? Not the computer code stuff—the other stuff. The punishing, disturbed, finger-in-his-ass stuff. All I’m doing is thinking about it while lying in bed, and my nipples are stiff. My clit feels huge and swollen, and my mind is already mentally reaching for the vibrator I should never have packed.

I bet it’s bigger than he is. But then I remember how he looked—the way his cock had pushed so hard against the material—and I’m no longer sure. He’d seemed so
thick
, and when I wrestle the vibrator out of the secret compartment in my suitcase, it seems…insubstantial to say the least.

But it sure feels good when I slide it through the slippery folds of my sex.

I don’t turn it on—artificial buzzing isn’t the sensation I’m looking for—but I do let the tip just play over my clit, briefly. Just the way a real man might feel if he was over me, seeking entrance.

And then I push it down, down, down until it’s just poised to slide in, every nerve in my body waiting for the orgasm I’ve denied myself for about five days too long. My nipples are chafing against the rough cotton of my nightie, and when I buck my hips the tip almost goes in. Almost, almost.

God I’m going to come so hard. I can feel it building already, and it keeps my fingers away from my clit. If I stroke myself I’ll go off, and although I’m full of this frantic clawing feeling, inside, I want to draw this out. I want to picture Cameron fucking into me in some deliciously perverted way—maybe with something in his ass as he does it or his hands tied or, oh God yeah, a gag.

Only his silence in my head—it makes me realize how much I want to hear him. I bet he’d be so quiet in bed, so full of all the things he shouldn’t say, and just imagining him moaning or telling me what he wants or what he’s doing…it’s enough to make me fuck myself hard against that slick plastic flesh between my legs.

I bet he’d tell me when he felt his orgasm approaching. A quick and dirty
God, yeah I’m close
or
I’m gonna come
. And though I’ve no idea why the thought is so electrically exciting, it is, it is. My clit is humming—just begging for me to stroke it in time to the frantic slippery thrusts I’ve worked up to.

And I would—I totally would—if Wade didn’t choose that moment to stroll right into my bedroom like fuck yeah! That’s OK! Come right in at seven o’clock in the morning and bug the shit out of me just as I’m about to get off to the thought of someone
who
is
not
you
.

I’m not even embarrassed about my flushed cheeks and my obvious breathlessness. Mainly because I can’t feel anything but extreme frustration. Is everything in this house designed to thwart me? I’ve got the horny seducer who refuses to follow through on one side, and the repressed politician on the other.

“You OK, Allie?” he asks, but he’s grinning while trying to act casual so I know he’s not really expressing concern. He totally grasps what I’ve just been doing and you know what? I don’t give a fuck.

He’s the one who keeps teasing and fucking with me. These are the consequences, asshole; now just let me get on with what I really need to get on with.

But instead he just saunters around my bedroom, glancing at things that are not me and my hidden sex toy. He has a ball in his hand, and I watch him toss it back and forth with all the disaffectedness he can muster.

“I’m sleeping,” I tell him, though it’s pretty obvious I’m not. He must be able to see it clearly when he finally makes his way over to the bed and looks down at me, all swaddled in the comfy nest I’ve made, face flushed, eyes probably glazed.

I feel red hot under all of this, suddenly, but throwing off the covers is a bit out of the question.

“You sure?” he asks, and his voice has taken on that same soft, crooning sort of tone he had out by the lake. That he had in the kitchen. That he has all the time, now. Though the real problem with it is not how it makes me feel or how it sounds, no, no. It’s the idea of him meaning it I can’t shake.

It’s like he honestly and sincerely desires me, and can’t stop his voice from slipping into something seductive. And the way he looks too—so greedy, suddenly. His eyes are the exact same color as the steady point at the center of a flame, and when he leans in a little closer I’ve got to say—I find it hard to resist.

“You look a little…feverish.”

God, he’s like the hero of some ridiculous steamy novel. I almost roll my eyes, but it’s really hard to with a fake cock still pressed deep in my pussy, and my fingers all wet and sticky with my own juices, and my body just ready for anything, anything.

“I’m fine,” I say, but it doesn’t seem like enough on its own, so I add: “Perfectly cool, if you really want to know. Almost glacial, in fact.”

He puts one knee on the bed and all I can think is:
You’re now three inches away from the exact place I’m touching myself.

“Really? Because it looks like you might need someone to give you a hand. You know. Cooling off.”

This time I
do
roll my eyes at him.

“Just go so I can finish doing myself, OK?”

There doesn’t seem to be much point in denying it now. It’s pretty obvious he knows, even though he tries to pretend otherwise for at least another thirty seconds.

“I’m shocked, Allie-Cat, real shocked that you would say such a thing. Makes you seem almost sexual.”

I don’t really want to think about what he means, but I kind of have to anyway. Was that the problem, back in college? Was it just me seeming all prudish or something like it, the way I used to view Cameron?

How completely fitting. It’s almost some kind of justice.

“Well, you should know by now I’m not. I’m completely asexual, in fact,” I say, and he cocks his head. Raises an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s practically a nunnery down there. Think the whole lot just closed over some time last Tuesday.”

“Thought as much,” he says, but then he does something that in no way matches the conversation we’re having. The conversation we’re having is apparently about how sexless I’ve always seemed to him, whereas him kind of rubbing a hand down over his own body is all about me getting turned on.

Because, oh God, it just absolutely sends me. I’m not even going to pretend otherwise, because he runs it right over that hard body of his, and down over the thin but obviously expensive trousers he’s wearing, to the growing bulge between his legs.

And I just watch the whole thing with my newly heated gaze, until it seems as though it might be OK, to keep right on touching myself.

“You seem so different, Allie,” he says, just as he did back at the lake.

And I have to wonder if I seem different now because it’s Cameron who’s lighting me up. My desire for Wade was apparently muffled, closed off, kept down. But whatever this is—it’s rampaging through me like a thunderstorm. It’s busting out of me, even as I’m lying here beneath Wade’s shadow.

“So…wanton,” he says, and I want to laugh, I do—but I can’t.

I’m too far gone. Before he’s even finished talking and running his hand down over my almost bare shoulder, I’m rocking again against the thick cock between my legs. I’ve got a finger back on my clit and just the tiniest touch almost gets me there.