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  I gripped the sheets and kept stroking myself, everything in me focused on Willis.

  His voice grew gravelly. “I can feel my load creeping up my shaft, and I want to give it all to you, every last fucking drop. But not until you’re coming, not until your hot, tight cunt is squeezing me just right. I fuck you wilder as my fingertips play your clit. You tense, your body at the brink, and you tell me you’re coming.”

  “I’m coming.” I swirled my fingers around my nub as I tensed, then released in a flood of bliss. I called Willis’s name, not caring who heard.

  “Fuck, yes.” He grunted low and deep, the masculine sound adding to the imagined soundtrack of our bodies slapping against each other. “Fuuuuck.”

  I sank beneath the waves of pleasure, letting each wave roll over me until I was complete, every last bit of me relaxed and sated. My panting subsided, and once I could speak normally again, I asked, “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I rather enjoy Willis’s story time.”

  He laughed. “Good, because we’ll have it again tomorrow night.”

  20

  Willis

  After spending over five hours researching and writing “Squirting: the Myth, the Legend, and the Porn Legacy” for my blog, I finally hit publish and sat back to wait for replies. It was well-researched enough to be in a journal. Extensive porn watching required. Though, oddly, the videos didn’t do much for me. I kept finding my thoughts wandering back to Scarlet. It had become a common thing. I woke up thinking about her, spent an embarrassing amount of my day thinking about her, and definitely had plenty of thoughts about her at bedtime.

  We’d been having phone sex for the past three nights in a row, but I wanted more. Tomorrow night was the final event—the Vanity Fair party—and a part of me was afraid she’d vanish on me after her contractual obligations were met. Even though I’d made progress in breaking down her walls and moving closer, she still kept her deepest heart away from me. When I considered that I didn’t even know her name, the distance between us chafed.

  I grabbed my phone to text her, but found a message from Jason instead.

  Jason: NFL Combine tonight, mostly skill players. It’s not college football, but it’s better than nothing. Come over and bring a friend. I’ll have beer and wings. Scarlet’s welcome, too, though chicks usually get bored.

  Maybe this is what I needed. A distraction. A night with the guys to help me get my head straight about the Scarlet situation.

  Willis: Sounds good. I’ll bring my friend Elias, if he’s interested.

  Jason: Cool.

  I fired off a text to Elias, who immediately agreed. He’d already heard about the eighty-five-inch TV, so he was all over it. Just to be fair—and not solely because I desperately wanted to see her—I texted Scarlet about the invite. She didn’t respond. But she rarely did during the day. I’d asked her what she spent her days doing besides impersonating and pickpocketing, but she hadn’t given me an answer. The more I got to know her, the more mysteries she weaved around herself.

  After a quick, and super late lunch, I opened my mail. Beyond the bills and usual suspects, I found two boxes of samples. Advertisers were always sending me free stuff to get me to try it and then mention it on the blog. The first package was a new sort of tampon made entirely of recycled materials. No can do. I set the box aside and opened the next. This one had an assortment of bath bombs. I picked through them and found one called “Strawberry Feels.”

  It smelled good, kind of feminine, but I figured it would rinse off fine and get covered up by my manly body wash. I scooped it up and headed to the bathroom. My tub wasn’t exactly grand, but it would do the cramped job of letting me test the bath bomb. While the bath ran, I shaved and cleaned up my sideburns as much as possible. They seemed to grow faster than any other hair on my body.

  Once I was done, I dropped the little ball of bath goodness into the water and watched it fizz and dissolve. I climbed in, letting the sweet strawberry smell lull me into total relaxation. Leaning my head back, I pondered what Scarlet was doing right that second. Maybe she had a day job? Like a “schoolteacher by day, petty criminal by night” sort of arrangement. I wrinkled my nose. She didn’t strike me as a teacher.

  My neck itched where I’d shaved, so I scratched it and widened my imaginings. Scarlet as a bakery assistant, flour handprints on her ass, Scarlet as a florist, flowers in her hair, Scarlet the circus performer, flexible beyond belief. The more ridiculous careers I concocted, the more my neck seemed to itch. It spread lower, the tender skin around my nipples starting to burn, and lower still, where my balls began to get a decidedly unfriendly tickle.

  I glanced down and realized that—while the bath bomb had been pink in color—my skin was turning a vicious red.

  “Fuck!” I stood and hit the drain, then turned on the shower head.

  Cold water blasted me in the face. “Fuck fuck.” I leaned away from the spray until it warmed up. By then, I was itching everywhere the bathwater had touched me. It drained away slowly as I scoured myself with my loofah and body wash.

  The itching subsided, but my skin was still raw from scrubbing, and hives had broken out around my knees.

  I stepped out of the bath and studied my reflection. My neck where I’d shaved had fared the worst, the skin red and angry. “Holy shit.” Digging through my cabinet, I found some cortisone and slathered myself with it, taking extra care with my still-itchy balls.

  By the time I was finished, I resembled a sun burnt hot dog covered with jizz patches. Perfect. At least the cortisone helped in the balls department, though my neck would need more time to heal up.

  I picked up the bath bomb wrapper, wondering if they’d laced it with anthrax for that extra fizzy feel. It didn’t give me any clues as to the offending ingredient, but I was officially off bath bombs for the foreseeable future.

  It was already around seven, so I dressed in a Megatron t-shirt and some jeans, then grabbed the cortisone so I could reapply to my mangled neck during the evening. Thank god only Jason and Elias would see me like this, and I prayed it would subside before the event the following night.

  I opened the front door right when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I’d received a text from Scarlet.

  “Sure. I’ll come, but just for the free wings and beer. See you there.”

  Swimmingly.

  21

  Scarlet

  As the elevator rose to Jason’s penthouse, a steady thump of base grew louder. I should have declined the invite, should have stayed at home with Hannah for the night. But I didn’t. The promise of seeing Willis was too much, even though I knew in the end, I’d wind up hurting him beyond repair. Because that was who I was. He was the good guy. I was the villain in disguise.

  The elevator opened, and I walked into Jason’s small foyer. Men’s voices rose from the living room with the obscenely large TV, and the delicious scent of hot wings filled the air. I followed the noise and the smells to find several men lounging on Jason’s sofa, talking and watching athletes compete in the combine.

  Willis rose from a chair near the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Hi.” He walked over to me, meeting me at the island in the kitchen that was filled with all the staple foods of the finest frat houses—wings, ranch and blue cheese sauce, chips, dips, pretzels, and beer.

  I grabbed a paper plate and looked up at Willis. It slipped from my fingers.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  He knelt and grabbed my plate. “Allergic reaction.”

  “You look like you somehow found a stash of poison ivy in this concrete jungle and rolled around in it.”

  He ran his fingers along his neck. “Yeah.”

  Jason strode up. “I see you’ve touched base with our disfigured friend here.”

  “It’s not that bad.” Willis shook his head.

  “Yeah.” Jason snorted. “I mean, lots of women are into handsome faces and Freddy Krueger necks.”

  “W
hoa.” I laughed. “Shots fired.”

  Willis shrugged. “All I heard was that Jason thinks I’m handsome.”

  “Yeah man.” Jason nodded. “If I swung that way, you’d def be my power bottom this evening.”

  Willis scoffed. “Bottom?”

  “Yeah. I’m obviously the top.” Jason popped a pretzel into his mouth, crunching with a smile.

  Willis crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m the top.”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I feel like you’d want to be the top, sure. But then you’d see that I was the better top.”

  “No way. I would top the hell out of you.”

  “That would never happen. I don’t have a submissive bone in my body.”

  “If I were the top, you’d have a dominant bone in your body. Heh.” Jason elbowed Willis. “But don’t worry, I’d do a solid reach-around for you.”

  “No you wouldn’t, because I’m the top.”

  I’d been listening, my eyes traveling from one man to the next as if I were watching a tennis match. “I can’t believe you two are arguing about a hypothetical gay relationship and who would be the hypothetical top.”

  “He started it.” Willis shrugged.

  “But I’d finish it.” Jason leaned closer to me, his eyes mischievous. “In his butt, because I’d be the top.”

  “This is likely the most bizarre conversation between two straight men I’ve ever witnessed.” I loaded my plate with wings and blue cheese dip.

  “Hey, I’m secure in my straightness.” Jason grabbed another pretzel.

  “Me too.” Willis took a chicken wing, stuck the whole thing in his mouth, and pulled it out clean. “My masculinity is intact.”

  “I can see that.” I grabbed a chicken wing and did the same thing, only the bones remaining once I pulled it from my lips.

  “Damn, now that’s a real woman.” Jason grinned and clapped Willis on the back before returning to the guys in the living area.

  I had to admit, the idea of the two of them together was enough to light any woman’s panties on fire.

  A toilet flushed in the small hall behind the kitchen. Water ran, and then Elias strode out.

  His eyes lit up when he saw me. “Hey, Scarlet. Is Hannah here?”

  “Sorry, she stayed in tonight.” I demolished another hot wing as Willis stared. When he licked his lips, I dipped my finger in the blue cheese and sucked it off my fingertip.

  He turned his hips toward the island cabinets, hiding what I knew was a thick erection with a perfect head.

  “Oh, well.” Elias’s disappointment verged on cute.

  A guy like him would be perfect for Hannah, but she wasn’t ready for a relationship. Not until Pauly was paid, and by that time, neither Willis nor Elias would want anything to do with us.

  The thought put a damper on my mood. I told myself for the hundredth time that I was doing the right thing, that saving Hannah was more important than anything else. But as I looked in Willis’s guileless eyes, I began to question myself. I grabbed a bright red wing from the spiciest batch and ate it, the burn a painful reminder that the stakes were high, far higher than even Hannah knew. A little pain—okay, a lot of pain—would be required to save us from Pauly.

  Elias wandered off toward the big screen as I hopped onto one of the stools at the counter, staking my claim on the food. Willis sat next to me and double-dipped chips into the dip on my plate.

  “But really”—I said around a mouthful of chips—“what did you do to your neck?”

  “I used a Strawberry Feels bath bomb.”

  I swallowed the mass of fried potato goodness. “I didn’t know we had that in common.”

  “What?” He grabbed another hot wing. “Bath bombs?”

  “Nope, allergic to the feels.”

  “That’s not true.” He smiled. “I rather like feels.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Especially when they involve feeling you…” He leaned close to my ear. “Naked.”

  Goosebumps rose along my shoulder. “Careful, you don’t want to overmix the metaphor.”

  “I’d say it’s more of an idiom, but tomayto, tomahto.” He grabbed two beers from the tubs full of ice, opened one, and handed it to me.

  “I guess you won’t be calling me tonight.” I took a swig, the IPA filling and almost sweet.

  “No.” He popped his bottle open and drank. “I intend to do a live action re-creation of all the stories I’ve told you.”

  I smiled and scooped up some onion dip. “What about my onion breath?” I chewed and swallowed.

  “I’ll survive it. Besides, your mouth is for dessert. The main course is more of a delicacy. Pink and best served hot.”

  Holyyyyyy. I pressed my thighs together to quell the tingle in my clit.

  He noticed the movement and grinned. “Don’t worry. We can leave early.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself for a guy covered in boils.” I talked a big game, but damn, the promise of his mouth on me again had me wishing for some privacy.

  “Like I told Jason, I’m a top.” He tilted my chin up and kissed me. His lips were firm, but his touch remained soft, teasing. Pulling back, he said, “And they’re not boils. Gross.”

  “Hey, Willis!” Elias called from the living room.

  “What?” he yelled back, but didn’t take his eye off me.

  “Jason’s interested in the Shitake Shocker.”

  The men walked over as Elias described the toy’s functionality with what could only be described as schoolboy glee.

  “That’s great.” Willis handed me a paper towel. “But Scarlet’s got an early morning tomorrow. I’m going to make sure she gets home safely.”

  I whipped my head around. “Wha—”

  “That’s my boy.” Jason grinned, all good looks and perfect teeth.

  “No, she just has to get up—”

  “Since when?” I shot Willis a glare and downed another chicken wing.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. You need your rest. A thorough, deep sleep.”

  I stopped mid-chew and weighed my need for calories versus my need for Willis’s mouth.

  The chicken wing slipped from my fingers.

  Jason waved his hand. “No explanation needed, you two.” He scooted around the counter and pulled out a plastic container, which he then loaded to the brim with food. “Let me fix you a to-go plate.”

  “You ready for your big night tomorrow?” Elias double-dipped a chip.

  Willis nodded. “Just one more party, and then my book—” He glanced at Jason. “I mean Scarlet’s book, will come out and—if all goes to plan—it’ll be a bestseller, and then tons of offers for another book and an even better website will be next.”

  Elias clapped Willis on the back. “I’m proud of you, man.”

  “Me too.” Jason pressed the lid onto the food, though it took a good bit of his strength to close the overstuffed container. “You two make a great advice-giving pair.”

  Hello, Guilt? It’s me Scarlet. “Thanks.” I took the food and rose. “Sorry to eat and run.”

  “Not a problem.” Jason gave me a hug, then turned me around toward Willis. “You two have fun.”

  In the elevator, I scooted to the side, the ridiculously large container of food held firmly in my grip.

  When the doors closed, Willis pressed close to me.

  “I should go home.” My words came out sounding perfectly rational. Smart, even. But my eyes must have said something different, because Willis grabbed a fistful of my hair and crushed his mouth to mine.

  I wrapped my arms around his waist and held onto the food container behind his back. (I was horny, not crazy. No way the chicken wings were going to hit the floor on my watch.) His tongue seemed to know what mine liked without so much as a “are those astronaut pants, because your ass is out of this world.” And I didn’t mind one bit.

  He slanted over me, owning me with the hand tangled in my hair and the other sliding down to my ass. Had I been thinking a
bout going home? Foolishness.

  The elevator doors opened, but he didn’t stop kissing me. Only when they’d almost slid closed again did he move back and hold them for me. In a daze from his intoxicating lips, I walked past and into the lobby of the swank apartment building. A doorman—this one dressed far more formally than the one at Willis’s apartment—greeted us, then stepped outside to hail a cab at Willis’s instruction.

  “I can’t wait to get you alone.” His low voice sent a tremor through me.

  “What about your neck?”

  “I’m more interested in your neck.” He leaned down and nipped at the side of my throat.

  “What happened to the timid nerd I met a few weeks ago?”

  He grinned down at me. “I think you know that when these come off”—he pulled his glasses away—“then anything is possible.” His hand squeezing my ass emphasized his words.

  My mouth dropped open. A ringer. That’s what Willis had been from day one. In common con parlance, a ringer was someone who seemed inept or perhaps bumbling at a certain task. For example, perhaps I challenge you to a game of cards. I lose the first six hands, and you begin feeling confident that you will continue beating me, so you bet more money. When I finally turn the tables on you and win hand after hand—cleaning you out in the process—only then would you realize that you’d been conned by a ringer.

  But Willis wasn’t a card cheat. His talents lay elsewhere. He’d conned me into thinking he was a mild nerd. Was he a nerd? Yes. Was he mild? The slap on my ass as we hurried into the waiting cab answered that question with a loud, stinging “no.”

  My shirt fell to the floor the moment we made it into his apartment. His followed as we kissed and groped our way to his bedroom. After ten minutes of full-on making out in the back of the cab, Willis had made filthy promises to me all the way until we reached his front door. I wanted him to make good on them, especially the one that involved “eating your pussy until you pass out or beg me to stop.”