I step close, gaze glued to bare, tan skin, and brush the backs of my fingers over her shoulder when I stand next to the bed. Her head is turned away from me, but the right half of the mattress is pressed flush with the wall, leaving me no room to stand over on that side, even if I wanted.
Unless I crawl onto the bed.
Get close to that tattoo and her warm skin and—
“Oh.”
Every muscle in my body goes taut at the shocked vibration in her voice, and I fix my attention on her face. Only to find that her attention isn’t on my face.
No, she’s looking at my crotch.
At, specifically, the tent in my pants that shows no signs of going away anytime soon.
Gamóto.
Shit.
Dammit.
I clear my throat. “I brought you the coffee.”
She hasn’t looked away from my dick. In the dim lighting of the room, it’s tough to tell if her cheeks are still pink but one thing’s for sure: there’s no denying the way she licks her lips.
Her throat is dry, maláka. Give her the coffee!
“Here,” I grunt, because it’s either that or ask for the little details I’m dying to know. All details that pertain to her ass and that tattoo. Now that she’s on her side, butt facing the wall, I’ve got no chance of satisfying my . . . curiosity.
For my little sister’s best friend.
I’m going straight to hell for this one—a one-way ticket for Saint Nick who isn’t feeling saintly at all right now.
I set the mug down on the nightstand with a heavy clunk. “I’ve got to go.”
“That wouldn’t fit in my bikini bottoms anymore.”
Obviously, she’s delirious. Obviously, she’s probably drugged up on over-the-counter medicine to counterattack her migraine. Obviously, I shouldn’t say, “It barely fit when I was sixteen either.”
But I do say it. Oh, fuck, do I.
The mattress creaks beneath her weight, her hand squishing the pillow as she leverages herself up onto her knees. She’s eye level with my hard-on now, her mouth inches away from delivering me straight to perdition.
“Am I dreaming?”
Finally, she looks up at me with glassy eyes. “Nope,” I croak out, “completely lucid.”
Completely. Fucking. Lucid.
I want to sink my hand into that messy hair of hers and tug her close, until her lips are pressed to the zipper of my jeans. Until her fingers are popping open the brass button and my legs are threatening to mutiny and give out beneath me.
Until I’m so lost in her, that everything else fades to black.
The bed whines again beneath her, and I’m aware of her flopping back onto her ass, her knees bent and spread open wide as she blinks up at me, a crooked, medication-induced smile on her face. That thong . . . Jesus, it’s barely a scrap of cloth, covering close to nothing, and I do what I should have done when I first walked in and saw her almost naked: I yank on her T-shirt and cover up the goods.
She swats at my hands, batting me away, laughing as if it’s all a game.
“I remember when I saw you naked, your . . . tsutsuli”—here she waves at my dick, just shy of pointing—“when you were ten.”
I choke on air, my lungs threatening to burst wide open. In my sternest voice, I warn, “Mina.”
She only sways, wrapping her fingers up in the T-shirt’s fabric, and stares at my erection that will not get the hint and go the fuck down. It perks up under her avid stare. Jesus, take the wheel.
“It was small then,” she says, words slurring over each other. Whatever medication she took must be pulling its weight because she giggles and slaps her hand over her open mouth. “Oops! I’m not supposed to say that.”
Someone kill me.
Voice pitched low, I mutter, “I can promise that all parts of me have grown proportionally.”
As though the heavens have parted to shine down on me, I watch as her naturally olive cheeks flush with color. Her wide-eyed stare flicks from my face to my crotch and then back again. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
No, I’m not. But neither am I supposed to get hard when it comes to her: Mina, Effie’s best friend, a girl I’ve known since I was eight. There are so many things wrong with this picture, starting with the fact that I need to get the hell out of here.
“I need to go.”
She blinks, then snatches up the comforter to drag over her lap. Thank God. “Where?”
“Downstairs.” Away. I need to go swing some hammers—and not the one in my pants that’s offering to do the pounding. “With the guys.”
“The guys?” A low, long breath falls from her lips, as though she’s done too much strenuous activity. Like sit up and flash me, and stare at my erection. All in a day’s work around here, I guess. “Did you use the key I gave you?” she asks.
Hello, Saint Nick is on vacation this week. Please leave your message after the beeeeep!
If only my life was as easy as a voicemail recording. I could excuse all sorts of not-so-nice-guy behavior. Like climbing onto the mattress, laying my body out over Mina’s, and showing her all the ways I’d love to—
No, nope.
Time to go.
I step back. Then take another and another until my hand is fisting the doorknob and Mina’s watching me like I’ve taken a hiatus from my life to join the loony bin.
“Nick?” she presses, brow furrowed. “The key?”
Oh, yeah. Not my finest moment for obeying the law. “We picked the lock.”
Her eyes go wide, but I leave before she has the chance to say anything else. I make it to the hallway outside of her apartment, where I twist around and shove my back against the door. The heel of my palm goes straight to my cock, and I apply pressure, easing the ache.
The ache that Mina put there.
If it weren’t so preposterous, I’d laugh. Except the laughter never comes, and it takes me a full five minutes to think of clowns, and my grandmother walking in on me naked, and bankruptcy, and Vince trying to hit on my sister way back when, for my cock to finally get the hint.
Mina is not on the menu.
Not now. Not ever.
12
To: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
Subject: Dreaming of you
Okay, how’s that for a subject line? Did it catch your attention? I’m practicing for when I start sending out newsletters for the salon. Did you know that the average open rate is 24.79%?? 24%!!! (According to Google, anyway, and we all know Google is the real deal). If your reading this, that means you fell in that 24% and I’m doing something right. YAY!
Anyway, back to the original purpose of this email: I dreamt you were in my apartment? I woke up to all the walls gone in the salon, a note from you on the receptionist’s desk, and a cup of untouched coffee on my nightstand.
Were you my knight in shining armor? Am I going to have to report to TMZ that you’re the best fake-boyfriend to ever exist?
Not-a-hug,
Mina
P.S., Thank you for emailing your plans for the salon last night. They’re stunning and I feel a little teary-eyed that this is actually happening. Sometimes dreams really do come true.
To: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
Re: Subject: Dreaming of you
Guess I’m in that 24.79% (that’s an oddly specific number) because here I am responding. Although, can I give a little bit of advice? Looking out for your best interest, of course. But when you’re creating the subject line, add in the personalization.
Dreaming of you
Dreaming of you, Nick
See the difference? Second one makes me think you want me.
Also, you aren’t wrong. I was in your apartment (sorry for the B&E) but when you didn’t come downstairs, I was concerned.
Not concerned enough for you to go to TMZ, though. I’m currently soaking up the fact that the press is wicked obsessed with Dom. He mentioned needing to get away and Boston all in the same sentence, and now I think the maláka is going to come here and bring the insanity to me.
If someone in my position were to change their number to avoid further contact . . . how bad would that be? On a scale of 1-100? Asking for a friend.
P.S., Someone once told me that dreams are temporary longings. You want one thing, and when you ultimately achieve it, your dream morphs into something new. Something bigger than anything else you’ve ever thought possible.
To: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
Subject: Dreaming of you, Nick
Tell your friend that if he’s going to change his phone number, that’s bad on a scale of 200-asshole-ratings. You don’t ditch out on the people who need you. Ever. At least, that’s my motto in life. Maybe ask if he’d like to visit for the weekend? We can treat him to a ghost tour via Effie, a haircut via me (by the way, I never cut your hair!!!), and a Blades hockey game. Not sure if you’ve talked to your sister, but she’s got some tickets up for grabs. Yes, I’m inviting myself
P.S., Thank you for taking care of me in my time of need. You score a 10 on the scale of I’d-Like-To-Hug-You.
P.P.S., Tell me something, Nick. What’s your temporary longing?
To: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
Subject: Dreaming of you, Mina
STATUS: DRAFT
My temporary longing?
More like temporary insanity.
I’ve thought of nothing but you since carrying you to your bed.
Your pouty lips.
The slip of your waist.
That fucking tattoo that I want nothing more than to kiss, to skim with my fingers while I learn the precise note of your moan, the way your body feels as you arch up against me while I fuck you.
To: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
Re: Subject: Dreaming of you, Nick
I want you to come to family dinner this weekend. My mother would love to see you, and we both know she’s your favorite person on the planet after Effie.