Page 11 of Badd Love
Hamish chuckled. "Nah, she's no. Gettin' her sweet wee arse out the tent on our honeymoon was always a bit of an ordeal."
"Kinda seems like you could lead her anywhere and she wouldn't notice."
He snorted. "Oh, aye. I could walk her into the fires of Mount Doom with the One Ring, and she'd no notice if it was before noon." He shot me a look. "You're invested in this wee guddle, are y'no? Got to be if you're flyin' all the way to LA to clap eyes on the thrawn lassie."
I stared at him. “Yeah, so I have not a clue what the fuck you just said.”
Hamish passed his fingers down through his long red beard. "Guddle means a messy or complicated situation, and thrawn means difficult or hard to please."
I hummed thoughtfully. "I dunno, man. I don't think Lindsey is difficult or hard to please—I think she's just been through some gnarly-ass shit. I just wish she'd talk to me about it instead of blowing me off and ghosting me."
"Get yo ass in line," Raquel muttered, sounding more asleep than awake. "She'll talk to Rune about that mess, but no one else. I don't know much more than you, and I’ve been her friend for almost four years." She nuzzled closer to Hamish. "And boy, if you walk my half-asleep ass into a volcano, I'll haunt you into the next millennium. You'llwishyour ass was Gollum by the time I'm done with you."
Hamish sniffed a laugh and kissed the top of her head. "You know I'd walk into the volcano my own self before I let you come to harm."
"Mmm-hmmm," she hums. "I know that's right. Now, if you'll excuse me, mysweet wee arse," and here she adopted a funny impression of Hamish's thick burr, "needs a nap. Wake me up when them bitches start boarding." She slides down to rest her head on Hamish's lap, pulls the voluminous hood of her tracksuit hoodie down over her eyes, and was very swiftly snoring with a delicatehuff-snurk.
Hamish rested one hand on her hip, and with the other toyed with the end of one of her braids, his expression idly affectionate as he watched her sleep.
We sat in silence for awhile, Raquel sleeping, Hamish dozing off while occasionally reading a few pages of a dog-eared Ludlum paperback.
For my part, I let my thoughts wander, and they inevitably wandered back to Lindsey. To that night. It's where my idiot, caveman brain goes, all the time, on repeat, like a tongue probing a sore tooth.
What did I do? Was it something I said? How I said it? How I did it?
I know, I know—the note;It wasn't you. Wow, that really clears shit up, thanks a fucking ton,Lindsey.
Not.
So then, what was it? Something she went through at some point in her life, obviously. But why wouldn't she just tell me? Literallyanything—any amount of explanation at all would help. I don't need her life story, although I'd gladly hear it.
I also found myself revisiting that night for more…prosaic reasons. Or perhaps a better way of putting it is for less emotionally-charged reasons.
It was some seriously top-notch, grade A sex. I mean, look, I…get around, okay? I'm not a man-whore. I don't usually have sex on the first date. I only hook up with randos and tourists once in a while. Maybe "once in a while" is a bit of a stretch, sure,but the point is, I don't go around thinking about individual sex sessions this long after the fact. I might think to myself, “That was hot," the next day. I might tell Dunc about a particularly good night. But still going back to that nightmonthslater?
Unheard of.
I think I'm trying to figure out what about it was so damn good. Sex is sex, right? We've all got the same parts. The act is the same. Details differ, sure. The particulars of foreplay, the intensity, the duration. It's changeable, mercurial. It's chemistry, right? Some people you just click with, some you don't. Some girls I can read easier than others—their responses, their subtleties of expression, things like that. I dunno. I've turned this over in my head more times than I care to count, also. Why can I not move on from Lindsey? Is it just the abrupt, jarring shift from the hottest sex of my life to being screamed at? Possibly.
The problem is that I have no answers to any of the questions, and that is driving me absolutely fucking batshit insane.
"Now Boarding Zone One," the gate agent announced over the intercom, jarring me out of my thoughts and Raquel from her nap.
We shuffled through the gate, down the jetway, and found our seats—I took the window, Raquel was in the middle, and Hamish was on the aisle.
The flight was much like the wait—quiet, thoughtful.
Maddening.
I see her eyes again and again—bright, clear, hypnotic, azure, stunning in their intensely electric blueness. I see her kissing her way down my chest, palms roaming my pecs and shoulders. I see her swiping her tongue teasingly over my hipbone, along the no-man's-land below my navel and above the tip of my cock, my other hipbone. I see the way she grins at me, seductive andeager, as she teasingly flits her tongue against my shaft here and there…and then wraps her mouth around me.
And holy fuck, for the ninety or so seconds before she lost her goddamn mind, that was a stellar fucking blow job. All lips and tongue and saliva, soft and hot and wet, with just the right usage of her hands.
And then?
Screaming.
Hyperventilating.
