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“Nope,” she says. “The difference in him is already immense. He was almost as fucked up over Amy as I was over Kian, and that’s saying something.”
I feel so sorry for her. I hear the pain in her voice as she says his name.
Kian.
“You’ve never moved on? Never fallen for anyone else?”
“Not yet. I don’t really want to. I prefer fantasy, and filth, and not having the bullshit of reality pulling me down.” Her eyes meet mine again, full on, and there’s no doubt, she must have a queue of suitors a mile long, she’s so damn gorgeous. “Plus, I’m one of those people who thinks life happens as it should do. Things happen for a reason. And when the right guy shows up for me, I’ll know it. Maybe I’ll get the fairytale myth I’ve been dreaming of.”
I really, really hope she does.
“I’ve got a feeling you may have found yours,” she tells me. “Josh is the best guy in the world, I promise you. He’d never fuck you over, and he’s one hell of a stud in bed. He’s protective, and funny, and cool, and kind, and quirky as hell. And I’m beginning to sound like a dating profile advert, aren’t I?”
I laugh along with her, swatting her knee, because I don’t need convincing in the slightest. He’s already sold himself to me.
“You said he’s friend zoned,” I say. “But he’s also a super stud in bed. So, have you ever played it casual with him?”
“No,” she replies. “It would squick me out a bit, because he’s Josh, and I’m Tiff and we’re just friends.”
I’m still intrigued by the new society I’m a part of. I keep on pushing, trying to make sense of my own gut instincts.
“But what about Weston and Creamgirl? Would you play with him in that kind of role?”
She leans back against the cushions.
“Yeah. I guess so. I mean, being Cream isn’t being Tiff. That’s how I deal with morning after syndrome. It’s not me falling in love with the fantasies. I’m just living them out as Cream. They come and go like that. No big deal.”
I keep pushing – but it’s not paranoia, or insecurity driving me on with her. I don’t feel threatened in the slightest. No doubt, she’s as loyal as he is.
“Do you think it could be like that with you and Weston?” I ask her. “Could you switch off the emotions and let the fantasies run free?”
“Probably, yeah.” She looks at me, dead serious. “If you’re worried about something happening between me and Josh though, you needn’t be. Seriously. We aren’t ever going to be anything more than friends. That’s a promise.”
“No, no,” I say. “I’m not worried, and that isn’t to test the water or anything, I’m just curious.”
“Curious? Yeah, I bet you are. There’s an awful lot you’ve got to be curious about right now. You’re still a hot little newbie on the road to hardcore. It’s a speedy journey.” She checks the time on her phone. “And you’d better get ready for another round of curious, just over an hour until Josh gets home, and then your curiosity can notch up to the next level.”
My pussy flutters as my stomach lurches – and the prosecco definitely helps with that.
I’m getting a wine glow now, where limitations ease off into nothingness. Maybe that’s why I’m questioning Tiff with such fascination. I’ve been looking up to her as a goddess of hardcore ever since I first saw her profile.
There is something about her that fascinates me, I can’t put my finger on. But I want to put my finger on it. I want to understand the pull.
It’s Tiff who changes the conversation up, focusing back on the TV when Nighttime Whispers comes on, a gothic vampire show that we both love, and I let it rest for now, gorging on the rest of our pizza as we wait for Joshua to come home.
We’re midway through the episode when we hear the door opening at the other end of the apartment. Tiff turns the TV off in a flash, and we wait with bated breath as Josh appears.
Jesus Christ, my pulse is thumping.
His hair is messy, slick with sweat, and his tie is hanging loose, and I’m already lost – seeing him like that – any reservations of revelling in other people’s leftovers are dead in the dust.
He looks at me, and I look at him.
I get up from his sofa, but I don’t move. I can’t. I stand glued to the spot, transfixed as he steps into the kitchen area and swigs some prosecco straight from the bottle, no words said.
Because none are needed.
The tension is beyond words.
