Topsy Turvy Kinda Love
cold.” I fake pout.“Here, scooch over and put your feet on me under the blanket. I’ll keep them warm.”
“You sure?”
“Positive, pixie.” His old nickname sneaks out between his lips. Heat steals across my cheeks, and I look down at my feet. Moving them to slide onto his lap under the blanket, I wiggle my toes. Big warm hands grab one and start massaging. I tense briefly but can’t hold back how good it feels as he digs his fingers into my arch. I moan. It happens. Comes right out of my mouth and there it is. I’m getting pleasure out of having my foot rubbed. “Oh, yes.”
The sound coming from my mouth again is all kinds of indecent, and I’m sure it’s a straight hit to Brooks’ dick, but I don’t care. It feels good, and I want him to know it.
“Yes, keep going. Uh huh, right there…. yasssss,” I purr. Brooks nonchalantly slips a pillow between his slowly growing dick and my feet. His fingers roll over my heel, up my arch, and between my toes, making sure he works every bit of them thoroughly. He keeps rubbing, and another groan slips from my lips. “You know you could do this for the rest of my life, and I’d be one happy lady.” The words slip from my lips before I realize what I’ve just said in my foot massage euphoric state.
I catch Brooks’ heated stare. I’m assuming it’s based on the words I let carelessly slip from my mouth. We’re suspended in this moment as time floats by.
Finally blinking myself out of my trance, I realize how untrue those words really are between us. I’m only helping him learn how to pleasure a woman so he can satisfy someone else. There will not be a rest of my life and Brooks.
My blue eyes stare up at his unending deep chocolate ones. He leans in toward me like he’s swooping in to steal a kiss. Like he wants to lick the seam of my lips until I give in and allow him entry. He’s so close that I can feel my breath against his jawline. My brain finally clues me in on what the plan is and reminds me of one tiny detail. I don’t kiss, especially on the lips. I have a strict no kissing rule, and I plan to stick to it.
He leans in just an inch closer. “I can’t,” I whisper, and he jerks back. “I… I don’t kiss, Brooks. I won’t break my rule, even for you.”
He nods once and then pulls away, losing eye contact, and for a moment I miss it. I miss the deep stare, the intense connection we share if only briefly and out of stupidity. I down the rest of the wine in my glass and grab for the bottle on the coffee table before realizing that what sounds good right now is actually a long slow hit of a joint. I leave the comfort and warmth of the couch to go in search of my stash.
“Where are you going?” I hear Brooks call out from behind me.
“Wanna smoke something.”
He says something else, but it sounds like a mumble so I don’t pay it too much attention as I keep walking. I head into my room and grab my stash, quickly rolling up a joint.
A few minutes later, I’m back in the living room, cuddling back under the throw, wine in one hand, joint in the other.
“Much better.” The look on Brooks’ face is laced with concern, and I have to look away. I don’t need his concern. I’ve been fine for years by myself, and just because we find ourselves in this close setting doesn’t mean I’m going to throw all my beliefs out the window and jump into something with him. It’s just the wine, the foot rub, and the closeness… that’s all. My feelings are still very intact and properly buried. Thank you very much.
Now that I think about it, my movements are a little sluggish, and I can’t tell you how many glasses I’ve actually had. The cotton in my brain is starting to clog up my good sense, leaving my instincts to the wayside. The alcohol always unlocks certain cravings within me which is why I don’t drink to get drunk. It’s why I usually limit myself to one or two drinks. Those little cravings whisper at me that maybe Brooks is different. No. I shake my head.
I eye him sitting on the couch, smiling at me. “Okay, Brooks, spill. Why is it you’ve never had sex? Plenty of people have the opportunity, but not everyone turns it down. I’ve seen you turn it down at the bar before so why?”
He drinks down the rest of the wine, clearly avoiding the subject. His eyes are glassy. “Ask me something else?”
“I guess my next question would be, how have you gone so long?”
“I’m good at controlling my urges.”
“Does this have to do with the way you grew up?”
He nods once but doesn’t go to speak up about anything else.
“Are you ever going to tell me about this mysterious town you grew up in?”
“Eventually. Are you?”
The alcohol has obviously loosened my tongue this evening. The next words coming out of my mouth shock me. It’s as if my mouth takes on a form of its own and just starts talking while I sit back and listen.
“I have a complicated past. I grew up in a home where love was a dirty word. I saw it in its truest form. I lived with parents who fought constantly. A father who would talk down to my mother, who cheated on her multiple times. A mother who would turn to drugs when she couldn’t cope with the world around her. Who would leave me to constantly fend for myself when I had no idea what the concept of fending for myself even meant? Who would bring home strange men when my father wasn’t home and make obscene noises behind closed