13. Should’ve Read The Warning Label

13

SHOULD’VE READ THE WARNING LABEL

LILA

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My yoni started leaking like a hole in the roof during a Category 5 hurricane. I know it’s TMI, but I’m, like, experiencing levels of wetness I didn’t even know the human body was capable of.

Conflict doesn’t turn me on. This is the last situation where sex would ever cross my mind, but then Bristol had to go ahead and say something sweet, and things were crossed alright. Oh, the idea of a sweaty lovemaking sesh is permanently residing in my brain with an overnight bag.

If I didn’t know any better, I might’ve thought I just peed myself. But it’s not only the unabating pressure in my lower belly—my whole body’s undergoing hormone hell right now, ranging from sensitive nipples to the wanton desire to mottle Bristol’s neck in hickey heaven. I want him filling me up with his cock; I want him to abuse my cunt until I can’t walk for days; I want him to fuck me so hard that I forget about all the other ways he fucked me over.

Either I’m about to die and my body’s trying to go out with one last bang —heh, get it?—or the government’s poisoned the water supply and tricked me into tolerating Bristol Brenner. I have no idea what’s going on, and I don’t know how to stop it. Embarrassment and arousal brawl inside me—one breaching the surface only to be squashed by the other—and I wham my legs shut, not fully on board with giving my archnemesis a free show.

Bristol’s silent for once in his life, so red in the face that he’s roasting like a goddamn luau pig. He’s staring at my soaked pussy, possibly considering the very unsound decision of remedying the miniature waterfall between my legs.

The embarrassment finally overhauls every other feeling, and I shove Bristol weakly in the shoulder. “Leave!”

He doesn’t budge. “And go where? We’re on a fucking lake right now!”

“Anywhere but here!”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

While my whole body may be undergoing imminent shutdown protocols, my pussy’s more than awake right now. Melvin’s hot-pink, slightly curved body could never compete with Bristol’s extensive mountain range of muscles. And as humiliated as I am by this situation, I can’t help but wonder if the world’s playing some sick joke on me right now. I’m a woman with needs. Bristol’s a disturbingly attractive man who’s met those needs plenty of times before. The obvious solution to this unfortunate situation would be his head between my thighs while I scream his name out of something other than anger for once.

I emit a long-winded sigh, fruitlessly gathering some of the bunched sheets and covering my privates with them. “I don’t need you in here while I’m”—I lower my voice to a shameful whisper—“DJing the VJ.”

I can practically see the gears in his head turning. “While you’re… what ?”

God, I’d laugh if I wasn’t contemplating diving off the balcony and drowning myself. “Do you really need me to explain it to you?” I whisper, still clueless as to why I’m ovulation-levels of horny.

The longer Bristol inadvertently teases me with his big, strong muscles, the harder it is to ignore the tension snowballing in my cunt. The na?ve half-frown on his delectable, delectable lips are almost more enticing than the cocksure grin I’ve grown to hate. I bury my face in my hands, unable to look him in the eyes because, one, I’ll either pounce on him and straddle the life out of his thick thighs, or two, I’ll evaporate on the spot from ever-growing mortification.

“While I take care of this,” I muffle against my palms.

I don’t even know why I told him what was going on with me. It was like I didn’t have control over my own thoughts, let alone my words. I should’ve just excused myself to the bathroom and employed the help of a trusty dusty showerhead.

Since I can’t see Bristol’s face, I’m surprised when a thick, chest-deep growl escapes his mouth, abrasively possessive in all the right ways. “You’re not taking care of this by yourself.”

I open an eye.

Did he just say what I think he said? No, he couldn’t possibly be insinuating…? Psh, I’m sure he’s not. Maybe he’s just worried for the state of my vagina or something. Can you die from masturbating too much?

When I get the courage to fully lift my head, I’m struck dumb by the not-so-subtle sight of his erection filling out his swim trunks, and I’m about to make fun of him for it when I realize that we’re figuratively—and literally—in the same boat.

His gaze trails my droolworthy line of sight, and an instant blush scalds his cheeks. “No, that’s—I’m not—it’s not because of you. Shit, I mean it is, but it isn’t.”

What? Frankly, I’m offended. That standing ovation in his pants better be because of me. I’m a catch and a half! And those little glances he steals here and there aren’t as inconspicuous as he thinks!

“ Excuse me? ”

Bristol groans and tips his head back, adjusting the bulge now threatening to poke a hole through the flimsy material of his swimsuit. With the column of his throat bared to me, I can detect the beads of sweat pearling on his skin, the erratic rising of his chest. Hell, he looks worse than me right now, and that’s saying something.

“Remember when you said you felt weird?” He slurs a bit, those fluffy, finger-fuckable strands of his hair swaying with every incline of his head. He’s looking way too good right now. And no, it’s not just my sex-hungry brain saying that.

I nod, closemouthed, because I don’t trust myself to say something that doesn’t result in immediate trauma for both parties involved.

“I think I’m feeling it too.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

Bristol’s tone is coated in venom when he gestures to his engorged cock. “Does it look like I’m fucking with you?”

Even in desperate need of each other’s help, that invisible delineation still exists between us, dissecting the past and the present. And all that thinking about the past does is nurse the self-deprecation inside me. The forehead kisses, the way he’d hold me after sex, the endless compliments he’d give me every second of every day. I’m chasing after a life I’ve already lived—a life that doesn’t exist for me anymore. And the first tumble down that dark, unclimbable abyss is reliving the feel of his hands on my naked body.

Maybe it’s because I’m all woozy right now, but I swear I see a tiny devil and angel poof into existence on either side of Bristol’s shoulders.

Just give in, Lila. Sex is sex. It doesn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything to him. Why would now be any different? Use him like he used you.

Don’t do it, Lila! You’re stronger than this. He doesn’t deserve to see you naked again, much less touch you.

I don’t listen to either one, rubbing the heel of my palm into my forehead like it’ll magically reinstate reality. “How is it possible that we’re both feeling the same thing?”

“I don’t know, but this is my own personal hell,” he grumbles.

Hell would be less hot than this floating death prison. “Oh, you think you have it so bad? At least I haven’t been the one flashing my photoshopped-looking abs at you!” To get my point across, I whack him in the stomach, right in those little squares of muscle that tempt me like high-quality catnip.

He winces and groans. “You’re right, Lila. You walking around in that skimpy bikini doesn’t have an effect on me at all.”

“Stop villainizing me!”

“How am I villainizing you?”

“God, you make me so fucking crazy that I can’t think straight!”

“And you make me so fucking crazy that all I can think about is you!”

UGH!

If I’m going to get through the night without strangling him with the bedsheets, then I need to redirect this rage somewhere else—and if I can’t do it through sex therapy, then I might as well do it through a good, old-fashioned foodgasm. I abandon the covers, readjust my bikini bottom, then stomp my way over to the pyramid of chocolates, scrambling to unwrap a piece like I’m competing against a nonexistent timer.

Bristol chuffs a humorless laugh. “What? No comeback? You’re not going to tell me how wrong I am? Or how I shouldn’t say shit like that anymore because you’ve made up some dumb set of rules to keep us apart?”

Any other time, I’d throw his words right back in his face, but I’m too distracted by the strange packaging of these chocolates. They’re not your standard Hershey’s or wholly organic health bars. They’re wrapped in black plastic with golden lips emblazoned on the front, but there’s no brand name or product name located anywhere.

Bristol’s still droning on in the background, but all of it goes in one ear and out the other. I turn the suspicious-looking candy over in search of an explanation, and the Devil himself must’ve planted this cocoa-flavored warfare here because the only word printed on the back in big, bold letters is APHRODISIAC .

Shit.

I might’ve slept through all of English 001 in college, but I know what an aphrodisiac is. And both Bristol and I just had our fair share. If I wasn’t feeling good before, I’m definitely not feeling good now.

I throw the chocolate in Bristol’s general direction—not really caring if it hits him in the head or not—and he unfortunately catches it due to his inhuman hockey reflexes.

“Why did you just throw this at me?” He waves the deceptively innocent stimulant in his hand.

“You can read, can’t you?”

Bristol turns the chocolate over as he mutters a litany of curse words, and the minute our trains of thought merge on the same track, his whole face drains of color.

“Fuck,” he growls, palming his forehead and sawing his teeth in irritation.

I start to pace back and forth, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood, and I wedge my thumbnail under my front teeth. “The crew must’ve put them here.”

He tracks my every step, something dark and unidentifiable passing through his eyes, offsetting his usually bright demeanor. His shoulders are hunched and tensed, and the cords in his neck flicker sporadically. “Why would they do that?”

“I have no fucking idea! Maybe they were trying to turn this whole scheme into something real to cover their asses, or maybe someone hired an incompetent intern who couldn’t take one second to read the goddamn chocolate packaging!”

I have no idea how long the effects are going to last. I’ve never taken an aphrodisiac before. I’ve never needed to! My sex drive is perfectly fine, thank you. And the audacity to imply that Bristol and I need help in the chemistry department. Ugh! That’s—that’s so not the case. We’ve been nothing but handsy in front of the cameras. We’ve got enough sexual tension to power a few defamatory articles.

God, and walking doesn’t help with the problem downstairs. Now that I know I’ve just ingested a guaranteed pussy gusher, I feel the effects working double time in my body, cranking my libido into that nuclear red zone that spells nothing but trouble.

And Bristol—sweet, hot, sexed-up Bristol with the face of a Versace model—has the golden key to all my answers in that flimsy little swimsuit of his.

“What are we supposed to do now? Just wait it out? What if it takes hours? Oh my God. What if it takes days? I can’t survive like this for days, Bristol. Everything hurts. It feels like my entire body’s on fire.”

He white-knuckles the edge of the bed. “Trust me, I’m not doing too great either.”

I stop my aimless pacing to relieve the ache between my thighs, and I’m confident in blaming those stupid chocolates for also increasing my emotional state, because I’m either a strongly worded tirade or a pitiful crying session away from breaking down completely. “I can’t believe the agency seriously thought an aphrodisiac would get me to sleep with you!” I scoff .

I don’t realize the fire I just lit underneath both of our feet—the fire that’s dead set on eating through the very flammable floorboards suspending us above a depthless lake.

Bristol takes point two seconds to lash out at me, the rumble in his throat forewarning the crack of a faraway avalanche. “You say a lot of shit, Lila, but none of it ever holds any merit.”

“ Excuse me? ” I spit.

“You act so high and mighty all the time. You act like there’s nothing between us when you and I both know that’s not the fucking truth.”

“There is nothing between us! You ruined that when you disappeared without an explanation!”

Suddenly, he stands up from the bed, pops my personal bubble with his six-foot-two body, and towers over me with enough intimidation to make the pulse between my legs flutter. “I know I messed up, but you throwing it in my face every chance you get isn’t going to change anything. You can hate me. You can drag my name through the dirt. But you’re not going to lie to me, do you understand?”

Bristol’s always been dominant. He’s not some flashy alpha male that boasts about how big his dick is, though. His dominance is quiet, subtle, like a creature soundlessly stalking its prey. He knows when to utilize his authority in the bedroom and on the ice. He doesn’t abuse it. It’s what attracted me to him in the first place—a man who’s confident but not arrogant, who’s instructive but not demanding, who’s equally in tune with his submissive side as he is his dominant.

Spatial awareness has never been his strong suit, and closeness hasn’t been mine. I’m a puddle of goo waiting to be shaped by his strong hands, and being six inches shorter than him doesn’t bode well for the state of my jellylike legs. He’s big. He’s daunting. He’s not going to back down until I convince him to, or until I confront him with all the firepower that I have .

So, I do the latter, because I made a promise to myself to never let him win, and here’s to keeping promises.

“You don’t get to have a say in what I do anymore because you’re not in my life, Bristol! Don’t you get that? I’m trying to move on and forget about the past, but you keep dragging me back into it!”

I give it less than five minutes before I’m screaming loud enough to wake up everybody on the yacht. My heart, strangely, isn’t anywhere near as loud. It’s not blaring out a war cry. It’s so still that I almost can’t feel it anymore.

A faint gloss materializes over his eyes, but he blinks it away. “I’m trying to fix things! I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, okay? I made the biggest mistake of my life when I walked away from you, and that’s all I know.” The guttural quality of his voice thins, making way for a reediness that I rarely hear.

“You keep saying how much you regret everything, yet I have no idea why you ended things in the first place,” I say.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It should be simple when it comes to the people you care about.”

Any smart person would quit while they’re ahead, but do I? You bet I don’t. I don’t civilly walk away. I don’t discuss my feelings in a calm and receptive manner. I poke the bear while the bear is down.

I rise to my tiptoes menacingly, look him dead in the eyes, then proceed to take that self-constructed delineation between us and toss it into the lake, watching as the last-standing boundary dissipates into a black cloud of nothingness.

“For your information, I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on Earth. Or if some brainless execs shoved an aphrodisiac down my throat.”

I go to shoulder my way past Bristol, but of course, he can never just let something die peacefully. He grabs my arm firmly and glares at me in a way that I’ve never seen before—so fed up with my bullshit that the heat in his eyes births a newborn flame. “Prove it,” he demands, riddling my skin in goose bumps. “Prove you’re not attracted to me anymore.”

I rear backward. “What?”

He leans in an inch, and the warmth of his breath glides over my neck in the most delicious caress. “Kiss me, Lila. Kiss me once, without the cameras around, and prove to me that I don’t mean anything to you anymore.”

My body’s screaming a very obvious yes , but my head’s telling me a different story. God, I want to kiss him and prove him wrong. I want to kiss him and give him a false sense of security, then rip myself away at the last minute like he did to me a year ago. But once I start, I know I won’t be able to stop.

The feel of his fingers on my arm is orgasmic on its own, and desire pumps fast in my heart, rebuilding the broken amphitheater of my ribs. His mouth is mere inches away from mine, promising everlasting life in a bottle, and lust bursts behind my eyelids like a shock of lightning encroaching a cloud-studded horizon.

If I kiss him, there’s no going back. If I let him infiltrate my reinforced defenses, there’s no saying what he’ll do. Something so trivial—so mundane as a kiss—and yet it has the capacity to shatter our relationship permanently.

Bristol’s giving me the most irresistible puppy dog eyes right now, and he gently brushes his thumb over the inside of my wrist, imploring me to consider his offer—imploring me to remember how good it felt to kiss him.

One kiss. That’s all it is. I can pull away at any time.

Prove to him that you’re over him, Lila. Prove to him that he doesn’t have a hold on you anymore.

Nauseating butterflies squirm in my belly, and the slick lubricating my pussy goes from a shallow wave pool to a full-on waterpark. “One kiss,” I agree quietly, trying my best to calm my galloping pulse.

Bristol doesn’t say anything before he pulls me forcefully into his body, hungrily slants his mouth over mine, and clamps his hands down on my curves with need strong enough to bruise. I squeak in surprise, but the noise is swallowed up by his diligent lips and meticulous tongue, both of which exact the perfect amount of pressure to compound the fiery knot in my lower belly.

It’s not a fleeting kiss at all. It’s a kiss in which we both explore each other’s mouths, in which our hands desperately grab at any body part available, in which we surrender to our animalistic cravings. My heart composes a hymn just for him, and for the first time in months, I feel… alive .

He palms the back of my head, angles his lips so he can unlock deeper access, and attacks me with an urgency that’s never existed before—and one that I don’t entirely despise. We’re so close that I can feel his cock poking me in the stomach, and I bet he can feel my pert nipples brushing against his chest.

I’ll never admit this to him for as long as I live, but the chocolate isn’t solely responsible for my body’s response.

My nails bite into his bare back—hard enough to leave crescent marks—and if I don’t pull away soon, sharing a kiss will be the least of my worries. So, despite my body’s incessant cries for a shortcut to third base, I force myself to sever our connection, panting for air and licking Bristol’s saliva off my no-longer-glossed lips.

He whimpers—yes, whimpers —and the most pitiful expression occupies his face, infusing my insides with guilt. “One more, angel. Please. ”