Slightly breathless, she murmured, “I don’t think you should. Take it back, I mean. You should be as . . . yourself as you can.”
“It takes practice, around people I haven’t known very long. But with you it’s coming along nicely.”
She swallowed hard. “Practice makes perfect. Do it again.”
“No.”
“I’ll wait.” A smile spread across her face. “Hey—does this mean I get to give you a nickname?”
He gave her a withering look. “Absolutely not.”
“But, Mushroom!”
“Piss off, Eve.”
“But—my dear, sweet Raspberry!”
“Just for that,” he said, and then he snagged the box of Jaffa Cakes and ate the last one.
She released a gasp of genuine horror. “Jacob!”
“That’s better.”
“You bastard.”
“You were warned, woman.”
“Don’t you mean Sunshine?”
He swallowed the last bite and grinned. “Don’t let it go to your head.” Just as quick, the smile was replaced by a frown as he shifted and looked down at the bed. “For fuck’s sake, these springs. What . . .” He trailed off as he rummaged among the sofa cushions. “Oh. I think I’m sitting on something.”
And then he rummaged some more and produced a giant purple dildo that may or may not have belonged to Eve.
Chapter Fourteen
If there was one thing Jacob hadn’t seen coming, it was to find himself holding a glittery, silicon dick before the day was out. But he should’ve known to expect the unexpected around Eve.
Still, the idea that he could’ve predicted this was . . . he wanted to think impossible or maybe even horrifying, but all his brain threw up was fascinating. He gripped the sturdy length—Christ, what was this thing, twelve inches?—and held it up to the moonlight, watching it sparkle. Because of course, Eve’s dildo sparkled.
And now that he’d actually thought the phrase Eve’s dildo, every filthy desire he’d crammed into his mental Don’t Think About It cupboard simultaneously kicked down the door and burst free.
“Oh my God,” she said, her eyes wide and her hands pressed to her cheeks. He imagined those cheeks were hot and blushing under her palms, and then he imagined a similar heat flushing her entire body as she lay back on this bed—this fucking bed—and eased off her underwear and rubbed the head of this toy over her pussy. Would she do it under the covers or on top? Would she slick this big thing up first? With lube, or with her mouth?
“Jacob,” she practically shrieked, “say something.”
He dragged his gaze away from the toy and back to her. “Does it vibrate?”
“What? I think I’ve broken you. You’re broken. Admit it.” She sounded genuinely worried. Looked it, too. She’d sunk her teeth into the plump pillow of her lower lip, and Jacob, still drowning beneath the murky waters of sudden lust, wanted to know if she bit her lip just like that when she came.
“I am so sorry,” she was saying. “I have no idea how I—um, I completely forgot to—Jacob, you should probably put that down.” But her voice wavered on the last word, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
He met her gaze. Arched an eyebrow. Asked calmly, “Why?” And was gratified when she sucked on that bottom lip rather than answering.
He didn’t want to let this thing go. He couldn’t, not right now. He was . . . studying it. Every plastic ridge and vein. Did she feel that, when it was inside her? Did she care about the finer details, or was she just chasing the thick stretch, the snug fullness a toy like this must give? And she’d never told him if it vibrated or not. He hadn’t heard anything through their shared wall—but God only knew when she’d been using it.
Christ, what if she’d been using it next fucking door while he’d been staring at the ceiling, determinedly thinking of anything but Eve’s arse in her jeans and Eve’s hands as she sliced tomatoes and Eve’s mouth, smiling at him? He’d spent half of last night wide awake, playing fucking sudoku, trying to ignore the fact that it was her presence keeping him on the edge. And this whole time she’d been over here with this. He hadn’t even stroked himself in the shower, this last week, because he’d known deep down inside he’d think of her.
Maybe that’s why the voice of reason that usually controlled his actions was growing softer and softer, violently muffled by all his want. Maybe this was exactly what people meant when they used the phrase Tipped over the edge.
“You . . . don’t want to touch that,” Eve managed. She sounded like she was reassuring herself, reciting the rules of Usual Jacob in the face of a Jacob who wasn’t behaving usually at all. “You should’ve dropped it five minutes ago. You—you—it’s a foreign object and you don’t know where it’s been.”
“I know where it’s been,” he said, and his voice came out . . . different. Like the smoke and desire in his head was ripping through his throat, too, coloring every word. He thought about exactly where this toy had been and felt his cock press stiff and fat against the zipper of his jeans, the slight bite of pain the only thing bringing him back to his senses. Back to a point resembling cool control. He had to retain control, because only then could he push delicately at Eve’s embarrassment.
He was fascinated by it—just as surely as he was fascinated by the toy she’d been fucking. Not half an hour ago this woman had been nattering about penises and pussies with laughter in her voice; she made dick jokes every time she cooked sausages; she came out with That’s what she said more often than a fifteen-year-old boy. Yet now she covered her eyes with her hands, practically vibrating with a discomfort that gleamed like ripe fruit in the sun.
“You’re blushing,” he said.
She peeked at him through her fingers, those cautious dark eyes sending a thrill over his skin. “You are holding my dildo, Jacob.”
“So you admit it’s yours.”
“No, it’s yours. You must have lost it on the sofa months ago.” But the joke lacked her usual humor, the words softening until they were just gasps with shape. He wondered if she was thinking of him lying here with something just like this, fucking himself. He hoped she was, even if that seemed anatomically unlikely. What did he know about the sexual capabilities of his arse, anyway? Maybe it was perfectly possible.
Maybe she was imagining all the ways it could be perfectly possible.
Or maybe she was so mortified right now because Jacob was utterly alone in his illicit feelings and making a complete fool of himself.
Now, wasn’t that possibility a bucket of ice water?
Abruptly, Jacob put the toy down on a side table.
Eve released a sigh of relief and flopped back on the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes.
“I apologize,” he said.
“No,” she murmured. “No, it’s . . .” and then she trailed off. God only knew what that meant.
If he had an ounce of sense or self-respect, this would be a great moment to de-escalate the situation. But he must have lost those somewhere down the line, because instead of changing the subject—or, you know, throwing himself out of the window—Jacob simply looked at her. Looked, and let himself notice the soft plumpness of her arms, the dark and delicate lines etched into her palms. The fat curve of her breasts beneath her T-shirt. The hem had ridden up a little and he could see the strip of skin just above her leggings. He could see her bare hips. He could see the beginnings of a scar on her right side—appendectomy, it looked like. He’d seen that kind of scar before.