“Bailey?”
My heart is pounding. “Yeah?”
“You know my name isn’t Gordon, right?”
I . . . did not know that. He signed a lease agreement when he moved in, and either I didn’t notice what name he wrote on it, or I glossed over and assumed it was Gordon.
“Sure,” I say.
“Gordo was my grandfather’s name. I’m named after him.”
I have to smother a laugh into my fluffy pillow. I cannot imagine a Grandpa named Gordo. I say, “Well, we all have to pretend to be someone we aren’t this weekend.”
He gets quiet for a minute. Then he says, “That’s true, I guess.”
I find his hand again and pat his fingers. “Goodnight, Gordo.”
He lets out a sleepy yawn. “Goodnight, Bailey.”
My last thought as I drift off is, I hope he doesn’t snore.
5
Gordo snores like a band saw. I’m not one for heavy machinery, but I’m pretty sure I should be wearing ear protection for noises this loud.
The room is fully dark, and I lie there waiting for him to stop, but he doesn’t.
“Gordo,” I say softly.
If the bed were any smaller, I’d be vibrating, and not in a good way.
“Gordo,” I say it louder. The snoring stops. I relax. Gordo lets out a long exhale.
And then the world’s most annoying wind orchestra picks up all over again.
“Gordo.” I squirm across the expanse of the mattress until I find his shoulder. I shove at it. “Gordo, stop.”
Maybe he’s part dragon. That would explain why he and Bernard get along so well. Maybe his affinity for all those scaly things we live with is because of a lost heritage where his great-great-great-grandmother was a Viking princess kidnapped and added to some monster’s hoard before they gently fell in love with each other and made little Gordos with wings and bushy eyebrows that snore through their massive nostrils and—
“Gordo.” I press right up against him and shove him as hard as I can. He snorts, starts, mutters something like, “Just a minute,” and then he rolls over.
Toward me.
He wraps me up in his enormous arms and spins me around like a top before he pulls me into his chest. His chin rests gently on the crown of my head, and he says, “Go to sleep, Bailey. It’s not morning yet.”
I smother a giggle. He smacks his lips. At least the snoring has stopped. It’s kind of nice here. Feels like being loved up by a giant teddy bear. Gordo also has his shirt off and he is perfectly hairy. Exactly the right amount of chest hair to keep him—and a partner—warm at night.
But I can’t stay. It wouldn’t be fair. And yeah, I am a champion snuggler, so normally I don’t mind spooning, but not when it feels like taking advantage of my best friend because he’s too asleep to know what’s going on.
Also—is that . . .
“Oh my God.”
I shift a little bit, and Gordo sighs happily in his sleep as he presses a quickly growing erection against my ass.
“Oh no.”
“Shh,” he says. “We don’t have to feed the tarantulas until the sun comes up.”
Tarantulas? Has he been keeping fucking spiders at our place without telling me?
But I can’t contemplate the question for too long because Jesus Christ he’s huge. And now I’m getting hard too because I never met a dick I didn’t like, and this is all wrong wrong wrong. Gordo’s here to be my boyfriend. My very platonic boyfriend. We are not friends with benefits. He’s not even into guys. And even if he were, I wouldn’t take him to Vegas so I could fuck him—or let’s be honest, so he could fuck me. We’d figure it out at home.
Desperately, I squirm, but his arms are a vice. Finally, I have to shimmy downward, letting the outline of his cock drag along my spine in a way that is far too distracting, until I’ve escaped the circle of his embrace and hit the end of the bed. I kick at the blankets until they pull free of the mattress and I tumble onto the floor where I sit, gasping and listening as Gordo’s snoring resumes, at least more gently this time.
Jesus, did that just happen?
Totally involuntary though, right? He had no idea. Everyone gets a hard-on in their sleep now and then, right? He must have been dreaming—about spiders, apparently—but Vegas is built for sex. It’s in the air. He could be dreaming about topless dancers in a chorus line for all I know.
I, for example, am dreaming about Gordo’s dick.
And I’m very much awake.
My hand drifts down to my crotch, and it’s like lightning. I have to bite back a whimper as I explore.
Fuck, this feels good.
I can’t get back into bed. The bulge in my briefs is getting painful, and no matter how damn big that bed is, I can’t very well jerk off next to him, regardless of how deeply asleep he is.
But as I sit on the floor and wait for it to go down, my brain transforms the soft sound of his snoring into gentle grunts that he’d make as he bent me over and shoved his gigantic—
Jesus, stop.
I’ve never fantasized about Gordo. Okay, maybe once the first time we met, but who wouldn’t? If you’re into beefy giants, Gordo is the poster boy. And yes, I may be compensating for my own height and thwarted aspirations of reaching that six-foot goal line, but I’ve never once acted on anything like that when it comes to Gordo.
But what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?
Slowly, I crawl toward the bathroom, being careful not to make too much noise as I shut the door. I fumble until I find the lights, nearly blinding myself when I flick the big overhead one on, before shutting it quickly. The mirror over the sink has a few softer bulbs that I tell myself are perfect for mood lighting.
I stare at my reflection for a long time. Am I actually doing this? A cold shower would work almost as well, and then I could climb back into bed and Gordo would be none the wiser, and I’d still be able to look him in the eye in the morning.
But I want this. It doesn’t have to be Gordo. Any big guy from my carefully inventoried and catalogued spank bank will do. Doesn’t need to be weird. Can simply be about stress relief. Lord knows I’ve been under enough pressure lately.
But as I pull my underwear down and grip myself, the face I picture has red hair, soft lips, and a kind smile. It says, “Come on, Bailey,” and it’s the way Gordo says my name, and I can’t help it.
“Oh God.” It feels so good when I start to stroke. I squeeze my eyes shut because I’ve never liked watching myself jerk off. Seriously, it may feel amazing, but jackhammering on your penis is never glamorous. I lick my lips and imagine getting down on my knees, offering my mouth to Gordo.
Maybe he’d let me. Even straight guys appreciate a blow job.
No. Can’t think about that. Can’t think about what’s possible, because then I’ll make it awkward tomorrow.
So I go back to the previous image. We’re naked. He’s behind me. He says things like “You’ve got such a pretty ass” as he bends me forward, because Gordo would never say something like that, so that makes it okay for me to think it. I brace one elbow against the counter. I picture his hands on my ass. Maybe his mouth. Straight guys may appreciate a blow job, but rimming seems farther out of the realm of possibility for many. I imagine his tongue on my hole, wet and strong. Then his fingers. Blunt, wider than most, but so necessary for what’s to come.