Page 102 of Smut

“You came just in time,” Blake says, clearing his throat. “The ferry is docking.”

And just like that he takes his hand away and quickly zips up my shorts.

I open my eyes, trying to get my bearings, to see the couple from the truck walking toward us. I button the top of my shorts and straighten up in my seat, shifting toward Blake like I’ve been talking to him this whole trip.

He bites his lip and grins, his eyes roaming over my face. “Never done that before,” he admits.

I raise my brow, still trying to catch my breath. “I suppose I should be honored that I’m the provider of so many firsts for the famous Blake Crawford.”

He shrugs. “I’m honored you played along.”

We both stare at each other for a moment until the ferry docks with a lurch and the cars start offloading. The lane next to us goes first, and just as the seniors in the sedan pull away, I swear the old lady looks right at me and winks.

CHAPTER 17

Blake

Even though I’ve been living in BC for the past two years, it always surprises me how little of the bloody province I’ve actually seen. I guess I can’t really be held at fault when I’ve gone home to England every summer and over Christmas, but even so you’d think I would have taken advantage of some of the stunning scenery and destinations from time to time. Don’t get me wrong, I love Victoria, even if it tries too hard to be “Little Britain” at times (and nowhere near as hilarious as the TV show), but the warm, Mediterranean climate makes up for it. Still, I hate feeling like there’s a whole world out there that I’m turning a blind eye to.

That’s one of the reasons I didn’t hesitate when Amanda texted me about the weekend. The chance to get away was one I wasn’t about to pass up. Plus, she would be there. Plus, she really does need to relax. Plus, well, I have to admit that the pressure is getting to me, too.

I don’t want to tell her that though. If I acted anything less than confident, I know she’d put even more weight on her shoulders, and we all know serious Amanda isn’t a lot of fun to be around. It’s one reason why I can’t help but piss her off when she gets that perma-scowl on her face. Relaxed Amanda is a fun Amanda, and fun Amanda is this heady mixture of sexy and adorable, something I can’t get enough of, no matter how hard I try to rein it in.

And I have been. Even though my immediate answer was that the trip sounded great, all the warning bells were going off in the back of my head, the ones that are loud and blaring and telling me that I’m veering into unwelcome territory. It’s not new to want to keep shagging a girl—if the sex is good, how can you not? But when she’s all you think about, every moment of every day, well then, buddy, you have a problem.

I’m determined not to have a problem. But after seeing her come in public, in Mr. Mean, surrounded by people and the ocean and salt-tinged air, I’m starting to think wanting Amanda might not be a bad problem to have.

Then there’s the fact that when we pull off the ferry and onto the island, Amanda directs me where to drive, and her whole demeanor changes right before my eyes. She’s sitting up in the seat, leaning forward and gazing out all the windows, looking like a child on Christmas morning.

She’s beautiful, I think to myself, and the thought catches me off-guard. It’s not that I’ve thought of her as anything but, but for once she’s not sexy with eyes full of lust or bitch-hot, like when she’s calling me a pig (and god, do I fucking love it when she calls me a pig). She’s beautiful in this wholesome, pure, wild way, like she’s becoming the sum of all the beauty she sees.

“Wow, I remember that old church!” she cries out softly as the road winds past a small stone Catholic church flanked by old headstones, some draped with what looks like Mardi Gras beads.

The road curves away from the waterfront and sailboats moored out in the bay and heads inland toward an impressive monolith of rock presiding over the valley. “That’s Mount Maxwell,” she points out. “We’ll have to go up there later, if Mr. Mean can handle potholes large enough to swallow him.”

“We’ll see,” I tell her, knowing full well that potholes are my nemeses. As is Benedict Cumberbatch.

“Oh, and the vineyards,” she says dreamily as we coast up a hill, vineyards and olive groves flanking us on either side, cascading down the slopes of sun-bleached grass. So far this place isn’t at all what I was expecting. It looks more like Tuscany than Canada.

“We have to do a wine tasting one of these days. There are three wineries, a beer brewery, a cider house, and even a lavender farm,” she says, her eyes dancing as she takes it all in.

“I thought we were supposed to be writing,” I tease.

“It’s inspiring.”

“Drinking? Of course. Spoken like a true writer.”

“Well, you said I needed to relax,” she says. “I say we play tourist in the afternoons, you know, as a break. Or a reward.”

If I can pull myself off of you, I think. Let’s not kid ourselves, writing and wine and sightseeing are all good, but we both know we’re spending this weekend with me deep inside of her, everywhere she’ll take me.

But none of that seems to be on her mind just now, even though my fingers still smell like her cum, something I want to keep sniffing but don’t want to seem like a total pervert, not when she’s in this rare joyous element. Talk about a mood changer.

So I keep my dodgy perversion to myself as we wind our way across the island, past bucolic farms and stately houses hidden among towering trees. I swerve around swaths of bike riders who are pedaling their hearts out on the narrow road, something that looks like total hell, until we finally turn off the main road and head down toward the water.

“Can you imagine living there?” she says, sighing as we go past waterfront houses, their backyards a beach.

“I think you easily could,” I point out as we come to the end of the road and head down a bumpy gravel driveway until we stop at what can only be her family cottage. “I mean, this is your family’s, right? You’d live here during the summer, be in the city in the winter.” I pause. “Naturally I’d have to live here too. Is there an outhouse I could reside in?”

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