Page 32 of Me Three
“Because if you’re only interested in both of us, or Carter, but not me individually, I can understand. I don’t mind. You wouldn’t be the first guy we hook up with that gets hung up on Carter and is stringing me along in hopes of another threesome.”
“Don’t say that,” I tell him.
“Well, it’s true. Carter won’t sleep with you again. Monday was a fluke because you took him by surprise. Well, both of us, really, but he’s adamant on this,” he says.
I take a deep breath and smile because I wish Ev was here so I could take him in my arms and reassure him.
“That’s not what I meant by saying ‘don’t say that.’ Of course I’m interested in you. I’m not hung up on Carter, and I’m not going to string you along. I know no means no,” I say, and remember that Monday blowjob in Carter’s classroom.
I’m not gonna push it with him if what Ev is saying is true—and why wouldn’t it be—but part of me likes the challenge of unpicking whatever issues Carter has got going on and finding out just how much he actually means it.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s that some guys like to think they want no-strings-attached fun, but all they actually want is to be spooned, cuddled, and completely sucked dry.
It’s no coincidence I’ve had to block a few people from ever contacting me again when they turned from indifferent power tops to begging stalkers.
“And I’d love to go with you to Virginia Beach,” I add. “Do you want to stay the night? My treat.”
Ev laughs heartily, and it makes my senses wake up even though he’s not here and I can’t feel his warmth on me.
“That’s gonna be a hard no, my little. You’re not paying for anything. I’ll book us a hotel though,” he says.
“Hm… fine. But word to the wise, Mr. Spencer. Don’t call me little. And don’t think I’m after a sugar daddy. I can pay my way,” I say.
“What may I call you, if you don’t mind me asking?” he says, and I can feel the smile on his lips. It makes my dick twitch in my pants, and I grab it to appease. Obviously I should know better by now that’s not how it works. It only gets harder against my hand.
“Baby, sweetheart, pumpkin, darling. Anything but little,” I laugh.
“I’m sure there’s a story there,” he says.
“Not much. I had a stalker who wanted me to be his little back in summer. He wanted to put me in diapers and have me do all kinds of gross scat stuff, so I’m scarred for life,” I say.
“Oh...kay. How about little cabbage?”
“Excuse me?” I say, barely able to contain the laughter. “Cabbage?”
“Well, the French call each otherpetit chou, which literally translates to ‘little cabbage,’” he says, and his French accent does nothing to calm the stormy need inside me. “Does little bother you in this case?”
I bite my finger trying to contain my smile and think about it.
“Sure. You can call me little cabbage,” I say.
“It’s a deal,” he says.
We stay on the line, quiet for a few moments. I want to keep the conversation going. I don’t want him to go just yet.
“What...uhm...are you doing later?” he asks, and I almost breathe a sigh of relief.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’ll probably still be trying to finish my painting.”
“Are you painting right now?”
“Yup.”
“What are you making?” he asks.
I look at my work and cringe.
“At the moment, it looks like a row of hotdogs in an execution line-up,” I say.
