Page 3 of Just a Little Crush
Bec’s name comes up in far more conversations than I’d like. Thatch Cross is the kind of town where someone mentions your name before you’ve opened your eyes and set your feet on the ground. If you’re lucky, folks are singing your praises. If you’re not so lucky, they’re speculating on your business, and if you’re me and Bec, they’re usually trying to set you up. Though, of course, never with each other. Nobody sees us like that.
It’s been that way since Sophie left. From the second she got on that plane, there was a sort of collective mourning period. For weeks I couldn’t go into a shop, pub, or cafe without someone cornering me to tell me how sorry they were. How much they’d miss her. I suppose I was lucky that she told everyone she wanted to travel, even if it was only half of the truth. If they knew the rest of it, it wouldn’t be words of sympathy they’d have for me.
After I plate up my lunch, I take it to the dining table with this bullshit can of fancy citrus water I grabbed from Bec’s fridge without looking. Half the first sandwich is gone in one bite. When the warm honey and sharp cheese hits my tongue, I groan out loud. Bec’s toasties are the highlight of my week. Yes, because they’re delicious, but also because it buys me a few minutes of her time I’ve no other excuse to get.
I’m not really one for socialising. Sometimes I’ll have a few beers after work, or I’ll get invited to a family dinner with one of the crew, though I’ve stopped accepting invites after being tricked into a few double dates that I would never have said yes to.
Work keeps me busy, and the gym, volunteering, and keeping my parents’ house in order.
I grew up in a house across the road from Bec’s parents, but when my folks retired a few years ago, they downsized to this bungalow. Said it was somewhere they could live out the rest of their days. About five minutes later they realised they were bored, so they bought a holiday apartment in Spain, and are currently driving somewhere in Europe with Bec’s Mum and Dad in a campervan.
It didn’t make sense for me to keep living in my flat while their house sat empty, so the place is pretty much mine. There’s a decent kitchen and lounge area, three good-sized bedrooms, and a south facing patio that’s the perfect spot for a beer after a long day. Or a bowl of cereal if I’m just home from a night shift.
The only thing missing is someone to spend it with.
It’s not that I’m lonely. I have plenty of friends and a great team at work who are more like brothers and sisters than colleagues, but I do sometimes wish I could come home to someone. Someone with a sense of humour, who I could talk to for hours. Someone with a soft, warm body that would fit perfectly against mine. Someone who’s into the stuff I’m into. Someone like Bec.
Except Bec isn’t like me. She’s a fucking sweetheart. If you cut her open, I’m pretty sure her chest would be filled with candy hearts and gummy bears. She’s got that happy, busy energy that you just want to be around, and she knows everything about everyone and everything that has ever happened in this town. Not because she’s a gossip, but because people genuinely want her in their lives. Last year two people gave their babies the middle name Rebecca after her. I’m not even joking.
Yet her sweetness is a curse because she’s also got the hottest body I’ve ever seen, all soft and curvy, just how I like it. She’s gorgeous even in her green shop apron. She wears these vest tops and denim shorts through summer that make her arse look like a peach. They drive me wild, but I don’t even feel sad when she swaps them for the Carhartt work trousers she wears all winter because they look just as good. But that apron…
Fuck, I’ve probably imagined her wearing that and nothing else every day of my adult life. I’m jealous of any man who ever gets to see her naked because I know I never will.
She has this cute button nose, gorgeous pink lips, and she always gets a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks when she’s been out in the sun for too long. She wears her long, dark hair piled up on top of her head and every time I see her I want to shove my hands in it and pull her mouth to mine.
I’m not the only one. I don’t know how many guys have tried to ask her out over the years but, bar one guy who she dated after school, she’s always stayed single. Sometimes I hear guys talking about her around town, but a firm word usually shuts them right up.
I’m a bastard for doing it though, because it’s not like I would ever dare make a move on Bec. She’s far too good for the likes of me, but I’m still protective of her. Maybe a little too protective at times, but we’ve grown up together, it’s understandable. Our parents are friends, our grandparents were friends, and we’re the only two from our school year who’ve stuck around.
We had a decent group of friends here in our teens. Some travelled to the other side of the world and stayed put, a few moved away and only come back for Christmas.
It’s not like this place is dying though. There’s been a steady influx of new folks looking to swap the city life for a country one, and plenty of friendly faces amongst them.
But the one constant is Bec, and it wouldn’t be the place it is without her. She gives her life to this town. She organises so many events throughout the year, all the street decorations at Christmas. She sends care packages when people are unwell, checks in on her Grandpa’s friends, and goes to their 90th birthday parties because she genuinely wants to, not just because she’s known them her whole life.
She’s smart too. She was running the show long before her Gramps officially handed the shop over to her. She’s full of ideas, one of those people who loves bringing people together. She’s perfect.
And apparently she makes blow job jokes, and it’s all I can think about.
Bec on her knees.
Bec with her tongue out.
Bec sucking me down deep.
Bec whimpering when I grab her hair and hold her in place.
Bec.
Bec.
Bec.
For fucks sake.I can’t even make it past lunchtime, what is wrong with me? I drop my half-eaten toastie onto my plate and head down the hallway to my bedroom. Kicking the door closed behind me, my zipper is already down, and I wrap my fist around my dick. It’s a pointless gesture. There’s nobody to interrupt me, and still I do it because I know I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be stroking my dick in the middle of the day thinking about Bec. Or any hour of the day.
She’s too good for you. She’s too good for you. She’s too good for you.
A useless fucking mantra. All it does is spur me on. The thought of her perfect, womanly body, laid out on my bed waiting for me to make my move. To act out every depraved fantasy I’ve ever had about her. If I had one chance with her, I’d take all goddamn night. I’d pin her down and ravage her, have her screaming that it’s too much, then begging me for more. The thought of it makes me grip harder and before long I’m grunting, spilling over my hand while shame washes over me.
