Chapter 1: The Thong That Broke the Ice
The California sun was a hammer on the back of Bailey’s neck. She’d only stepped out to deadhead the geraniums, a mindless task in her favorite sheer pink tank top and the barely-there thong she wore when the house was empty. Now, her fingers, slick with sweat, slipped on the bronze handle of the French door. It didn’t turn. She jiggled it, a stupid, hopeful motion. Nothing. She pushed her hip against the solid wood. A firm, unyielding thud was the only answer.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered to the silent patio.
Her phone was on the kitchen island, next to the empty iced tea glass. Mark was in Seattle, in meetings all day, his phone likely on silent, buried in some conference table. She was locked out, dressed in a whisper of fabric that did nothing to hide the outline of her erect nipples or the curve of her ass. The tank top barely grazed the top of her thighs. This was not the look for a diplomatic mission.
She eyed the fence separating her pristine lawn from the neighbor’s more lived-in yard. The Millers were nice, retired, probably napping. Their son James was home for the summer, the one with the messy hair and the easy smile she’d seen mowing the lawn shirtless last week. It was the only option.
She shuffled across the grass, the dew cool between her toes, feeling acutely every shift of her body under the thin cotton. She knocked on the Millers’ back door, a timid rap that felt absurd.
Footsteps thumped down stairs inside. The door swung open.
James stood there, blinking sleep from his hazel eyes, wearing nothing but a pair of faded grey briefs. His hair was a riot, his chest lean and defined, a trail of dark hair leading down. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.
Perfect, she thought, an internal eye-roll. This kid is going to get an eyeful and I’ll be the highlight of his semester.
“Bailey? Hey. Everything okay?” His voice was morning-rough.
“I, um, locked myself out. My phone’s inside. Mark’s at work. Can I just… use yours?” She tried to stand casually, one arm crossing over her chest, the other tugging down the hem of the tank top.
“Oh. Yeah, sure, come in.” He stepped back, seemingly unfazed by his own state of undress or hers.
The Miller’s kitchen was warm, smelled of old coffee and toast. She took the cordless phone he offered, pressing her thighs together as she dialed Mark’s number. It rang. And rang. Went to voicemail. She tried twice more, each silent ring stretching the awkwardness in the room. She could feel James’s glances, quick and discreet, skating over the hard points of her nipples pressing against the fabric, the sliver of her thong visible at the top of her thighs where the tank top rode up. She didn’t really care what he thought, but a flush crept up her neck anyway. It felt reckless. Slutty, even.
“No luck?” he asked, leaning against the counter.
“No. He’s probably in the wind tunnel or something.” She set the phone down with a sigh, the movement making her tank top gap for a second. She saw his eyes flicker.
An awkward silence settled, thick and hot. James scratched the back of his head. “So… you’re just gonna wait?”
“I guess I have to.”
He nodded, then a slow, easy grin spread across his face. “You wanna smoke some weed?”
The question was so unexpected, so utterly not what she’d heard from a neighbor in over a decade, that she barked a laugh. “What?”
“Weed. You know. To pass the time.” He shrugged, those broad shoulders rolling. “Unless you’re, like, totally against it.”
She hadn’t smoked since college. Mark would have a coronary. The thought of that, mixed with the stifling awkwardness and the way her body felt hyper-visible, decided it. “Sure,” she said, the word coming out before she could vet it. “Why not?”
“Cool. It’s, uh, upstairs. In my room.”
She followed him up, noting the confident way he moved in just his briefs. His room was a disaster zone of adolescent comfort—a twin bed with sheets tangled into a nest, a laptop glowing with a half-written paper, clothes strewn like landmines. The air was a mix of stale coffee, patchouli incense, and something sweetly herbal. He kicked a pile of laundry aside, revealing a small wooden box. He pulled out a glass pipe and a baggie of green buds.
He packed it, lit it, took a smooth hit, and passed it to her. Her fingers brushed his. She mimicked his motion, the smoke hitting her lungs with a familiar, expanding warmth. She coughed lightly, handing it back. “Forgot how that feels.”
“Like time travel,” he said, smiling. They passed the pipe back and forth, the silence now comfortable, lazy. They joked about the uselessness of liberal arts degrees, about the neighbors’ awful taste in garden gnomes. The weed softened the edges of the room, of the situation.
And then she saw it. The grey cotton of his briefs was tenting, dramatically, a pronounced and undeniable ridge growing down his thigh. He tried to adjust subtly, turning slightly, but it was a futile effort.
Bailey giggled, the sound loose and light. “James. Dude. There is no hiding that thing.”
He flushed, but laughed too, a relieved sound. “Sorry. It’s, you know. Automatic.”
“It’s not an apology situation,” she said, her gaze lingering. A playful curiosity uncoiled in her stomach, warmed by the weed. “That’s… substantial.”
“It’s a hassle,” he said, running a hand through his hair, but he was watching her watch him. “Logistically. Sometimes.”
“I bet women struggle,” she said, taking another hit, holding his gaze.
“Sometimes.” He shifted, the movement making the outline even clearer. The boldness of the weed, the sheer absurdity of the afternoon, pressed on her. He was just a kid, but he wasn’t acting like one now. The energy in the room had shifted, charged and slow.
“So,” he said, his voice lower. “Can I see your tits?”
The question hung in the hazy air. It wasn’t sleazy. It was direct, almost clinical in its curiosity. She held his gaze for three long seconds, then, with a small shrug that made them bounce, she peeled the thin pink tank top over her head and dropped it on his dirty laundry. Her breasts were full, high, the nipples a pale pink and still tightly budded from the air, from his attention.
“Wow,” he breathed, no pretense. “They’re perfect.”
“Can I feel them?” he asked, his hands halfway up already.
She nodded.
His touch was calloused but surprisingly gentle, cupping their weight, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. A sharp gasp escaped her, and she leaned into his hands. He was hard as stone against his briefs now.
“Want to feel it?” he murmured, his lips close to her ear.
She didn’t answer with words. Her hand replaced his on his chest, sliding down his stomach, past the waistband of his briefs. Her fingers wrapped around him, and her eyes widened. She’d been right. It was thick, heavy, and hot in her hand. She gave an experimental stroke, up to the head, down to the root. He shuddered.
“Jesus,” she whispered, a genuine awe in her voice.
He was kissing her neck then, his hands on her ass, pulling her against him. One finger slipped under the string of her thong, tracing the damp seam of her. She ground against his hand, a moan catching in her throat.
“Do you like giving head?” he asked between kisses, the question mumbled against her skin.
“I do,” she said, the admission hot in her mouth. She could feel him throb in her hand. She knew he wanted to ask. She could see the war in his eyes—polite boy versus wanting man. So she decided for him.
With a sly smile, she slowly sank to her knees on his carpet, pushing his briefs down with her. He sprang free, and her smile widened. She looked up at him, his expression a mix of shock and rapture, then took him into her mouth, slowly, savoring the salt and musk of him, the incredible fullness. She took her time, swirling her tongue, using her hand where her mouth couldn’t reach, listening to the broken sounds above her.