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  "Tit for tat, then," I said, after spitting.

  "Easy enough," he answered, around a mouthful of toothpaste foam.

  I finished brushing and rinsed my mouth, washed my face, and ran a brush through my hair, deciding if I was really going to tell him this. I decided I was, because at this point, what did I have to hide from Corin Badd?

  "So, this is just a fantasy--" I started.

  "Don't qualify it, Tate," he said, sitting on the bed to watch me as I paced and brushed. "Like I'm going to judge you?"

  I sighed. "Easy for you to say." I kept running the brush through my hair, just for something to focus on other than my forthcoming admission. "We kind of edged around it just now," I said, feeling myself blushing. "I'm not saying I necessarily want to do this in real life, mind you. It's just...something that turns me on, I guess, the idea of it."

  "What, Tate?"

  I sighed again, and sat on the bed beside him. "A facial."

  He quirked an eyebrow. "Not too surprising, given some of the things you've said and done so far."

  I shrugged. "Maybe not."

  "Describe the fantasy to me?"

  "The guy doesn't have a face--although now, it's gonna end up being you. Just a guy with a hot body, big muscles and rippling abs and all that shit. Big cock. He's jerking off, and I'm just watching. Just sitting there watching. He's going to town, right? Like, he's really really into it, jerking himself off super crazy hard. I don't touch him. I want to, but the fun is to deny myself. And he wants me to touch him, it's one of those things I just know, because...duh, right?" I bite my lip and glance at Corin, who is watching me impassively. "So he's jerking off. When I can tell he's getting close, I go to my knees in front of him--he stands up for this, and I'm on my knees in front of him. Like a porn, I guess. And he jerks off...onto me. All over my face, all over my tits. Everywhere."

  "Damn, honeypot. That's a dirty fantasy."

  I nod, shrugging. "It's stupid, too. I mean, it's not like I'd get any actual sexual enjoyment out of being spooged on, you know? Why does it turn me on? I don't know. But it does. I usually start coming right about the time I'm fantasizing him starting to come, when it's all starting to drip all over my body." I glanced at Corin. "What's yours?"

  "I already talked about one, the whole titty-fucking thing, which you already made come true." He sighed happily, remembering. "The other one that's sort of recurring is actually kind of vanilla and lame and stupid."

  "So? I want to hear it."

  He fell backward onto the bed, rubbing his face. "God, it's so stupid. I'm not even sure where it came from or why it's even a fantasy, but--"

  "No justifying or excusing, Corin, remember?"

  "I know, I know. God, admitting this out loud is actually kind of hard."

  "Right?" I asked, laughing. "Now you get where I was coming from."

  "Yeah, I do." He laughed self-consciously. "Okay, so. I'm sleeping. In the fantasy, I mean, I'm asleep. I wake up, and I'm already hard, and she's rubbing herself all over me, which is what woke me up. Not to steal what you said, but she's no one specific, and of course now it's gonna end up being you. Anyway. I'm sleepy and disoriented and not really with it. Like, holy shit, what's going on? Oh my god, okay, she's, like...rubbing her body all up and down mine, grinding on me, rubbing her tits on my face, over my cock, grinding her pussy on me. I go to reach for her, and she pins my hands to the bed, like no, let me. So I cross my arms under my head--"

  "This is a really detailed fantasy," I remark.

  "Yeah, well..." he trails off, laughing, and then resumes. "Anyway, so...I'm still half-asleep, thinking it may even be a dream or something. Then she straddles me, and before I know what's happening, she has me inside her and she's riding me. And she just rides me, all hot and crazy, and...that's it."

  "That's actually kind of hot," I admit. "Now, let's go have breakfast."

  I know what we're both thinking: making each other's fantasies come true.

  I lied to him--I absolutely do want to make mine come true. I always have, but I've never had the courage to admit it was something I wanted. And really, until Corin, it was just a fantasy--that part wasn't a lie, it was the idea that turned me on, whereas the idea of the reality made me scared and nervous. It wasn't something I'd ever actually do--like, god, no--there's no way I'd ever let a man ejaculate onto me--that's degrading porno bullshit.

  But somehow, Corin makes it seem...erotic. It turns me on. Just now, when he came in my mouth and it was all down my chin and throat and on my breasts...it was crazy sexy. Watching the recording was even hotter. If Corin actually jerked off onto me?

  Ohhhh shit.

  I might spontaneously orgasm.

  And his fantasy? It was vanilla and tame, maybe, but really hot, and even romantic. Like, I could see myself doing that for him. Not just to make his fantasy come true, but because when I wake up before him and he's got a monster erection and he's so fucking sexy with his tats and piercings and those crazy shredded abs of his...I don't know if I'd be able to resist him.

  Something told me there would be a lot of fantasies coming true.

  Another thought occurred to me: If Corin made my secret fantasy come true, would I need a new one? Or would the memory of him doing that to me be enough to arouse me to orgasm.

  Further to that line of thought...

  If Corin and I were to...continue this thing we had, would I need to masturbate at all?

  12

  Corin

  * * *

  Cane and Aerie were finishing their breakfast when we finally made it down to the lobby, and their hidden smirks told me they knew we'd been up to something. And, judging by the footsie they were playing under the table, and the way Canaan was toying obsessively with the envelope containing their key card, they were desperately anticipating their own time alone.

  Aerie filled us in: they'd arranged a new king bedroom for themselves, and Corin and I could keep the one we had or change to a different one. They announced, after a few minutes of stilted, desultory conversation, that Aerie needed a shower, and they left together in a hurry, holding hands.

  Which left Tate and me to ourselves for breakfast.

  Which was a slow, lazy, relaxed process. We sipped endless cups of coffee, ate a bunch of unhealthy hotel buffet food--waffles, scrambled eggs, toast, sausage and bacon, a bowl of sugary cereal, more coffee...

  We were still sitting at our little table hours later when the staff came around to clear the buffet away. We talked about...god, everything. Her mom, her career as a model, how she missed using her creativity, photography especially. We talked about my memories of my mother, and how hard it was to break our contract and kill our European tour to come back, and how it was actually turning out to be the best thing that could have happened.

  We had been starting to get lost in the fame and bustle of being international rock stars, I told her. We were losing ourselves to the hype. Being back home had grounded us, returned us to our love of music rather than the scene. Being moderately famous had been fun, and I even admitted that the groupies had been fun, too, but even before coming back here, I'd started to feel a niggling little seed of doubt about the whole famous rock star thing. It wasn't worth it if I lost sight of the music.

  Which made being back in Alaska such a good thing. It forced Cane and me to focus on the music, to hone our talents, and expand our sound and such.

  We talked about Tate's dreams, how she wanted to pursue music in some way, and how she really loved photography, and how she'd always harbored a dream of learning to combine painting and photography and multimedia art, making pieces out of a photograph, and paint, and other media.

  We talked the morning away, and into the afternoon--the hotel had a bar, and at some point a server came by and we realized we'd talked past lunch, so we ordered more food and a bottle of wine, and kept on talking.

  Eventually, Canaan and Aerie came down, hand in hand again, but their bodies were much closer together, and the
y walked in a synch that they hadn't had before, with a glow and a quiet contentment to their expressions. Which...told me more than I needed to know.

  "I got us tickets to a Mitochondria show tonight," Canaan said, as they sat down. He glanced at the remains of our lunch, the empty bottle of wine, and the fact that we were still at the table we'd been at when they left. "Damn, you guys are still here? Like, you haven't left, have you?"

  Tate and I both shrugged.

  "Meh, yeah. I guess so," I said.

  "Who is Mitochondria?" Tate asked. "Is it more music like that Nitro Punch group? Nice guys, but their music sounds like someone is choking a demon with a chainsaw."

  I chortled. "You're funny, honeypot."

  Canaan quirked an eyebrow at me. "Didn't you say last night that honeypot means vagina?"

  Tate snickered. "Um, yeah. Never mind about that, though."

  Canaan waved a hand. "Well, whatever. No, Mitochondria is progressive metal. More melodic and instrumental, not so grindy and hard. No demons choking on chainsaws. Which, by the way, would make a great cover image."

  So, after Tate and I took separate, nonsexual, totally perfunctory and quick showers, and changed clothes, the four of us headed out to downtown Anchorage, taking a Lyft from our hotel. We shopped a little, had some pre-dinner drinks, then dinner, then post-dinner drinks at a different bar.

  None of us were drunk, or even close; after last night, I think we were all very aware of the need to stay in some kind of control.

  I know I, for one, wanted to stay sober, since Tate and I finally had a hotel room to ourselves.

  As weird as it is for me to say this...I was ready for more than blowjobs and eating her out. I mean, I'm a guy--getting my dick sucked is, like, the best thing ever. Can't ever be too much. But...there can, can't there? It's not...emotionally satisfying. It's not...I don't know how to put it.

  I want more.

  More than the eroticism of it. More than the blissful rush of orgasm, of feeling her mouth on me. I want to feel her. I need to feel her; I need to have a sense of connection.

  Which is scary as fuck because, until Tate, I never gave a shit about connection. It was just about sex. Getting off. If I was with a girl and all she ever wanted to do was oral, I'd have been fine with it. Shit, it un-complicates things, in some ways.

  With Tate, though?

  It's not about sex.

  I wanted the complicated. I wanted intimacy.

  As the night progressed, I kept thinking about that, over and over. Like, trying to picture finally being alone with Tate, getting naked together in privacy, taking our time...and I'd have to push my thoughts elsewhere or risk an embarrassing erection. Or also risk getting embarrassingly emotional. Not like I was gonna cry, just...

  This was Tate.

  The hours we spent talking today were the best hours I'd ever spent talking to anyone. It was just so easy to talk to her. I'd told her things I'd never told anyone--not that they were secret, just because conversations with other people, with other women, never went that deep, never went to a place where such soul-deep admissions even became a possibility.

  The concert was amazing. We had front row seats--we knew the bassist, and he'd hooked us up. I stood with Tate in front of me, my arms around her front, our hands tangled together, moving to the music. Casual, comfortable, affectionate. Her butt slid against my front, and she allowed my hands to roam up her front, even occasionally letting me get a quick handful of her boobs before playfully moving my hands elsewhere. She seemed to enjoy the music, this time, whereas I'd known she hated the Nitro Punch stuff.

  When they finally ended after an extended second encore, it was past two in the morning. Canaan and I spent a few minutes talking to Jase, the bassist, and then thankfully Canaan had ended the conversation for us before Jase invited us out with them. I would have turned him down, but it would have been rude, because if your boys from another band invite you to their after-party, you should at least make a quick appearance.

  Finally, well after three in the morning, we managed to catch a ride back to the hotel.

  We trudged sleepily to our separate rooms, and when Tate and I were finally alone, Tate slumped back against the closed hotel room door, rubbing her eyes.

  "Shit, I'm tired."

  "Yeah, we didn't sleep much last night."

  She gazed at the bed, and then flicked her eyes to me. "Cor, I know we've been talking for a while about finally being alone, but--"

  I took her hand and guided her to the bed. "You don't even need to finish, honeypot. Time to sleep. We'll have all morning."

  She stopped as we reached the bed, and gazed up at me. "I don't want you to think--"

  "Tate, I'm fucking exhausted. Let's just go to sleep."

  She sighed in relief. "All the way up here I was panicking, because I'm so tired I can't even keep my eyes open, but I want you, and I want this, and I don't know when we'll get privacy like this again."

  I palmed her cheeks. "I'm in no rush, Tate. I mean, yeah, I'm desperate to really, truly be with you. But I want it to be right. And just with you, in general, I'm not in a rush. I'm not going anywhere. Neither are you, right?"

  She sagged against me, forehead on my chest. "God, thank you."

  "I'd never pressure you, Tate. Don't ever feel like that, okay? Promise me?"

  "There's just been so much foreplay and build up, I feel like this whole thing between us is...like..." she trailed off, shrugging.

  "A powder keg ready to blow?" I finished.

  "Yeah." She blinked up sleepily at me. "Can I borrow your T-shirt to sleep in?"

  "Of course."

  I stripped out of my T-shirt and handed it to her, and she shucked out of her skirt and blouse, unhooked her bra without any fanfare, and tugged on my T-shirt. And just like that, she was just...my girl. In my shirt, sleepy, ready to nuzzle into my arms.

  My girl.

  My heart squeezed and thudded until my pulse thundered in my ears.

  Tate was my girl.

  I slipped out of my clothes, stripping down to my boxer-briefs. I made sure the door was locked, the privacy latch attached, and the do not disturb sign out while Tate folded back the comforter, and then we turned off the lights and got in bed together.

  I was anticipating a moment or two of awkwardness or weirdness as we tried to just sleep together with the sexual tension raging between us despite our utter exhaustion. Instead, Tate snuggled her head into the nook of my arm, and I curled my hand around her waist and turned toward her just so...

  And within half a dozen breaths, I was fast asleep, with Tate already snoring in my arms.

  I've had this fantasy so many times.

  It's never featured Tate Kingsley, though.

  In this fantasy, one I didn't have the guts to tell her about, I simply woke up with her.

  Before Tate, the fantasy was excruciatingly normal--and normal is something I've never really been too great at. This wasn't a fantasy I jerked off to; this was a fantasy I played in my head as I fell asleep. It was a constant comfort to me on tour buses and in strange hotel rooms.

  In this fantasy, I woke up with a woman in my arms. The sun was bright, and she was warm. We were sleepy, happy. Nothing happened--we just woke up together. The fantasy was always the feeling of utter happiness, feeling like this woman in my arms was mine, and I was hers, and we didn't need to be awake until we wanted to, and when we did finally wake up, it was slowly and lazily, with happy smiles at each other, sleepy hellos, kisses, nuzzling noses into necks, sinking deliriously back in the blankets together.

  I had the woman in my arms--Tate. She felt so real, so warm, so solid, so soft. I didn't want to wake up; I wanted to keep dreaming this dream.

  I sighed happily as I tightened my arms around her, my heart expanding in my chest, swelling, tightening. She wiggled against me, sighing. She was facing away, the little spoon to my larger one. And then, as she sighed, she twisted to face me, snugging her head onto my chest, her palm tr
ailing warm onto my stomach. Her knee was draped over my thigh, and I could feel her other arm trapped between us. I had one arm around her shoulders, the other hand resting on her hip.

  God, this dream is amazing. That it's Tate makes it even better. I mean, it's Tate. My best friend, a woman who just knows me. If I were to be able to have this in real life, I would actually just shatter from delirious happiness.

  She wiggles again, and I relish the feel of her body in my arms, her hair on my bare chest. She shifts upward, so her head is on the pillow next to me, and I feel her breath on my cheek. I could turn my head and kiss her.

  I don't want to wake up. I feel myself waking, though, and try to cling to sleep.

  I can feel sunshine on my face.

  Tate murmurs, a wordless noise as she fumbles to wakefulness herself.

  There's never been this much detail to the fantasy before.

  I feel so content, so happy. I have Tate in my arms, and she's waking up. I'll have to remember this dream and try to recreate it.

  I felt her breath on my cheek, warm and sour, but not in a bad way. Sweet, and familiar. She wiggled against me, hand curling into a fist on my stomach and then releasing. My hand tightened on her waist, and my other hand slid along her hip to caress her thigh. I suck in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

  Was I awake?

  Was this real?

  I tried blinking my eyes open--the curtains were open, and the sun was bright, high in the sky, bathing me in golden yellow light of late morning. I turned my head, and saw Tate.

  Real.

  In my arms.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  "Hi," she murmured.

  "Hi there, honeypot," I mumbled back.

  This was real.

  Holy fuck.

  "Can I admit something, right now, before I'm really awake?" Tate mumbled. "I don't think I've ever been this content in my life. This happy."

  I nuzzled my face into hers, breathing her scent deeply. "I was thinking it was a dream." I buried my nose in her throat, my hands now caressing her silky skin wherever I could reach. "I've had this...fantasy, I guess. Since I was, like, fourteen or fifteen. Not a sexual fantasy, though...just a simple fantasy of waking up with someone, and just being...happy. It was something I would run through in my head as I fell asleep while we were on tour, and I was alone after the lights were off and the concert was over and Cane was gone and I was alone, I would fantasize about waking up with someone."