A Bird in the Oven Page 4

  “Yes, Ollie,” I sigh, wondering where in my basement I shoved my share of the Halloween decorations. “That will be an adequate concession.”

  6

  Oliver

  There are quite a few physical discomforts that can hijack my rational train of thought. Until now, an unrelieved erection was not one of those. It was simply an unfortunate fact of being a sexually matured male that would be dealt with discreetly in public until such time as I could alleviate it adequately in private. With Olivia’s body draped over mine on the couch, I bump it up to priority number one for all eternity. It is never going away, and it is impossible to think through this horrifying level of torture.

  She yawns. “I want citations. Where, exactly, did you read this information?”

  “I do not remember.” Honestly, right now, I don’t.

  I literally cannot think of a single time in my entire existence that I have been simultaneously desperate to escape and to get closer. Both seem equally impossible. Liv has her arms wrapped around me and is essentially using my body as her personal pillow. I am not about to ask her to move to the other side of the couch where—normally—only our feet would be in contact. Since this level of affection is such a rare occurrence, I am not willing to spare myself this anguish by pushing her away.

  She chuckles. The vibrations make me want to grind my teeth until they are no more. “So, you’re saying you want me to move in with you for the next two months on the grounds that being in a male’s living space will heighten my fertility by bathing me in sexually suggestive pheromones. And you expect me to haul all my stuff over here without being able to point me to the specific place that you imbibed this rather interesting little tidbit?”

  “That is correct,” I grit out. “I will help you, but the additional exercise will also be beneficial. Luckily, neither of us drink much nor smoke. We eat relatively well. I lift weights every morning before work. I do not mean to insult you, but you could stand to be a little more physically active in the interests of optimal health to achieve the desired outcome.”

  She scoffs. Even that unhappy sound sends bolts of electrical current rippling through my tense body. “I’m not lifting weights with you, Ollie.”

  “I will purchase a treadmill for you. We can exercise together every morning before work. If you live here, then you cannot worm your way out of it by sleeping in until the last minute.”

  “Sleep is a vital component of health,” she argues. “You should feel comforted that I get an adequate amount unlike so many other people our age.”

  That is a fair point. I should probably make an effort to get a little more sleep during the next two months. “Fine. I will sleep in with you, then we can exercise after work.”

  “Yeah, you just love the tight bodies,” she mutters against my chest.

  I am very proud of my toned body. I have never been particularly athletic, and sports are absolutely out of the question. It was not until college that I discovered lifting weights is an excellent center for my mind, though I do have to work through the physical discomfort. Oh, wait. She is not talking about me.

  “I thought we mutually agreed not to bring up the topic of the people we have had sex with in the past?”

  “That is correct,” she mumbles.

  Olivia is the type of person who always keeps her word even if it inconveniences her greatly. It bothers me that she is struggling with this. Mr. Hooper suggested these other women were part of my bigger problem, so perhaps it is prudent if I do not point out her inability to stop mentioning them.

  “I will devote everything to you and you alone,” I reaffirm for her.

  She sighs. “Ollie, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…can we stop talking and just watch the movie?”

  I cannot believe she is requesting my silence either. “You always want to talk.”

  “Yes, and you’re usually the quiet one. Which is why I said, ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this.’”

  I still cannot figure out a good reason for her request, but I am willing to oblige whatever she asks of me. Since I cannot distract myself with words, I will distract myself with touch.

  I have never been able to touch before. To be clear, Liv is not diametrically opposed to me touching her. We have hugged. Exchanged completely platonic kisses on the cheek. I have even wrapped my arm around her shoulders, but I have never allowed myself this level of exploration of the topography and texture that is Olivia.

  Her light brown hair slides through my fingers like silk. The strands are quite kinked, definitively curly on the spectrum of hair. The strands are coarse and catch against each other and the pads of my fingertips. Rolling several of them between my fingers is a mesmerizing sensation. This would make an excellent calming technique that would not result in injury. Her back rises and falls with every breath she takes that I feel against my chest. I glide my hand down that expanse of her body, taking in the firmness of her, making note of where the band of her bra sits in the upper second quadrant of her torso. The lower half begins to sink to the concave aperture of the small of her back, then rises up again to the swell of her ass. I sink my fingers into the much more pliable flesh here, appreciating that her flannel pajama pants offer less of a barrier than her work slacks or a pair of blue jeans. The edges of her panties, I trace with my finger. Judging by the fit, she is wearing a pair of what are called boy shorts.

  “Ollie,” she murmurs, sounding drunk. “Don’t go any lower.”

  “I will have to go lower in a few days. Think of this as reconnaissance.”

  “I’m just finishing my period. If you go any lower, you’re going to get a nasty surprise.”

  “I do not find anything about you nasty,” I say, her hair tickling my lips. I am not usually a fan of fragrance, but Liv’s hair holds just the barest, sweetest scent. “Menstrual blood is a completely natural lubricant. This might be a good time to practice our coital alignment techniques to bolster our goal of impregnation in a week.”

  “That would be very messy. It would stain your sheets.”

  “I can buy new sheets.”

  “We would have to shower before bed. You prefer showering in the morning.”

  “That is true, but I can make an exception.” My dick strains against the fly of my jeans and beneath the weight of her body. No amount nor any type of distraction is going to deflate it. To prove my point—almost without thought—I lift my hips to grind my erection against her warm, soft stomach. It is a sad substitute for the much warmer, softer, wetter place it would like to be.

  She chuckles. I am well and truly losing my mind.

  And then she sighs. “How long has it been?”

  “It is four point six two inches long when flaccid and eight point one four inches long when fully erect.”

  She lifts herself up to stare at me with wide eyes.

  I grin. This is data that works in my favor. “I told you I already know mine is bigger.”

  Liv glances down at where my fully erect but painfully crushed penis is still wedged against her belly. Her eyes come back to mine, and they are still wide. She shakes her head. “You’ve hit the genetic lottery in more ways than one.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that. I am blissfully ignorant of all my male relatives’ penis sizes.”

  She chuckles. Her cheeks pink just the slightest bit. “I don’t think they’d appreciate you asking them to get aroused and pose in front of a measuring tape, no.”

  That is a disgusting idea, and it does actually deflate my hard-on a bit. “Agreed. Not that such behavior is necessary. There are plenty of studies with a wider variety of men that have accomplished the same thing.”

  Her grin is the most beautiful thing in my world. “That’s how you know you’re bigger than average. Research.”

  “It is obviously how you know I am bigger than average, too. I doubt you have measured your former bed partners. Men tend to be sensitive about that kind of thing, and you are a very intuitive woman.”

/>   She glances down again. The blush on her cheeks grows brighter. “That’s why I asked how long it’s been for you. I meant since you’ve had sex. You’ve never seemed so…aroused before.”

  “I have been aroused many times before. I have simply never allowed myself to be aroused around you.” By her? Yes. For most of the past seventeen point two years. The memories have faded over time, but I am relatively certain my first erection was caused by being aroused by this woman. That was a surprising experience.

  The brightness of her cheeks and her eyes dims a little. “Why not me?”

  “We are best friends. That kind of sexually aggressive behavior is not welcome in a relationship like ours. I am very good at controlling myself when I have to.” This is another stellar selling point of mine. Society places great value on self-control.

  She likes what I am selling. Her smile is soft, her eyes even softer. I have not seen that look on her face often, but it is one of my favorites. “It’s welcome now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I concede. Maybe a little too eagerly. I dial it down a notch. “I obviously have to be aroused to make a baby with you.”

  She adjusts herself until she is on her knees, wedged between my legs. Her hand flattens against my zipper, then she strokes me through my jeans.

  A hiss escapes through my gritted teeth.

  “Does that hurt?” she asks, breathless like she is the one in agony.

  “A combination of jeans and an erection is never comfortable.”

  “Hmm. I’ll bet.” Shockingly, she carefully unbuttons then unzips my pants. She strokes me again with only the barrier of my cotton underwear between our skin.

  My eyes roll in the back of my head involuntarily. Olivia is touching me. I never want her to stop.

  “Does this hurt?” she murmurs.

  “No, Liv. That feels very good.” It could be better, but I get the distinct impression she does not want to work on our coital alignment to prepare for go-time. I might have misjudged though. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to touch you, too.”

  The sensation of cool, blissfully neutral air washes over my sensitive cock. I open my eyes to stare at a sight I never thought I would see before I died.

  Olivia Ann Holland is stroking me and licking her lips like she wants to swallow me whole.

  “I cannot impregnate you orally,” I choke out. It is a stupid thing to say. I have wanted her hands, her mouth, her tits…her anything on my dick for years. Her intent is clear. Why would I say a word to stop this?

  She kisses me. Just the tip, just the barest brush of her lips. “Please, Ollie?”

  I reach down to push her head closer to her intended goal. Access granted. Words are not happening for me anytime soon.

  She smiles then—wonder of wonders—licks me. Olivia licks my penis.

  My heart races inside my chest. My lungs work feverishly to provide the extra oxygen necessary.

  I cannot form words, but I can make plenty of sounds. Moans, groans, whimpers and every synonym in between.

  When the pleasure is so intense I can hardly stand it, I squeeze my eyes shut and press my head back against the arm of the couch to stop myself from blowing too soon.

  She is working me over in ways that have so much basis for comparison yet none at all. Because this is Olivia, and my wildest fantasies pale compared with reality.

  It is common courtesy to let the woman performing fellatio know when I have reached the point of no return. Some women do not enjoy the taste of semen. I tap Liv’s head because…still no words.

  She smiles around my cock and sucks harder. One hand cups my balls, while the other pumps the base of my rock-hard cock.

  I am a goner. White hot electricity bursts from my hypothalamus and my muscles contract on autopilot, sending transcendental waves of a potent cocktail of endorphins throughout my body.

  The sensation of her throat opening and closing around the head of my cock while she swallows and hums takes me to a new and different place I am never going to come back down from. She does not stop until she sucks me dry.

  “Liv,” I croak. It is the only word I know.

  She is very skilled at this because she obviously knows how sensitive I am now. She gently tucks my deflating dick back inside my underwear but thankfully leaves my fly wide open.

  Gradually, the burst of chemicals and electricity fade. My breathing and heart rate slow to a more manageable pace. There is much more mental fog to fight through than usual, but I do. For her.

  “Please come sit on my face.”

  She chuckles. “Are you a vampire now?” Carefully, she slides her body alongside mine, avoiding my still overly sensitive dick. She taps my nose. “Bleeding.”

  Oh. Right. Right. “Allow me five minutes to recover, then I will stick my hand down your pants.”

  Laughter bursts out of her mouth, sending puffs of hot breath against my face. “Still bleeding!”

  I am grateful the idea of getting my hand bloody seems to be off the table.

  “I can kiss you. You like that.”

  Her happy expression falls away. I do not know what this new expression is. “Would you like to taste your semen to determine if it meets your standards for impregnation?”

  No. Not particularly. I sigh. “I have nothing left to offer you. I cannot be selfish, Liv. That is unacceptable behavior.”

  This expression, I am familiar with. I have made her sad even though she is the one refusing my every suggestion to even the score. “You can be selfish if the other person asks you to be, Ollie. I didn’t pleasure you, expecting anything in return.”

  I blink at her. This is an unfamiliar concept that goes against every rule I have learned. “I dislike being selfish.”

  She kisses my cheek. In spite of the intimate way she sucked my semen down her throat six minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago, this kiss feels like a normal interaction. Completely platonic with no romantic undertones. Worse yet, she climbs off me and slips on her sandals then walks toward the front door.

  “You are leaving?”

  “Yes. It’s late, and we both have to be up early for work tomorrow.”

  “You need to sleep with me,” I insist, panic erasing all the happy, relaxed feelings of fifty-seven seconds ago. “Even if I did not pleasure you to orgasm, we are both releasing copious amounts of dopamine, oxytocin, and vasopressin.”

  “I don’t know what that means, Ollie.” Her hand is on the doorknob.

  I am going to lose more time.

  “Those are the human bonding neurochemicals,” I explain, pulling myself up from my position on the couch that I could stay plastered to for eternity. With her. “They light up the reward centers of the brain. The more of them we have, and the more we associate them with each other, the better the chances for conception.”

  “Oh.” She smiles over her shoulder at me but turns the knob anyway. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. We’re already bonded. Good night.”

  It does not feel like a good night when she closes the door behind her.

  This cannot happen again.

  7

  Olivia

  “I’ll teach you to make ziti, sauce, and meatballs that don’t come from a freezer pack at the grocery store. It takes some practice to get the texture just right. We’ll make a list together of all the items you’ll need.”

  I’m just about to question whether Italians even serve turkey for Thanksgiving, but my train of thought is completely hijacked when I pull into my driveway.

  Mrs. Cucinelli’s voice continues to filter out into the void from the Bluetooth speakers in my car, but my sole attention is focused on the sight of the man carrying armfuls of my clothes—still on the hangers—out my front door then into his.

  “Mrs. Cucinelli,” I interrupt. “Have you talked to Ollie today?”

  “Why, yes. Of course. I talk to him every day during his lunch hour. It’s part of our schedule,” she replies with worry in her voice. “Why? Is something wrong?”
/>
  “No. Not necessarily,” I hedge, anxiety kicking around in my chest. “I just wondered if he mentioned any plans for us to move in together.”

  Her squeals of delight threaten to deafen me, which is surprising. Ollie’s mom and dad had a cow when we announced our decision to share rent after we graduated from college. They were only appeased by the fact that it was a two-bedroom apartment. It seems having a fake baby on the way has changed her mind. Drastically. Then again, she must already believe we’ve done the deed, so there’s that.

  “Now, I know what you must be thinking,” she prattles on after her shrieks of joy die down. “But honestly, at least if you’re living together and engaged, the family will be much more accepting of your decision to wait until after the baby’s birth to have the wedding.”

  Nope. Not what I was thinking at all. A fake baby is one thing. A fake engagement? A fake wedding? There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for Ollie, but a line has to be drawn somewhere. It’s time to slowly start letting her down.

  “Mrs. Cucinelli, I don’t mean to be rude in any way, but have you ever considered that maybe Oliver isn’t interested in marriage? Or having children?”

  “What?” she screams. My windshield rattles with her volume. Thankfully, Ollie is still inside his condo, so he likely won’t have heard that. “Why would he not be interested in marriage or children?”

  “Well…” I hesitate. This is a delicate situation. It always has been. Oliver’s family loves him dearly, but there are times I wonder if they understand him at all. “How many girlfriends has he had over the years? He never once talked about proposing to any of them.”

  Mrs. Cucinelli chuckles. It’s a much softer sound. “While I don’t necessarily approve of all the lady friends he’s kept, we both know men have a need to sow their wild oats before they settle down.” Her voice lowers even more to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I’m honestly grateful he went through that completely normal phase.”