I GRIP OLIVER’S waist and rest my cheek against his sun-warmed back, hiding from the worst of the sea spray as he spins the jet-ski in a tight arc. Adrenaline forces a squeal from me. I grip the seat with my thighs and cling to him for dear life. My heart thumps so hard, I’m sure he must feel it against his back.
After the astounding and miraculous orgasm medley this morning, we took the jet-ski and snorkel gear and headed out for the afternoon, exploring the pristine lagoon and teeming reefs of the Maldives. A good thing, because if we’d been anywhere near our rooms at the resort I’d be dragging Oliver back to bed.
I close my eyes and rest my forehead between his shoulder blades. How can I know him so well but still feel like I don’t know him at all? The sex was everything I imagined and more, no fantasy able to compare with Oliver’s sexual talents and my body’s wondrous release. I’m still unsure how he managed to drag not just one but three orgasms from me in quick succession. Perhaps it was his bedroom eyes, or the bossiness, or the dirty talk... Or a winning combination.
But, while I’m still celebrating the miracle, a part of me hasn’t been able to shake the doubts since.
Because we can never take back what happened.
I was blind to the shoal of tropical fish decorating the reef while we snorkelled, my mind occupied with how I’d had the most incredible sex of my life, but that it couldn’t happen again, because it was with my best friend. A man with no interest in forming anything long term. And that’s good, right? Because one time is recoverable, but more than that could become habit and therefore dangerous.
Over the years I’ve watched Oliver perfect the several-nights stand, which never turns into a relationship. And while right now, with my body still singing hallelujahs, several nights of Oliver’s brand of sex sounds like the best plan ever, I cannot get carried away. There’s a real risk if we did it again and again and again...
I suck in the scent of his skin, my body aching. How will I survive the next few days if it doesn’t happen again? How can I go back to pretending that I don’t crave his touch, his kisses, his body? I’ll need to learn to lie all over again.
And is he still my best friend? Is it possible to return to what we were after such an incredible but disastrous side-step over the line?
Oliver swings the jet-ski in a figure-of-eight through the warm Indian ocean, as if it’s business as usual. True to his word and the strict rules we’d set out, we haven’t discussed it since, even though the memories are fresh enough. If I close my eyes while I suck in the scent of his warm skin, I can recreate a thrilling, involuntary clench of my internal muscles.
I sit up straight, mentally shaking myself. Olly and I are good enough friends, mature enough adults, to make a one-time holiday hook-up work. Our relationship is too important to spoil because we had sex... Even the kind of sex that surely sets off seismic activity on the ocean bed...at least for me. Perhaps it’s always that way for him.
And there it is, the core at the centre of my doubts—that I’m an anomaly for him. Not his usual type. He’s had a lot of partners, but he always manages to find women who want the same things—a casual good time.
One of the major reasons my last few relationships ended was because I’d grown a little more committed than my exes. I seem to have a knack for choosing men who aren’t quite as invested in the relationship, and no one wants to feel like a stop-gap until someone better comes along. And then, of course, there was the bad sex...
But I can learn from my experience with Oliver. Now that we’ve proved there’s nothing wrong with me, that I’ve just been sleeping with the wrong partners—selfish partners uninterested in my pleasure—we can go on as if it never happened.
Right?
But, oh...it did happen, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. My heart thuds against his back, excitement building at the idea that, if I’m disciplined with myself, I can have more of him...perhaps until we have to go home...?
No—if Oliver can stick to the rules we laid out at the start, I sure as hell can. And there’s no way I want to be the friend he hooks up with every now and then. A sexual placeholder in between his other women.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ he yells over the sound of the engine. I give him a thumbs-up and he slows the jet-ski and heads for shore. In the shallows we dismount and tug the craft up onto the sand, handing our life jackets back to the waiting resort staff.
There’s a bar on the beach, tables and chairs spilling from the deck onto the sand. We head for the sun-loungers underneath palm-thatched umbrellas that face the endless blue sea and give our order to a nearby waiter.
‘That was so much fun,’ I say, flopping down onto a lounger and relaxing back against the pillows as if I’m not sneaking looks at Oliver’s wet, ripped body from behind my dark glasses.
‘Mmm...’ he mumbles, settling beside me.
We sit in silence, punctuated only by the arrival of our drinks, a cocktail for me and a beer for him. The warm breeze raises goose bumps over my skin, each excruciating second stretched indefinitely.
What now? This was exactly the kind of awkwardness I feared.
Both of us take a generous swallow, as if we’re avoiding the moment when we’ll be forced to have a normal friendly conversation. A conversation that has nothing to do with nipples, erections or orgasms.
Why is this so hard? He’s still Olly. Still my friend.
I take a second gulp of the delicious drink and then place it on the table between Oliver’s lounger and mine, presenting a calm, unaffected exterior while my heart thumps against my ribs and my stomach sinks.
I can’t think of a single thing to say to a man with whom conversation has always flowed easily. My mind snags on the image of Oliver’s face as he’d come inside me this morning. You should never know what your best friend’s sex face looks like. I can’t un-see that. I can’t go back to thinking of him just as my friend, because he’s more now. Can I even pretend he’s a friend when the lust incapacitating me makes the previous nine years of lusting seem inconsequential?
Do I even want to go back to being friends now that I know how devastating sex with him is? But I’ve already written off being his lover, the potential heartache too risky.
Ugh—I’m going around in circles. I grab my drink once more, an occupation for my fidgety hands. We’ve ruined what we had and there’s no future outside friendship in which we can both be happy.
‘Okay,’ he says, shaking me from my brain freak-out so that I literally jump, spilling a splash of sticky cocktail on my belly. ‘I know we promised we wouldn’t talk about it, but let’s talk about it.’
I wipe at the spill with a napkin, delaying the moment when I have to look at him. ‘Is that a good idea?’ I mumble, settling my eyes on the view while the renegade neurones in my brain fire silent question after silent question.
Is our friendship irreparably damaged?
How was it for you?
And, most pressing, can we do it again?
‘We said we wouldn’t talk about it. Ever,’ I remind him. I just need to prepare for the return of abstinence.
‘I know.’ He shoots me that look, the one he issued earlier when he said those magical words I could make you come until you scream your throat raw. ‘But that was before you started to freak out.’ His voice is way too calm for my liking, as if for him what we shared this morning is no big deal. It’s a big deal for me. Gargantuan. It was spectacular and my body wants a repeat I know I can’t have. I’d say that’s worthy of a decent freak-out.
‘I’m not freaking out,’ I say, chasing full-blown denial. ‘We agreed the subject was closed. You’re breaking the rules.’
Thank goodness he raised it—I was close to cracking myself.
I’m still avoiding looking his way, but I feel the smile in his voice. ‘Ah, come on, Never, you’ve always known I’m a bad influence,’ he says. I’ve previously secretly adored my nickname, because it was just between us, like a secret handshake. Only now its use douses me with chills.
Neve was his lover. Never is definitely his friend.
‘Can’t a guy gloat when he’s having the best day of his life?’ he says, and my head whips around. He’s having the best day of his life? I narrow my eyes. Is he teasing?
As if he’s perfectly content with his revealing statement and my shell-shocked reaction, he stretches out his long body on the lounger.
Then he looks at me, playful once more, his voice low. ‘Oliver and Neve, three,’ he says about my orgasm tally. ‘SBF Club, zero.’
He grins, and I want to kiss him so badly, to sit astride him out here on the beach and take his magnificent penis into my mouth until it’s all he can do to lie helpless and turned on under me—the way I behaved earlier. He’s far too smug for my state of mind, which veers from wildly aroused to cranky and confused.
Bloody Oliver...
‘SBF Club?’ I ask, fully aware I’m skirting a forbidden conversation and indulging Oliver’s ego. Part of me dreads knowing what he means by the initials.
‘It stands for Serious Boring Fuckers,’ he says, looking faintly annoyed. ‘Your lazy exes.’
I gasp, casting a frown in his direction. ‘You had a club name for them?’ I knew there was little love lost between Oliver and the men of my past, especially after I split with them, but this is the first time he’s ever admitted it aloud. But why, unless he was... No, he couldn’t be... Jealous?
Trickles of sick delight run through my veins, knowing that misery loves company and that he might too have suffered frustration over the years. Until today, he’s never given one indication that he sees me in a sexual light—probably the reason I’m reeling about what this morning’s deviation means. And his jealousy could just be possessiveness over our friendship, nothing more.
He nods, resting his head back on his hands so all his delicious bronzed chest is on display and his arm muscles flex, distracting me from mounting sufficient outrage. ‘To think I used to feel intimidated by them. If only I’d known they weren’t taking care of you properly.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I vent my frustration. He’s making me all kinds of hot and bothered. Turned on, then annoyed and then overjoyed... We’re not supposed to be discussing this morning. It’s hard enough to forget when he’s stretched out semi-naked, calling to me like a feast catered to my specific needs. When I can still smell his scent on my skin, can still recall the taste of those lips and the commanding scrape of his sexy voice.
I scoff. ‘You design outrageously clever software for a living that I don’t even try to understand. Your tech company is worth billions, and no doubt the current negotiations with one of the world’s largest telecommunications giants will make you insufferably wealthy. Why would you be intimidated by anyone?’
I stare into his beautiful eyes, see the doubt that lurks there whenever Oliver talks about his father, whom he’s christened the world’s crappiest role model. Kids, even teenagers, shouldn’t have to drive their parent to rehab or attend their string of celebrity weddings. It’s a miracle—one Oliver often incorrectly attributes to me—that he isn’t an alcoholic junkie himself, although he’s often wondered if he’s something of a sex addict.
But I can guess the answer. His success is due to how hard he pushes himself, almost as if he’s outrunning both the reputation of the Oliver I first met and the reputation of his outlandish, rock-and-roll father as well as the frequent comparisons made by those who don’t know the real him, especially the media.
One of the hardest things to do during the early days of our friendship, while our competitive natures bonded over pool tournaments and university maths club, was to watch him sabotage himself time after time with bad decisions—partying, skipping lectures and frequent one-night stands—which only seemed to increase the hollow look in his eyes.
‘The Kimoto deal has reached a delicate stage,’ he says about the Japanese telecommunications corporation, displaying an uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability that I haven’t seen in a long time. This business deal means a lot to him.
I soften my tone, probing. ‘This is the artificial intelligence software you launched?’ I ask, in no way pretending to know what he does for a living. His company has so many irons in the fire, it’s hard to keep up. If it’s cutting edge, Oliver and the geniuses he recruits to his company are all over it.
‘Yes. Kimoto is passionate about robotics. They want my AI software, but they’re haggling over the small print.’ He takes a swig of beer. ‘Anyway, I’m not intimidated by your exes anymore. Although a couple of them did their best to remind me how my family skeletons and past reputation made me unworthy of your friendship.’ He looks away, focussed on the horizon. ‘And, while they may not have taken care of you between the sheets, at least they didn’t taint you, expose you to their embarrassing, media whore of a father and all the baggage he attracts.’
My heart clenches for him. He’s referring to articles written about his misspent youth, painting him as the philandering, layabout son of rock royalty, a chip off the old block, which I know he despises. Try as he might, despite his self-made billionaire status or his business success, he feels he can’t shake his past. Or comparisons with his father.
‘I’ve never met your father,’ I say, my voice tentative, because I know this is his weak spot, the only part of his life where he seems to doubt himself and his intuitive instincts.
As a teenager, growing up on two continents, shipped back and forth between his acrimoniously divorced parents—his father in LA and his mother in London—he struggled with his identity, which was defined by celebrity gossip mongers before he had a chance to develop his own sense of worth. In the shadow of an extroverted, outrageous and perpetually adolescent father, and an embittered mother who’d been passed on for numerous younger models over the years, it’s no wonder the Oliver I first met had hang-ups of massive proportions.
‘Too right, and you’re the better for it, trust me. He’d probably try to marry you or something. No wonder Kimoto Corp are cautious about doing business with me.’ He snorts, but there’s no humour in the sound. There’s a tension in his body, one that regularly accompanies any mention of his father.
‘He’s already married,’ I say about his famous father, a larger-than-life character who grew up in South London before hitting the big time as part of an eighties rock band. ‘And I’m sure the business community sees what you’ve achieved, not who you’re related to.’
Of course, he could simply have embraced the role of LA layabout, living off his trust fund, but he had too much pride and integrity for that, determination he’d channelled into a global success. Just as numbers and balancing accounting records keeps me grounded, nerdy tech-wizardry fuels Oliver’s sense of worth. Despite him looking like the archetypal beach bum layabout the press would have the world believe.
‘Anyway, I thought we were discussing this morning,’ I say as a distraction.
‘We are, but being friends with me isn’t easy,’ he says. ‘You were accosted by some journo sniffing out a story at that Christmas gala last year. And I’ve lost track of how many times you’ve had your picture splashed over the gossip rags in some speculative bullshit story about us every time you’re single. It’s as if they can’t believe I could attract a friend of your calibre.’
He’s agitated. I want to comfort him, as I normally would on this subject, but touching him more than absolutely necessary could overwhelm my already strung out body.
‘I can’t imagine what it was like for you to grow up in the public eye. To have everything you do scrutinised and gossiped over.’ No wonder his sense of privacy is fierce—he’s the exact opposite of his father, who seems to court the attention, good and bad.
‘I’m grateful to your exes, actually,’ he says, his mouth a grim line. ‘At least they protected you from the stories that tried to paint you as pitiful and in love with me, something I failed to do.’
My heart stops beating. Because, while I too hate the mocking tone of those stories, I fear the world will see that they carry a grain of truth; part of me was, is, a little bit in love with him.
As his plus-one, I’m the woman most often and consistently photographed with him, often dubbed the desperate off-again, on-again girlfriend. Exactly the thing I’m anxious to avoid, now we’ve crossed the line of physical intimacy.
‘I don’t care about the gossip sites. We know what we are to each other—just friends.’
Or at least we were, before today. Have I become what the world sees? A woman clearly besotted, content to wait in the wings for my chance with him while he takes his time deciding if he’s ready to commit?
Have I subconsciously followed him around for the nine years it took him to notice me? Yes, I chose friendship over a relationship, but was part of me too scared back then to force his hand and make him choose, knowing he wasn’t ready for a relationship?
‘Have we ruined it? Us?’ I ask, my voice barely a terrified whisper. I don’t want him to choose any more than I want to make that decision. I want us to have both, just a while longer. Because I crossed the line with my eyes wide open, knowing that, one way or another, things would be different.
But I need to know.
Oliver jack-knifes into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the edge of the lounger to face me. ‘No. Don’t say that. We’re fine.’ The same panic gripping me seems to flash in his eyes. ‘You know your friendship is the only good thing in my life beside my work—I’d never jeopardise that. Ever. I know I broke the “talking about it” rule, but I’d never break the first rule.’
I warm at his words of reassurance then break out in shivers. ‘But—’
‘No. There is no but.’ He scoots to the edge of the lounger so he can reach across and grab my hand. ‘I need you. You know all my family bullshit. You understand me like no one else—see things in me no one else sees. You’ve never once made me feel like I have to be something I’m not or prove myself. You’ve got my back and I’ve got yours.’
I shiver at the vulnerability of his pleading expression, struck dumb by my outpouring of feelings for this man.
‘Perhaps I was just jealous of your exes,’ he says. ‘Jealous that they could give you something I can’t. Anonymity, normality and protection.’
His fingers squeeze mine so hard I press my lips together to hide a wince.
‘Well, there’s no need to envy them.’ I point out. ‘I dumped them for a reason.’
He shrugs. ‘It just didn’t work out. Now I know about the sex, I’m not surprised.’
I hedge, reluctant to continue down the heavy turn this conversation has taken. ‘But the predominant reason for me was the disparity in our investment in the relationship. A woman likes to feel adored. To never have to doubt that she’s the number one priority, not just convenient.’
He stares, silent, his eyes burning my skin. Why am I telling him this? He’s not interested in relationships. He doesn’t need the pointers. He has as much success with the ladies as he wants.
‘Promise me again,’ he says, throwing me off my guard. ‘Promise me that you won’t let what happened this morning change anything.’ He punctuates his words with tiny tugs on my hand. ‘Because I’m not sorry it happened, but I’ll always need you in my life. You’ll always be my best friend.’
The words stick in my narrowed throat, because our relationship has already changed. Almost beyond recognition. Yesterday morning I wanted him in an abstract, imaginative way. Today I want him with a fire hot enough to turn the sand under us to glass, even though I should be sated, satisfied and heeding the warning signs flashing before my face.
‘I promise,’ I whisper.
What else can I do? We crossed the line. I had my orgasms. It’s time to be mature and remember everything else we’ve meant to each other all this time. Support, laughter, someone who just gets us.
As a friend, I know I hold the number one spot in Oliver’s life, which is why he always wants me around when he has a social event like his cousin’s wedding. He’s loyal and thoughtful, always on hand when I need advice or a shoulder on which to cry, even if it’s in the middle of the night. Despite his busy schedule, I know he’d drop everything for me if I asked. And he’s my biggest fan, as I’m his, championing my endeavours, celebrating my successes and reining in my insecurities when they surface.
‘Besides, no one else would put up with you, so I’m kind of trapped,’ I say to lighten the mood, grateful for his familiar grin, which tells me we’ll be okay.
Just then the engine of one of the many sea planes that ferries tourists around the atolls snatches our attention. The small sixteen-seater aircraft comes in low, landing in the sea at the far end of the island.
‘New holiday makers arriving,’ I say, because I want to return some semblance of normality to our conversation, one that seems to have left us both exposed and raw.
Oliver’s hand tenses around mine. He looks past me, squinting, as if trying to spy the passengers disembarking the plane onto the small wooden jetty down the beach. Then he stands abruptly, dropping my hand.
‘Fucking fantastic. I’ll see you at dinner,’ he mutters, sliding his sunglasses onto his face and heading in the direction of the plane.
‘Wait, Oliver,’ I call after him, but he’s already striding away, his back rigid.
I look past his stiff frame, trying to focus on the people some distance away cluttering up the tiny jetty, spying a group of four or five bodies. One’s taller than the rest, his body language more exuberant.
When combined with Oliver’s emotional shutdown and abrupt departure, it can mean only one thing.
His father has come to paradise.