When we are naked, I stop to take him in. His shoulders, his chest, the contours of his stomach—they are sinewy and strong, sculpted, perfect. His arms and legs look forged by a life of adventure, not writing alone in his room. I wonder if he lives the stories he writes. I wonder, will he write about us one day?
Then I realise he is watching me too. I blush, I think. I’m not sure. The room is not yet warm, but I am hot all over from his touch, his gaze. My posture closes. I don’t want to be modest now, but I can’t help myself. He rolls us over.
“Don’t be shy,” he teases, looking down at me. “I like what I see as well.”
How arrogant! I laugh out loud. It’s a burst of ungraceful noise, but the music continues and I don’t feel shy anymore. The bedspread is cool under my back; he burns above me. His hubris gives me confidence—this is a game, the good kind, just for fun. I won’t be trapped between the bed and his body. Not yet.
I push him upward. He falls back to his knees. I rise to meet him and kiss his lips, his soft and bristly chin, his neck. When I reach his collarbone, he shudders. He is ticklish. Ah, to manipulate his body with just a touch. His hands are at my shoulders, but he barely touches me.
Loved this saucy and sweet flash story by Stefanie Simpson.
OK, so “saucy” is a bit of an understatement. Have a look for yourself…
I tapped the wooden arm of the bedroom chair, clicking my nails, watching.
The nude man on the other side of the room glided an iron across a freshly washed bed sheet. He neatly folded it and set it down on the perfectly placed pile next to him.
Bored, I got up, but he didn’t lift his face and started on a blouse. I stood next to him, steam rising, the smell of heated cotton and the vague scent of him close by made me want. I palmed his naked bottom, squeezing it, but he didn’t pause.
I leant right in, still feeling him. “You’re doing a terrible job.”
“Sorry, I’ll do better.”
“You say that every time. And yet you never improve. Bend.”
He hovered, the smallest doubt in his eyes as he turned his head slightly, but he obeyed. He held the ironing board and bent a little.
His chest rose silently, and he went further. I pinched hard, making him tense.
Short erotica isn’t always an easy read. I mean, you’d think it is, wouldn’t you? It’s hot and fast and why wouldn’t you just dive in and devour it? Maybe it’s the way I’m wired, but my eyes tend to glaze over when I’m staring down even just a couple hundred words if there’s any whiff of faff or infodumping.
Thankfully, none of that applied to Spot Me, Jillian Hoff’s third Good Friend story. Each instalment features a new character’s hot, spicy and delightfully cheeky answer to the question at the core of the series: What’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for a friend?
In Spot Me, we follow Laney, a not-so-sporty twenty-something, in her quest to do something nice for the nerdy boy she dissed back in highschool. The catch? This boy is buff af now and throbbing with the newfound confidence that comes with blossoming in adulthood.
As I’m still navigating my own hangups about sex and relationships, I love a story that can make me sizzle and giggle at the same time. Jillian Hoff has a sick tongue-in-cheek style, a great sense of humour, and makes on-point cultural in-jokes that tickle me so hard I wonder if I might actually know her in person.
I definitely recommend this book if you like the horny and hilarious mashed into a single experience.