Chapter 1 - SOPHIE. That boy's a liar
Sophie
Nathan drops onto the mattress beside me like somebody has cut his strings.
“Fuck.”
I stare at the ceiling, lungs still trying to remember how breathing works.
“Yeah.”
That earns a laugh from him.
Not a smug one.
Just wrecked.
Satisfied.
I turn my head.
His hair is damp at the temples. Chest rising hard. One arm flung over his stomach like even lifting it higher would require planning permission.
I smile.
Okay.
That was...
Fuck.
Pretty damn good.
Best this year, easily.
Possibly longer, but I refuse to conduct comparative analysis while there is still sweat drying behind my knees.
Silence settles between us.
Comfortable.
Warm.
The sort that follows sex when both people are too pleasantly ruined to manufacture conversation.
I let my eyes close.
Three months.
Three fucking months of quietly fancying Nathan Davies like some embarrassing little teenager.
Not obsessively.
I haven't been doodling his surname next to mine.
I haven't been smelling his shirts when nobody's looking.
I've just noticed him.
A lot.
The way he always finds me in a crowded room.
The increasingly suggestive messages.
The stupid little private jokes.
The fact that coffee somehow became drinks, drinks became flirting, flirting became tonight.
And tonight had been good before we ever got naked.
Really good.
Dinner.
Wine.
Laughing until my face hurt.
His hand against my lower back when we left the restaurant.
The kiss outside.
The taxi ride where his thumb kept brushing my knee until I nearly climbed into his lap before we'd even reached his street.
Then the blowjob against his bedroom door.
Then this.
I am currently somewhere between smug satisfaction and wondering how long the socially acceptable recovery period is before suggesting round two.
Five minutes?
Ten?
I could probably stretch to twelve if required.
Nathan breathes out slowly.
“That was great.”
My smile deepens.
“Mm.”
“We should definitely do that again sometime.”
I turn my head.
“Yeah.”
Absolutely.
Dinner optional next time.
I’m flexible.
Nathan grins at the ceiling.
“It's rare, you know.”
“What is?”
“Finding someone you're actually attracted to who's happy keeping things casual.”
My brain stops.
Not dramatically.
No record scratch.
No sudden thunderclap.
Just stops.
I stare at him.
He doesn't notice.
Still smiling.
Living his best fucking life.
“Usually somebody ends up wanting more,” he continues. “Then everything gets complicated.”
Oh.
Interesting.
I say nothing.
Mostly because my thoughts are currently attempting to reorganise themselves around information that was apparently obvious to everybody except me.
Casual.
Right.
Fine.
Casual is fine.
I am not opposed to casual.
I have participated in casual.
Enthusiastically.
I simply hadn't realised this was casual.
I thought this was...Well...I don't know what I thought.
Seeing where it went.
I liked him.
He seemed to like me.
We'd been flirting for months.
He asked me to dinner.
There had been cutlery.
Cloth napkins.
A waiter who called us guys seventeen times.
That felt suspiciously date-shaped.
Nathan reaches for his phone.
“Would invite you to stay, but I've got an early start.”
There it is.
My head turns slowly.
“Is that my cue to get dressed and leave?”
He looks at me.
“No.”
Pause.
“I mean, I wouldn't put it like that.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“How would you put it?”
“I genuinely need some sleep.”
Still smiling.
Still completely relaxed.
Like none of this is awkward because, for him, it probably isn't.
“But I meant what I said,” he adds. “We should hook up again. Soon.”
Hook up.
Again.
Soon.
Excellent.
I sit up.
The sheet slides to my waist.
Nathan's eyes immediately drop to my breasts.
Of course they do.
Men may misunderstand emotional context, but tits remain reassuringly straightforward.
I reach for my panties.
“So that's what tonight was?”
He props himself up on one elbow.
“What?”
“A hook-up.”
“Yeah?”
He says it like I've asked whether water remains wet.
I pull my underwear on.
“Huh.”
His forehead creases.
“I thought you knew that.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Magnificent contribution.
I locate my bra.
“Normal hook-ups don't usually take me out for dinner first.”
Nathan laughs a little.
“Since when?”
“Since generally.”
“Dinner doesn't mean relationship.”
“I didn't say it did.”
I fasten my bra.
“I'm not asking where you keep the spare key, Nathan. I just thought we were seeing where things went.”
He sits up.
“I like you.”
“Clearly.”
“I do.”
“And?”
“And I'm not looking for a relationship.”
There.
Simple.
No tragedy.
No cruelty.
Just a fact I apparently missed.
I nod once.
“Okay.”
He watches me.
“You're pissed.”
“A little.”
“I wasn't trying to mislead you.”
“Maybe not.”
I find my dress near the foot of the bed.
“But you might've mentioned the whole strictly-casual thing somewhere between month one of flirting and your cock entering negotiations.”
Nathan snorts.
I pull the dress over my head.
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“No, you're not.”
“I genuinely thought we were on the same page.”
“Well, obviously not.”
I shove my hair free of the neckline.
“Or I wouldn't have wasted the Sophie Special on you.”
Nathan freezes.
Then laughs.
“The what?”
I straighten.
“The Sophie Special.”
“That cannot be a real thing.”
“It is now.”
He looks delighted.
I already regret this.
“What exactly constitutes the Sophie Special?”
“Premium blowjob.”
His eyebrows climb.
“Premium.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a tier system?”
“There is now.”
Nathan laughs.
I point at him.
“Don’t mock the service.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You got effort.”
“I noticed.”
“Did you?”
His grin shifts.
“Obviously.”
“Because that wasn’t standard.”
“There’s a standard version?”
“Yes.”
“What does that involve?”
“Less enthusiasm. Less tongue. Definitely less deep throat.”
Nathan chokes on a laugh.
“And absolutely no ball play.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Exactly. You received the full fucking package.”
He looks far too entertained by this.
“So I should feel honoured?”
“You should feel devastated that your membership has been revoked.”
“That serious?”
“I thought we had something going on. I upgraded you.”
His mouth twitches.
“Upgraded.”
“Yes.”
“And this premium service was supposed to impress me?”
I stare at him.
“It did.”
“Did it?”
“You came down my throat.”
“Technically—”
“Do not technically me after coming down my throat.”
He laughs.
I fold my arms.
“You’ve got to admit that wasn’t some lazy, half-hearted blowjob.”
Nathan shrugs.
“It was okay.”
I stop.
“Okay?”
He is already smiling.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“It did the job.”
My entire face goes still.
Nathan’s smile gets worse.
Oh.
So this is where we’re going.
“Did the job.”
“Yep.”
“You were gripping the doorframe.”
“It was nearby.”
“You told me not to stop.”
“Common phrase.”
“You nearly folded in half when I—”
I stop myself.
He raises an eyebrow.
“When you what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“No, please. Continue the self-assessment.”
“You’re being a prick.”
“I’m teasing you.”
“I know.”
And annoyingly, I do.
Which somehow makes it worse.
I can cope with him not wanting a relationship.
I cannot cope with him maligning my oral capabilities for sport.
“It was good,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“Not that good.”
My jaw drops.
There.
There it fucking is.
“You are lying.”
Nathan laughs.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You are actively rewriting history because I wounded your ego.”
“Maybe you’re just very attached to your reputation.”
“I have earned my reputation.”
“Maybe work on the technique.”
Everything inside me goes beautifully, murderously calm.
“Work.”
“Yes.”
“On my technique.”
He’s laughing now.
He knows he’s pushed too far.
Good.
Let him enjoy his final moments.
I smile sweetly.
“You know what? You’re right.”
That makes him pause.
“I am?”
“Absolutely.”
I grab my bag.
“Next time I’ll save the effort for someone worth impressing.”
“Sophie—”
“And Nathan?”
“What?”
I look him up and down.
Then smile.
“Work on yours too.”
His grin falters.
Perfect.
I leave.
The first blast of night air should cool me down.
It doesn’t.
I make it halfway to the corner before I mutter, “Unbelievable,” to absolutely nobody.
Then again, louder.
“Not that good.”
A woman walking a tiny terrier gives me a cautious look.
I smile.
“Not you.”
She hurries away.
Fair.
I keep walking.
Annoyance is easier than embarrassment, so I cling to it.
Nathan isn’t some tragic heartbreak.
That would be absurd.
I’ve fancied him for three months, not raised children with him.
But I had liked him.
Properly.
Enough to get that little hit of anticipation when his name appeared on my phone.
Enough to wonder whether the flirting was going somewhere.
Enough to spend far too long choosing tonight’s underwear while pretending I absolutely wasn’t choosing tonight’s underwear.
And apparently I had misunderstood the assignment.
Fine.
Annoying, but fine.
There is one person I want when life makes me feel even slightly stupid.
Rhys.
There has been one person for eleven years.
Rhys when my first serious boyfriend dumped me two days before my birthday and I refused to cry until he turned up with chips.
Rhys when I got food poisoning in Barcelona and spent six hours convinced I was dying while he sat on the bathroom floor rating my dramatic final statements out of ten.
Rhys when my mum had surgery and I pretended I wasn’t worried because everyone else was worried enough. He never asked whether I was okay. He just arrived with coffee, sat beside me in the waiting room and stayed.
He is irritating, invasive and pathologically incapable of letting me wallow with dignity.
He also knows me better than anybody alive.
Not romantically.
Never romantically.
Rhys is just Rhys.
My constant.
The person I call when something is funny enough that waiting until tomorrow would physically hurt.
The person who knows every ex, every bad haircut, every stupid decision and most of my passwords despite being told repeatedly that this is a security concern.
We met at eighteen and somehow never stopped choosing each other.
Different jobs.
Different relationships.
Different flats.
Same friendship.
He has keys to my place.
I have keys to his.
His mum sends me birthday cards.
My dad once called him instead of me when my boiler broke because apparently competence is gendered.
And when something goes wrong, my first instinct has never been home.
It has always been Rhys.
I pull out my phone.
There is already a message.
Rhys: Status report.
Of course there is.
I stare at it for a second.
Then type.
Me: Are you home?
The response comes almost instantly.
Rhys: Yep.
Me: Wine?
Rhys: Your horrible pink shit is still here.
Me: Fifteen minutes.
Pause.
Rhys: Door’s open.
And just like that, something in my chest loosens.
☆☆☆
He takes one look at me when I walk through his front door and says,
“Who am I killing?”
I kick off my heels.
“Nobody.”
“You look murderous.”
“I am.”
“Different thing.”
“You're not helping.”
“I've been helping for eleven years. My contract allows occasional administrative errors.”
I walk past him towards the kitchen.
Rhys follows.
There is already a glass on the counter beside my wine.
I stop.
“You poured it?”
“You sounded homicidal.”
“You're a good friend.”
“I know.”
“Don't ruin it.”
“Already regret the wine.”
I flip him off and take a drink.
He leans back against the opposite counter, beer in hand, watching me.
Rhys is annoyingly good-looking.
This isn't new information.
I have eyes.
Women stare at him.
Women have been staring at him since approximately the moment puberty finished whatever industrial project it had undertaken on his shoulders.
But he's Rhys.
My best friend.
The man who once got his penis caught in the zip of his jeans and called me from A&E because he needed emotional support.
Mystique permanently destroyed.
“What happened?” he asks.
I take another drink.
“The date was actually really good.”
“Okay.”
“Dinner was great.”
“Okay.”
“We went back to his.”
Rhys takes a sip of beer.
“Okay.”
“We had sex.”
His bottle pauses briefly against his mouth.
Then lowers.
“Was that the problem?”
“No. Sex was good.”
“Right.”
“Very good, actually.”
“Thrilled for you.”
“You don't sound thrilled.”
“I don't know what level of enthusiasm is appropriate when discussing another man's performance inside my best friend.”
“Fair.”
He grabs a beer from the fridge.
“So why do you look like you're planning arson?”
“Because afterwards he thanked me for being hot and casual.”
Rhys pauses.
Beer halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“Apparently we hooked up.”
His expression changes.
“He said that?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did you know you were hooking up?”
“No.”
“Did he?”
“Apparently.”
Rhys's jaw shifts.
“He's a prick.”
“Thank you.”
“Months of flirting, takes you to dinner, sleeps with you, then suddenly we're all very relaxed and casual?”
“Exactly.”
“You wanted something serious?”
“No.”
And I don't even have to think about it.
“I just thought we were seeing where it went.”
Rhys nods once.
“Fair.”
“Maybe another date. Maybe nothing. I don't know.”
“Also fair.”
“I just would've liked access to the fucking syllabus before taking the exam.”
Rhys snorts into his beer.
“Better?”
“A little.”
He opens the cupboard.
“Toast?”
“Yes.”
He starts making it.
I watch him for a moment.
Then sigh.
“And he insulted my blowjob.”
Rhys stops.
Completely.
I close my eyes.
Why did I say that?
Because I apparently enjoy suffering.
His head turns slowly.
“He what?”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
“Forget it.”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
I point at him.
“Do not laugh.”
His mouth is already twitching.
“I'm warning you.”
“What did he say?”
“Rhys.”
“What. Did. He. Say?”
I glare.
“He said it was good.”
Rhys waits.
“But?”
“Not that good.”
Silence.
Then the bastard folds over the kitchen counter laughing.
“Fuck you.”
He makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a dying seal.
“This isn't funny.”
“It really is.”
“I know I'm good.”
That makes him lift his head.
“Oh, do you?”
There.
That look.
I know it.
Eleven years of friendship and I know exactly when Rhys Calloway smells blood in the water.
“Don't.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“Your face has.”
“My face is neutral.”
“Your face is being a cunt.”
He picks up the bread knife.
“Maybe Nathan had unusually high standards.”
“He came down my throat.”
Rhys's knife stops.
Only for a fraction.
Then continues.
“Strong argument.”
“He was making noises.”
“Men make noises.”
“His hand nearly went through the fucking wall.”
“Structural weakness.”
I stare at him.
He grins.
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
“Immensely.”
“I know what I'm doing.”
“Apparently.”
“That sounded sceptical.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
Rhys butters the toast.
“I know I’m good.” I repeat.
Rhys leans back against the kitchen counter and studies me over the neck of his beer.
“Do you?”
I narrow my eyes.
There it is.
That little bastard glint.
“You’re baiting me.”
“I’m asking.”
“No, you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Immensely.”
I take another drink.
“You’ve had enough blowjobs to know what’s good.”
Rhys snorts.
“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about my sexual history.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He considers me for a second.
Then sets his beer down.
“All right.”
“What?”
“Talk me through it.”
I blink.
“My blowjob?”
“Your allegedly world-class blowjob.”
“Fuck off.”
“No.” He folds his arms. “Come on. I’ve experienced everything from teeth scraping hard enough to make me reconsider religion to the kind that makes you forget your own postcode. I know what works.”
I stare at him.
He gives me a smug little shrug.
“So convince me.”
Oh.
He thinks I can’t.
That is offensive.
I put my wine down.
“Fine.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Fine?”
“You asked.”
Rhys settles more comfortably against the counter.
“Educate me.”
Prick.
“You don’t just put your mouth on it and start bobbing like one of those plastic birds that drinks from a glass.”
His mouth twitches.
“Strong opening.”
“You use your hand first. Slow. Let him feel what you’re doing. Tease the head with your tongue before you take him properly.”
Rhys’s amusement stays put, but his attention sharpens.
I notice.
Naturally, I continue.
“You keep your hand moving with your mouth. Same rhythm. Not one hand yanking away independently like it’s trying to escape.”
“Coordination. Useful.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m learning.”
“Then fucking listen.”
He gestures for me to continue.
“You vary it. Tongue underneath. More pressure when you come back up. Pay attention to what actually gets a reaction instead of deciding you’ve found one trick and hammering it until somebody dies.”
Rhys laughs.
“And eye contact.”
His laugh fades slightly.
“Obviously.”
“Not constantly. That gets weird. But enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“So he knows you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Something flickers in his expression.
Tiny.
Interesting.
I keep going.
“And if he likes deep throat, you don’t just suddenly ram him down there and hope your gag reflex has filed for annual leave.”
Rhys coughs once.
I smile.
“You control it.”
“How?”
“Angle matters. Breathing matters. You relax first. Take him deeper gradually, then hold it just long enough that he feels the difference.”
Rhys looks at me.
“Right.”
“And sometimes you gag on purpose.”
His eyebrows rise.
“On purpose.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I stare at him.
“Because men lose their fucking minds.”
He laughs.
“Fair.”
“You don’t have to actually choke yourself senseless. Just enough sound, enough mess, enough of that little struggle that makes him think he’s too much.”
Rhys is no longer laughing quite as much.
Good.
I am winning.
“And while you’re doing that, you use your hands properly. Base if you need it. Stroke what you can’t take. Keep everything connected.”
He nods slowly.
“Okay.”
“And balls.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Balls.”
“Yes, Rhys. They’re attached. Try to keep up.”
“Continue.”
“You don’t ignore them like they’re decorative fucking luggage. Hand underneath. Gentle pressure. Roll them. Stroke behind them.”
He goes very still.
I pretend not to notice.
“And if he likes it, tongue.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
There.
That was definitely real.
Something low in my stomach gives a strange little flicker.
Nope.
Not touching that.
“Or suck them,” I continue, because apparently my survival instincts have left the building. “One at a time. Softly. Maybe a little more pressure if he reacts well.”
Rhys swallows.
I see it.
And suddenly I become acutely aware that I am standing in my best friend’s kitchen explaining, in considerable detail, how I suck cock.
Interesting choice.
Still.
I am committed now.
“And you keep switching it up. Mouth. Hand. Deep throat. Back off. Tease. Balls. Mouth again. Then when he starts getting close, you stop fucking experimenting and keep doing whatever made him start losing his mind.”
Rhys is quiet for a second.
Then:
“That sounds good.”
I stare.
“Sounds?”
“Very good.”
“Thank you.”
“Doesn’t mean you executed it properly.”
My mouth falls open.
There he is.
He’s doing it deliberately.
The smug bastard.
“You think I don’t know how to do what I just described?”
“I think theory and practical application are different things.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A lot.”
“You know I could prove you wrong.”
Rhys smiles.
“How?”
I stare at him.
He knows.
I know he knows.
And that is exactly why he said it.
My pulse gives one hard little kick.
“You want me to spell it out?”
“I thought you were the one desperate to defend your reputation.”
I laugh.
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Probably.”
“You wouldn’t let me.”
That catches him.
Only for a second.
Then his eyes narrow.
“Wouldn’t I?”
Oh.
Right.
There it is.
My brain, traitorous fucking thing, immediately supplies an image I did not request.
Rhys leaning back.
My knees between his.
His hand—
No.
Absolutely not.
That is Rhys.
My Rhys.
Best friend Rhys.
Has-seen-me-vomit-into-a-handbag Rhys.
Not sexual.
Except apparently some part of my brain would like to submit an objection.
I brush it aside.
He’s bluffing.
Obviously.
And now I’m annoyed enough to call him on it.
“If you don’t shut up,” I say, “I’ll pin you down and show you exactly how fucking good I am.”
Rhys stares at me.
For one beat.
Two.
And I know he’s had the same thought.
I know it because something in his face changes before he smothers it.
Then the smugness comes straight back.
“You wouldn’t.”
I laugh.
“You’re scared.”
“Not remotely.”
“You’d back out.”
“Would I?”
“Yes.”
Rhys pushes away from the counter.
Not towards me.
Just enough to straighten.
But suddenly the kitchen feels smaller.
“You’re the one making threats.”
“I’m perfectly capable of following through.”
“Then follow through.”
My stomach drops.
Oh.
He did not just—
He absolutely fucking did.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
And now we’re trapped.
Because if I laugh first, he wins.
If he backs down first, I win.
And apparently eleven years of friendship has taught us absolutely nothing about sensible conflict resolution.
I lift my chin.
“Fine.”
His mouth twitches.
“Fine.”
Neither of us moves.
A second passes.
Then another.
And for one ridiculous moment, my mind wanders straight back to the image I just rejected.
Rhys beneath me.
His joggers pulled down...
Nope.
I slam that door shut.
Across from me, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Interesting.
Maybe he’s having the same problem.
Good.
Let him suffer.
I take one step towards him.
Rhys doesn’t move.
Still bluffing.
I take another.
Nothing.
The bastard’s committed.
Now I’m close enough that the joke has become considerably less funny.
His eyes flick to my mouth.
Mine drop.
Briefly.
Very fucking briefly.
Lower.
Oh.
That was a mistake.
I look back up.
Rhys’s expression says he noticed.
Asshole.
“You can still apologise,” I tell him.
“For questioning your blowjob credentials?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You can admit you don’t want proof.”
His smile is slow.
“I never said that.”
My pulse kicks again.
And this time neither of us pretends not to notice.
Rhys tilts his head.
“Go on, then.”
I stare at him.
He stares straight back.
Still expecting me to break.
Still thinking I won’t actually do it.
And the truly catastrophic thing is, I think exactly the same about him.
So neither of us backs down.
