“The . . . uh, the what now?”
“The flow,” Ellie says. “They produce actual liquid, so you can get the full experience.”
Who on earth comes up with a place like this? Floating breasts glued to walls with an actual “milk” flow. I’m confused . . . and uncomfortably intrigued.
“Like almost every woman I come across, there’s a sizeable difference between your right breast and left.” Ann lifts both of Ellie’s boobs.
“Yeah, guilty. The left just can’t seem to catch up.”
“No breasts are symmetrical, but some women have a large difference and you’re one of the lucky ones.”
Ellie looks at me. “What boob is bigger on your body?”
“Umm . . .” I grip my boobs. “I think my right?”
“If you’re right-handed, it probably is bigger,” Ann says. She then asks Ellie, “Can I ask nipple size?”
“Why don’t I just show you? It’ll be so much easier.” Before I can even excuse myself to give her some privacy, Ellie lifts her shirt and bra at the same time, flashing both me and Ann.
And there are her boobs, just like that.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do with this? Do I look, do I not look? Do I pretend to find something fascinating on the ground? Do I stare at the wall of breasts? Do I pray the floor swallows me whole?
I was not mentally prepared for this.
“Oh, wow, you have wonderful nipples,” Ann says, and from the corner of my eye, I see her get in close and pinch Ellie’s nipple between her fingers. “Very firm nipple. That will serve you well.”
“Oh, really? I’m so happy to hear that. Do you have firm nipples, Lottie?”
“Huh? What?” I ask, glancing over at Ellie, but keeping my eyes north. “Sorry—these . . . books,” I pick up a book from a table. “Fascinating. What did you say?”
“Firm nipples. Do you have them?”
Awkwardly, I smooth my hand over my breasts, attempting to feel them through my layers of clothing—because this, the topless party happening in front of me, is not something I’ll be joining. “Well, you know, I have small nipples.”
“Nipples or areolas?” Ann asks.
“Both.”
She nods. “I think I have the perfect breast pump for you, then. There’s only one that works great with small nipples. But for you, Ellie, we have some choices to make, because these nipples are just spectacular. Lottie, come here, feel this.”
I wave my hand at Ann. “Oh, you know, that’s really okay.” I laugh. “I can see from here.” I look at Ellie’s boobs. And yup—bare, everything bare. “Those for sure look firm.” I give her a thumbs up. “Good job growing.”
Ellie laughs. “Isn’t she fun? Come on, Lottie, just feel. You can feel what the baby will be sucking on. You know I don’t care at all.”
She might not care, but I do.
“It’s very educational,” Ann says. “You can mimic the sucking sensation.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m all about education, but I think I’m good with not sucking my friend’s nipple.”
Ann and Ellie both look at each other and then throw back their heads and laugh.
“Not with your mouth,” Ann says, grabbing my hand. “With your fingers.”
In a flash, my hand smacks right into Ellie’s left breast and her extremely hard nipple rubs against my fingers.
Thick, tight, just . . . a solid nip.
And I’m touching it.
I’m touching another woman’s nipple.
Fondling is more like it, as Ann makes me move my fingers all over it.
“Oo, that tickles,” Ellie says, and that’s it for me.
I yank my hand away and fold my arms across my chest. “You’ve got some baby suckers there,” I say, trying to mentally block this day already from memory.
Huxley is going to owe me big time.
“I’m so excited you think so.” Ellie lowers her shirt and bra. “So, what do you think, Ann? Can we milk some breasts?”
“You didn’t come here not to.” Ann pats me on the shoulder. “This is where the fun begins.”
“Lottie?” Huxley calls out. “Where are you?”
I don’t say anything.
I don’t even move.
Instead, I sit in the living room, on the most comfortable couch I’ve ever sat on, stiffly perched at the edge, hands in my lap, as I stare at the elaborate fireplace right in front of me.
There are no words for what my morning was like. No words at all.
After being squirted in the eye by a fake breast glued to a wall, I’ve done my fair share of adulting for today.
“There you are,” Huxley says, stopping in the living room doorway. “I just got a text from Dave. He told me Ellie won’t stop raving about this morning.” When I don’t look at him, I hear him shuffle across the floor to get in my line of sight. “Uh, everything okay?”
Lips pressed together, I shake my head. “Nope. Not even close.”
“What happened?”
“I touched her bare boob, Huxley. I touched Ellie’s bare boob.”
“What?” he asks as he takes a seat on the coffee table so he’s sitting across from me. His handsome face comes into view, but it does nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders. “What do you mean, you touched her boob?”
“And I got squirted in the face.”
“By her boob?” Huxley practically yells.
“No, by a boob on the wall.”
He sits taller. “You’re going to have to run through it for me, because I’m confused.”
“As am I.” I pat his knee. “As am I.” I let out a deep breath and say, “I don’t have it in me to recount what happened. Just know, if I ever proved how serious I’m taking this deal, today would be the day.”
“Sounds like it.” Guilt washes over his face. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”
I snap out of my funk and connect with his eyes.
There he is.
The Chipotle guy.
Right there. The stern scowl on his forehead is gone. The boyish charm is brimming in his eyes. And the way he pulls on the back of his neck—unmistakable.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Traumatizing. I will have to bleach my eyes, but I’ll make it.”
He smirks and then reaches behind him to his back pocket. That’s when I notice he’s wearing jeans and sneakers. Well, hello, Mr. Casual.
“I got something for you.”
“You did?” I ask.
He nods and brings a rolled-up piece of fabric out in front of him.
“What is it?”
He unravels it and holds it up. “Thought you might like it.”
In front of me is a cream-colored, vintage rock band T-shirt with Fleetwood Mac on the front, the image from their Rumours album.
“Oh my God.” I take it from him. “This is amazing.” I hold it out and study it.
“Check out the back,” he says.
I turn it around and take in all the city tour dates.
“Wait, is this an original tour shirt?”
“Yeah,” he says. When I glance up, I catch the pride in his eyes.
“Holy shit, Huxley. This is . . . wow, this is amazing.” I clutch it to my chest. “Thank you. This means so much to me.”
And this is exactly why I’m having such a hard time. Because the thoughtfulness behind this T-shirt only makes me like him that much more. The gesture cracks open my chest and pulls on my heart, forcing me to look at him in a different light.
He rubs his hands on his legs. “Glad you like it.” He glances to the side and it almost looks as though he’s . . . nervous. Nervous about what? “I wasn’t sure if you had anything else planned for today. Do you?”
He’s acting really weird.
Very strange.
Not like the demanding man I’ve come to know very well.
“Uh, nothing on the docket. Just trying to erase what happened this morning.”
He nods and continues to rub his hands on his thighs. “Well, if that’s all you have planned, I was thinking I might take you somewhere.”
Take me somewhere?
An inch of hope blooms in my belly. It’s coupled with excitement.
Is he . . . is he asking me out?
Is that why he’s nervous?
Is that why he’s rocking back and forth?
Because he’s nervous to ask me out?
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lottie. Remember, he wouldn’t kiss you over the weekend. Even when the rain was dripping off his chest and he was thrusting into you, he kept his lips to himself.