Story: The Great Gatsby, after Chapter 22

Couple: Brady & Mia

Notes: Mia is a drunk little chaos demon in this chapter and my heart hurts for her. Brady, on the other hand, is a dirty drunk little chaos demon in this chapter and I need to go cool off a little.


Karaoke Night

Mia

The taxi driver drops us off outside my townhouse. How I managed to tell him my address, I can't say. I am quite drunk.

Another part of this equation I don't understand: Brady Fuller is throwing cash at the driver, getting out alongside me.

I started this night getting ready for a date with another man. Got stood up. Got trashed at the bar and sang karaoke. Eye-fucked Brady across the room.

Now I'm going to real-fuck him.

I giggle as I search for my keys in my bag.

Brady's lips skirt along the exposed skin of my neck, shoulders. Hot. Hot. Hot. He is so hot. I asked him about it once, why he was so hot. He smirked and told me he's hot blooded.

One thing we don't need is more heat. We've been smoldering for as long as we've known each other. He's just so goddamn happy all the time, and it gets my blood boiling. It ruins my mood when he smiles at me like that.

Like he loves me.

"Hurry up," he growls, his hands heavy on my hips. They slip forward and undo the button of my jeans.

"Brady," I gasp, but the way he touches me is just too good. My head falls back to his shoulder as his fingers dip inside my underwear. It's a good thing I didn't leave my porch light on; Mr. Lockman would have a heart attack if he looked through his window and saw me getting to second base.

Brady presses my name against my ear, my throat, my hair. Mia, Mia, Mia.

Three letters. Two syllables. One meaning.

I finally succeed in unlocking my front door, and we stumble through together.

"I'm so drunk," I say. I need to justify this and what it means. I lean against the door to try and ground myself.

"I'm so horny," Brady slurs, and my efforts are wasted as he reaches for me, slides his hands into the back of my jeans and squeezes my ass. I am flying.

"Kiss me," I tell him.

His eyes widen, somewhere between joy and disbelief, and he leans in.

I panic.

I turn my head just in time, his lips landing on my jaw. "Kiss me anywhere," I say this time, dragging my finger along the collar of his shirt and popping open the first button. "Except my mouth."

I know what kissing him will do to me.

He will wreck me. I will fall in love hard and fast and with no parachute, and I am just not ready to be wrecked that way. Not yet.

No, this is just fun. We will fool around and fuck and sleep off this alcohol, and I will send him on his merry way.

Brady growls. Right now I can hardly distinguish iris from pupil. He wants me. So much. In any way he can have me.

He turns me to face the door, and cool air hits my skin as he pulls my jeans and underwear to my ankles. At least I wore the black lace ones.

He palms my ass.

oh.

He kisses me.

Oh.

Oh.

"Brady," I sputter. "That's—"

"I know what it is," he groans, and kisses me again. Licks. "You said anywhere, Mia. I'm just calling your bluff."

He's good at that, calling my bluff.

No one has ever done this to me before. It was on the list of things I've been curious about, the things you'd have to be high out of your mind or drunk off your ass or super in love to ever consider.

And I am drunk. More drunk since he started touching me. It must be the shots we took right before our fellow firefighter Dave loaded us into the cab.

It feels wrong. Taboo. And so, so good.

"Don't stop," I beg.

"You like this?" he says. When I nod, he doubles his efforts. "What about—" he pauses, and I'm just about to ask what when he shows me. His finger plays around the edge of me, slipping just inside. "This."

I inhale sharply. "This," I repeat. My brain has short-circuited. This is new. This is probably only good because I'm drunk.

This could get me into trouble.

He could get me into trouble.

I almost want him to.

I start moving against him, against his touch and his mouth, which is lower, teasing where I ache. I ache all over, because of him.

"Want you," I moan, breathless. "Now."

With a growl, he stands, flipping me back around so fast I almost stumble over my own feet. He rips off one of my pant legs, and his hands are diving into me, learning and mapping and teasing. Such a fucking tease, he is. His mouth leaves a hot trail as it explores my throat. My chest. My chin.

His fingers slow, and I force my eyes open.

Brady is staring at me intently, a groove between his eyebrows. His wet lip is caught in his teeth.

"Kiss me," he says.

"No," I moan.

His fingers increase their speed, and I'm dizzy from how good this feels. "Because of where my mouth just was?"

It's a good excuse. I should take it. But I'm dumb and drunk and I don't. "No."

"You're scared," he says, and his fingers fall away. I chase them with my hips, but he moves too far out of my reach. "You're scared of this."

I fist my hands in my hair. My frustration boils up and over. "Of course I am!"

He throws his hands out to the side. "Fucking why? We're perfect for each other!"

I am suddenly less drunk. Caught with my pants down. Literally.

Leave it to Brady.

"How?" I say, taking deep breaths to try and get my heart rate to slow. But every time I inhale, his spicy sweet scent fills my nose, and it goes racing again.

He runs a hand down his jaw. "How are we perfect for each other? Just because, fuck—you get angry so easily. You're so stubborn. You don't take no for an answer. And I do the opposite of all those things."

"Great argument," I huff. "Opposites attract. So original."

"You love olives," he blurts, his cheeks flushed from some combination of lust and frustration. "And I can't stand them. You never eat the crust of your pizza, and that's my favorite part. Your feet are always cold," he says, "and I am always warm. You hate driving; I love driving.

"And I just know—I just know we'd fit. Not just in the sex way, which—don't get me wrong, I would be glad to test. But in the way where we can be friends first. Friends, too. The kind of people who just work together, in whatever capacity they can.

"I want to be soft where you're hard, and sweet when you're mean, and fuck, Mia, you—you just don't get it. You're it for me. I am going to wait as long as it takes for me to be it for you, too. You don't want to kiss me? Fine. But I can't keep my feelings out of this like you can. It wouldn't be just sex to me. I want to be able to kiss you on the mouth because it's all I've dreamed about since I met you, and I want you to want to kiss me back. I want all of you. Not just bits and pieces."

This is the most Brady's said to me at one time, ever. There are tears stinging my eyes from how passionate he looks, how wrecked. I didn't realize I had the power to wreck people, too.

"I'm scared," I say.

His jaw clenches. "I know. I can handle scared."

"I can't," I whisper. My palms are still pressed to the front door at my back. I am frozen in fear, frozen in this in-between moment. I want to believe what he's telling me. I just—can't.

He stands there, two feet from me, with his shirt unbuttoned, and studies me more intently than I've ever been studied before. He can see all of me. Everything. And still he says:

"Okay."

To be honest, I thought he'd rush the room and kiss me anyway. But Brady Fuller is not a kiss-without-consent kind of guy. It's usually endearing. Right now I am a little sick to my stomach.

"Okay?" I repeat. "Okay, what?"

He shrugs. "Okay, I give up. You win. I'll leave you alone. But if…" He stops, and I see him struggle with how to finish his sentence. "If you ever want this for real—and not just because you're drunk—then all you have to do is kiss me. Kiss me, and I'll know."

I swipe at my eyes, my tears finally springing free. "I'm sorry."

"I know," he murmurs again, and I appreciate that answer so much more than it's okay. Because it's not.

There's an awkward moment of silence wherein I fumble for my pants, sliding them back up my legs, and he looks toward my kitchen to give me some privacy. After I give him the all-clear, he turns back around.

"I'm going to head out," he says.

I nod quickly and see two of him briefly. This hangover is about to be a doozy. "Do you want to wait for your cab to come?"

Something passes over his face, and in this state of intoxication I don't know what it means. "I'm good." When my bottom lip starts to tremble, his features soften. "I just meant, I have a friend who lives close to here. I'm going to walk to meet him."

"It's cold," I say feebly, but he is already reaching for the doorknob.

He turns the handle but doesn't pull it open. Instead, he looks over at me. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm always okay."

"I know," he says for the third time in a minute. He sounds almost sad. "That's why I asked."

There are no words left in my body, and I don't try to find more. I shrug instead.

"Goodnight, Mia," Brady says, and walks out my front door.