Shiver

By Iris Blaire

At sixteen, Hunter Nolan and I were both wards of the state.

At twenty-three, he's the only one I trust with my life.

He's been my protector since we aged out of the system, getting me jobs, convincing me to apply for school, covering my half of the rent when money falls through. He even plays impromptu bodyguard when staff is short at the club where I dance. But he'd never ask me to quit. Hunter has his own sinful job, after all.

The Eros app has taken the adult industry by storm, and Hunter is one of Eros's top erotic models. Sex is a part of both our careers. It doesn't become weird until Hunter's boss, the ambitious and entrepreneurial Britain McCulley, sees me dancing and wants to hire me.

The money is too good to turn down, even if it means pairing with Hunter for the sexiest shoots Eros has ever produced.

Even if it means falling for the one guy completely off limits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Iris Blaire
• Release date: Jun 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463736258

Iris Blaire

Iris Blaire is a firm believer in escapism and good coffee. She has lived in various cities along the west coast (best coast!) for almost all her life, and is currently situated in Portland. As a writer of many things, she returns to the universe of East Park when she feels like the world needs more inappropriate jokes, sweet love interests, and steamy scenes.

Book preview

1

Tess

Hunter Nolan and I have three things in common.

One: we both grew up in the foster system.

Two: we both have an abundance of tattoos—some nice ones, and some flat-out mistakes (I’ll never let him live down his douchey windrose).

Three: we both know how to dance.

Hunter’s rhythm is innate, the bastard. I perfected mine from three years as a go-go dancer at Indigo, the closest club to East Park University. Not a Friday or Saturday goes by where the club isn’t at full capacity, and I work every weekend. I should hate my job, and sometimes I do. But usually the music, the crowd, and the attention fuel enough adrenaline to get me through another week of classes.

I roll my hips and stomp my feet, my skin sweat-slick. Blue and pink lights pulse over the packed dance floor. On the pedestal next to me is my best friend Ella, and if I squint my eyes, I can make out Hunter at the bar as he pours a line of shots.

He smiles politely at the girl he’s serving, and I catch sight of a bachelorette sash. Not surprising, though Indigo isn’t the safest club for women and the security here is a joke. At least Hunter is diligent about keeping his eyes peeled.

Ella whips her hair back and pumps her fist, which is the move she makes every time it’s five ‘til two. Reaching for the rail of the pedestal, I roll my ass extra slow to the delight of the audience, and a thrill courses through me. I love being watched.

I whip around to the bar again, and Hunter is crossing his arms and shaking his head at me. I grin back. Hunter used to give me way more shit for being an exhibitionist. Now, he shoehorns in the teasing where he can.

At two in the morning, I swing myself over the rail and jump into the crowd, screaming "EXCUSE ME!" and shoving my way to the bar. Hunter slides a shot of vodka to me and pours one for himself, and we clink them together. Like every shift, he’s wearing a black muscle tee. His full-sleeve is total lady bait, most of the ink filling his arm symbolism from his favorite novels. Chicks love that shit. A well-read guy with tattoos, pretty eyes, and enough muscles to throw me around in bed? Rip my panties off me now!

Hunter’s tattoos aren’t the only thing going for him. He has the kind of face that gets broody bad boys out of trouble, only (plot twist!) he isn’t a broody bad boy… not anymore, at least. His genuine smile is what really wins girls over, because it’s eye-crinkling slash glint-of-teeth authentic. And he gives one to the person standing behind me.

Hunter tosses the shot glasses into the under-counter dishwasher. I want you to meet someone! he yells, hopping up and sliding over the bar.

I hate when he does that, yells Alison, the other bartender. If Hunter is lady bait, then Alison is Indigo’s straight boy lure with her platinum hair and fantastic boob job to boot.

We share a smirk.

Hunter doesn’t swagger like most single guys at the club. He walks with his back straight, one foot in front of the other purposefully. Give him a backpack and an armful of books and I’d swear he was on his way to class. Girls like this about him, too. It makes them feel safe.

He stops in front of a blonde. She ceases her hip wiggle and tucks her hair behind her ear. Hunter says something, and I can hear her giggle from where I stand.

He turns toward me and ushers me over.

Dramatically, I look over both shoulders, and then point to my chest. Me? I mouth.

Hunter narrows his eyes, and I bounce over to them.

This is Emily, Hunter yells over the music, introducing her. She’s in the psych program, too.

I study her face. She comes to class in her sweats, but yep, I recognize her. She sits in front of me in ethics. Emily, I say, sticking out my hand.

Ethics, right? she takes my hand, cocking her head and flashing a set of chartreuse teeth.

You bet, I tell her. Emily looks between me and Hunter, her brows furrowing and pretty smile growing ever-so-hesitant. She’s confused by our familiarity beyond coworkers, probably because she thinks we’re together, or fucking, or something, and I quickly say, He’s my roommate, because it’s a much simpler title than ex-foster brother.

Oh, says Emily, her pretty smile reemerging even prettier than before, like Hunter having a female roommate legitimizes him as Not Creepy ™.

A new song plays, a femme rock favorite remixed for the dance floor. Hunter tries to tell me something, but I cut him off. I love this song. I sway my hips, my arms swinging in time to the bass. Can’t talk. Must move.

"Dance! shrieks a girl behind me. I turn to see some Indigo regulars. The girl who screamed points at me, and then Hunter, and starts clapping. Dance, dance, dance!"

Soon, everyone surrounding her is also chanting, even the drunk assholes who have no idea why they’re shouting. I grin at Hunter and curl my fingers as I dance backward, making a show of beckoning him to the floor as he shakes his head and mouths, "Absolutely not."

The thing is, Indigo is a shitty club. Not enough security equals too many frat guys. Too many frat guys means uncomfortable women who need a distraction. So on really terrible nights, Hunter and I give it to them and put on a show in the center of the dance floor. It’s happened enough times for some regular clubbers to know us by name, now.

Hunter knows it’s not a quote-on-quote really terrible night, and he also has a pretty girl hanging on him. But I don’t need Hunter to have a good time.

Emily giggles again, her laughter drowned by the D.J. amping the volume. I skip back and away until I’m consumed by a mess of sweaty, dancing bodies. The pattern of the lights change, and some guy who can’t hold a rhythm grinds up on me and sprays sweat on my face. Gross. I’m all up for letting loose on the floor, but some things are crossing the line.

I duck, twist, turn, and throw a sashay in for good measure as I make my way to the pillars. I dig around in my pocket until I pull out a crumpled up one, and even though I should be saving every freaking penny that comes my way, sometimes you gotta wish upon the cheeky shorts of a go-go dancer.

My partner-in-fishnets squats down and grabs my wrist, flicking back her long black hair at the same time. What the hell is this? Ella cries, but takes the dollar anyway.

Shift is over! I yell, dissolving into the crowd again before colliding with a very sweaty, very pretty boy. I grin, and he grins. His teeth glow green and he’s still pretty.

I play out the rest of the night in my head. Hunter will definitely take Emily home. I will definitely be on the other side of his bedroom wall. And I will definitely want a distraction.

So I decide this boy will come home with me tonight, and grind my hips into his.

I always hook up at my place. Call me crazy, but I feel like I have more control. I like knowing the space, and that I can redirect my hookup to the couch in my room. Beds are too intimate, especially for guys like Eric.

Eric, despite the name, isn’t much of a Disney prince. Which is fine by me. Hunter is still cleaning up at the club, and Eric fumbles with stripping off my clothes as we trip to my bedroom.

Eric pushes me toward the bed, and the redirection commences. He gets the idea and throws me onto the couch. Literally. Throws me. He closes my bedroom door and begins a slow strip tease with the rest of his clothes, imitating a bad Chippendale’s dancer. I bite down on my bottom lip to stifle my laughter and wave a hand in front of my face. Please. My two best friends are both Eros models. I’ve seen enough sexual dramatics to last me a lifetime. The last bit is only partially true, but Eric doesn’t need to know that.

Eric runs his fingers through his hair. Oh shit. That makes you a celebrity by proxy.

Yeah, right, I say. Sure, the Eros app is well-known in East Park, but that’s just because the company started out as East Park Exposed, East Park University’s underground erotic magazine. Apparently there was a lot of drama, and the founder of the magazine restarted the gig as an app called Eros. Hunter and Ella are employed by Eros as erotic models. It’s only weird if I make it weird. And I don’t make it weird, especially because I’m more of an exhibitionist than both of them combined.

So we can get right to the sex, says Eric, as though his little Chippendale’s dance was supposed to be foreplay.

I mask my smile with a grimace when I realize it’s happening, again. Should I be surprised? Feel sorry for myself? I mean, I set every sexual escapade up for failure right when I direct my conquest to the couch. I desire being erotic and showing off my body, and yet I don’t want to get close to anyone willing to appreciate it. Which leads to couch sex sans foreplay. Every. Fucking. Time.

Eric, bless his little heart, is the perfect example. There’s no getting in the mood or touching or licking or even, for the love of God, moaning. There is only Eric rolling on the condom and pummeling my poor, poor vagina. Even though I’m on top, there’s a lot of bouncing and a lot of penetration and still, not a square inch of me tingles. It’s always the same. It doesn’t matter how good or bad the guy is at sex. It all boils down to the ten minutes I give him, where I grow increasingly uncomfortable until I end it. I want to have good sex. I want to be fucked senseless until I’m screaming and sweating and sobbing for release. And I try. But every time, my body refuses to abide.

My mind wanders away from my current state of being plowed when I hear Hunter and Emily in the hall, and then a very distinguished giggle sounding from the other side of my bedroom wall.

I try shifting around a bit, pushing Eric off me and sitting on him for a different angle, which doesn’t help the fact that I’m bone-dry. Eric is physically sexy (and sweaty) and well-endowed (he has a big dick, in case that wasn’t clear), but being rubbed raw isn’t fun no matter who I’m with. So I do what I do best.

I fake it.

I’ve mastered the fauxgasm. Or at least, I’m never questioned. When I cry out and I force my body to shudder, he grabs my hips and grunts like the manly, well-endowed individual he is.

I roll off him, adding in a sigh of happiness for good measure. Eric believing he did a good job is crucial. The worst thing in the world is awkward pillow talk when both parties know the sex was miserable.

Luckily, Eric doesn’t stick around for any pillow talk. After a few quiet moments of heavy breathing, he stands up, picks his clothes off my bedroom floor, and heads to the bathroom. When he returns, he’s changed. He rubs the back of his head as he stands in my bedroom doorway, and asks, So, should I call you?

Still lying on my side, I shrug. Nah.

His shoulders relax. Cool. Well… uhh… I’m gonna get going. He says it warily, like he’s worried I’m going to tell him to stay the night. Or cry. Or something.

I wave. See you.

Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Eric leaves my bedroom. The apartment door shuts and I roll onto my back, listening to the chorus of Emily’s gasps and sighs coming from Hunter’s room.

Hunter isn’t a slut, and it’s quite the phenomenon we both brought home hookups on the same night. But the sounds from his bedroom always make it seem like he took the ten-thousand-hours-to-mastery rule to heart.

"Fuck yes!" Emily screams. The noise of the headboard knocking into the wall is followed by a series of pornographic whimpers.

I groan, sitting up and violently rubbing my temples to get the image of Hunter screwing Emily out of my head. Instead, an aching need pulses between my legs.

Glaring at my lap, I say, Oh, what? Now you want to play?

Piss off, vagina.

I’m not going to be able to sleep with the two of them going at it, so I get up and head to my desk, sitting and opening my laptop.

Two new emails.

Tess Walker: Your Federal Grant 02839 - We regret to inform you…

"Shit," I hiss, clicking on the email and scanning the body. My head falls, landing on the desk, and I rest there as panic festers inside of me.

Uncle Sam pulled my grant.

I have one more semester left. East Park University is only six grand a semester, but that’s six grand I don’t have.

You’ll figure something out, I think. I always figure something out, and if I’m struggling for ideas, Hunter helps me. We’ve both overcome worse situations than this.

If he wasn’t screwing Emily, I’d knock on his door and tell him the news, and he’d hug me and tell me everything will be okay. Because that’s what Hunter does.

Emily comes. And how exactly do I know this?

I’mcomingI’mcomingI’mcomingI’mcoming!

Puh-lease. No guy is that good at sex.

They aren’t finished. I hear the shower in the master bathroom attached to Hunter’s room turn on. Their fucking echoes against the tiled walls, and Emily’s chorus of moaning transforms into a goddamned performance of Beethoven’s fifth in Carnegie Hall.

And guess who got orchestra seats? This girl.

I force my attention back to my inbox.

Let’s meet reads the subject line of the second email. It’s from my professor.

---

Tess,

Your paper is incredible. I’d love to talk more about it if you have time to stop by my office on Monday. I’ll be in from 10am-1pm.

---

-Sheryl

---

Sheryl, huh? So impressed by my paper that we’re suddenly on a first name basis?

Coming from Professor Young, the gesture means a lot. So does telling me my paper is incredible.

I love psychology. Initially, when I was young and naïve and had big dreams despite growing up in the system, I wanted to become a psychiatrist. Therapy helped me overcome trauma even when I was a little girl. And therapy helped Hunter change his life around. I wanted to give back, and pursued the dream until last year, when the reality of school expenses caught up with me.

I can’t afford a Masters, let alone a PhD, so social work it is.

When Hunter and Emily have finished their shower, I collapse in bed, still thinking about my paper—a paper about sex.

The contents of that paper turn me on more than Eric did.

2

Hunter

My therapist used to tell me every trigger has a management strategy. I don’t know if this is