by Julie Olivia
“This is whatever you want it to be,” he says between kisses. My legs clench as shocks travel from my stomach down between my thighs.
He lowers my other dress strap and shimmies the top down just enough for me to feel the cool air harden my nipples. He rubs his thumb over one, and nerves radiate out from my chest.
“Dirty talk,” he says.
“What?” I choke out. My nipple, exposed to the breeze, isn’t cold for long before he’s captured it in his mouth, rolling a tongue over it. Desire takes me in waves, and I moan involuntarily, fisting his hair. He chuckles against me and I gasp at his breath.
“How do you feel about it?” he asks.
I am on a beach with a hot-as-hell man—a man who, in every other aspect of his life, just acts upon what he wants. He doesn’t ask questions; he just does. That’s why I like him, and I would expect nothing less now.
“Don’t ask me questions,” I demand. “Just do.”
He snarls deep, immediately turning his attention from my chest and smashing his mouth against mine. I can’t breathe as every one of my nerves is lit aflame. He bites my lower lip, tugging and claiming it for his own.
“Gladly,” he growls.
Both of his hands grip my thighs, forcing me to jump up and wrap my legs around him. My arms clutch the back of his neck for support as he lowers us down to the hardened, damp sand.
His hands rest on either side of my shoulders as his mouth devours mine. His tongue demands entry and I grant it. Our bodies wrestle for power, but we’re both much too stubborn to let the other win.
My hands rise to wander over his chest. I undo each button and trace over his abs as they are slowly revealed. They’re hills, valleys, and peaks rolling across his stomach, shifting with every slight movement. After the last button, his shirt falls open. He leans up to toss it off and I reach for his belt, pulling it out of the loops and letting it dangle against the crotch of his crisp black suit pants. His hardness beneath is begging to be released.
“God, I want you so bad,” he says. My hands start for the zipper, pulling it down. I lower his waistband, revealing him fully, and take him into my hands. He’s large just as I remember—unsurprising given his height—and exciting to hold. I stroke, pumping my hand up and down. My movements cause him to groan and his hips buck toward me.
In one swift movement, he lowers down, rolling over in the sand and centering me on top of him. My dress is up to my hips and he grinds himself against the fabric of my underwear.
“You’re wet,” he says. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness just enough to see the sly nicked eyebrow rising. “Give me your pussy.”
Hell, he can have all of me at this point.
“I believe I promised you something first,” I say. He exhales heavily, running a hand through my hair as I kiss down his stomach to his waist. “Do you want it?”
“Don’t ask me questions.” He flashes a grin. “Just do.”
Even in a moment like this, he can’t help but be sarcastic.
“Shut up,” I snap.
“Make me,” he growls.
With that, I sink lower, wrapping my hand around his cock and licking him before taking all of it in my mouth. He groans, tilting his head back as I whip my tongue across him and suck at his head. His hips jerk again, and I hear the sound of sand shifting under his fingers.
I bob my head, forcing his long length in and out of my mouth. I distantly hear him groan my name, and it only empowers me more. He’s hard as a rock, hard for me—and then it’s taken away, pulled out of my mouth as he pushes my shoulders back.
He sits up, bending at the waist and twisting us once more so my back hits the ground. He hovers over me.
This feels so familiar: his hands on either side of my body, his knees bent to capture me beneath him. Reflected in the moonlight are his bright blue eyes, the same ones that mystify my fantasies.
His fingers ghost down my stomach, lifting the skirt of my dress to my waist. He’s bending down to kiss my chest again, rolling one then two fingers to bypass the fabric of my underwear and curl deep inside me. His entrance is effortless, as I’m already soaked, just waiting for him. I moan, sensations running through all of my body, from my chest to my stomach to my hips.
He’s moving his fingers in and out, pushing against my soft spot, driving me more mad by the second.
He pulls out and I whine while he shifts my own underwear down, lifting my feet through them and throwing them to the side. My ass is bare against the textured sand and he lowers himself to me, teasing the outside of my lips with the head. He lowers to my ear, breathing into me, heaving out the words “I want you” through gritted teeth. He rubs my clit with his thumb, causing me to moan and arch my back into him.
“Hang on,” I whisper. My hands fumble in my dress pockets—thank you Grace for choosing a bridesmaid dress with functionality—and I tug out a condom.
He laughs loud and hearty, taking the silver wrapper from me and rolling it through his hands. “When did you get this, you nasty girl?”
My stomach twists. “After the wedding pictures.” I begged the resort minimart to sell me just the one even though they insisted on the whole box. I instead ran off with the single wrapped one yelling, “Charge my account!” before rejoining the group once more.
“You wanted me to fuck you, didn’t you?” he says, rubbing circles around my clit, causing a moan to escape me. He brings this out in me—this desperation to be touched, the need to be wild, different, to allow myself to lose control.
“Yes,” I whimper.
He removes his hand and I immediately feel lost without it. He digs in the pants that remain limp on the ground beside him and pulls out a silver wrapper identical to mine.
“So was I, and I want all of you.”
He places one of them down next to my forgotten underwear and takes the other in his teeth, tearing the top off. The condom is rolled down his length slowly before he runs a hand between my legs. He wraps it around the outside of my calf to spread my legs farther apart and scoot me closer to him, sand shifting all around me.
“Fuck.” He exhales, angling in front of me, rubbing the head against the outside of my pussy. He’s requesting entry, teasing me into submission. Little does he know, I’m already a goner. I shift closer, taking him into me the smallest bit. “Fuck,” he repeats, sharper and more desperate.
He pushes in only slightly before pulling back out. I clutch his hips in an effort to drag him deeper, but he resists, forcing me to endure only a taste of him with every thrust, gradually granting me more each time.
Then, all at once, he pushes in, his entire length driving into me as I let out an unrestrained moan. He doesn’t stop me or tell me to quiet. He encourages me, demanding I moan louder as he fills me whole. His hand grips my knee, bending it into his chest, using it to find purchase for his repeated motions.
The nerves in my stomach clench. Every movement against me feels better and better, euphoria striking through me until the sensation spreads from my hips out to my stomach and tingles to my fingertips.
I come before I can even tell him it’s happening. All I say is, “Keep going.”
“Of course,” he says, bending over to place both hands on either side of my head, grounding his palms in the sand as he pounds in and out of me, driving in over and over. My head, barely recovered from the first wave of my orgasm, is already at the edge of losing touch when I clench again, veins lighting up with every roll of the second orgasm coursing through me.
“Ian.” I moan his name and it sends him over. I feel him throbbing inside me, pounding more until he slows to a stop. His breathing is heavy, gasping for air until his eyes open and he stares down at me. He grins, and my heart sinks down, falling against my back, cracking into a million little pieces with the remains melting and pooling around me.
I’m lost to him. This is more than fucking. This is what it feels like to melt into another person, to fall into them, to fall with them.
He kisses my forehead, and it’s gentle yet possessive.
“I like you, Ian,” I whisper.
We pull apart, and looking back at me are those ice blues, sharp yet kind and lusting for one more go—just as I always imagined.
Epilogue
Ian
Until recently, I never believed the old saying that time passes by quickly when you’re having fun. Turns out, it’s true.
What was once a simple wedding week suddenly jumped forward five months to a weekend of moving boxes and too much duct tape. I sold my empty, cold townhome to move into Nia’s house, which she said was much too big for her and required a very tall, handsome roommate.
“If you need an application, I’m happy to complete one,” I offered, “but I must warn you—my resume is very extensive. Too much for the standard one-pager.”
“I’ll need references,” she demanded. She was sitting on top of me, straddling my legs as she was prone to do, her hand already halfway down my pants.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is inappropriate behavior to engage in with a tenant.”
“Management will take your suggestions into consideration.”
The days of surreal happiness were made even happier when one month later there was a chocolate cake in front of Grant celebrating him being six months sober. He flicked his chip in the air, letting it fall into his palm like a coin indicating head or tails. Lucky for him, the outcome is always favorable with the six-month engraving staring back up at him.
Three more months flew by and we were then in a hospital, celebrating the birth of Oliver Thomas Kaufman, who was delivered at eight pounds, three ounces with a stunning head full of flaming red hair. Grace and Cameron were already coordinating diaper duty, and it was no surprise they’re a powerhouse with parenting as well.
After another three months, Nia and I went to the same steakhouse where I crashed her celebration dinner only a few years prior. That haphazard dinner six years earlier was the moment I knew for a fact that I was in love with her, and this night—one year after the week that changed our lives—would be the night I’d tell her I want to love her forever.
I hired a mariachi band to come play their own rendition of “Tequila” while I got down on one knee. The staff of the restaurant wasn’t too happy I messed with their ambiance by drawing in a vastly different style of music, and the band was kicked out shortly following their performance.
It was funny how quickly she said yes, getting on the floor to hug my neck and peck my face with kisses, practically falling on top of me.
It was a moment I’d never imagined would happen to me, and it happened with her.
Sometimes you just have to be patient.
For a whole decade.
Actually, that’s horrible advice.
Be patient for a reasonable amount of time.
Or simply be a fool in love.
Nice to See You!
Hi there! Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed Ian and Nia’s story just as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you liked this novel, please share with others by leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads!
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About “In Too Deep”
In Too Deep is a full-length, standalone romantic comedy! It is the first book in the Into You Series.
They say not to stick your pen in company ink. Does that apply to graphic designers as well?
This year, I decided to check off a couple life-altering items: Ditch the cheating ex, move into my own apartment, and finally pursue my dream career. When I land a graphic design job at Treasuries Inc., the start-up darling of the marketing world, I think I have it all figured out.
Oh, naïve little me.
I, Grace Holmes, am not related to the great detective, Sherlock. If I were, maybe I could solve the mysterious case of why the universe gave me my dream job, but then paired it with my new boss, Cameron Kaufman.
Cameron Kaufman is a man with a plan--if that plan is attempting to stilt my career. He's arrogant, cynical, and ready to spit sarcasm any chance he can. But, most of all, he is swoon-worthy to a degree of unfairness. Seriously--dimples and a winning ass? Give me a break here!
So, of course, we're hit with a big project on my first week. Of course, now my boss and I have to spend late nights together. And, of course, I'm getting more attracted to his snarky comments as each day passes.
We both have mouths that could kill. My only problem is that I can't stop picturing what else he can do with his, or whether my job is worth risking to find out.
1. Grace
Does love even exist beyond dogs?
In my case, definitely not.
I hear that golden retrievers are one of the smartest breeds. If that fact is true, then maybe my dog Hank would have had the common sense to leave Joe earlier than I did.
Even now, mere feet away from me with his graying fur and wise old age, I bet he’s wondering if I’ll ever learn.
Master Yoda’s got nothing on this pup.
He walks over and plops himself beside me, laying his head inches from mine so I can scratch behind his ear.
I roll over on my stomach and reach out to swipe at the laptop laying inches from my fingertips. With a groan and all the strength I can muster, I curl my toes and push myself just the one extra inch I need to snatch the computer, slide it in front of me, and pop it open.
Hank army crawls closer to me as I go straight for my email, whining softly as if he doesn’t think I should look at them, either. Told you: Smart as a whip.
“I know I shouldn’t,” I say, reaching down to poke his nose. “But I’m a glutton for punishment.”
I open the inbox and find exactly what I thought I would find: Another email from Joe. Ten, to be exact. He’s deteriorated the formal structure of emails into that of a three-year-old. I can commend his effort, at least.
“Grace, answer my calls,” “I’m a huge douche,” and the coveted: “I miss you.”
“Yep, definitely punished myself with that one,” I mutter with a half-hearted smile, reaching over and ruffling Hank’s ears until he wags his tail. The old boy leans over and lays his paw over my hand, adding in a lick on my cheek for good measure. He doesn’t gloat about the fact that he was right because he’s a gentleman, damn it.
The worst thing about being a relationship in your late-twenties is the inevitable process of moving out once you and your once fabulous beau break-up. It gets even trickier if you’ve bought a house together. It’s kind of dumb to buy a house with your unwed significant other, but I am just that brand of stupid.
The custody battle between the ex and I for my loyal golden retriever wasn’t even a discussion. Hank was my high school graduation gift and I’d throw Joe off a cliff before I’d give up Hank. But who wouldn’t want an excuse to throw their ex-boyfriend off a cliff anyway?
But here I am now: A lonely, twenty-seven-year-old woman lying on the floor of a mostly empty apartment. I’m waiting on my friend Ramona to arrive in a moving truck with some hand-me-down furniture to fill this place, but as of right now I only have a suitcase full of clothes, my old laptop, various art supplies shoved into a box, and my trusty dog, Hank.
I look to my watch and see that I have a bit of time to sketch, and there’s no time like the present to focus on something much more enjoyable. I whip out my trusty tablet and pen and begin sketching anything and everything. Lines, dots, swirls… What do they make? What’s my heart telling me?
That’s a bunch of hippie nonsense, I think with a roll of my eyes. This line tells me, “Grace, be better,” and this one says, “You’re talking to yourself again; stop it.”
That’s an “aggressive line,” as my former art professors would say.
I’m still get
ting back into the groove of it all, to be honest. I’ve been in a relationship for the past two years. It was happy until it wasn’t. For the record, a woman not being happy due to a man is just her telling the world that it has successfully beaten her down, and I will not have that.
I bite the end of my drawing pen, trying to brainstorm something new; something original. I sketch out a couple things—mostly drawings of my lazy dog—when I hear the squeak of wheels coming from a heavy vehicle that most likely hasn’t been oiled in a year. I get up, pace to the front door, and open it to find Ramona and her husband Wes hopping out from each side of the moving truck.
Ramona looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her shorts are mega-short, accentuating thighs muscled from years of running. She’s almost never caught dead without a crop top with self-printed text saying something pseudo-clever. Today’s winning outfit has a cow with text below saying: Moo-ve it or lose it. I have no doubt in my mind she made this shirt specifically for moving day.
“There’s my sunshine!” she yells up at me, waving her hand around wildly.
“My day did not breathe life until I saw you!” I call down, and she laughs.
Wes throws me a quick wave, then comes up behind her and picks her up, walking both of them to the back of the truck, pulling the handle down, and releasing it back up to reveal the packed trunk. He is inarguably a very good-looking man: high cheekbones, brilliant green eyes, and toned arms covered in tattoo sleeves that could never be misconstrued as anything other than pieces of art.
Ramona and Wes met during their freshman year of college, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. They shared everything together: They started as undeclared majors, ended up going through the same psychology degree, and now they own a practice together with Ramona conducting behavioral therapy in children and Wes handling couples’ counseling. They’re a powerhouse couple if I’ve ever seen one, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of their perfect little life.
