by KC Enders
He dips down, grasping the backs of my thighs, and then he perches my ass on the edge of the counter. He sucks my lower lip between his teeth, like he always did when he kissed me, but then bites into the flesh. Familiar but with a hint of pain.
Piece by piece, my clothes land in a pile on the floor, and with a hand spanning my collarbone, he lowers me to my back.
My body curves, bowing away from the countertop, cold seeping into my skin, tightening my nipples into hard peaks.
“Fucking gorgeous,” Nate murmurs as his eyes rake over me. I can almost feel the trail they blaze burning me.
With his groin still pinned against my core, he drops his jacket to the floor and peels the white cotton t-shirt from his torso.
Memories of a teenaged Nate clash with the broad shoulders and defined muscles of the man in front of me. Padded pecs, grooved abs, and a chiseled V that points to where his cock strains against his zipper.
I reach down between my legs and curl my fingers into his waistband, earning a hiss from Nate as my fingers glide against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs.
Every touch is familiar but different.
Each gasp and groan recognizable but new.
My sweet Nate wraps his hand around my wrist, digging into a pressure point, causing me to release my hold. Wordlessly, he flattens my hand against the countertop. “Keep it there.”
The command spills from his lips, and a shiver runs through me. He scoops up a barstool and sets it at the end of the island, placing my feet on the seat.
He steps away and fixes himself a drink. Whiskey. Bitters. Cherries. Ice.
The pause for beverage service is … frustrating.
“Nate—”
“Shh …” Ice rattles in his glass when he lifts the tumbler to his lips. As he settles himself on the stool, he sets his glass aside and places my feet on his denim-clad thighs.
Much as I want to think that I have all the confidence in the world, I feel awkward and exposed. The man is a half-dressed Adonis, sitting at his kitchen island with me splayed out in front of him like a feast.
And yet, at the first lazy swipe of his ice-cold tongue, any insecurity, any thought at all, evaporates.
One hand rests on my pelvis, his thumb lazily sliding through the seam of my most intimate parts, playing with my wetness, following the trail of his tongue as he eats me. Licks and sucks and nips, always teasing.
He brings my orgasm to the edge stupid fast, and just before I fall over, he sits back and takes another sip of his drink. I moan my frustration, but Nate chuckles darkly as he removes his glasses and sets them safely out of reach, almost like he’s preparing to get serious about what he’s doing.
I push up onto my elbows, careful not to move my hands from where he put them. Nate lifts the glass to his lips and drains a good portion of the old-fashioned. Holding my gaze, he pushes a cherry from his mouth, rolling it between his top teeth and the tip of his tongue.
It’s … oddly hot, the way he moves the juicy, dark bud, the control he maintains, manipulating it with the smallest shift of his tongue, rolling it until he plucks the cherry between his fingers and slides it from my clit, through my pussy, dipping it just inside me.
I gasp.
And he fucking smirks.
We never break eye contact as he lowers, following the same trail with his skilled tongue.
I hold my breath as he licks a path around my entrance—maddeningly—before finally plunging in and undulating his tongue, pulling the cherry from within me. I pant his name as he slides the cherry up to my clit, pushing it, smashing it, pulsing it against my most sensitive part.
He seals his lips around my clit, flicking it relentlessly, pumping me with two long fingers until I cry out and shatter into a million pieces.
He stands, licking his lips as he pops the button on his jeans. The zipper peeling apart can just barely be heard above the buzzing in my ears.
Nate flips open his wallet and pulls a condom from it, sheathing himself and somehow making it look sexy.
Before my tremors fully subside, he traps the tip of his tongue—that naughty, delicious fucking tongue—between his teeth and thrusts his hips forward. Filling me completely. Deliciously.
With a groan, Nate begins to move. Sliding in and then almost fully out, his muscles flexing and rippling sinuously. He presses the pad of his thumb to my still-sensitive clit and strums, playing me like an instrument. Slowly, deliberately spinning me into a frenzy once again.
Yet he’s still in complete control.
My moans of release are almost fully eclipsed as Nate’s rhythm becomes erratic and he grunts through his.
“Fuck,” falls from his lips in a deep, guttural groan, and I shudder through aftershocks as we both come down from the high we found in each other.
So familiar.
But so much more.
When Nate grasps the condom, pinching it to his base, and pulls away from me, I sigh and melt against the hard granite surface. Minutes pass until I’m able to force myself to move. Standing on wobbly legs, I steady myself against the counter.
My hand trembles as I drain the rest of the cocktail from Nate’s tumbler, the spice of the whiskey balanced by the sweetness of the cherries. Heat creeps up my chest as I bite into a cherry. The way he rolled it around, using it to drive me higher and higher, it was erotic, ridiculously hot.
“Here,” Nate says, shaking out his shirt.
I take the t-shirt from him and pull it over my head, tying a knot at the back. I step into my skirt and start to slide it up my legs when Nate comes to a stop right in front of me. I allow my gaze to drink him in—lean muscles, pants up, open and hanging precariously from his hips.
He watches as I settle my skirt on my hips, lids hooded as they rake over me. “Don’t.”
“What?” I ask.
With how intently he’s staring at me, paranoia begins to creep in. I mean, after what we just did, maybe there’s cherry juice on me or something in my hair. It could be anything. And the last thing I want is for Nate to look at me and have regrets. I don’t think I could handle that. I don’t think my heart would survive it.
I lean down and scoop my bra and panties off the floor, looking all around for where my bag fell when we stumbled through the door.
“What are you doing?” Nate barely glances at where I’m looking before snapping his gaze back to mine.
“I was just going to shove these in my bag and—”
My words dry up at his low, gravelly laugh.
“Don’t bother.” He stalks toward me, sending chills racing along my skin. “We are so not done here.”
The way he says those words, the deep timbre of his voice, pebbles my nipples. The look of barely contained control is breathtaking on him.
Smooth and effortless, he bends down and scoops me over his shoulder, arm locked over the backs of my legs.
I squeak as my world literally turns upside down. My hair spills over my head, caging me in my own little bubble, where all I can see are the dips and ridges of the muscles lining Nate’s back.
My abs flex automatically, hands braced on his ass, in a failed effort to soften the impact of his shoulder as he takes the stairs two at a time. “Oh my God, you’re ruining me.” It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
I’ve never been in this position before, but Nate hefted me up like it was nothing. Like he’s well practiced in it—and that’s not something I want to think about.
The stairs end, and even though I was shitty drunk last time I was in here, I recognize the switch from hardwood to the soft gray rug of the master bedroom.
At the foot of the bed, Nate stops and pulls me from my perch. We slide against each other, my soft over every hard plane of his.
“Enjoy the ride?” he asks, pushing my hair back from my face. His fingers linger on my jaw and then skate back to cup my head.
“Nate, we weren’t going to do this.”
A slow, easy smile pulls at his l
ush lips. “What do you want to do? Do you want to stop? Go back to the way things were? We can stick with the professional bullshit, if that’s what you want.” He stares directly into my eyes, like he’s peering deep inside my soul. Searching for something to validate what’s spilling from my lips.
It’s not there. Any protest is weak at best. Calling it an outright lie would be a hell of a lot closer to the truth.
I walked away from Nate once to chase my dream, and while I got there, I’ve been miserable. Maybe the distance wouldn’t have worked when we were kids, but we’re adults now. Responsible and capable of figuring this stuff out.
So, once again, the only thing holding me back from what I want is me. And I’m tired of standing in my own way.
Camille said this was a new chance, that it might be love trying to find a way. My sister is one of the smartest, most intuitive people I know. And the idea of fighting for what I want is laughable because there is no fight. He’s standing right here in front of me, offering up everything.
How could I possibly say no to that?
I’d have to be an idiot to walk away again.
This is my moment. This is when I need to grab the bull by the horns, seize the day—pick a phrase, but this is it.
I reach behind me and pull the knot from the t-shirt, shucking it and my skirt quickly. Silently.
With sure hands, I push Nate’s jeans and boxer briefs over the curve of his ass. Then, I sink to my knees and wrap my hand around the base of his cock.
The whispered, “Fuuuck,” as I lick him from base to tip, swirling my tongue around his broad head, is the only sound in the room.
Nate’s fingers twist in my hair, gathering it up into his fist.
I open my throat, slide my hands to the backs of his thighs, and pull him to me, swallowing, bobbing, massaging until he comes with a guttural, primal groan.
15
SMASHING PUMPKINS
NATE
No matter how many times I’ve reminded myself not to give up my heart, not to offer that part of me up, there’s no denying that it’s way too fucking late.
I’ve fallen for her.
Again.
I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to open myself up again. I didn’t want to take the risk. But with Alex splayed facedown in my bed, her hair wild across my pillow, that curl—my curl—right fucking there, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
This is what I dreamed of. All through that single semester of college. In every shithole motel along the Gulf Coast as I took the biggest risk of my life. Every sleepless night spent on the beach or at a bar or wherever else I ended up when Kane was fucking his way through every town we played in, I dreamed of what was missing from my life.
As gently as I can, I uncoil the tightly spiraled curl at the base of her neck. Fully extended, it’s as long as the rest of her hair, but when I let it go, it’s just an inch, maybe two. Tucked safely away, like a secret.
Alex shifts, rolling just her head toward me. Her cheeks are rosy red, tiny creases from the pillowcase marring her flawless skin.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice raspy with sleep.
“Morning.” I trail the tip of my finger along the line of her nose, across the field of freckles dotting her cheek.
She is the most beautiful thing in the world. She looks like an angel, sunlight haloed behind her, beatific in her repose. Like poetry or a song that is so perfect that to hear it sung aloud would only ruin it.
“I like how my bed looks with you in it,” I tell her softly.
Her face scrunches with a smile. “I like your bed too. I don’t think I ever want to leave it.” She stretches her arms straight out, palms flat against the headboard, back bowed, her perfectly round ass barely covered by the sheet, lifting toward the ceiling. Long, toned legs pressing into the mattress.
Nothing but graceful lines and gorgeous curves. But I know her, and as beautiful as Alex is, she’s a dancer. Past the beauty and grace, there’s not much that separates her from an athlete. Strength, muscularity, and joints that pop and crack on demand.
I cringe at the sound that has always—always—skeeved me out. Her spine crackles loudly, echoing off the high ceiling of my bedroom. If I don’t do something to distract her, the symphony of synovial snapping is going to go on and on and on.
The sound of her laugh is muffled as she buries her face in the pillow. “I can’t believe you’re still such a wuss about that. It feels so. Damn. Good.” She draws the final three words out, rotating her ankles, drawing out the popping and snapping as well.
She pushes up onto her elbows, her cleavage looking undeniably lickable, boosted high against the sleep-wrinkled sheets. She rotates her wrists once—just once—before I pounce on top of her, stretching my body over hers, trapping her beneath me.
Her wrists are dwarfed by my huge hands wrapped around them, pinning her in place. I rock my hips, sliding my thickening cock between the ripe mounds of her ass, and our groans mingle, winding together and becoming one.
We spent the night wrapped up in each other, lost in each other, in ways I wasted years dreaming of. Call me a hopeless romantic, call me a pussy—doesn’t matter. I dreamed of a lifetime with this girl, and when it was ripped out from under me, the dream was all I had.
One at a time, I work my knees between hers, pushing her legs out to the sides. Opening her up to me.
“God, yes,” Alex gasps, arching up. Pushing that ass high, allowing my cock to slide beneath her. Tap, tap, tapping at her clit. “What are you doing to me?”
I lick my way along the shell of her ear. Place openmouthed kisses down the back of her neck, marking the trail to the broken-heart freckle hidden there.
Alex arches further, tipping her ass so that there’s a catch with each thrust. My cock throbs, desperate for her.
Fuck me. The thought of sliding into her bare, nothing between us, almost has me blowing my load before I’ve even experienced heaven.
“Nate …” My name sounds fucking incredible, enveloped in the moan that spills from her lips.
I thrust my hips again. Slowly. Deliberately.
And while we went hard and fast last night, this morning is about exploring each other. Revisiting memories from years ago and maybe—just maybe—seeing how adventurous she is.
I lick from one shoulder to the other, grazing her skin with my teeth. Stretching for the nightstand drawer, my hand brushes over the black satin cover of the box I keep there. Is it too soon to open that? To tie her down and have her completely at my mercy? The last thing I want to do is scare her away now that I’ve finally gotten her back. In my bed … in my life, in whatever way I can have her.
There’s time. We have all the time in the world, so I err on the side of caution—in all the ways—and stick with just grabbing the last two condoms, shoving the drawer shut.
Later. We’ll explore that box later.
“Mmm … you’re such a considerate host,” Kane drawls from the doorway.
I shield Alex, hiding her from him. I don’t know how my brain can work as quickly as it is when none of my blood is anywhere near that organ. Though, knowing Kane’s standing there, my fight response has beaten down any thoughts of flight from this shitshow.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand, grabbing for the blanket that’s pooled on the floor. I stand, clutching it to my waist as I check to make sure Alex is covered.
Kane ignores me, his dick in his hand, stroking from base to tip. His sole focus is on the curvy body barely concealed by a thin sheet on my bed. “Good morning, lovely. Waking up with a bang? How do we feel about sharing?” he drawls.
I want to kill him. I want to fucking kill him once and for all. My fists ball tightly as I take a step toward him, a low growl thundering through the room.
That noise can only be coming from me. It’ll be worth rebreaking my hand. I haul my arm back, muscles coiled and ready to inflict some fucking damage on this shithead when I’m stopped cold by Alex’s
words.
“We were. And while I’m not really interested in sharing, you’re the last person it would ever happen with.” The sheets rustle behind me. “I’d love to say it’s good to see you, Kane, but your timing is as shitty as ever. Put your dick away. You’re being rude.” Alex stands, the sheet secured around her. She stares at Kane, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, as she stalks into the bathroom and slams the door behind her.
Kane’s mouth hangs open, a surprised laugh falling from his lips. He recovers far too quickly and throws a hand out toward where Alex disappeared. “Is that—”
Now would be a really good time to let my fist fly.
“Get the fuck out,” I sneer, shoving him toward the door. I grab my jeans from the floor and pull them on, yanking up the zipper.
Why I think this piece of shit is going to come to his senses and move his ass is beyond me. This is Kane.
“Little Alexis Thompson? Fuck me hard. She is all grown up and delicious, isn’t she?” He slides one hand through his hair, the other still palming his dick. Not hiding it even a little as he strokes himself.
The impact of my hand to his chest heaves him back. Out of my room and into the hallway. I pull the door shut behind me.
For maybe the first time that I’ve ever experienced, Kane is thrown enough by the situation—or maybe just by who he saw—that he complies and backs up. Stopping just shy of tumbling down the stairs.
“You’re fucking the dancer, you dirty, dirty boy,” he says, a lecherous grin pulling at his mouth. “How long have you been tapping that ass? Gawd, I bet her ass is tight as fuck.” His fist flies to his mouth, and he bites it—he actually fucking bites down on his fist like he’s in some performance or shit.
“Fuck you,” I tell him, pointing down the stairs. I want to hit him more than anything.
“Uh-uh-uh,” he practically coos. “You don’t want to get in trouble, do you?”
He makes his way down to the main level, as the pipes above groan, announcing both heads are going full blast in my shower.
Kane settles himself at my kitchen counter, his dick finally out of sight. He eyes the jar of cherries I didn’t bother putting away last night. “Why, thank you for offering, Nathaniel. I’d love a coffee. Light and extra sweet.” He pulls the jar toward him, rolling it between his palms.
