by Leigh, Tara
She was a goddess spread before me, and I was about to make her mine.
I studied Jolie for several beats, imprinting the memory of this night, this love, this exact moment in my mind forever.
And when I met her gaze again, all untamed interest and nervous anticipation with just a dash of shyness, my heart stuttered in my chest. Tripping over a desperate desire to make this, everything about this, as wondrously beautiful as Jolie herself.
Jolie’s hands looped around my neck, and I groaned as she pulled me down for a kiss. We’d kissed so many times in the past month, but never with so little clothing between us. Tuxedo pants, cotton boxer-briefs, and a wisp of white lace was all that remained of our wardrobe. And it was too much. Way too much.
I jerked back before I lost myself to the temptation of Jolie’s sweet sighs and silken tongue, fumbling with my belt buckle and zipper and shoving them from my hips. Pausing only long enough to grab the condoms from my pocket, I tossed my pants in the general vicinity of our discarded clothing. My dick was naked and throbbing, so hard it hurt.
Jolie lifted up on her elbows to look at me, the first streaks of fear crossing her face as the reality of what was about to go where took hold.
I forced myself to hold still, to let her look, let her think. To let Jolie savor this moment—or stop it altogether.
I meant what I’d promised. I might need to take a cold shower, but I would not break my promise to Jolie. Not tonight. Not ever.
But then Jolie’s eyes found their way to mine again, her elbows slowly sliding outward until her head was cushioned by the mattress. “Come back,” she whispered.
The breath rushed from my lungs as I spread myself over her, my cock bisecting her stomach and pulsing against her belly button. I covered her with kisses, licks, tiny scrapes of my teeth all over her face, her mouth, her neck. Moving lower until I could feast on her breasts. They were perfect not-quite-handfuls, and Jolie wriggled and squirmed as I lavished them with the attention they so deserved, barely holding back from rutting against her as her movements put pressure and friction against a part of my anatomy that was about to explode.
I only stopped when I knew one more second was all it would take to have me spurting against her thigh. Jolie’s disappointed moan was still ringing in my ears when I slid off the bed and pulled down her panties. They were soaked. “Thank fuck,” I grunted, the words lost between her thighs as I spread her legs and threw them over my shoulders.
My tongue met her wet heat for one long lick, Jolie’s surprised squeak giving way to a gasp.
Jesus. She even tasted like innocence. Pure, undiluted sweetness.
I’d wanted to do this a hundred times in the past month, but I wasn’t sure that Jolie had been ready, and in the back of my mind, I wanted to save a ‘first’ for tonight.
After that initial taste, I pulled back for a moment, spreading Jolie’s puffy pink lips to take in the beautiful view in front of me. Parting her glistening seam with my thumbs to expose her folds, lifting the hood that just barely covered her plump clit, so swollen right now and practically begging for my mouth. The opening below it that looked impossibly small, impossibly tight.
There was a painful wrench inside my gut, a twisted part of me that knew that tightness was going to feel so fucking good.
But first, I was going to make her feel so fucking good.
I spread my mouth over Jolie’s clit, her heels tapping out a desperate beat on my back, her muscles quivering beneath the press of my tongue on this most intimate part of her body, her thighs clenching around my head as I licked and sucked every ounce of pleasure out of her.
“Tripp. Oh my god, Tripp, ah—” Words cartwheeled from her lips. My name. God’s. Syllables that didn’t make sense and pleas that did. All of it was music. The most delicious sounds I’d ever heard, a sensual harmony that made me even harder.
I was gentle when I slipped a finger inside Jolie, barely able to squeeze two, curving them inside her to rub that sweet spot against the front wall of her pussy.
Jolie’s inner muscles clutched my fingers as a climax slammed into her, body rocking wildly, her thighs a vice around my face. I drank her orgasm in, licking every sweet drop, feeding off her release until her body went slack.
Kissing my way back up her body, I maintained a distance between Jolie’s skin and my cock, not wanting her to know how desperate I was for my own release. But the moment my mouth met hers, Jolie reached for me, tugging in a way that nearly had me doing just that.
Her eyes flew open as I jerked away from her touch. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a damn thing,” I answered, this time grabbing for her wrists and holding them captive over her head so I could stare into her face. “You doing okay?”
Jolie’s lips curved into an incredulous grin. “Yeah. That was . . . wow. You’re good at that.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Practice makes perfect didn’t seem quite right. So I kissed her instead, communicating with heated breaths and a tender tongue, in the press of my mouth and the clench of my heart.
“Can you taste yourself?” I groaned the question against her lips. “You taste so good, so sweet. I don’t need anything else, just tasting you is enough.”
But Jolie made a whimpering sound of protest. Wrapped around my back, her ankles pulled me forward until the tip of my throbbing cock was aimed exactly where my mouth had been. “Oh no, Tripp. I want this. I want you.”
My vision blurred at the edges as I stared into hypnotic blue orbs that had surely cast a spell on me, rich blue rims blending with the deep onyx of her pupils. My hands shook as I ripped open the condom wrapper and sheathed myself in latex. “I’m going to hurt you,” I said, my voice dripping with regret as I looked away from the narrow opening between Jolie’s spread thighs and into her upturned face. There was a resolute set to her features, want swirling in her eyes.
Only the slight bob of her throat betrayed her nerves as she swallowed. “Yes. But I also know it’s the first and last time you’ll ever hurt me.”
A shuddering exhale stole my breath. “I swear on my life it is.”
“Then, for the love of god, hurt me. Just this once. Make me yours, Tripp.”
There was a pull and twist deep inside me, somewhere between my heart and my dick—my soul, maybe—that sheared off. Because it wasn’t mine anymore. It belonged to Jolie Chapman. I belonged to Jolie Chapman.
I was hers and she would be mine. For now, forever.
I lined up the crown of my cock with the seam I was about to split apart, notching it just between her lips but not actually inside her yet. She stiffened just slightly as I lowered myself so that my chest covered hers, my hands tucking beneath her head. “Kiss me,” I said.
But Jolie didn’t need my urging. Her lips were already open, her tongue already seeking mine. I closed my mouth over hers, bucking my hips just enough to breach her opening. I swallowed her tiny squeal, holding still even as my muscles shook from the need to thrust and rut and sheath myself within her.
Deepening our kiss, I slowly pushed forward until I encountered the barrier that would cause her the most pain. Sliding a hand between our bodies, I found the nub, just above where we were connected, still swollen and sensitive, drawing circles over it with my thumb until Jolie hips were swiveling too, mimicking my movements.
Without giving any indication that I was about to thrust forward, I did. This time her yell wasn’t contained within our mouths. I heard it, loud and clear.
I went still. “Shit. I’m sorry.” A single tear clung to the corner of Jolie eyes.
But she only shook her head, sending the droplet streaking down her temple where it dissolved into her hairline. “Don’t stop, Tripp. Please.”
Hating myself for the relief that sluiced through my veins, I kissed the damp patch, tasting the salt of her tear as I pushed further into her wet heat.
By the time every inch of me was sheathed within Jolie’s heat, she was moving her hips again. Ten
tatively at first, then assertively. Urgently. I pulled out, just to the tip, then rolled my hips forward in a gentle rhythm, watching her face for signs of discomfort.
There were none. That initial pain had lost its hold on her.
I could finally let go, too.
Giving into my instincts, I dove into the deep well of pleasure contained within Jolie’s body. It was as if a clock was ticking deep inside my belly, or maybe a bomb. A relentless metronome of bliss that grew ever louder with each thrust.
Thrusts Jolie was meeting, her movements mirroring mine. Our bodies briefly separating before crashing together again. And again. And again.
At this angle, I was rubbing against her clit with every thrust, the head of my cock kissing that spot I found with my fingers earlier.
There was blood on Jolie’s thighs and mine, making the deep slide even wetter.
She cried out, a soft mewl of surprised wonder, the grip of her cunt so impossibly tight, so impossibly hot. Everything was better with Jolie. Talking, kissing, just fucking existing.
And as Jolie’s movements turned frenzied, as the pressure inside me squeezed harder, as my name on Jolie’s lips became a shout, I finally succumbed entirely.
Slumped over her panting body, barely bracing my weight on my forearms, I fell into the azure blue ocean contained within Jolie’s eyes, and at the very bottom I was overcome by a simmering awareness that this was about more. More than sex, more than two teenagers fulfilling a physical need as old as time.
I was in love with Jolie Chapman.
9
December 2007
Jolie
We left the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in the early hours of the morning, the sky just beginning to brighten from the sun. Early, but still later than we planned. Tripp told the cab to keep the meter running while he walked me to my door. We didn’t even make it past the lobby when he pulled up short, his attention drawn to the array of newspapers freshly laid out on a long glass table separating two burgundy leather chesterfield sofas. “Jesus Fucking Christ.” His voice—a shocked rasp, gritted and rough—was unfamiliar to me.
Still wrapped up in my just-had-sex-for-the-first-time-with-the-most-amazing-guy-in-the-world haze, I curled into his side, my eyes going straight to Tripp’s face rather than the source of his alarm. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Whatever I needed to know, I wanted to hear it coming from Tripp’s delicious mouth.
His hand looped around my waist, pulling me close. “It has to be a mistake,” he breathed, still not looking at me.
Mistake? The word was completely at odds with my state of mind. Nothing about last night had been a mistake.
Tearing my gaze away from Tripp’s profile, I forced myself to look down, to see for myself what had stopped him in his tracks. My attention was drawn immediately to a photograph that had obviously been taken last night. Tripp and I were holding hands, grins on our faces and eyes on each other. Nina and Tripp’s mother were looking toward us, too. Our fathers, however, were glaring at each other, their expressions grim.
The headline blared: HIGH CLASS THIEVES.
Oxygen left my lungs in a rush, the letters blurring together as I struggled to take them in. Thieves? What? It had to be a mistake, it just had to be.
Snatching the paper to his chest, Tripp walked over to the building attendant sitting quietly behind a desk and slipped him a bill from his pocket, asking him to pay the cab driver idling out front. Taking my numb hand, he led me onto an elevator. At the door to my apartment, he took my purse and dug around for my key, fitting it into the lock and pushing me gently forward. For a moment, I clung to the naive hope that Nina would be perched on the couch with a cup of coffee in her hands, eagerly waiting to hear about the best night of my life. But an eerie silence filled the foyer, our footsteps falling soft and quiet on the hand-knotted rugs covering the marble floor.
Looking up at the staircase I’d descended less than twelve hours ago, I felt nothing like the carefree young girl I’d been, almost as if I’d aged fifty years in that single moment.
That headline . . . what did it mean? How could we have been branded as thieves—what had we stolen?
Was it a prank? A way for my friends to tease me about the whole debutante thing? But even as the thought crossed my mind, I discarded it. No teenager would have access to those photographs yet, and no one I knew would wake up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday to plant a paper in my lobby.
Definitely not a prank. Which meant that just about everyone I knew would wake up to see it, too. The thought was horrifying.
If today had been a school day, the story would have been broken up into juicy, bite-sized pieces and hurled through the halls like bits of confetti. Each piece of information, whether fact or rumor, examined and shared among my classmates.
But that headline. It made no sense at all. My father wasn’t a liar, or a cheat. I would have known, somehow, some way.
There was just another week left of holiday break. A headline like that didn’t appear one day and get buried the next. How many other newspapers and websites would carry the story by then? School was going to be torture.
Inwardly, I cringed at the selfishness of my thoughts. What about my father and Nina? Tripp’s parents? I was worried about what my friends would think and they were . . . Where were they?
I turned to Tripp. “I don’t think anyone’s home.” Not even our housekeeper worked on Sundays.
“Want me to stay with you?”
“Um . . . If you don’t think your parents would mind.”
We both looked at each other, realizing that our parents had bigger issues than worrying about where their teenaged children were right now. “I don’t think they’d mind,” he said simply.
“Can I get you something to drink? Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m good.”
Hand in hand we walked to the same settee we sat in last night, below the big window overlooking Park Avenue. Glancing through the panes of glass, I wondered how many people on our street had gotten that newspaper delivered to their door. How many of them were reading it right now, while tucking into smoked salmon or scrambled eggs, sipping their morning coffee? Would they wonder if it was true, or take it as fact because it was there in black and white?
I didn’t bother voicing my question to Tripp; I already knew the answer. “Do you think our dads are in jail right now?”
He inhaled, breathing out slowly. “I don’t think so. They’re probably in a room full of lawyers trying to figure everything out.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the blank screen a reminder that it had died hours ago. So had mine. “Do you want to come up to my room? We can go online, try to figure out what’s going on.”
Tripp glanced toward the stairs, dousing the beginnings of a smile with a dose of seriousness. “I do. . . but I think I should wait down here.”
I raised my eyebrows slightly. After what we’d just done, hanging out together in my bedroom, fully clothed, seemed tame. “Okay. I’m going to go change.” I was still wearing my frothy confection of a dress. “And I’ll come back with my laptop and phone charger, okay?”
He nodded, brandishing the paper he’d taken from the lobby. “I guess we should start by reading more than just the headline.”
Another glimpse of the front-page photograph sent me scurrying for the stairs. “You can fill me in when I get back downstairs.” Maybe we’d misinterpreted it.
Last night, Nina had helped me get dressed, carefully zipping me into my gown and fastening the hook and eye closures that I couldn’t have managed on my own. Tripp had only helped me with the zippers this morning so, with a fair amount of wriggling, I was able to get out of it on my own.
Pausing, I scrutinized my naked body in the floor-length mirror that stood in a corner of my room. I wasn’t a virgin anymore, yet I looked exactly the same as I did yesterday. There were a few reddened spots, and Tripp had given me a hickey on the back of my neck, or at least that’s what
he’d told me. But I couldn’t see it.
As I pulled on a fresh pair of underwear, I wondered how I would be feeling right now if Tripp hadn’t noticed that newspaper headline downstairs.
Or even better, if there hadn’t been a headline at all.
Dressing in jeans and a sweater, I brushed my teeth and hair in the adjoining bathroom, then gathered up my laptop and iPhone charger before heading back downstairs. Tripp was still reading the paper, or maybe re-reading already, so I took his dead phone from the table and plugged it in. When it came to life, it began dinging and buzzing like an epileptic. We’d both gotten iPhones to replace our Blackberrys just a few days ago, for Christmas. I was still getting used to the new gadget, and I wondered if mine would do the same once it had charged.
I wasn’t in any rush to find out.
Apparently, neither was Tripp, because he didn’t make any attempt to look at it.
I sat down in the sofa opposite him, my computer unopened as I waited for him to finish.
The newspaper made a rustling noise as he set it down, lining up the pages and then folding it back into a neat rectangle. “Do you want to read it for yourself?”
I shook my head, not wanting to touch the paper. “No. Not really. Can you just tell me about it instead?”
Tripp closed his eyes, pushing the heels of his hands against his closed lids and arching his spine until the back of his head was pressed against the window. “It’s bad, Jolie.” Taking his hands away, he leaned forward again, blinking at me owlishly. “Really bad.”
I shifted on the couch cushion, worry settling like a lead weight in my stomach.
A minute passed, eventually broken by a long, slow sigh from Tripp’s drawn lips. He ran his hands through his hair, snapping his head to the side to crack his neck. That was a new gesture, something I hadn’t seen, or heard, him do before. I figured it was a sign of stress. “I’m not sure, but I think everything our fathers built, the legacy I thought I would inherit and pass on to my children one day, is about to go up in flames.”
