Last First Kiss: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by Jane Anthony

  “If that’s what you want to do.” I shrug, but I know she won’t. Heads would roll in the Irwin household if she didn’t jump when they called.

  With another growl, she falls to her back. Her tank top rises over her belly button, leaving a strip of delicate skin between the cotton hem and the lace band of her baby-pink panties. “I can’t. It’s Thanksgiving. I have to go.”

  I sit on the bed next to her, avoiding the pile of clothes strewn across the purple comforter. “You can blame me. Your dad will. The man probably blames me for the hole in the ozone layer.”

  She forces out a humorless snicker. “That’s not true.”

  “Remember when you got caught smoking? He blamed me for that.”

  Her head rolls to the side. “It was kind of your fault.”

  “I got the cigarettes, but I didn’t make you smoke them. You did that on your own.”

  She smiles. “Face it. You’re a bad influence.”

  “A bad influence?” I squeeze her knee, and she erupts with laughter. It pops around us, a mixture of sobs and cries as her face grows cherry red.

  “I take it back!” She gulps between cackles.

  I duck and move, trying not to take a rogue foot to the face as I release my grip and roll over her. “But we could stay here if you want.” I nip at her collarbone. “I can show you what I’m thankful for.”

  “We gotta go,” she purrs, but her nipples pebble through her thin cotton top as my lips tease the still-heaving mound of her breast.

  I press my thumb to the hardened peak, and her back arches. “You sure?”

  A sigh leaks between her lips.

  A sweet flush remains on her cheeks and dots her chest. I want to taste it on my tongue and work my way down her body until she’s screaming, begging, panting, tearing at my hair as she unravels like twine, but I settle for a kiss on her mouth before sitting up on my knees. “Let’s find you something to wear, I guess.”

  “Nothing fits me anymore. I can’t even clasp the button on my pants.”

  “You got a hair band or something?” I ask, reaching for a plaid skirt on top of the pile.

  “Yeah.” She pulls her legs in and rolls off the bed, then returns with a small black hair band.

  I hold out the skirt. “Put this on.”

  “I told you. It doesn’t fit,” she pouts, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Just put it on. I have an idea.”

  With her hands secured on my shoulders, she lifts each dainty foot, stepping into the skirt. I skim it up her thighs, then work one end of the band through the buttonhole and loop the ends before securing it around the button. “There ya go.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I’m good for more than hot lovin’,” I say, clicking my tongue against my cheek with a wink.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Just for that, I’m gonna have to give you double the orgasms later.”

  “Don’t threaten me with a good time, buddy!”

  Her eyes light from within. A flickering flame that turns me to ash at her feet. It takes every ounce of willpower I own not to throw her on this bed and hike that sexy little skirt around her waist. Especially since I know what’s waiting for me on the edge of town. I should have gotten myself a Kevlar suit.

  “Find a shirt, and we’ll head out.”

  She plucks a red cardigan from her closet and slips on over the simple black tank, then fastens the buttons over her midsection. “How’s this?”

  My cock pushes against my zipper. The pleated skirt grazes her creamy thighs, her tits rising from the neckline of her shirt. She looks like every filthy fantasy I’ve ever had. How am I supposed to ignore this nagging erection as her father shoots me dirty looks across the dinner table?

  Wren makes quick work of getting ready, and before long, we find ourselves sitting in the driveway of her parents’ house. The whole neighborhood seems like a dream. Large colonial houses stand royally side by side with Range Rovers and Mercedes parked out front. A montage of memories floods my mind. Despite Mr. Irwin’s reservations about my constant presence, Wren’s mom was welcoming with open arms. She’d let me stay for dinner and even invited me over for a holiday or two. And when Wren and I graduated eighth grade, she held a huge party in the backyard with a sign that read “Congratulations Wren and Jesse.” It didn’t matter that it wasn’t really my party. None of my family was there, but I didn’t need them. I was an honorary Irwin, if only for the day.

  My throat tightens the longer I dawdle. The woman trusted me. She brought me into her home against her husband’s wishes, and how do I repay her? By knocking up her daughter.

  At least, that’s how it seems.

  “You ready for this?” I ask, glancing at Wren in the passenger seat.

  A bead of sweat sits above her brows despite the frigid temperature outside. “No,” she replies, staring forward. “But I may as well get it over with.”

  I jump down from the truck and round the other side, helping her out as if she’s fragile. A layer of frost covers the grass, giving the deep green blades a white hue. The promise of snow whirs through the air. I smell it as I inhale a deep breath and hang back a step, waiting for Wren to enter first.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  Warmth pulls me in the welcoming foyer although I’m not sure how welcome I’ll be this time around.

  Wren’s mom peeks around the corner. “Hey, honey! You’re late.”

  “I brought Jesse. I hope that’s okay,” Wren replies after clearing her throat.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Irwin pads across the gleaming floors with open arms. “It’s been far too long, Jesse! Wren told us you were back in town. How come you haven’t come to see us sooner?” The fragrance of sweet perfume and soap muddled with a faint aroma of garlic wraps itself around me along with her hug. It’s a smell I remember so vividly it transports me back in an instant.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Irwin.”

  “You can cut out the Mrs. Irwin nonsense. We’re all adults here. Call me Paula.” She offers a dismissive wave as she takes a step back and treads back toward the kitchen. “Collin! Your daughter’s here!” The raised octave of her voice echoes through the open space, followed by footsteps that grow consecutively louder as they stomp up from the basement steps.

  “Hey, Dad.” Wren moves toward her father, wrapping her arms around his thick middle. “You remember Jesse, right?”

  “Right. Jesse.” Contempt simmers in his dark eyes as he offers his hand.

  “Nice you see you, sir.”

  “Wren, help me set the table,” her mom calls.

  The antique green dining table sits under floor-to-ceiling windows. Mr. Irwin takes a seat at the head while I slide into a side chair, leaving a seat between us for Wren. “So, Jesse. Wren tells us you’re working in construction?”

  “Yeah. I’m over at Mason’s.”

  “Drywall,” he exclaims, lifting both heavy black brows. A row of wrinkles forms on his forehead. “Good operation over there.”

  “It is,” I agree.

  He rests his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers together in front of him. The conversation between us is dry as a bone, but I appreciate his attempt at civility. “Your family still over there on Dawson?”

  “Yes, sir. Just my mom now. I’m sure you heard about Dave.”

  Mr. Irwin gives a curt nod.

  Tension builds in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I rub my palm across my shirt in a vain attempt to wipe it away. It’s hard to concentrate on the man in front of me when all I can think about are the many ways I’ve defiled his daughter.

  “Dad, stop giving Jesse the third degree.” Wren carefully rests four place settings on the table.

  “I’m merely catching up with the boy.”

  “Mmmhmm,” she replies with a sarcastic tone, twisting to grab a bowl of salad off the island nearby. She sets it in the middle as her mom calls out to her husband, “Collin, would you please carve the bird?”
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br />   Wren’s face puckers to a sour pout as her father rises from the table.

  Are you gonna be sick? I mouth silently.

  She nods, her fingers gripping the edge of the table in white-knuckled panic. “I’m gonna show Jesse the addition we put on the back,” she announces, grabbing my hand and swiftly moving through the wide-open space.

  Her parents remain in the kitchen, hovering over the turkey. “Sure, hun,” her mom calls but doesn’t look back as we disappear down the hall.

  She bursts into the bathroom and sinks to her knees in front of the toilet. I fly into action, holding back her hair, but she raises her arm between us.

  “It’s passing. Give me a sec.” She breathes through the nausea, shielding her eyes with her hand. A few moments later, she’s using the toilet lid as a crutch to push herself up, then plops her ass down on it. “This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman with my own home. What am I so afraid of?”

  “Our parents have a way of making us feel small. Just the way it is.”

  For some reason, the statement brings up the image of my father. I haven’t thought about him this much since I was a kid, but ever since my mom dropped that bomb, thoughts of Eddie Dylan haven’t been far from my mind. He’s been out there all this time.

  Does he think of me?

  Has he wondered what I’m doing, or how I turned out?

  At what point did he decide he couldn’t stand the sight of me any longer and had to leave?

  She looks up through mascara-tinted lashes. “Thank you for being here.”

  “Of course. This is where I belong.”

  But the statement sounds hollow as it rattles from my chest. I push down the nagging thoughts that I’m just like him. I’m not. I won’t leave my family. Ever. I seal that promise with a tender kiss, but Wren leans into it, taking it deeper than I intended. It heats my blood, zapping my insides with shots of untamed adrenaline. I’m like the tightly wound band on the button of her skirt. Something inside me snaps. I come undone, my need for her sudden, yet filling in all my cracks as it drips inside.

  Tearing my mouth from hers, I cup her head and stare down into her wanton eyes and glistening lips. Those fucking lips, pink and puffy and trembling, as she reaches up and undoes my fly.

  The blood drains from my brain. With the heels of her palms, she pushes down my pants and my rock-hard erection springs free. She gasps at first. But her lips curl in a wicked grin, her gaze snapping to the door and back. Her folks could burst in at any moment, but the naughty thrill of getting caught burns in her olive gaze as she gives my shaft a placid tug.

  “You want to know a secret?”

  “Yeah, baby. Tell me all your secrets.”

  “Some pregnant women crave ice cream and pickles.” She watches me with her smoldering eyes, her fist pumping harder. “I crave the taste of your cock,” she simpers just before taking me in her mouth.

  The soft, wet feel of her tongue gliding against the shaft sends an electric current straight to my balls. She slithers up the base and swirls around the tip, licking, flicking, and sucking before swallowing me whole a second time.

  “Fuck,” I groan, my fingers fisting the silken tendrils in the back of her head. It falls around her face, tickling my bare thighs as I force myself deeper down her throat. Her soft gurgling is music to my ears. An erotic symphony as she gags on my cock and goes back for more.

  The sight of her eyes looking up through lashes unleashes the beast within me. I want to fill her, own her, and make her mine. But most of all, I want my cum dripping down her legs as she walks out and takes the seat next to her judgmental prick of a father.

  A string of saliva bows between us as I pull my dick from her supple mouth. I come at her hard. She follows my lead, her tongue dipping between my lips in a hot, heavy rush of breathy whimpers. We don’t have time for this. The smell of food wafts under the door, but I’m not interested in anything else besides driving into Wren’s hot cunt right here in her parents’ bathroom.

  I flip her around and hike up her skirt. Her sweet, round ass backs against my cock. I tear down her panties, watching with possessive lust as I sink balls deep inside her.

  Grasping her hips, I slam into her without mercy. As if making her squeal negates the fact that I have nothing of value to offer besides an above-average cock and a multitude of mindless orgasms. I know it’s big, and I know how to use it, two traits that send Wren spiraling into ecstasy as quick as greased lightning.

  Her fingers wrap around the edge of the sink, a crease forming between her light brows. “Don’t stop,” she whispers.

  “You like it like this, little Bird? Being owned in your daddy’s house?”

  “Fuck . . . yes.”

  Her release hits her like a tidal wave, drowning me in the process. I’m pulled in the undertow, my climax feeding off hers as her pussy pulses to the beat of our panting breaths.

  A few moments are all the time we have to recover. “We should get back out there.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, uncoupling our bodies with a groan. “Feel better?”

  “Yes, actually.” She grins as she pulls up her underwear and smooths her hands over her skirt. “Let’s do it.”

  She lets herself out first, then I follow. Her parents are already sitting at the table. “The new addition looks great,” I say, taking my seat next to Wren. I feel her beside me, her energy engulfing me in flames.

  “I’m starving,” she adds, avoiding her father’s pointed gaze. Heat still colors her cheeks and the tips of her ears. She’s a walking billboard that screams “I just got fucked,” but her mom goes on about contractors and plans and what a job it was to refinish the den. Thank goodness, the woman’s oblivious.

  Pleasant chitchat ping-pongs around the table as we eat. Even Mr. Irwin seems to have warmed up by the end. But tension seeps off Wren as the night winds down. The announcement sits on the tip of her lips. I watch them quiver as a lull in conversation hits. The anticipation weighs on my shoulders. The sooner she blurts it out, the faster we can get through it. Rip it off like a Band-Aid and move on.

  “So . . . um . . .” Wren swallows hard, her gaze flitting between her parents as they look up from their pumpkin pie. I find her hand under the table and give it a supportive squeeze as she forces out one single long sentence. “I’m-pregnant-can-you-pass-the-Cool-Whip?”

  The jovial look on her father’s face melts into a sneer. “This is a joke.”

  “Everybody loves a baby, right?” She blows out a humorless chuckle.

  Mr. Irwin is not amused.

  His hard gaze is a punch to the mouth. “You responsible for this?” he growls, twisting his hands in front of him.

  “Well, Dad, actually . . .”

  My mind reacts as Wren stumbles over her confession, and I blurt a response without thought. “Yes. I am.” Her head whips in my direction, her eyes wide, and her mouth pressed into a thin, pink line. With another tight squeeze, I add, “And I do intend to do the right thing, sir.”

  If looks could kill, I’d be dead on the floor. “Oh, I suppose this means you’re gonna marry her?”

  “Whoa, Dad—”

  “Don’t ‘whoa, dad’ me! You should be graduating college and preparing for your future! Not throwing your life away on him!” Her father’s roar blasts over us both.

  Wren winces, but I square my shoulders and remain stoic. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think we need to be married to be a family.”

  He shakes his head, staring down at his lap. “I told you this would happen, Paula. I told you the minute we started letting Dylan trash in the house, he would dirty our doorstep.”

  His words tear through me like bullets. I know where I come from; I know who I am. But I refuse to be talked down to by anyone.

  The table shakes as my palms slam on the painted surface. “What did you call me?”

  Wren jumps from her seat and hooks her arms around my trembling bicep. “Jesse, calm down. Dad, take it back!”

 
Her dad ignores her, his razor-sharp gaze still trained on me. “How do you plan on taking care of her, huh?”

  Adrenaline pumps in my blood. I pull a sharp breath through my nose and blow out my mouth, calming down the rage bubbling inside. “I don’t know, sir. But I will. I promise you.”

  “Collin, what’s done is done,” Paula interjects. “Let’s cool our jets for a minute and talk about our options.”

  “I’ve already considered my options, Mom. This is what I want.”

  “Are you happy, dear?”

  Wren catches my eye, threading her fingers with mine again. “Jesse makes me happy. The rest, we’ll figure out together.” She turns back toward her dad and takes his hand as well. “And I really want your blessing, Dad. I know it’s not what you wanted for me, but life doesn’t always work out the way we plan, and we have to adjust.”

  “You’re not ready for this,” he insists.

  “You’re right. But it’s happening regardless.”

  Mr. Irwin jaw tightens. “I need a moment alone with Jesse.”

  “Dad . . .”

  He slices the air between them with his hand. “Wren, this is not a debate. You”—he points across the table in my direction—“come with me.”

  He turns on his heel and heads toward the back den I never got a chance to see. Antique guns fill the mahogany wall unit. My stomach twists as I sit in a leather-bound armchair across from it. I half expect him to start going down the line of all the ways he could make my ass disappear, but instead, he treks to the bar set up in the corner and pours two fingers of Oban Scotch into two sparkling tumblers.

  The light catches on the etched pattern in the crystal, making the expensive whiskey glow. He quietly returns, handing me a glass before settling into an identical armchair nearby. The silence kills. He leans back, resting his ankle on his knee, sipping his drink with a tentative edge that makes me want to jump from my skin.

  “I grew up in Southside Chicago. Five of us in a two-bedroom slum. I took the L to get to school. Sat next to bums and dope addicts, fought every day of my life with one goal. Make it big and get out.” He pauses and brings the tumbler to his lips a second time before setting it down on the wooden table between us. “I worked my ass off, got a free ride to Rutgers, and moved East, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I had my sights set on this.” He lifts his hands, gesturing to the room around us. “Stability, a home, and enough money that my little girl would never have to go without. Then she met you.”