by Ella James
So why didn’t you? Instead, I ask, “How old are you?”
She blinks. “Twenty-one.”
“Now I know you’re lying.”
Her face falls. Dear God, this girl is obvious. She could be an actress, for all the emotion on her face. She lets her breath out. My eyes fall for a millisecond to her breasts, then flicker back to hers.
“I am,” she says. “I just turned nineteen.”
“You should leave, nineteen.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Can you kiss me? Please? Then I’ll go. I promise.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve got a thing for voices, and hers is positively silken. I blink at her, and find myself reaching out to stroke her neck with the pad of my thumb.
I’m going to tell her no.
She puts her hand over mine. Slowly, her gaze never leaving mine, she drags my hand down toward her breast. Her skin is soft. So warm. And then I’m there. I’m cupping her breast with my hand. My hand is big. Her breast is bigger.
My cock is hard. It’s instantaneous.
*
Annabelle
Oh. My. God.
Oh. My God.
Omigod.
In and out.
Breathe in and out.
Cal Hammond.
’s hand.
Is on my boob.
It’s heavy, his hand.
It’s big.
And he’s attached to it.
All six-foot-four inches of him.
His chest.
His neck.
His face.
His arm.
He smells so male.
His hair, the way it’s lying on his forehead.
His eyes look tired.
He said he’s high.
Oh God. I inhale deeply, and he moves his hand. I almost faint. Somewhere behind me, I hear Carolina squeeing.
But all I can see is his eyes. Cal Hammond’s eyes. Cool, condemning, curious.
“What is this? A dare?”
I shake my head. “Well…kind of. I’m a virgin.” They’re whispered—those words. I don’t say them. They fall off my lips. As if he’s a priest, and being in his presence is enough to elicit a confession from my body.
“Oh.” He blinks. His face goes shrewd. “You want to fuck me.”
I nod. Then shake my head. “I thought I did.”
His brows draw together. Is that irritation? Yes. Holy crap. He’s annoyed at me. “Did I disappoint you, Miss…?”
“Hammond,” I say. My cheeks are burning, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I reach into my bag and hold my ID out.
He laughs, and I can see his magic from the movies. His face is transformed. Lighthearted again, as if this—my obsession with him; our strange little encounter—is all a big joke.
“Annabelle Hammond. Ah, my young wife.” He takes my hands in his and looks into my eyes.
And as he does, his face changes again. His mouth hardens. His cheekbones look more prominent. His eyes look almost brown. And when he speaks, his voice is velvet. “You don’t want to fuck me? Are you sure?”
I shake my head.
His hands tighten around mine, and then I’m being pulled through a sea of bodies, between elbows, past shaking shoulders, beside smiling faces, through an invisible veil of scents and an unknowable soup of emotions. Then we’re walking under an archway, down a dark, narrow hall.
He picks up his pace, pulling me beside him, until we turn a corner. Then he takes my shoulders in his hands and presses me against the wall. His eyes, on mine, are so compelling. I would sell my soul to him.
His hand strokes my neck and shoulder. “What do you want, Mrs. Hammond? Do you want to have a story for your friends? Where are your limits? Do you have them?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure. When it’s with you…”
“Do you know how many one night stands I’ve had?”
I shake my head, robotic.
“Too many to count. Do you know where their limits were?”
I shake my head.
“Nowhere, Mrs. Hammond. Most people have no limits when it comes to getting what they want. You do. Is it fear?”
I lift my shoulders. Try to.
He strokes my throat. “You can talk to me.”
I blink up at him, and instead of doing something suave and sexy, I say the stupidest thing I possibly can. “Your breath smells like cookies.”
To my surprise, he laughs. He tucks my hair behind my ear. “It’s ginger, Miss Nineteen.”
“Were you drinking ginger ale?”
“I was.”
I manage to get my breath. His body is pressed against mine in places. He’s so warm. So real. I can’t seem to get my balance. I look up at him, relaxed a little by a feeling of extreme surreality. “Did you have a stomach ache?” I ask.
“Let’s stay on point. Why don’t you want to fuck me?”
I can feel a heaviness between my legs, an energy gathering. Impatient. I want him. Of course I do.
“I just…I don’t think I’m ready.” My voice shakes as I say this.
“How old are you, truly?”
“Eighteen,” I whisper. I can’t seem to speak at full volume.
His hands come up to frame my face. His eyes on me are burning. “Sweet eighteen.” One hand reaches between us. I feel the weight of it between my thighs. It wriggles between them, reaches up, and then his palm is covering my pussy.
“Oh…”
He curls his fingers. I can feel one of them pressing right over…my… “You’re panting,” he says slowly. “You do want me.”
“For a long time,” I confess. My legs tremble as his fingertip presses through my dress, my panties. Oh my God, it’s pushing into my…entrance.
My eyes slide shut.
My breaths grow ragged.
“Little eighteen. I won’t fuck you. You should wait. Someone you know. Someone who cares.” He slides his hand away, leaving the core of me screaming with lust, and my eyes open—just in time to see the look of satisfaction on his face as he slides underneath my dress and pushes past my panties.
One smooth motion and he’s parting my lips. He’s gliding a finger between them, sliding easily inside. His finger goes in deep. I groan.
I can feel his other arm around me, pressing me against him, holding me up.
“Do you like me inside you? Does it make you feel full?”
I nod. I push against his hand, try to lift my hips.
“I think you want to come.”
I’m so lust-drunk, I can only moan.
“Come with me.”
And, because my body is motionless, gone numb except for where I feel his finger buried deep inside me—Ricardo Condor scoops me up and carries me.
His finger stays inside. He pumps it in and drags it out, as his other arm holds me to his chest. Air quivers in and out of my mouth, like one time I hyperventilated in a school play. The inside of my thighs press against his hard forearm. I moan as he pushes in a little deeper. I clench as he glides out. Then in.
I think there’s stairs.
I know there is his face. His concentrating face.
Then a door swings open, I see yellow walls, I feel something soft beneath my back. And then he’s there on the bed, kneeling between my knees. He’s Cal Hammond. Ricardo Condor. He’s leaning down, his face over my hips, his eyes on mine.
“I’m going to do something I think you’ll enjoy.” His hand strokes up my thigh. “But you’ll have to trust me.”
His finger, in my pussy, has gone still. I have to stop myself from clenching greedily around it.
“Do you trust me, Eighteen?”
I drag air into my lungs and hear myself say, “Yes.”
He grins, looking like the cat who ate the canary. Then he leans down and licks me, cunt to clit.
CHAPTER 4
Ricardo
I’ve never seen a girl like this. Maybe in porn, but never in reality. Every time I touch her with my tongue, she slams her hips into my f
ace. Her hands are in my hair. When I circle the tip of my tongue around her clit, she pulls so hard it hurts.
I like it.
“Cal, Cal, Cal! Ricardo! Cal!”
I lick around the base of my two fingers, shoved deep inside this virgin girl. I can tell she isn’t lying because she’s tight around me, stretched. If she wasn’t so turned on, it might hurt. As it is, she’s sopping wet.
“Keep it coming, baby. I like to hear my name.”
The next time I lick her little clit, she jerks her legs into the air. Her cheeks are cherry red, her pussy tight. I go gentle on her clit, flatten the tip of my tongue and drag it slowly down her slit, toward her cunt. She’s moaning. Lost. Perfect. One more flick over her clit, and…
She screams, boxing my head with her knees, yanking on my hair like an animal in heat.
I swallow back a smug chuckle.
I know I’m good, but damn.
She’s rolling over on her side, drawing her knees up to her chest.
Shit.
I lean back on my heels.
“You okay?”
I might fuck ’em and chuck ’em, but I aim to please.
I hear the first choke of a sob and shift so I’m leaning over her. “Hey…” I sink my hands into her hair. “What did I do? Does something hurt?”
She lifts her face up, and I’m shocked to see her laugh. “That felt incredible! Oh my God—incredible!” She sits up, and her curly hair is sticking up everywhere. Her dress is hanging off her shoulders, and her breasts are heaving with each punch of laughter.
“I was scared of that?” She grins, then shocks me by throwing her arms around my neck and kissing my mouth. Her lips are warm and soft. I glide my tongue into her mouth, and she fumblingly deepens the kiss.
I pull her closer. I’m so hard I’m aching. I’m wondering how it would feel to be inside her when she pulls back, beaming and totally oblivious to my brutal boner. “Thank you!”
I smile back, despite my aching dick. As if I don’t want to throw her on the bed and shove inside her. As if this isn’t my nine thousand seventy-fifth time giving cunnalingus. As if she’s the very first.
I tug one of her dark curls. “The pleasure was mine.” And I’m surprised to find it really was.
Her eyes roll down me.
I watch her face transform, giddy pleasure, then desire, intention. She leans over and slowly reaches out, flattening her palm against me. Holding me through my pants. She smiles, soft and knowing. “What about you?”
I’m loving her palm on my bulge. I’m also trying to decide what to do. It doesn’t seem fair to let her suck my cock. Like always, I have the advantage in this situation, which is why I often go for older women. Women who seem more capable of choosing. Girls like her, they’re just following their pussies. I’m Cal Hammond, media-made model cock and balls. The ones my own age can’t help wanting me.
I look at her bright-eyed face and swallow back the part where I ask her to get down on her knees and suck my cock.
“I can take care of this.”
“But I don’t want you to.” Her voice has gone all young and soft, which only makes me want her more.
I reach out and thumb one of her nipples, standing at attention through the fabric of her dress. “What do you want to do, baby?”
She smiles, pressing her lips together shyly.
“Say it.” If she can’t even say it without blushing three shades of red, I’ll have to go jerk off in one of the bathrooms. That, or find another woman.
Inhale. Exhale. She looks nervous. Disappointment drags at me. “I want to suck your dick.” Her eyes pop wide. “Is that dirty enough for you?” She laughs again, and my cock pulses.
I slide an arm around her waist and tug her closer. Lie down on the bed, and she moves in between my legs.
I already feel good, and she isn’t even touching my cock yet.
*
Annabelle
I shove my hair out of my face and take him in my mouth. I’m able to start off with confidence, because my friend Alexia told me if the head of it tastes salty, the guy’s already pretty turned on—and that’s the case with Hal.
He’s hard and warm, so thick and big, except the skin there feels so smooth. And underneath—the balls. I used to think that balls were weird, but I’m finding that, on him, I like them. I like cupping my hand around them. Most of all, I just like the rapt look on his face.
I suck and suck, and his hands clutch the bedding. I lick around the head of him, all up and down his shaft. Like every other part of him, he’s perfect here. So big. I work up the nerve to lick his balls, and he moans. It’s a really awesome sound. His knees are up now, the muscles of his thighs are tight. His face is slack, his eyes squeezed tight. His hands keep running up and down my arms.
He groans. He grunts.
“That’s right. Oh yeah.” He rubs my hair. He pulls my hair. And then, when my jaw is getting tired, he shoves my shoulders lightly, pulls out of my mouth, and spurts all over the bedding.
For a long second, as I lick my lips, he just lies there on his side, his mouth open a little, his eyes sort of fluttering.
When he opens his eyes, I smile a little, feeling nervous again. “Was that okay?”
“Hell yes, that was better than okay.”
He gets up off the bed and walks out of the room, and for a sick second, I think he’s gone for good. That’s it. Then he returns with a handful of tissue. He wipes the mess off the bed, and says, “Lie back and spread your legs.”
He cleans me off, then cleans himself.
His gaze catches mine and holds. There’s so much in it. He looks gentle, smug, amused, endeared. I can’t believe it’s real.
“There’s a story for your friends.” He winks.
He helps me up, and my arms are already reaching out for him. I’m addicted. I just want to touch him. I grab onto his shoulder, and he strokes my cheek. “See ya, eighteen. Take care, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He arches his brows, and just like that, he’s going through the door.
I’m sitting here, shivering, wondering about the next time I can see him. I look up at the ceiling. Please God, let me see him soon.
*
Ricardo
For the rest of the night, I think about her. Uma finds me as I try to leave. She takes my hand and tugs me onto the dance floor beside the bar, and someone snaps a picture, so I stay and play my role. When we’re finished bumping and grinding on each other, and have walked to a dark corner of the room, she shoves me. “Asshole.”
And I guess I kind of am.
It’s funny. Funny how many people are inside someone. For Uma, I’m the asshole. For that girl from earlier tonight, I bet I’m not.
I’m still halfway thinking of her, still halfway hard, too, as we leave the party a little after two a.m.
Guy has done some more blow, I think, because he can’t stop talking about his Moroccan girl. Brody looks tired, so I assume, like me, he’s coming down. Or is down. Uma sits beside me in the front seat with her arms folded over her chest.
“Take me home first,” she says. “I’m tired.”
Guy starts into a story about how some girl his girlfriend knows swindled millions from a casino.
I zone out and watch the road. I’m in that drifty stage of comedown. It’s not terrible, but it’s a definite contrast to the morning after smoking a few bowls.
We make it onto Highway 101, and I flick my eyes over at Uma. She’s got her hands folded over her stomach, like usual. For a moment, I feel bad for her. I think she throws up everything she eats.
“You still staying with your grandmother out near Beaumont?” I ask.
She nods, but doesn’t speak to me.
Okay.
Time smears. I keep seeing Eighteen’s inner thighs. So creamy. Flawless. And, between them. God, what a pussy. My dick gets hard just thinking of being inside it.
Brody and Guy are arguing about something NFL-relate
d. I don’t really keep track of pro-football, so my mind continues drifting. My thoughts are interrupted only by occasional glances at Uma. I almost regret my message to Nicci. Almost.
We’re on Highway 60 now. As we get further from Los Angeles, the land grows flat and dark. I can see a sprinkling of stars through the windshield. I’m driving too fast to make out any constellation, but I know they’re there. I’m working so much these last two years, sometimes I forget about anything that’s out of sight. I’m kind of glad Uma’s grandmother lives way the fuck out here.
I drop our speed a little, almost hoping to draw this out. A couple seconds later, Guy leans up between the two front seats. “Hey man, how fast can you get this thing?”
“One eighty-three last time I tried, but I wasn’t really pushing it.”
“Try now.”
I shake my head. “Too tired.”
“Do it,” Uma urges. It’s the first word she’s spoken in twenty minutes. Her eyes look shiny. High. “I want to feel like I’m flying.”
I look in the rear-view. Last time I tried to max the Lambo out, my sister was in the back seat. It scared her so bad she slapped me afterward.
“Brody?” I say. “You got a vote?”
“I’m down for anything,” he says, “but after that, I want to smoke a joint. You care if I light up in here?”
“Nah. I guess not.”
I look, again, into the rear view. Nothing behind me, nothing in front of me. Nothing but a lonely desert road.
Uma’s rolling her window down. Her red hair whips all around her face, as if she’s in a wind machine. I look back at my boys. Brody’s already twirling his joint around his fingers. Guy’s looking out the windshield, as if he’s planning to work the brakes while I hold the wheel. Guy is a serious chrome fucker.
“Three, two, one, blast off,” Brody says drolly, and I press the pedal to the floor. I’ve got an Escalade you can’t do that with, but in the Lambo, shit is fine. In half a second, we’ve gone from 93 to 115, a half a second later, 130.
Uma waves her thin arm out the window.
160.
180.
190.
Guy whoops.
I hear Brody say, “Hot damn.”
