All About the D

by Lex Martin

  Goosebumps break out on my arms from his hot breath on my skin, and I swallow. “What can I say? My model was very cooperative.” Seriously, this man never takes a bad picture.

  “I was putty in your hands.”

  “You were harder than putty,” I joke, remembering the way he fisted his cock for me when we were tumbling around in bed.

  “Over a half million likes.”

  “You’re a cock star,” I whisper in his ear. He laughs and presses that very bulge against me.

  For the next few moments, after our laughter subsides, he just holds me to him, threading his fingers through my hair as the breeze whisks through the trees. This, us, doesn’t feel like it’s about sex. It feels more like love. The emotion wells up so strong in me, I burrow deeper against his chest.

  “Sometimes you feel like a dream. Like you’re too good to be true,” I mumble against him.

  He pulls back and drifts his hand across my jaw to tilt my face to his before his lips dip to mine. “I know the feeling.”

  I smile like a fool. He does this to me. Makes me feel uninhibited.

  “Do you woo all your women this way? With trips to cherry farms and wine and sweet words?”

  He laughs and shakes his head, looking a little embarrassed. “No, babe. You’re the first.” Reaching back, he tugs on a strand of my hair that’s fallen out of my ponytail. “I like your hair when it’s up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And when it’s down… across my pillow.” A wolfish grin tilts his lips. “Or in my lap.”

  I laugh and push him, but he grabs me and tickles me until I snort. And then we’re tumbling into the grass as the dappled sunlight filters through, making me wish I could bottle up today and keep it somewhere safe forever.

  Josh has his arm around me as we stroll through the small town’s Main Street shops. Chauncey prances along, inspecting everything in his path.

  We’re full from his delicious picnic and maybe a little high from all of the fresh air and sunshine and wine. Clouds build on the horizon, but they never get close enough to do any damage. I half wonder if it’s only Portland that’s deluged in non-stop cloud cover and that if I only drove to the boonies more, I’d be able to indulge in sunny afternoons.

  The warmth in my belly grows as I consider how Josh has gone out of his way to make sure we went somewhere we wouldn’t see people we know. Somewhere that we could be together in public.

  Keeping our relationship quiet is starting to wear on me. I want the world to know he’s mine and that we’re together. To keep things the way they are now as we stroll through this quiet street. As much as I’ve sacrificed for my career, I’m starting to think my relationship with Josh is more important.

  Once I negotiated his Caligula contract, he hasn’t needed me for much anyway, and if he did, I’m confident I could represent him better than any of the old farts at my firm.

  Unless Angela got his case.

  A knot twists in my stomach as I consider that possibility.

  Would she kick ass for Josh if she repped him? Yes, undoubtedly. Everyone knows she’s a piranha for her clients. Could I handle her flirting with him twenty-four seven? Her gloating about it? No, I’m sure it would make me insane, and I’d have to hide the cutlery.

  Even more important, though, would she maintain the kind of confidentiality for him that I do? Probably not. Angela loves good gossip more than her designer outfits. Sure, she’d keep it to the office, blabbing with other attorneys, but it only takes one person who isn’t conscientious to leak that info. We have administrative personnel, accountants, paralegals, human resource managers, consultants, and tech guys—a whole host of individuals at WGA who aren’t attorneys and could potentially divulge Josh’s secret. That’s not counting other clients or opposing counsel who could overhear a reckless conversation in the hall.

  That right there makes the dread worse as I consider talking to Malcolm about my relationship with Josh. Because I have no idea who my boss will reassign the case to.

  A few minutes later, we stop in front of a bakery so I can get a pie for my dad. Monday is the Fourth of July, and he wants me to come over for his yearly barbecue. I know Josh’s family is doing something too, but we haven’t really discussed it.

  That’s another rub. Even if we were officially together, it’s not like I can waltz into the Cartwrights’ for the Fourth. I’m guessing his ex and her family will be there, and even though I can’t stand the idea of her possibly throwing herself at Josh again, I trust him, and I don’t want to cause any waves. Besides, the thought of seeing his mom again and knowing she’ll be judging me against Tiffany, the woman who was basically born and bred for Josh, makes me feel like I’m going to break out in hives. Is that how my dad felt around my mother’s family?

  Motioning toward the window full of pastries, I ask, “Do you want a pie to take to your parents’ house next week? I’m gonna grab one for my dad.”

  Josh shakes his head. “No, but thanks. I’m sure my parents will have it catered.”

  I nod and duck into the shop. Everything smells divine. I could probably eat a whole pie by myself if left unattended.

  As I’m waiting for my pastry to be boxed, two younger women walk in behind me. When the glass door closes behind them, one gushes to the other, “Whew! I need to fan myself. Where did that dish of hotness come from?”

  I peek over my shoulder to check them out again, and they’re busy ogling Josh, who’s kneeling down on the sidewalk petting Chauncey.

  “I don’t know, but let’s talk to him on our way out. Do you think he’s single?”

  “Who cares?” the little tart asks. “I would totally do him.”

  My whole body stiffens as I listen to them go on and on. And on.

  When the woman behind the counter hands me my order, she gives me an apologetic smile because she must have seen Josh and me stroll up together, and my face burns hotter.

  By the time I make it back onto the sidewalk, my stomach is churning. Yes, I get that Josh is gorgeous, but that doesn’t mean I want women all over him.

  I pause.

  Because isn’t that the whole point of his blog and his millions of adoring fans?

  In the last month, he’s shown me his posts, and we’ve chatted about captions and lighting and cropping, but I don’t scroll through the comments. I’ve been too busy to give it much thought. I handled the contract negotiations for him, pleased I kicked corporate ass, and was delighted to hear the company loved his clone.

  But now, now that we’re more firmly together and things are going so well, I have to wonder where this is headed. How much his blog means to him, and how long he plans to do it.

  Which is the most hypocritical thing I could ever think. Because here I am, benefitting from his work, from his creativity and body and personal exposure, and as much as I want to brush off those women in the bakery, their comments trouble me.

  While I don’t want to tell him what to do with his blog, I’m starting to think maybe I’m not as open-minded as I once hoped.

  But I stuff down the emotion when Josh twines his fingers through mine and bends down to taste my neck. Today has been incredible, and I don’t want to bring up anything that would tarnish the wonderful time we’ve had. At some point, though, we’ll need to talk about it. I’m just hoping this isn’t a bigger issue for us than a simple conversation where I can unload some irrational worries.

  Turning back to the two women in the bakery, I find that they’re watching Josh kiss my neck with horrified expressions on their faces. Oh, yeah, bitches, he’s with me.

  I smile at them and wave. Because, for now, Josh is mine. If that means I need to have thicker skin, so be it.

  21

  Josh

  We’re driving back to Portland with fresh air in our lungs and a dog in the back seat of my car, cherry pie boxed up where he can’t get it. I glance over at Evie, and she looks thoughtful. Her dark hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and I lean over and
kiss the freckles on her cheek. This earns me a broad smile.

  I shift my eyes back on the road. I don’t know why I haven’t told her how I feel about her.

  Maybe because we aren’t supposed to be together, although the whole lawyer-client issue hasn’t stopped us. In fact, I think it’s made her more invested in my future. While she’s not afraid to push back and tell me the hard things I don’t want to hear when she needs to, her advice about my blog has been spot-on. So our relationship is not getting in the way of her work at all.

  Maybe I haven’t told her because she’s so strong and focused on her career. I don’t want to take her attention away from that. Once I say something it becomes real. That’s what I like about her, though. That she is so real.

  But maybe I haven’t said anything because after my last relationship, I’m still gun-shy.

  I look at her and make a decision.

  Screw my history. This relationship happened so naturally, it’s like I’ve been waiting for her forever.

  I’m forced to keep it quiet. For her sake and mine—or for that of the Cartwright name and Spencer’s campaign.

  Still, the fact remains that she is mine.

  I’m pretty damn sure she feels the same way.

  But I’m going to tell her.

  I just need to find the right time.

  When we pull up to Evie’s house, Chauncey bursts out of the back seat, runs three circles around the front lawn, bashes through a rhododendron, and then sits on the porch like he’s been sanely and sedately led to the front door. Muttering, “Crazy mutt,” under her breath, Evie strolls over to the side gate and lets him in the backyard.

  We enter her house, and Evie sets the pie on the kitchen counter.

  “We’re going to tackle this project next?” I ask, gesturing toward the avocado and golden harvest appliances that don’t match the 1927 bungalow.

  She smiles. “Yeah, will you go with me on a historical house tour? There’s one down in Albany I’d like to check out. Some of those houses still have their original charm. I’m sure it’ll give me tons of ideas for this place.”

  “Absolutely.” There is nothing I’d like better. We had a blast tiling the master bathroom. I really think she should start blogging, so I’ve brought the camera inside to take before pictures as persuasion.

  But not yet.

  I set the Canon on the counter beside the box with the pie. I’m not interested in food, photos, or home improvement. I just want Evie. She looks too beautiful, and the teasing in the cherry orchard was torture. I take off my glasses, rest them on the pastry box, and step towards her, tilting up her chin with my index finger. She gets a light kiss, and I pull back and cup her face with my hands.

  “Hey,” I say, noticing for the first time that her sleepy gray eyes are rimmed with a darker color on the outside. An ombre effect. Funny I can see it better without my glasses.

  “Hey,” she responds, her voice suddenly husky.

  I need to show her. I need to tell her what I’m thinking. What I’m feeling.

  With a brush of my thumb, I feel the silk of her cheeks, and I take a deep breath. She smells like sunshine—bright and sweet and warm. Leaning in, I kiss her again, only this is an I mean it kiss.

  A claiming kiss.

  One she can’t mistake for anything else.

  One that means I’m not going anywhere without her.

  My tongue swipes inside her mouth, finding hers, and just like that, we combust. Frantic. Hungry. Crazed. Like we’re trying to climb inside the other person, that’s how close we want to be. We’re nothing but hands, breaths, lips, and dare I say it, love?

  Love.

  That’s how I’m feeling.

  I love her.

  After a moment, I suck on her lower lip, my teeth nipping at it as I break apart.

  The best way I know how to convey my feelings is to show her body. Give her what she needs. Let her feel completely cared for.

  Completely owned.

  Because of course, she owns me.

  Even if we haven’t been together long, I know she’s different. This girl touches me in a way no one else ever has.

  Her eyes are wide and wild. I love that turned-on expression she gets. And that sated, sleepy look that sweeps over her after she comes.

  I’m going to make sure that happens now. Multiple times.

  I pull her thin, mint green sweater over her head and admire her standing there in a pale pink bra, dark jeans, and brown leather boots.

  She’s come a long way. She used to hide her body from me. I couldn’t bless her perfect tits, the inward curve of her waist at her hips, the velvety skin on her ribcage with my kisses.

  Now she stands there with a half smile, knowing that I’m enjoying every inch of her half-naked body.

  “Wanna taste you.” The words are raspy and raw, maybe because I’ve wanted to say this since we kissed in the orchard.

  Her eyes darken to the color of slate, and she nods.

  I suck on her earlobe, the silky smooth skin of her neck, the hollow of her throat, and on a pant, she draws me closer, hooking her hands into the back of my jeans. With one flick, I unclasp her bra and slide it down her arms.

  Her breasts are heavy in my palms. She knows my fantasy about coming on them. The thought makes my dick strain against the seam of my jeans.

  I start licking and kissing my way down her torso, taking each nipple into my mouth and tugging until it hardens. Her slender hands tangle in my hair and clutch me closer.

  Working her over, hearing her whimper, seeing how she responds to me, has me reaching for my belt and unbuttoning my jeans for relief before I finish stripping her.

  “This isn’t fair,” she whimpers, as I run my finger down her side and over her thong, the last piece of fabric on her gorgeous body.

  “What’s not fair, sweetheart?”

  “I’m naked, and you’re fully dressed.” Her pout is adorable.

  “I intend to get naked, babe.”

  “Now, Josh. Get naked now.”

  Grinning, I shuck off my hoodie and T-shirt. My cock is pulsing with anticipation, but I gotta ignore it. Ladies first. Always.

  Once I’m down to black boxer briefs, I open my arms for her again. “This better?”

  She answers by slipping her slim hands down my body to massage me through my underwear, rubbing up and down, gliding along it, then applying pressure so that my veins pop.

  “Fuck, woman,” I rasp out. “Take it easy. This time we’re going slow.”

  But with a wicked smile, she falls to her knees, pulls the fabric down my legs, and takes my cock in her hot, wet mouth.

  Fuck.

  Yes.

  I tug out her ponytail holder, loosening her thick hair around her shoulders.

  On autopilot, I pick up the camera and start taking pictures. That dark head bobbing on my dick. Her eyes watching me with lust and amusement. Her perfect mouth, a tongue stuck out licking the veins on my thick cock.

  “I’ll let you take those pictures,” she says in her sexy voice, “but they will never see the light of day.”

  “Never.”

  “Although I can think of some that could,” she says, and stands up with her hand outstretched. I hand her the camera and she switches it to video. “I’m sure your fans would love to hear what you sound like.”

  I shake my head. No way.

  But she reaches over and starts stroking me again. I lean against the counter, head thrown back, and with a nod indicate, oh, fuck it, do it. Just because we record it doesn’t mean we have to post it.

  The record button beeps. Her soft hand pumps my dick, works me over before dropping down to caress my balls. My abs constrict, and I let out a low moan.

  Keeping the camera running, she settles her mouth on the crown. A blowjob selfie. Slowly, like she’s licking the most delicious ice cream cone in the heat of the summer, her tongue swipes up my swollen length, sending chills up my body. When she gets to the top, she flicks the
tip with light flutters. Goddamn.

  I yank on her hair. I don’t mean to, but it’s a reflex when she takes me deep. Better, though, is the desperate sound she lets out when I tighten my hold on her hair. Yeah, my girl likes that shit. Almost as much as I like doing it to her.

  A moment later, she sets the camera on the counter, points it toward us, and takes me back into her warm mouth.

  Sublime pleasure simmers near the base of my spine as I try to stave off coming. But the fact that this beautiful woman is on her knees, sucking me off like this is the best thing she’s ever done, makes it tough.

  “Oh, fuck, sweetheart, that’s it.”

  Watching my cock disappear through her swollen lips isn’t what nearly does me in. It’s the look her eyes. The adoration. The desire. The trust.

  Nothing on this earth compares to this woman. To what simmers between us as friends and as lovers.

  A low grunt escapes me.

  My breath is harsh, my heartbeat a staccato in my chest. I’m both relieved I hold off and disappointed when she stops.

  “I can’t wait anymore.” Her voice is confident and needy at the same time. I love that she feels she can tell me what she craves. Love that she wants me. Wants this.

  Wiggling out of her pale pink thong, she turns to face the counter, presses her breasts on the tile, and pops her perfect ass toward me.

  “Sweetheart, I’m gonna make you come so hard.”

  I grip my dick and place it between her legs, but don’t press in. Instead, I’m teasing her clit with it, spreading the wetness, making her plump. Rocking and rubbing against her until she moans.

  With my other hand, I find that spot that pulses for me and make wide circles around her skin, teasing her. She bucks against me, needing the pressure, wanting me to fill her, but she’ll come harder if she has to wait.

  Except… I want to tell her first. Want her to understand what she means to me.

  Flipping her around, I pick her up and set her on the counter. Her arms automatically wrap around my shoulders, and her tits press against me, those curves almost too much to bear.

  “Evie.”