Love Struck Bad Boys - 3 Novel Box Set

by Amber Burns

  Only yesterday I’d been so desperate for her cunt to hug my cock.

  Who knew?

  I never needed to be inside her to know Vanna Sterling is made for me.

  4

  I’m whistling.

  Whistling!

  Sergeant Amos Fuller, former Marine with eight years of active duty, one of the top graduating Recruits, and completely tone deaf, at your service. Oorah.

  The guy in front of me gives me a look. Stopping my poor rendition of some Eagles’ tune. I stare right back, waiting for him to say nothing.

  That’s right, turn the fuck around.

  Did I mention Albany, New York has its share of nosy, non-morning people?

  He clears the queue and I answer the perky young male barista with my order, glad to see someone prove me wrong in the span of a minute. To be fair I’m not much for early mornings either. You know the kind where dusk is clinging desperately to the buildings, store fronts are closed up and there’s a sense of emptiness in the world.

  In a rarefied ultra-good mood, I greet just about everything I cross, animate and non-animate, with a grin. Another point about early mornings, very few souls are around to document your making a fool of yourself.

  I could be a dumbass all I wanted. I threw in a wave at the dog peering out from the front window of a bookshop.

  A few stores down, I pause by my favorite display window.

  The mannequin inside is wearing some hot mess of a twenties-era flapper dress, complete with a parasol and a feathered hat. Autumn garland coils up from the bottom edges of the window reminding passersby of the season. Above the mannequin’s head, in arched silver writing, is Sterling Outfits, wardrobe styling business with a specialty in vintage fashion.

  It’s dark inside. Through the display case I make out a light streaming from the back rooms, where the dressing rooms are, and it’s enough to incite me to rap on the freshly painted green door.

  I don’t have to wait long for the slim, bearded owner to open the door.

  “Do you sleep?” Leaning on the doorjamb, Wes blocks the door. Both his greeting and his blood-shot eyes imply he’d be better with eight hours of sleep or anything more than what he slept last night. “Well?”

  I raise the tray. “I bear offerings to the Styling Gods.”

  “Har har, hardy har.” But I’ve hooked him. He’s eyeing one paper cup in particular. “Is that apple cider I smell?”

  “So you do like cider.”

  “Violet,” Wes’ narrowed gaze is tossed over his shoulder towards the back of the shop. “All right. Come in.”

  Leading me to the back, he waves to an armchair, another vintage find. “Sit, be merry, and give me my damn cider.”

  I do as he says. I don’t want to be freezing my butt off outside again.

  The dressing room is in between fittings – that’s the only way I can explain the bomb that seems to have gone off in here.

  I wedge my Americano out from the tray, thumbing the opening and sipping for a boost of much-needed caffeine. Making small talk with Wes is painfully awkward. This I realized after two mornings: He’s one of those non-morning Albany people.

  Thankfully we’re not alone for much longer.

  Violet walks in and beams her greeting. Even brighter than her smile is her outfit. She’s shrugging off a sunshine-y yellow wool coat, tucking away the long string holding her keys to the store into a matching tote, and looking like the silky gray blouse and grape purple waist-high pant suit is made for her.

  “You told him about the cider.” Wes punctuates the comment with a sip from the contested cider.

  “Good morning to you, too, Sunshine.”

  “You told him about the cider,” Wes repeats. He’s glowering over his cup at his little sister.

  I glance between them, sensing the storm of a sibling argument, and then scout the back room for a place to hide for cover.

  Normally it’d be a signal to slink away, but I plant my boots firmly, no plans to leave without coming to retrieve what I originally wanted. And she’s nowhere in sight like usual.

  “Only because you threw a shit-fit over yesterday’s coffee,” Violet winks at me, and I cover the grin with a drag from my cup.

  “That was not anywhere near a shit-fit. Would you like me to demonstrate?”

  I was glad Violet saved me from talking to Wes, now I want a certain someone else to save me from both of her siblings. Deciding to take the wait to the front room, I forego mentioning my departure – Wes and Violet probably won’t know I’m missing anyways the way they’re arguing.

  Vanna’s arrival doesn’t go unnoticed. Her key turns the lock less than ten minutes before Sterling Outfits is due to open for the business day.

  “Amos,” she’s all breathless. Her hair in its tight bun isn’t as telling of her harrowing journey over as is her rumpled red-brown Henley and askew jean skirt. Any hint of leg under that knee-length skirt is obscured by worn riding boots.

  Yet, just like the past two mornings, I’m salivating at the first hint of her body soap brand, and all I want to do is lift her up into my arms, forcibly wrap those legs around my middle and have her ride me in our own Vanna-scented bubble.

  Morning becomes my girl.

  “Amos?” she giggles when I shake my head, over-exaggerating the action. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You have to ask. Being near you is a danger, woman.”

  At my growled words, and closing distance, she gasps. Catching Vanna about the waist before she topples over the vintage table holding Sterling Outfit’s tally – excuse me, comment book, I drop a fast kiss over her forehead, tucking her against my chest. “Stop making me miss you so damn much.”

  “I-I missed you too?”

  Her uncertainty tugs an abrupt laugh from me. “Why does that sound like a question? Should I be worried?”

  “N-No.” She stammers. “I did miss you, but…”

  “But?” I’m back to growling. My teasing elicits pinking in her cheeks and down along her creamy, swan-like column of a throat.

  “We did see each other last night.” She peers up at me like it’s obvious, her eyes reading the unspoken part, ‘Why miss me? Why me?’

  If she asked my answer wouldn’t satisfy her: It’s pretty straightforward.

  Five days ago I met Vanna’s ass. My dick went hard and I knew I wanted her warming my bed. Here’s the thing though. I’m thirty-six, eight years of that went to the Marines – no complaints there considering they were the best years of my life as far as careers go, and with a hell lot more free time a man goes to thinking about his life: What about family?

  Marriage springs on me out of the blue right out of the Marines and I can’t shake the idea. Frankly, I don’t want to. Once it got its steam it’s proves all the sense in the world.

  Find myself a girl I can settle down with, put a ring on it, and within the year introduce our first baby to the world. That’s the Amos Fuller Family Plan.

  Almost two years later, flying down to Albany from Atlanta to meet my soon-to-be-wed kid sister and her bridal party at our grandparents’, it hits me some ten thousand feet above ground I’m nowhere near closer to marrying and building a family.

  Fuck, I think.

  And fuck I think again when I see the length our Grandmamma and Pops go to welcoming Iris’ hasty wedding news. I hate that I’m jealous. Hate it. The only thing I’m proud of is being a good grandson, a fantastic – if not slightly annoying – older brother, and a damn upstanding Marine.

  Meeting Vanna isn’t a coincidence. She’s the one for me. I might not have known it by her ass alone, still it didn’t take a whole lot longer for the animal in me to want to fill her with my cum, watch her grow with my child, and live out the rest of ours days and nights together...yadda yadda, you get it.

  Going over it now I realize how weird it might be to tell her, ‘I want you because I just do’, but that’s my final answer. My chest expands with the finality, the rest of my insides c
oncur: My stomach does the ‘wave’ from the scent of her vanilla-ish body wash, my heart is pumping a tad bit more than usual, my skin feels electrified wherever I make contact, skin-to-skin or otherwise.

  Out loud I pick up the thread of our conversation all normal-like when I feel anything but.

  “Yeah, but last night’s last night. I missed you today. I even dreamt about you, woke up from it and missed you even more.”

  “Really?”

  Why the fuck does she sound so shocked? Any other girl pulls that shit and I’d walk away, no looking back; Vanna’s surprise is genuine. Okay, that’s my fault. I’ve been holding back, keeping our time together to the lengthy make-out sessions and innocent petting.

  The dry-humping in Wes’ car was the closest we got to sex-sex.

  She’s making this too easy.

  “Really really.” I’m all low, sultry drawl; my lips brushing her warm ear shell. “Want to know what I dreamed about?” I lick my lips, purposefully swiping the wet tip over her shell. “You were standing in that display window, wearing some frilly bra and thong and my hands were rubbing over your tits, freeing your breasts and pinching those pretty pink nipples.”

  “What about people?” she pipes up with her question, pitch, all reedy, higher than normal.

  Her interruption has me speechless.

  I lose my edge for a second. But just for a second, and then I’m rock hard and clenching my teeth to mask the groan. I thought I had control of our little game; Vanna proves me wrong. I know the difference between her real innocence and the mischievous intent in that comment. She’s a quick study in more ways than one.

  Vanna, you tease.

  “People. Oh, they were there. They watched me pull your thong down around your legs, one hand on your breast, my other hand slipped down your belly, down to plunge one finger in your tight, wet cunt,” I blow the last words into her ear, catching her ear lobe with my teeth, my nibbling earning a shuddery long-drawn moan.

  Speaking of her wet cunt, she’s probably drenched now. Poor Vanna, but she upped the game when she showed me her secreted playful side.

  “Two fingers, scissoring you open, your juices are all over my hand now with my heel rubbing your clit. You’re moaning, panting and begging for me to take you hard and fast, end it.”

  “D-Do you?” Inside the ring of dark brown, Vanna’s irises have dilated. Her lips move apart, tongue darting out to coat her bottom lip, gaze skittering between my stare and my mouth, her neck arching with the silent request.

  Instead of kissing her senseless, I lean closer and breathe the rest of the story out, “I pull you back against my hard-on and you beg harder. My hand, slick with your cum, snakes up pinch your nipples. Then slowly, I push you forward until your ass is right against my dick.” I chuckle when she actually leans forward in my arms, in reality her ass a little lower than the bulge stretching my briefs today, yielding to the fly of my jeans.

  “You were rubbing against me, particularly chaffing your sweet pussy to get to me. I free myself, my cock in hand brushing your cunt, spearing you open. Your fucking tight,” Vanna’s gasping breaks my concentration, and her kiss robs me of the roll I’m on bringing the fantasy scenario to life.

  The short kiss is enough to completely leave me drawing a blank as soon as our lips part on a juicy pop. And it’s short only because I draw her back from me, moving my head up and out of reach of even her tip-toed stance.

  She looks like sex.

  Or a woman who demanded to be sexed by the first willing male – that would be me and nobody else, not ever again, and the thought alone of Vanna with any guy, past or some imaginary present, boils my blood in a way I’ve never experienced.

  At least where rage drivers, nosy bodies, bad TV connection, and my other X number of peeves are concerned.

  Now where the hell was I?

  “Now I’m in you, stretching you slowly until I know you can take me balls deep. I let you get used to me before I’m thrusting hard and fast,” I pick up wherever, getting us back on track with mood. “Fast and hard enough your tits are bouncing and I have to draw you back enough to grope one and then the other. Your wet nipples – they’re soaked with your juices, remember – fill my palms just right, like they were made for my hands alone.”

  “And everyone’s watching?”

  I smile, almost reward her with another of those kisses she wants, like the one she stole, but I’m saying, “Yeah, they’re still watching us. They watch me thrust hard, move my hands to your fat hips, woman, and pistol out of your pussy. They watch you come first, loudly and hard, your cunt is squeezing my dick and just when I think it’s going to fall off, I blast into you. You milk me clean.” I have to take a breath before I continue, “I was drawing you off my cock, turning you around and lifting you up only to sink back into you.”

  By now I’m mixing tenses. Past and present are blurring the lines between fantasy and reality, or wished-for reality. I seriously consider pushing off the comment book and lifting Vanna up on the vanity table, finding her panties under the skirt and pushing my face against her cunt, lapping up the juices that have to be coating her pussy by now.

  Hell, she better be fucking ready to jump my bones. I’m about to burst with my load, and then I’m not sure what I fear more, busting early before I can see how far I can push the envelope with Vanna and our early morning fun, or her not feeling the way I do physically and, lately, emotionally.

  “Again?” Vanna draws me out of my thoughts. She doesn’t look disconnected. If anything her dilated pupils, coloring in her cheeks and splotching her throat, and the straining buttons of her shirt over her rapidly rising and falling chest are telling me it’s the exact opposite of my irrational fear.

  Vanna wants me at least as equally as I want her.

  “Again.” It’s all I say, closing off the fantasy and making room for the real world.

  She shudders and closes her eyes, head tilting up again, her lips pushed together and giving the illusion of extra fullness.

  I give into her; kissing her like a man starved of female companionship, like lovers reuniting after some near-death experience, I kiss her like I wanted to kiss her the first time I saw her – not the ass part, when she caught me drooling over her through the display window.

  The perfect foreplay, unplanned on my part, and it’s the most response I’ve gotten from Vanna over our near week together.

  She opens up to my kiss, pushing back and yet also yielding to me. The dominant fighter in me thrills when she goes pliant in my embrace, and the lover is positively glowing.

  Our break consists of kissing foreheads, tasting each other’s breath. I don’t know which of us is panting louder, but the noise is erotic as fuck.

  “Did you really dream all that…” Vanna starts in with that silly doubt of hers raising a pin to our happy bubble, threatening to blow our passionate connection to the wind, and I figure I should stop her, somewhere in the back of my mind I’m rallying to do just that.

  “Or were you joking?” She completes her thought and I’m nowhere near ready to answer.

  I realize now that I can’t rid the doubt, not without Vanna’s conscious help. I’d bet my baseball collection signed by all the Mets Vanna isn’t aware of how her low self-esteem colors her thought and speech patterns.

  A defeatist, that’s what she is; in the Marines she’d be one of those early dischargers, the ones who have no real excuse to leave save that the Marines wasn’t what they thought it’d be.

  I cup her cheek and she leans into my palm, lips turning to brush my thumb. I absorb the sensual jolt thrumming up my arm, over my chest and straight through to my erection.

  Imagining how a simple, sweet gesture could get me harder blows my mind. If I needed another reason to choose Vanna out of all women, that alone would suffice.

  Maybe I’ll regret it later, but I find the right words now.

  “I’m joking.” Not really really.

  I had a dream about her, all
right, and the example I gave her was the tame, softcore edition when you’re actually living it in color. It had felt so real too. Nothing more frustrating than waking up with a hard-on and having to throw stained sheets in the wash before Grandmamma or Pops woke up; that would have been hard to explain.

  The X-rated, director’s cut reel is fragmented, but even the fragments are cock-throbbing worthy. I had no plans to replace the images of Vanna, cum-soaked and wailing my name, soon. Not until I could have the real thing to live out the fantasies with.

  “Amos!” She burrows her flushed face into my shirt, mumbling, “Stop it.” Funny, her tone makes me want to tease her more.