by Alexis Angel
I throw him a smile, fully aware that drops of cum are making my lips glisten. He grins at me and, with one hand on my chest, forces me back to the mattress. I go willingly, allowing him to place his hands on my knees and part my legs wide. I close my eyes as he buries his face between my thighs, his mouth pressed tight against my pussy once more. Sucking on my folds, he laps at me with his tongue, scooping up his own cum. I place my hands on his head, running them through his hair as he licks me dry: when he’s done with my pussy, he runs his tongue over my inner thighs, cleaning every single drop of semen from my skin.
Then, he grabs my hand and makes me sit up. Our eyes lock and we lean forward into one other, our cum coated lips touching. I let the whole world fade out as we kiss, realizing how lucky I am.
I’ve found my perfect man and, even though our romance should be a forbidden one, our family and friends support us. But that really isn’t the most important thing, no - Cody changed for me. He could have done it anytime he wanted, he could have become the perfect man whenever…
But he did it for me.
So this is real love, huh?
Epilogue
“Can you guys stop that? I’m going to throw up if you keep acting like that,” Lisa cries out in fake exasperation, throwing her arms up in the air as Cody grabs a thin slice of salmon with his chopsticks and gives it to me. No, we’re not that kind of couple; we’re just doing it to annoy the hell out of Lisa. And it’s working.
“They’re in that phase, Lisa, I guess there’s nothing we can do but put up with it,” Ashley shrugs, but from where I’m sitting I can see that she’s holding Derek’s hand under the table.
Lisa doesn’t really seem to care, though; she doesn’t mind being single, or at least that’s what she says. Despite being between two couples, she acts naturally... and we do the same.
It’s funny how things change; a few weeks ago I was the one sitting by myself right among couples. My friends were all finding their way to the billionaires and princes of the world, and all I had at home waiting for me was a giant pile of unfinished legal memos to go through. Where was my billionaire slash prince slash vampire slash dragon?
I never realized that what I was looking for the whole time was closer than I could've ever imagined. It’s always like that, isn’t it? We go on this quest for something elusive—love, money, happiness—and then we realize that what we really needed was right on our doorstep.
“Ah, love, so fucking annoying,” Lisa sighs loudly, and goes for the sashimi once more, maneuvering her chopsticks more expertly than I’ll ever be able to do. That’s the reason behind my hatred for sushi; I actually like the food, but I just end up stabbing the raw slices of fish with the pointy end of my stick.
“You know… You girls are ruining the New York market. All the good men are gone,” she sighs, cleaning out the sashimi plate so fast I don’t even have the chance to try it. “Besides, everyone here is too crazy for me.”
“So what are you going to do? Don’t tell me you’re going to Europe looking for a Prince?” Ashley teases her, and Lisa frowns and purses her lips, pretending she’s annoyed.
“Nothing so drastic,” she finally responds, an easy smile blossoming in her face. “I’m going back to the Hamptons.”
“The Hamptons?” Cody cuts in, leaning against his seat and grinning. “You know I’m not there anymore, right, Lisa? Ouch!” I punch his arm fast, and he just leans into me and kisses me.
He’s teasing Lisa and I about what happened in Alicia’s engagement party; they were flirting before I jumped in and got Cody out of there. No hard feelings, of course. Lisa and I have been friends for years, and she had no idea about what was happening between Cody and I at the time. And, to be honest, the fact that they were flirting was one of the things pushing me toward Cody. So, in the end, I just have to thank her.
“Very funny, Cody,” Lisa shoots back at him, but her cheeks flush as she says it. Then, without even a breath to recompose herself, she continues: “Yeah, New York guys are too crazy for me. Maybe I’ll find an Island man. Someone to sing me ballads and cook dinner for me. Maybe take me to the fair and win one of those giant stuffed bears for me. That’d be nice.”
“Yeah, like that’s what you’re looking for,” I tell her, rolling my eyes in their orbits. I doubt Lisa cares about a man who knows how to sing his way through Rod Stewart's best hits and can cook pasta; she’s more of the bad boy type, if you know what I mean.
Of course, there’s a reason bad boys are called… well, bad boys. They’re bad. But, oh, they’re so much fun! I guess that she’ll eventually find her bad boy, but she’ll also have to take her rosy sunglasses and face reality.
I was in that same position not to long ago. You see all your friends getting these amazing rich boyfriends, and you think their story is like something out a storybook fairy tale. Only when you go down that path do you realize that the road to love and happiness is one full of bends and turns, twists and precipices. But if you remain calm and keep a steady hand, taking one step at a time, you might just reach the end of the road.
That’s what I did and, in the end, it worked out.
I reach for Cody’s hand and, under the table, I grab it. He squeezes it gently, wrapping his finger around mine, and turns to look at me. He’s smiling softly, and I can almost see my reflection in his eyes. He doesn’t even need to say it; he loves me.
I mouth the words to him, moving my lips so slightly no one else can see it, and he just leans into me and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Love you too, babe,” he whispers, and I feel that gentle feeling of happiness opening its wings inside of me. Who knew that our story would end like this? A happy ending to call my own.
“Let’s get out of here?” I whisper back at him, and his face lights up with a grin.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Happiness and love—I got it all.
And now it’s time we fade to black so I can go enjoy my HEA, know what I mean?
;)
Jailbait
A Secret Bad Boy Romance
By Alexis Angel
Copyright 2016 by Naughty Angel Publishing
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Kerri
The house is quiet. I place my keys on the dining table and walk through the living room. It's dark, but I hear the steady hum of a fan. He must have left it on and then got called into work because I don't hear him, I think to myself. But then I hear a noise coming from an upstairs bedroom. Was that a giggle or a cough, or maybe something else? I can't tell. The sound is too far away.
I slowly make my way up the stairs. "Hello?" I call out. But I don't receive a response. Maybe Jonathan is home and taking a shower. I approach our bedroom. The door is closed but there is a light on. I turn the knob and push the door open. The stereo is on and I hear our familiar song playing its soulful melody:
"If the stars don't shine, if the moon won't rise, if I never see the setting sun again, you won't hear me cry, this I testify, please believe me, boy, you know I won't lie, you and me, you and me…"
I blink back the light of the room as my eyes adjust. At first nothing seems amiss. I notice our rumpled white comforter on the bed and it's moving rhythmically. "Jonathan?" I ask. But before I hear anything else, I now know what I'm looking at, and I'm having a hard time believing it. My eyes burn, and I blink, but when I open them again, I know everything is now changed. My life is irrevocably altered.
"Babe, what are you doing home? I thought you were working?" Jonathan stammers, holding the comforter up to his chin.
; At first, I'm too stunned to say anything. And then I scream, and once I open my mouth, I can't stop. Words spill out of my mouth like water from a fire hose. "Get out! You bastard, get out! Now! Just get out!" Hot tears are spilling out of my eyes, and I hate myself for crying. I should be stronger than this. My strong-willed mother raised me, and if she were here right now, she'd tell me to be tougher than this. I can almost hear her voice in my ear, with its deep, serious tone, telling me that this man doesn't deserve me. He isn't worth crying about. But I'm devastated—there is no question about it—and the hurt that's coursing through me drowns that all out.
"We can work this out," Jonathan pleads. He's getting out of our bed, naked, and holding a pillow in front of his erect cock. His hair is a mess and he runs his fingers through it. His face is flush; he seems scared, but he's forcing his mouth into a smile, and I can't help but look at his rows of perfectly white, straight teeth. I used to think they were a thing of beauty, and now I think they make him look fake, like a real-life talking mannequin, which reminds me of a horror movie. He extends his hand to mine, but I don't let him touch me. I swat it away and turn my body before crossing my arms defensively.
Before this moment, I thought he was the perfect man, even the man of my dreams. I believed that the fairy tale was possible—I bought into the Disney dream that said everyone had their soul mate—their hero on a white horse would come along, so long as you waited for him. I pictured us in this house with kids. I pictured the wedding. I even found myself day dreaming about what kind of flowers I'd use for our arrangements. Hell, I even thought we'd eventually have the mini-van and the weekday soccer practices. It was such a clear picture.
"I made a mistake," he pleads. "I swear this'll never happen again." I snatch his pillow and throw it across the room. I want him to feel just as exposed and vulnerable as I do in this moment.
"You're joking, right?" I ask, not waiting for an answer. "It's over."
And then I look back to the bed, and I see a woman looking for her bra. Her hands are fumbling through the sheets. She's trying to hold her beasts in her hands, but her bra is on the floor and when she finally sees it, she has to reach down and pick it up. Her breasts spill out and I am disgusted with how perfect they look. She refuses to make eye contact with me and her discomfort is palpable. Her hair has that "just fucked" look and she doesn't bother touching it. She's not the one I'm mad it. It's clear she's an unknowing victim.
"Get out!" I scream again. It's the only thing I can say. It feels as if the walls are crumbling around me—the home Jonathan and I built together, the rainy nights spent in front of the TV cuddling up to a movie, the laughs, all of the good memories—that is all replaced with what feels like a punch to my gut. Everything feels dead and the only way I know how to staunch the pain is to remove these people—to get them out of my sight for good.
They scramble for their clothes, and hop around the room on one leg, quickly trying to pull their bodies through jeans. They aren't moving fast enough and I can't stop screaming. I'm seeing and feeling red. My entire body is pulsing. "Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out!" The minutes seem like an eternity and they finally leave with their shoes tucked under their arms. The woman runs down the stairs, and Jonathan follows after her. He stops mid-way and looks back at me one last time before leaving the house for good. It's a pathetic look and I hate him for it.
As soon as I hear the front door close, I slump down against the bedroom wall and sob. It feels like my chest is cracking in half. Everything feels dark and broken. I vow to never trust another man so easily again—maybe ever. Maybe there's no such thing as a Mr. Right. Maybe it's all a lie.
All I know is that there's now a before and after. I'm no longer the person I was yesterday, or even a few minutes ago. I was once blind and trusting, but time has split me in two. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm a new person now—the kind of person who has to reconcile the fact that the man who I thought was my best friend is actually part of a betrayal. It's sort of like being slapped and hugged at the same time.
I don't know who I am any longer, or where I'm going, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let myself sit here, shattered.
Lucien
"—6, 7, 8, 9," I say out loud nearly spitting into the dirt next to me. Fuck, this place is hot. It must be 90 degrees out here. My arms and chest strain under the heaviness of the cast iron weights clanking against a steel bar. My muscles are shot and quivering, but I keep going at a steady pace. I feel myself growing stronger, and if I'm honest, lifting weights gives me the same euphoria as fucking beautiful women. Besides, I can't let myself get soft in a place like this.
There aren't many weights in the exercise yard anymore. It ain't like the movies. The ones left are decades old and rusting, and you practically have to nut up on everyone around you just to use them. I guess some high and mighty prick judge somewhere thought it was risky to let ex-cons get "intimidating muscles," and before anyone could so much as bat an eyelash, the media had its panties all in a ruffle. Everyone was "crapping in their cornflakes" so to speak. Just like that. Boom. Everyone was afraid. And now here we are resorting to lifting library books and doing pull ups on our bunk beds. Lucky for me, this shithole still has a set of weights, and if it's one thing I refuse to do, it's to let myself rot here.
I rest the weights back on the stand and wipe a thin line of sweat dripping down my temple. I blink back the Southern California sun. I catch my breath and grip the bar again. "One more rep," I tell myself. I release the bar from the stand and exhale sharply. It feels impossibly heavy and my veins are pulsing in my biceps. If this bar slips—if my arms give out—I will be in serious trouble. For a moment I wonder if I should call it quits for the day, but I shake the thought. Get your shit together, I tell myself. I start my new reps and count each press, "1, 2, and—"
As I count, my mind drifts back to the moment that haunts me every fucking time I close my eyes at night, and every time I open them in the morning. That apartment. That woman. I can still hear her screaming. I can still see that look of fear in her wide blue eyes as she clutched her baby to her chest. "Do it!" Billy yelled at me. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"
I remember holding the gun in my hand. My fingers frozen against the steel. That baby's perfectly round head nuzzled into her mother's neck like a fuzzy peach. I couldn't do it. I mean, not just in a moral sense, although only a sick fuck could make a move like that, but my entire body resisted too. I completely shut down.
"You fucking coward," Billy snarled. He grabbed the gun and changed everything. BANG. BANG. There were two loud shots that ended two lives. I had never seen so much red. And then everything went quiet. I exhale sharply again, remembering the unsettling stillness of it all.
"3, 4, 5—" I continue to count my reps at a faster clip trying to dull the memory.
It was a revenge killing. Running drugs for the mob isn't pretty, and I've done a lot of shit things in my life, but killing a mother and a baby isn't one of them. Of course no one believes me. And why should they? Billy and the rest of 'em did a damn near perfect job of setting me up—my finger prints were all over the place, including the gun. When the judge slapped me with a life sentence, I swear that a fucking lump the size of a boulder lodged itself deep into my gut. I still have a hard time eating sometimes. I shake my head in disgust.
I notice a shadow above me blocking out the sun. A voice says, "It's time you let the real men have a turn."
A shirtless man looks down at me. His eyes dare me to react. He's young, maybe 26. He thinks he's invincible—they all do in this fucking place. A spider web is tattooed across his shaved, bald head and he spits into the dirt next to me. This guy must be new. People know better than to talk shit to me like that. I rest the weights back on the stand and get up off the bench. I stand inches from his face with my fists clenched and my tightened muscles swollen from the bench presses, defying the unsaid rules of personal space.
"Says who?" I challenge.
&nbs
p; "Says me."
"Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself."
The man's eyes flash hatred at me. He doesn't blink, but instead moves closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me."
"If I heard correctly, you've just signed your own death certificate," he taunts.
"Right or wrong. It doesn't fucking matter," I say. "The only thing that matters in here is winning."
I notice he is clutching a sock in his right hand. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what he's planning to do. There's a lock buried in that sock, and I'm not going to let him have the first swing. Without thinking or saying another word, I strike my right-elbow into the bridge of his nose and I hear it crack. It's like turning on a faucet because a river of blood runs down his face, across his lips, and under his chin.
"You fucking bastard," he growls. He is beyond pissed now. He swings the sock. Predictable. I bend my knees and dodge it, and when I come back up, I bring my fist into his temple. He stumbles and I notice a small crowd has formed a ring around us. Some men are laughing. Some cheering. Some are even making bets.
He charges me like a ram and slams his head into my collarbone. A sharp pain radiates down my chest but this spurs me on. He may be big, but he doesn't stand a chance. I put him in a headlock and we tumble into the dirt. He head butts me and I feel a hot cut form on my cheek. His neck is now in the crease of my arm and I squeeze harder. I'm on top of him and I put my knee into his jaw and pummel his ribs with my fist. Our brawling is kicking up a cloud of dirt and I blink rapidly, trying to keep it out of my eyes.
My anger is boiling over and I deliver blow after blow. Finally, I release him and he stumbles back. His face looks like a child has used it as a finger painting canvas. Red smears are everywhere.
Two guard rush in. They get between us. I see one guard has a can of mace on his hip. "There's a zero tolerance policy for violence boys," the first guard says. "This is going to land you both in solitary."
