Dreamspinner Press Year Eight Greatest Hits

by Brandon Witt

When he speared the pink hole with the point of his tongue and tunneled into my entrance, I saw black spots, flickering across my vision.

  God. A broken cry fell from my lips, and my eyes fluttered shut as I pulled my thighs tightly to my chest and locked my arms underneath. I felt torn apart by the sensation, incapable of speech. I didn’t know if I was going to survive, but I wasn’t going to miss a minute.

  I writhed on the bed, moaning, wanting, needing more as he withdrew and penetrated me again, fucking me roughly with his tongue. I fought the explosion rising inside me, fought it with every fiber of my being, but it was useless. I could feel it coming as I mumbled nonsensically, tossing my head side to side. He replaced his tongue with one finger and then two, pushing slowly inside me to the knuckle, and I was done. My entire body shuddered as the orgasm ripped through me and hurtled through every nerve ending in my body from my fingertips to the tendons of my neck, stark against smooth skin.

  “Fuck!” Air came surging back into my struggling lungs, and I lay there panting. “Fuck,” I said again weakly, because I couldn’t remember any other words yet. I didn’t know that losing control could be so much fucking fun.

  His soft laugh was damned sexy. “What year is it? Do you know who the president is?”

  “You’re a riot,” I managed. “Should take that act… on the road.”

  My sarcasm would have had more impact if I hadn’t spasmed just then, shaking like a leaf as the aftershock passed through my body.

  His eyes went dark. “You’re so crazy hot when you lose control like that.”

  It was only then that I realized his fingers were still moving inside of me, thick and deep. Rubbing against my prostate in a way that made me grunt and bear down. Probably why I was still hard as a brick even though I’d just come harder than I’d ever come in my life. I didn’t have stamina, I groused. But somehow my body was made for this… made for him? All I knew was I’d never felt this before, never felt this way before, and I wasn’t ready for it to end. Instinctively, I felt my hips working with his questing fingers as they pumped in and out of my hole.

  “You ready for me?” His voice was husky as he settled on his knees between my splayed thighs.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You have to ask?”

  My attitude was ruined as he pulled his fingers out of my grasping hole, and I whimpered at the loss. He rolled on a condom in no time at all and braced on his elbow. He guided himself into my entrance, pushing past the tight ring of muscle, rubbing against every ridge and groove on the way in. Though I urged him on with my hands, he was still, his heavy balls snug against my ass.

  “Is it weird… that I’ve never felt this way before?”

  My gaze shot up from our joining to his, and there was an open honesty there that shook me to my core. The look on his face was tender and caring, and it took my breath clean away.

  “No,” I said thickly. “Not weird.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say more and then gasped as my muscles began fluttering and grasping around him. He started to move, pulling nearly all the way back out and moving slowly back in. He sucked the skin of my neck, and I knew he was marking me. I didn’t care. Our bodies worked together like they were born that way, like beautiful synchronized music. Somewhere in the back of my hazy mind, I realized with a start that we weren’t having sex. We were making love.

  Damn it. My eyes felt a little wet. We weren’t supposed to make love. We were supposed to fuck. Have fun. What the hell were we doing? Before I could formulate an answer, his thrusting became more intense, angling across my prostate in a way that snatched the breath clean from my body. When he dragged back across it, I cried out, digging my fingers into his shoulders.

  “Again,” I demanded. “Just like that.” I didn’t care what we were doing. Just do it again.

  His fingers gripped my hips as he slammed across that spot again and again, picking up speed and setting a punishing pace—I could only hold on for the ride. Muscles stood out on his arms in stark relief beneath the honey-colored skin as he braced himself above me. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto my chest, and I wanted to feel it, taste the salty drops bursting against my tongue. I slammed my eyes shut against the visual feast to stave off my orgasm, but it was no use. The sounds of our lovemaking echoed in my ears—the slap of our thighs, his balls thudding against the crack of my ass, and our harsh breathing meshing and melding together.

  “I’m… I’m….” was all I managed as the most intense orgasm of my life shot through my spine and hurtled through my body. I tightened around Jordan’s cock with the force of my orgasm, and suddenly he shuddered and convulsed against me as the storm hurtled through him too. I felt him expand and pulse inside me and wondered if I’d ever get to feel him coming inside of me without the latex barrier. For now, this was enough, more than I’d thought I’d have, certainly.

  We lay there for a moment, breathing like collided trains—wrecked, steam whistling from our collapsed bodies. I ran my hands absently over his sweat-slicked skin, wishing he’d never move, that he’d never have to pull out. Eventually he did move, just long enough to take off the condom, and I was gratified when the always-neat Jordan tossed it somewhere near the trash. He didn’t seem at all concerned if it made it in or not as he flopped back down beside me, facedown in the pillow, and buried his head between folded arms.

  “You’re going to regret that in the morning,” I predicted to a mop of silky black hair. “You are fussy, you know.”

  “I am not fussy.” His voice was muffled in the pillow.

  “If there’s a drop of dirt or dust in this place, I haven’t seen it.”

  “You haven’t looked. You’ve been too busy keeping me within three feet of the bed.”

  “It wasn’t that hard.” I grinned.

  When he unearthed half his face to turn to me, I could see the hint of a smile on his full lips. “Something sure was.”

  “Oh, is it bad pun time already? I should have seen it coming,” I said, waggling my eyebrows.

  He snorted into the pillow. “Your postcoital talk needs work.”

  “At least I don’t use terms like postcoital.”

  “There are worse things. Like a bedmate that never quiets down and sleeps.”

  “I slept,” I reminded him. “You were working, so you don’t remember. What time is it anyway?”

  He grunted in response, and I swatted his shoulder. I leaned over him, squashing him good (hopefully), and began groping the nightstand surface for my watch. Even as I almost knocked something off and pushed a water glass dangerously close to the edge, I continued to grope blindly—habit was so hard to break, and I’d been blind nightstand surfing my whole life.

  “It’s four thirty,” he said with a yawn. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I should get back,” I said, finally locating the leather band of my watch with an “Aha!” I peered at the quartz face for a moment, only to realize his guess was accurate. “I have work in the morning.”

  “Anything you can blow off? I have a meeting in the morning, but we could meet for lunch.”

  “You were the bad kid in class, weren’t you? The one who would stage a walkout if the professor was three minutes late?”

  “Five minutes, Mac. It’s only polite. How can you mold young minds if you can’t be on time?” He rolled to the side, facing me, and propped up on an elbow. “So? How about it?”

  Faced with the sight of all that deliciousness, I almost forgot my own name, much less that I should say no. “I have to go in, but I can meet you for lunch. Somewhere near the beach.”

  He grinned. “You surfing or working? Don’t make me call Drew.”

  “I’m meeting a prospect at their board shop. Call it a little of both,” I said with a wink. “And don’t you dare.”

  “Don’t worry. I need you alive for dinner. And after.”

  “Oh, we’re doing dinner too?” My eyebrows went up. “I have to keep my other men happy, darling. How’s a guy supposed to retain
his other relationships?”

  “You’re not.” He leaned over and kissed me thoroughly, one hand anchored in my hair. “I think I could bear to have you here for a little while. What do you think?”

  I thought I really liked his hand in my hair, massaging my scalp. I thought I really liked lying in his bed, talking in the dark. I thought I really liked waking up to him in bed beside me. I thought I really didn’t want this to end.

  Tell him. Tell him how he makes you feel.

  “I… I….”

  His piercing gaze halted the words before they made their final journey, and they huddled together in my mouth. The truth of the matter was I wasn’t sure enough about us to confess something like that. I was a chicken. Even though part of me knew that love was never guaranteed, I needed to know Jordan was all in before I laid my cards on the table.

  “You what?”

  “I—I want food,” I blurted. “All this work has made me hungry.”

  He stared at me for a moment, and I wondered if he would call me on the lie. His mouth quirked, and I knew he wouldn’t press the issue. Sure enough, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed with a groan.

  “What work?” He stretched, and I admired the pull and play of the muscles in his long limbs. “I was the one working up a sweat.”

  I squawked. “I’ll have you know I’m a fantastic fuck, J.”

  He paused in the doorway and gave me a curious look. “You’re more than that. I didn’t think I had to tell you that by now.”

  That and a million other things. A million times over. I decided to remain mute on what, exactly, he was going to have to do to make me believe this was real and followed him to the granite and stainless steel mausoleum he called a kitchen.

  We ate cereal in his bed, because that’s what you do when sex is too new to bother with clothes or eat real food. I stirred my Cheerios gratefully, glad he had caved and put sugar in them at least. I had been dismayed to learn that Jordan’s tastes only ran to Mueslix, Raisin Bran, or plain Cheerios when he felt festive. Plain. I slid my gaze to him sitting beside me, cross-legged, with his bowl of Cheerios, the light of the television flickering on his glasses. It made me concerned for his mental state, frankly. I mean, they had like five different flavors of Cheerios nowadays.

  He looked over at me. “What?”

  I pointed my spoon in his direction. “You should try these with sugar.”

  His nose scrunched adorably. “I tried your Pop-Tarts, but I have my limits.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Cavities, empty calories, and early death?”

  “Sweet goodness. And it’s my turn to choose a show.”

  He snatched the remote from the covers before I could reach it, squawking when I dived for him. He held his bowl aloft as I leaned and reached around him.

  “We’re going to need to reach an agreement before I acquiesce,” he announced.

  “What kind of agreement?”

  “No housewives. Of any county. No Bridezilla. No…”

  “Anything but crime shows?” I finished, giving him a poke in the ribs.

  His mouth twitched. “I watch other things.”

  “Please. Name one of your shows that don’t begin with a gruesome description of where they found the body.”

  “Dateline ID,” he said triumphantly. “They work their way up to the body. And that’s if they found it at all.”

  I stared at him. And pulled up an On Demand episode of a show on his impromptu no-no list. He groaned and fell back on the bed.

  “Drama queen,” I said, rescuing his empty bowl and putting it on the nightstand. “Compromise. By one party. Suffering through a show you hate is what relationships are all about. It means you care.”

  When I looked back over at him, he wasn’t smiling like I’d intended. His expression was serious. Intent. “Is that what this is?” he asked. “A relationship?”

  “Isn’t it?” I asked casually.

  It was probably only a second before he answered me, but it felt like four hours. His answer, when it came, was simpler than I expected.

  “I guess it is.” He rested his head on my thigh in order to get a better vantage point for the show he hated. “I guess it is.”

  Chapter 23

  JDIZZLE: I’m getting home early, so I’ll start dinner. What sounds good?

  McMoney: U starting and finishing dinner.

  JDizzle: Cute. There’s an apron waiting for you. I need a sous-chef.

  McMoney: Fine. Then I want carbonara.

  JDizzle: Oddball.

  McMoney: U asked.

  JDizzle: We need eggs for that.

  McMoney: Then someone needs 2 go 2 the store.

  JDizzle: I’m guessing you’re talking about me.

  McMoney: Well, u are off, JDizzle.

  JDizzle: I’ve asked you not to call me that.

  I SNICKERED at Jordan’s text. Wait until he saw how I’d programmed him in my phone. I had my fingers poised to respond when Drew elbowed me.

  “Pay attention,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

  I sighed, pocketing my phone. I didn’t know why I had to pay attention. We were holding interviews for Jennie’s assistant—this was her show, and if her business suit was anything to go by, she didn’t mind letting them know it. Generally, we were a little more casual here. As long as she was happy with the candidate, what did I care?

  Jordan was in the middle of a big case, and time with him, not working, was becoming rare. I could be home right now. I frowned. Home nowadays could be his place just as much as mine. I wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. Just humans being human, I guessed. We started out meeting at a particular place for dinner, and then it just seemed silly to waste all that gas. All of a sudden, we were driving places together. After having sex, neither one of us wanted to get up and drive home at the crack of dawn, so suddenly I was staying the night. But then I had work in the morning, and going home to change was such a bother. So I started bringing a bag. But keeping up with that bag was like living out of a suitcase. Then I started leaving things at his place.

  I sighed. My, what a tangled web we weave… when you play house with your boyfriend. That’s what he was, wasn’t he? I was hesitant to put labels on something still in its infancy—we’d only been seeing each other for two months. Two months to get to know each other’s likes and dislikes, routines and patterns, thoughts… dreams, hopes….

  I couldn’t lie; I liked this getting-to-know-you stuff. I knew that he was a freaking morning person (which, frankly, had almost been a deal breaker), and had a serious problem with caffeine. He talked on the phone when driving most of the time (he wouldn’t admit it) to “kill two birds with one stone.” He worked too much and crashed on the weekends and only had a passing acquaintance with the word “relax.” I wasn’t even sure if he knew the word. And he liked me.

  Cue schoolgirl blush. But he did. Sometimes I even caught him staring when we were supposed to be working at home. (Bad idea, we always wound up fucking.) And when I caught him looking at me with that look, I almost imagined this was real. That I wouldn’t come home one day and he would be gone.

  Shouldn’t spending all the time with each other lessen the need to hear his voice? See his face? And there in the interview, right in the middle of Bella answering a question, it hit me smack dab in the face. I sat up straight. Breathed in sharply. I was in fucking love. No. Fuck love. Love was for suckers. Jump in a wrapper, darlin’, and call yourself a lollipop. My mouth twisted bitterly. Fool. Even I couldn’t muster up the level of denial I’d need to deny it. My arms weren’t strong enough to shovel that much bullshit.

  “Oh, man,” I whispered.

  This had so not been a part of the plan. I started to drop my head in my hands and remembered my audience just in time. Varying degrees of confusion and annoyance graced Drew’s and Jennie’s faces. I smiled weakly at the only person smiling back at me—Bella, our hopef
ul candidate.

  “Oh, man, are you qualified,” I ad-libbed poorly.

  Drew rolled his eyes so hard I’m surprised they didn’t land on the table. “Go on, Bella,” he encouraged. “You were talking about your organizational strengths and weaknesses?”

  Bella beamed and continued talking about her unique filing system, while I tried to breathe normally while thinking about… you know, love and crap. The stupid part of my heart ached to celebrate—my brain had finally received its messenger hawk and the note in his beak. I wanted to enjoy it and not be filled with this crazy, irrational fear that it would all end any minute. But it wasn’t a crazy fear, was it? People left all the time, even when they claimed to love you.

  My jaw firmed. I guessed I would just have to enjoy him while it lasted.

  “Well, Bella, if you have any more questions, you should feel free to e-mail or call me.” Jennie’s voice filtered through my musings, and I sat up straight. Finally. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “No,” Bella said, shaking her head obediently.

  I sighed and half stood—but she wasn’t quite done.

  “I would like to say something more about my qualifications. I like to consider myself the full package, the A to Z in assistants.” She smiled confidently as I eased back down in my chair. “I actually have qualifications to match that A-to-Z package. A is for my attitude, which is always helpful and team-oriented. B is for….”

  Oh, jeez. I wriggled in my seat, hoping someone would stop her. But Jennie’s crossed leg only twitched before settling back into a routine, swinging back and forth, and Drew’s fingers steepled. That was the only reaction from my fellow interviewers. I wanted to run screaming into the night. Or midafternoon. Surely it was midafternoon by now? Surely the apocalypse had come and gone? I prayed she would forget the rest of the alphabet.

  After ten more minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. I excused myself as Drew shot me daggers, and I was in my car before Bella got to “F is for fidelity.” F is for fuck this shit.

  I owed him big for this. But I couldn’t wait another second to… to what? If you tell him you love him, you’ll ruin it. No, I wouldn’t tell him. But I wanted to be with him, and that was enough.