I bowed into him, holding his head tight to my chest, wanting more. His teeth grazed one hard tip, and I shuddered beneath him. It had always been like this between us. Electric, greedy, perfect.
He put some space between us again, this time drawing a path with the whipped cream from the hollow of my throat, between my breasts, over the summit of my stomach, down to my damp core that ached for him. I squirmed as he licked his way down my body, alternately praising him and cursing him for teaching me how pleasurable his hot tongue felt after the chill of the icy dessert.
When he got to my needy center, my hips rose up to meet him. He nuzzled against me, lapping softly at my seam, not giving me near the stimulation I craved. I bucked restlessly, and pushed at his shoulders. “Adam,” I groaned.
He chuckled against me and lifted my legs over his shoulder, and raised his head enough to meet my eyes where I glared at him from my propped up elbows. “You’re better than any dessert, babe.” This time, when he licked his way between my folds, he found that tender bundle of nerves and traced it firmly, tearing a cry from my throat.
Stroking my clit with the flat of his tongue, then circling it with just the tip, he brought me to the edge of takeoff, easing up just enough to keep me suspended there. A hard suck, then an easy caress, back and forth, never quite enough to give me what I was so greedy for.
I dug my heels into his back, desperate for more pressure, more friction, more something.
“I got you, Hailey. Always,” he murmured the promise against my heated flesh, and then two of his fingers were there, plunging deep and rocketing me to the stars.
Before I could float back to down from the stratosphere, he’d pushed my knees up and out, and entered me with a hungry growl. I stretched around him, loving how full I felt with him buried to the hilt inside me. Nothing compared to it. Not even kettle corn.
The time for teasing was over, and his tight ass flexed beneath my fingers as his hips found their rhythm quickly, driving into me hard enough to slide me up the carpet a bit each time, so he was forced to grip what was left of my hips to hold me in place.
My sensitive breasts jiggled from the force of each thrust, and I grabbed hold of them. “Fuck yes,” he breathed. “Squeeze them for me.”
I adjusted my grip until I had my nipples between my thumbs and first fingers, and twisted them as he fucked me harder. He loved it when I touched myself during sex, something I had never done with previous partners. His brown eyes were dilated and his mouth hung open as he panted each time he plunged balls-deep inside me. I’m sure my own face mirrored his, slack with desire and twisted in impatience.
He wrapped my legs around his waist and adjusted his position so his pelvis ground against my clit on the downstroke, ratcheting me back up to the brink of climax again. I bit my lip to hold back my demand for more, more, more.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from him as he moved above me, mesmerized by the way his focus shifted from my mouth to my nipples, to where we were joined, where he disappeared into me again and again.
Sweat slicked our skin as his movements grew more urgent, his groans louder. “Adam,” I cried out, as he swiveled his hips just right, in that one spot that made me crazy.
“Come for me, Hailey. Let me see you this time.” He slid a hand between us, his thumb circling and pressing where I needed it most. He was all I saw, all I felt, all I could think about, as we both raced for the finish line.
“Oh, God. Adam.” I squeezed him tight as gravity disappeared a second time, leaving me flying free, and I felt him pulsing with me, emptying himself in hot spurts.
That was the one great thing about pregnancy—no condoms needed. I got to feel each and every hard inch of him sliding and throbbing within me without any barriers between us.
He stayed inside me as we caught our breath, murmuring my name over and over, pressing soft, reverent kisses against my damp skin. My fingers traced patterns over his back, circles and ellipses, hearts and squiggles, our son’s name.
When his weight became too much for me, he shifted back, and when he did, I felt liquid leak from between my thighs.
“Damn, babe.” I giggled and wrinkled my nose. “I know we hadn’t seen each other in a week, but how much did you just come?”
He gave me a funny look. “No more than normal, why?”
I rubbed my legs together and there was a definitive squishing sound. “I think I’m going to have to disagree with you there.”
Adam reached down and dragged his hand from my knee to my soaked opening. “Did you…” His fingers were coated, and he rubbed them together, the residue slick and a little bit shiny. “Did you… squirt?”
“Oh my God! What? No!” I sat up and another gush spilled from me, and I paused as a sharp pain shot up my back. Pregnancy made everything more difficult, even just changing positions.
“Fuck, Hailey! I made you squirt!” His face couldn’t look more arrogant and proud if his dick had suddenly doubled in size and girth to Cockzilla status.
My belly tightened and Cody kicked my ribs hard. I winced and rubbed my right side, shifting to try to find a more comfortable position. More fluid seeped and I froze.
No. Oh shit, did I pee?
Closing my eyes in denial, I swiped my inner thigh and tested the consistency between my thumb and forefinger. Smooth, not sticky. Not knowing what else to do, I brought my fingers to my nose and sniffed.
Not pee. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Cody twisted, and my stomach hardened like a drum, the tightness edging to the painful side of uncomfortable instead of just being a nuisance.
More liquid.
Oh fuck. Not pee. Not Adam. Not me.
I stared in dawning awareness at my oblivious fiancé, knowing everything was about to change. “My water just broke.”
He jumped to his feet, away from me, running his hands over his military crewcut and gripping the back of his neck. “What do you mean your water just broke? I fucking broke our baby with my dick? I popped you?”
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing and couldn’t stop, even as another contraction gripped me, as if providing further proof that indeed, he’d popped me. Tears leaked from my eyes and I reached that point of hilarity where even sound disappears, and I was just shaking with mirth, my belly jiggling like Santa’s bowl full of jelly.
This would make one hell of a birth story someday, if we ever told it to anybody.
“Merry Christmas, Adam. Sheath that giant sword of yours and take me to the hospital. Looks like there’s one last Christmas miracle yet to come.”
The End
* * *
About the Author
USA Today bestseller Stacy Kestwick is a Southern girl who firmly believes mornings should be outlawed. Her perfect day would include lounging on a hammock with a good book, carbohydrates, and the people around her randomly breaking into choreographed song-and-dance routines. It would not include bacon, cleaning, or anything requiring patience.
* * *
Want more of Hailey and her friends? Check out the Water’s Edge series – blurbs and purchase links available at www.stacykestwick.com.
You can also find me at:
www.facebook.com/stacykestwickauthor
www.twitter.com/stacykestwick
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Garrett Who?
Trudy Stiles
An Epic Fail Short Story
Jake Lewis
* * *
“Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?” my mom asks as she places a steaming stack of pancakes in front of me on the table.
“Mom, I already told you I wouldn’t be home. Remember? Tonight’s the holiday show.” I watch the butter melt as I pour syrup over the top of my breakfast, stabbing my fork into the pile.
“Big shot ‘roadie,’” my teenaged sister, Hannah says, using air quotes.
“I’m not a roadie, ass munch. I’m a guitar tech.”
“Jake, watch your l
anguage!” my mother yells at me from across the kitchen, as if I’m a little kid.
I ignore her scolding and stuff my mouth as I shake my head.
“Whatever,” Hannah rolls her eyes and sneers. “You’re a roadie, just admit it.”
I tighten my grip around the butter knife in my hand and imagine chucking it across the table at her. “Shut the fuck up,” I mumble with a mouthful of food, but it sounds more like, “Shah-dah-fuh-ub.”
That earns me a swipe across the side of my head, and suddenly, my mom is next to me, her hand raised, threatening another blow.
“Jake, so help me God.” Her eyes pierce mine, and I instinctively bring my arm up to block her next smack.
You would think I never left home. I’m twenty-two years old and have been living on my own since I graduated high school. My father and I had a huge blowup after graduation when I told him I turned down all of the acceptances I received from colleges, one of them his alma mater, Villanova. Since then, I’ve proven him wrong and have been earning a respectable living teaching guitar at a local music school.
That is, until last week, when the biggest opportunity of my life fell into my lap.
I slowly savor the buttery goodness in my mouth as I remember the call I received last week.
“Take it easy, Ty, my man,” I fist-bump the twelve-year-old guitar prodigy, my regular seven-o’clock Thursday lesson.
“Thanks, Jake! See you next week.” He packs his Les Paul Standard into his gig bag and stands up to leave. I still can’t believe the guitar this little dude has. I bought my first Les Paul Standard six months ago after saving for almost four years, yet he has one at twelve.
I open the door of my studio and follow him out into the waiting area. “Hi, Jake,” Tyler’s mother, Mrs. Reed, purrs. As she waves, the large diamonds on her perfectly manicured fingers reflect a kaleidoscope of colors throughout the room. My eyes drop to her chest, and I realize that was a huge mistake. Her tits are barely contained in the tank top she’s wearing. “I’m a hot mess,” she says, drawing my attention back up to her face. “My trainer, Javier, really got me going tonight. My workout was so intense.” She emphasizes the word ‘intense’ and licks her plump lips.
Fuck me.
“Mrs. Reed,” I say, swallowing hard, my spit practically getting caught in my throat. She’s so fucking hot, and she knows it. Every Thursday, I have to think of baseball, or kittens, or anything that isn’t sex so I don’t walk into the waiting room with the inevitable boner I’m about to get.
“How’d Tyler do tonight?” She steps toward me, and I back up into my studio, grabbing the sheets of music from the stand that her son was using. As I try to put them in front of the growing bulge in my jeans, they fly out of my hands, scattering throughout the room.
“Oh, let me help you.” She bends down in front of me, her perfect tits brushing against my arm.
Motherfucker.
“I’m good. It’s all good,” I stammer. She smells incredible and not at all like sweat. She smells sweet, like berries. Or melon. Or, whatever the fuck she rubbed all over her naked body in the shower at the gym next door.
STOP fucking thinking about her naked in the shower! FUCK!
She slowly stands up, placing the music sheets into my hand.
“Well?” she asks, her eyes heavy, tits heaving. The walls are closing in around us, and it suddenly feels like it’s one hundred degrees in here. Sweat forms on my temples and my lips are dry.
“Well, what?” I back further away from her, taking a more defensive stance. Tyler’s voice comes from the waiting area, and it’s clear he’s talking to someone on his phone. He’s oblivious to the fact that his mother is currently eye-fucking me. His married mother.
“How did Tyler do?” she repeats her question from before, which I clearly forgot.
“Oh, Tyler. Yeah.” I still can’t breathe.
“Jake, are you okay?” She reaches out, placing her soft hand on my wrist. “You don’t look so good.”
I take a deep breath and pull my arm out of her grasp, nonchalantly running my hand through my hair. “I’m fine,” I lie and fake a cough. “I mean, I think I’m okay. I’ve felt something coming on for a few days, I think I’m getting a cold.” I fake another cough and step behind my chair.
“Oh, you poor thing,” She pouts. “Is there anything I can do?” She licks her lips and her gaze falls to where I’m now grabbing the chair, holding on for dear life.
“No!”
Her eyes find my face again, and they widen. “Okay. But, you know, Tyler loves it when I massage his temples and the pressure points on his face when he’s sick. My acupuncturist showed me the perfect place to rub and apply pressure to release tension to clear your sinuses.”
“I’ll be okay, Mrs. Reed.”
“I sure hope so,” She smiles and backs out of the studio.
As soon as she turns around, I inhale deeply and feel dizzy. All of the blood in my body has rushed to my dick, and I’m woozy.
I have a massive hard on for this woman while her twelve-year-old son is just a few feet away.
How fucking awkward.
“Tyler, are you ready?” she asks him, and I hear him grunt a response. She turns to wave at me one last time. “See you next week, Jakey.”
Jakey?
I don’t move again until I hear the outer door close, and silence fills the entire studio.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I mutter to nobody. I shake my head, grab my guitar, and place it in its case, closing it, and snapping the lid closed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, causing yet another sensation to reverberate throughout my groin.
Jesus.
I dig my phone out and see it’s Dan, my sometimes roommate and longtime friend.
“Talk to me,” I say after I swipe to answer.
“Dude, are you sitting down?”
My balls ache at the thought of sitting at the moment, my hard-on still raging.
“No.”
“What are you doing next week?” he asks, ignoring my answer.
“Uh. It’s Christmas. I’ll probably be going to my parents’ house.”
My family really knows how to do Christmas, and there isn’t a year that goes by that I don’t take over my old room for a few days to revel in my family’s traditions.
“Garrett’s tech just quit, and we need a new one, like tomorrow.”
Garrett is THE Garrett Armstrong, lead guitarist of the biggest band in the universe, Epic Fail.
“You’re fucking with me, right?”
“Would I ever fuck with you?” Dan asks.
I can remember a few times, but don’t specify. “Yes.”
“Well, I’m not fucking with you right now, I promise. Can you be here tomorrow? I can pick you up on the way to Garrett’s studio. I already told him about you, and he’s good. He just wants to meet you, you know. Face-to-face, so he feels comfortable trusting you with his precious guitars.”
This can’t be real. Garrett Armstrong needs a new guitar tech and wants me?
“Are you serious?” I drop onto the couch in my studio, boner long forgotten.
“As serious as I’ve ever been.”
“What do I need to do? What do I need to bring?” My heart races as I scan my studio. What the fuck could I possibly bring with me?
“Just bring your Telecaster. I’m sure he’s going to want to see you play and tune and all of that shit.”
Dan has been the tour production manager for Epic Fail for the past few years, which is why he’s my sometimes roommate. He’s been on the road more than he’s been home, and he loves it. His stories of life with the band are well documented on Instagram and I’ve lived vicariously through him for so long. I met the band last summer when Dan gave me an all-access backstage pass to one of their local shows. Garrett is the greatest lead guitarist I’ve ever seen, and his riffs are fucking amazing. I couldn’t even say his name when I met him, I just stammered like a wide-eyed schoolgi
rl.
“I don’t believe this.”
“Well, believe it, fucker. Get it together, and I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and I forgot to mention. We have a show on Christmas Eve in Philly at the Wells Fargo Center. So you’ll need to be ready by then.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s a benefit show and it’s going to be amazing. Alex is coming back, and he and Heath are both going to be there. It’s going to be epic!”
“No shit.”
I know Alex Treadway, the former lead singer of Epic Fail, is still in the picture. But, it’s an extremely rare event when he actually sings live and shares time with Heath Strickland, their current lead singer. This is going to be amazing.
“Don’t worry. If Alex even plays, he’ll have his own tech. You’ll only have to worry about Garrett. And who knows, if you do a good enough job, it could become a permanent gig.”
That would be fucking incredible.
“Really?”
“Yeah. But Garrett can be a dick, so if he doesn’t like you, it’s one and done.”
“He’ll like me,” I assure him.
“Let’s get through the Christmas Eve show first.”
“I can do that.”
“Alright. See you tomorrow.” Dan hangs up, and I drop my phone onto the couch next to me.
Suddenly, the thought of plowing into Mrs. Reed takes a backseat to the possibility of becoming the new guitar tech for Garrett Armstrong.
“Hello?” Hannah’s voice pulls me out of my trance. The past week has flown by, and tonight’s the Epic Fail Christmas Eve show.
“What?” I snap at her.
My mother swats me on my shoulder with a dishrag as she walks back toward the sink.
“Will it kill the two of you to be civil to each other? It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”
“You’re staring into space. Were you imagining yourself playing guitar for the most amazing band in the world?” Hannah sneers at me as she slurps up the milk from the bottom of her cereal bowl.
F*CKING AWKWARD HOLIDAYS: 25 Short Stories of Awkward Holiday Encounters Page 33
