Iron Born (Iron Palace Book 1)

by Lisa Ferrari

  What a joke.

  Two weeks of seeing each other and not actually screwing is sure as heck not a relationship. It’s somewhere between booty call and friends with benefits.

  And it’s insulting.

  Especially in light of what Stacy said about the no-penetration clause.

  It’s so obvious now: Kellan says that to all the girls. It’s classic male reverse psychology. By saying he doesn’t want to have sex, he alleviates the pressure, looks like a hero, and gets to sit back and receive a transcendent blow job from a girl who thinks he’s the greatest guy in the world because he doesn’t want to have sex.

  It’s actually genius.

  People always want what they can’t have.

  I did.

  As soon as he declared there would be no sex that night in his Jacuzzi, which has probably seen more ass than a toilet seat, I couldn’t wait to get funky with him. My bikini came off so fast Kellan probably thought it was on fire.

  I’m so stupid.

  Me and Stacy both.

  And, apparently, dozens and perhaps hundreds of other unwitting females in the area.

  I was merely another passing fancy. A pair of boobs and a mouth he could use to get off while he splurged on another ridiculously-expensive car.

  Stacy said it herself; they went to Vegas to buy a Bentley (I don’t even know what that is) and he took her back to his suite at the high-rolling Bellagio and, and I quote, fucked her so hard she thought her vagina fell out.

  AND…as if that weren’t enough, she said it was the best weekend of her life.

  Just like my weekend with Kellan in Hollywood was the best weekend of my life. Flying first class, riding in Ferraris, test driving Aventadors and getting busted by a cop who turns out to be a fan…

  And then it hits me: Kellan is a complete egomaniac.

  A megalomaniac.

  No wonder he idolizes Schwarzennegger; Arnold has a reputation for being the same way. And he did nail the housekeeper and screw up his whole family irrevocably and forever.

  Chris would never do that.

  Oh God where did that come from?

  I’m not attracted to Chris.

  No, but you’re also not attracted to working a part-time catering job and writing half-assed novels the rest of your life and not being able to provide for yourself.

  Being with Chris would certainly be a safe choice.

  And he is very sweet. And he seems to really like me. And if he does get the Head Chef job, he’ll be making good money. I could probably talk to Nancy about picking up some extra shifts in the restaurant in between catering events. Maybe in a year or two I could be a manager or something. It’s not glamorous but it’s steady and will pay the bills until my books start selling and my writing career becomes an actual career instead of a hobby no one respects.

  Maybe not even me.

  Jeez, that’s depressing. I was bummed before, but not having my writing makes me want to go eat a bottle of pills. I’d have to get dressed and drive to Target and buy some first, though. I wonder what would happen if you took a hundred ibuprofen all at once.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  Who the eff is that? The ibuprofen delivery guy?

  All I want to do is eat a buttload of ice cream; I do not want to answer the door.

  I remain very quiet. Maybe it’ll look like I’m not home. Plus, my apartment is an effing pig sty. My mom would have a damn coronary if she saw it like this. I’d never live it down. There are clothes everywhere, my work shirt is on top of my bookcase although I have no idea how it got up there; apparently I threw it after taking it off. There are dishes in the sink, on the counter, on the coffee table. I’m pretty sure I even saw a coffee mug in the shower; that’s a first. It looks like a bomb went off in here.

  They knock again.

  I get up and look through the peep hole.

  Kellan is standing outside my door with something in his hand…flowers. A big bouquet of red roses.

  Holy sparkly vampire poop.

  Now what?

  What is he doing here?

  Should I be here?

  Should I pretend I’m not home?

  Should I feign illness and not let him in?

  Kellan knocks a third time, louder. “Claire…open up. I know you’re in there, I saw your car.”

  Drat.

  I open the door.

  It’s him alright, with a dozen of the most insanely beautiful roses I’ve ever seen. Each rose is huge. And they smell wonderful; I can smell them from three feet away.

  Kellan is grinning ear to ear.

  He looks excited.

  Very excited.

  He may even have an erection.

  That or he just washed his jeans and they’re tight.

  I stand there; looking at him. He’s gorgeous. As always. Black silk shirt, tight jeans, shiny black shoes…ooh la la.

  Except that I’m totally pissed at him. The dick.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  I step aside and he enters.

  I don’t hug him or kiss him.

  Kellan tries to hug and kiss me but I’m stiff and it’s awkward.

  He hands me the flowers. “These are for you.”

  “Thanks.” They are beautiful. I’m pretty sure this is the first time a man has given me flowers. A corsage at junior prom does not count, no matter what my mom says. “What are you doing here? You said you weren’t coming back until tomorrow. Wait, what day is it? It’s Sunday, right?”

  “I cut my trip short. After my guest appearance and the meet-and-greet, I hauled ass to the airport and was just barely able to catch an earlier flight. I had to sit in Economy, though. That wasn’t fun. My butt would barely fit in the seat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my hips are almost as wide as the seat.”

  “No, why did you cut your trip short?”

  “I missed you. I wanted to get back and see you. To surprise you. Surprise! Are you surprised?”

  That’s an understatement. “Yes.”

  He hugs me again, wrapping his arms around me. He kisses the top of my head. He then leans down to kiss my lips. I let him, but I can’t bring myself to reciprocate.

  Kellan picks up on it immediately. He releases me and steps back. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Claire bear…. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Something’s up. I’ve been counting the days until I could see you again and we could get naked. But now that we’re together, you seem like you’re not interested. What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Baloney. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Look, if you say ‘nothing’ every time I ask you what’s bothering you, this relationship is never going to work.”

  “Is that what this is? A relationship?”

  Kellan appears baffled. “I thought it was. That’s what we agreed to when we were in bed talking just before the Mister Beaumont arrived. Right?”

  I must concede that Kellan is correct; that is what we agreed to.

  Until Stacy opened her big mouth.

  Denise, too, for that matter.

  And my mom.

  And Beth.

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  How does he do that? It’s like he knows what I’m thinking. “What? No one.”

  “Denise?” he asks.

  I snap.

  I’ve been stuck in the middle for days, caught in between Kellan and Denise, Kellan and Stacy, Kellan and my mom, Kellan and Beth…. Why am I always the one in the middle?

  They’re telling me one thing, he’s telling me another, and I’ve had it; I can’t take anymore. I can’t decide if I want to cry, scream, throw something, or punch somebody in the mouth.

  “Yes, Denise. And my mom. And my sister. And Stacy. Okay?”

  “Stacy?”

  “Yes, Stacy. You told me to go get another test so I did and she told me all about how you guys used
to go out and how the two of you went to Vegas to get that Bentley and then you sold it two months later and how you go through cars like you go through girls and I’m this month’s pity project. If I’m your little ugly duckling you want to turn into a swan, I’m not interested.”

  “Jesus. Claire…”

  “Don’t ‘Jesus, Claire’ me, Killer. My mom and Beth and Denise and Stacy all said it makes no sense for someone like you to be with someone like me and there’s only one way it’s going to end: with me in tears, broken hearted, eating frozen lasagna in my shitty apartment, watching Conan the Barbarian over and over and over again, balling my stupid naïve eyes out, too sad to even masturbate thinking about you the way I used to. I’m so fucking confused and scared and sad and pissed that everyone is telling me what to do and I’m too chicken-shit to make my own decision for myself and tell everyone to go fuck themselves because it’s my life and if I want to get used by some guy for a month, so be it. At least I’ll have the memories of a sore pussy to carry me through the rest of my shitty life of mediocrity. I can’t decide if I want to cry, scream, throw a chair through a fucking window or punch someone in the face. Fuck!”

  It feels good to vent, to finally say all the dark, evil, disturbing, frightening shit that has been in my mind for so many days, infecting me, infesting my heart. But I don’t feel any better.

  “Who do you want to punch in the face?”

  “Everyone! Denise. My mom. My sister. Stacy. You. Myself.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe. You sent me that mean, shitty text saying you hoped the pizza and brownies were worth it. That really hurt me. I was having a good workout up that point.”

  “Here, punch me.” Kellan motions to his face. “If it’ll make you feel better and will help quell all this confusion.”

  “Punch you? Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “What is this, Fight Club?”

  At the same time, Kellan and I both say, “The first rule of Fight Club is…you do not talk about Fight Club.”

  We both grin and chuckle a bit.

  But I’m still seething. I now understand what it means to seethe. Oh, I’m angry!

  “Come on,” says Kellan, “make a fist.”

  “You want me to punch you? Really?”

  “No, not really. But if it will help you shift your energy and release some of this pent-up confusion and anguish, it’s a good idea. Come on, like Brad Pitt said to Edward Norton, do it before I lose my nerve.”

  “Where should I hit you?”

  “Anywhere but the mouth. I’ve had about thirty grand worth of orthodontics and dental work done on me in my life and I hate going to the dentist. Plus you could cut your knuckles on my teeth. So, anywhere else. Come on.”

  Kellan starts jumping up and down.

  “Can I kick you in the balls?”

  “Anywhere but the teeth, I said.”

  This is nuts.

  Perhaps literally.

  But I actually kind of want to do it.

  Except not in his nuts.

  I make a fist. “Ready?”

  “Ready. Hit me with your best shot.”

  A Pat Benatar lyric flits through my mind. Then I remember that I’m seething. I wind up and punch Kellan in the shoulder. It’s kinda pathetic.

  “What the hell was that? Come on, do it again.”

  I punch him a second time. It, too, is weak.

  “That’s it? Come on, hit me. Get pissed. Do it for real or this whole thing is pointless.”

  “I’ve never punched anyone before!”

  “Do it now!”

  I punch him a third time. I manage to get some bodyweight behind it.

  “Again!”

  I hit him again.

  “Keep going.”

  I punch him again.

  Then again.

  Next thing I know, I’m hammering on his chest with my fists. I feel him flexing his pecs and holding his body rigid.

  I can’t hit him hard enough for fast enough.

  My punches devolve into screaming and shaking my head and a lot of ineffectual flailing, until finally I take a step back. I’m winded and my wrists hurt. And now I kind of want to cry.

  “Feel better?”

  “No!”

  Kellan grabs me and undoes my jeans and yanks them down. The denim and buttons scrape my skin. He literally tears my panties off me and they fall to the floor, ruined. He drops to his knees and buries his face between my legs. His long tongue slides hot and wet up inside me.

  We’re standing in the middle of my messy, shitbox living room, surrounded by filth, the sweet smell of the roses filling the apartment almost to the point of being cloying, and Kellan is eating me out like there’s no tomorrow.

  “What are you doing?”

  Kellan looks up at me, his mouth now sucking on my clit.

  “Kellan…. What are you doing? Oh…. Oh, God….” It feels so good.

  What is it about him that undoes me so?

  Thirty seconds ago, I was pissed at him and myself and everyone else, and was utterly confused. Now his face is between my legs and the only thought in my head is being overwhelmed by the sensation of his tongue working up and down vigorously against my clitoris.

  Kellan laps at my vagina, his tongue going up inside me again. Lord he has a long tongue. Is it actually his finger? I glance down to check. Nope! It’s his tongue.

  And then he’s back on my clit.

  I try to push him away, try to get away, but he’s too strong. I’m stuck in a vice, not that I know what a vice actually is, not really.

  I’m on a roller coaster and I want to get off. But the ride has already started and I’m locked in.

  Kellan’s hands are on my hips, his face buried between my legs.

  I push on his forehead and shoulders. I try to pry his hands off my hips. But I can’t move him. I try to turn away, but my jeans are down around my knees. I lose my balance and fall, bracing for the moment my bare butt hits the carpet with a thump and the weird skinny guy who lives below me gets pissed and cranks up his music like he always does.

  Kellan’s firm grip on me is the only thing that keeps me from falling. He grunts and growls as he eats me. His mouth opens as if he’s trying to devour me. He sucks on my clit and my labia and the rest of me, taking all of me into his mouth. He grunts again and shakes me with his hands.

  God, it feels good.

  His tongue mashes against my clit…up and down and up and down…side to side…then in circles…then up and down again. Harder. He grunts a third time. He stops suddenly, licks his finger, and slides it up into me.

  I cry out in ecstasy.

  Kellan’s finger swirls around, pressing against the walls of my vagina. It almost hurts. But it’s so good. He inserts another finger. I want to see so I glance down and see him penetrating me with his first two fingers. They’re big. Long and thick. Like his cock, which, up until very recently, I’ve been dreaming about.

  Kellan begins curling his fingers inside me.

  What the…?

  Oh…

  Wow…

  Is that…?

  Oh God yes it’s my G-spot. I do have one. I actually do.

  I can barely breathe it feels so good.

  Kellan works it hard and fast.

  I start to feel frightened.

  It feels soooooo gooooooood.

  The muscles in my thighs and groin are twitching, the same ones I feel when Kellan has me do 50 walking lunges with dumbbells in my hands.

  Only this is so much better.

  I feel like I might come.

  Or pee.

  Or both.

  Kellan’s fingers are filling me up, stretching me out.

  I want something bigger. “I want you inside me.”

  Kellan merely looks up at me and continues fingering me hard.

  “I want your cock inside me.”

  Good Lord, I’ve never said that to anyone.

  Kellan holds firmly
to my hips, with his arm around my waist, kneeling on the carpet before me, his other hand working my insides like a piston.

  In the span of mere minutes I’ve gone from being pissed at him to begging him to mount me like an animal.

  What is wrong with me?

  Then, it happens.

  I come.

  And something else happens, too.

  Something squirts out of me. Fluid gushes out, spraying Kellan’s hand. I can’t decide if I’m horrified or in awe. I then lose all sense of comprehension because it feels so good I can barely stand.

  And it doesn’t stop; my orgasm continues.

  And then it continues some more.

  It’s the best orgasm of my life.

  Finally, after ten seconds or ten minutes, it ends. My legs are shaking so badly they give out.

  Kellan catches me and guides me gently onto the sofa. He kneels before me, between my legs, looking up at me.

  He waits for me to calm down.

  At last he speaks. “Feel better?”

  “Uh-huh.” And I do. “What did you just do to me?”

  “It appears I made you squirt.”

  “Have you done that before?” I don’t really want to know, so I rephrase. “I mean, how do you know how to do that?”

  “My first girlfriend senior year of high school was into it. Hey, is ‘high school’ one word or two?”

  “Two.”

  “Okay. I can never remember that. It seems like one word, especially the way we pronounce it, like highschool.”

  “What happened with you guys?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re not married to her so you obviously broke up. What happened?”

  “Oh. We broke up because once we got to college and were both living in the dorms, she wanted to go be an alcoholic sorority girl, and who am I to blame her? We both had to spread our wings. I dated this one girl who lived in my dorm and I tried it on her but all she got was the world’s worse urinary tract infection. So since then I’ve always been afraid that I was going to ram a bunch of bacteria up into the urethra and then I’d be the douchebag bodybuilder who gave her an infection.”

  “So why’d you do it to me just now?”

  “I don’t know. I just did.”

  “Aren’t you worried that I’ll get an infection?”

  “Yeah, I guess, now that you mention it.”

  “What if I do?”

  “Then I’ll go with you to the urgent care clinic or to your gynecologist and we’ll get you all better. We can get you some antibiotics or probiotics and a bunch of cranberry juice. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Did you like it?”