by Kati Wilde
And she really does start scrolling through all the titles as soon as she opens up the app. Holy shit. Never in my life would I have thought a woman looking through my digital library might be a nerve-wracking experience, but I never knew that woman would be Emma Williams. I try to see all the books through her eyes. I’m not a real highbrow reader. I’ve got some histories and biographies, but most of what I read are mysteries, thrillers, and horror off the bestseller lists. Anything with action and that doesn’t spend too much time navel-gazing.
Now I’m spending more time watching her face than watching the game. She’s sipping her wine while she continues scrolling through—as if looking at all the books I have is just as entertaining to her as reading them.
Suddenly I can’t take the suspense anymore. Gruffly I ask her, “Have I lost all hope?”
“I’d say the opposite. In fact, you’re in real danger of me stealing your phone,” she says mildly, without looking up from the screen. “This is one of the mystery books that Rowling wrote under her other name, isn’t it?”
I glance at the cover. “I think so. I don’t pay much attention to the authors themselves. Just whether I like what they’re writing.”
“Did you like this one?”
“Yeah, it was all right. Don’t start with that one, though—start with the first book. It’s in there.”
“Okay.”
A few moments later she opens the first book and settles in, and my heart’s suddenly ten times bigger than it was last Sunday when I was sitting here, wondering how and when I’d get Emma Williams to stop being afraid of me.
My dick feels ten times bigger, too. But I ignore it as best I can. Emma’s likely still hurting from earlier, and although I plan to get my mouth on her later, my cock’s going to have to wait a bit longer.
Until halftime rolls around, and Emma leans forward to set her wineglass on the table—then slips off the sofa and kneels on the floor between my legs. She looks up at me with heavy-lidded eyes, and the instant rush of blood to my cock has me gritting my teeth and struggling for control even before she’s touched me.
“It’s all right?” she asks softly, placing her hands on my knees.
“Fuck yes,” I groan the response from low in my throat. Then I make myself tell her, “You don’t have to.”
“I know. But I want to.” She starts running those hands up the tense muscles of my thighs and I’m in heaven. “But will you do something for me?”
“Any fucking thing in the world.”
The ferocity of that response pulls a smile from her. “I just want you to take off your shirt. So I can look while I— Oh.”
I’m already dragging it over my head and tossing it onto the table before leaning back against the cushion again. Her soft lips part, her gaze slipping over my torso. I’m never going to be one of those male model types, all waxed and lean. I’m built solidly, with thick muscles and a hairy chest.
The way Emma’s looking at me, that’s just fine with her. Her breathing gets heavier, her gaze dropping as her hands reach the V of my thighs. She hesitates, then skips right over the bulge of my erection, heading straight for my belt buckle.
And I realize what I should have realized the moment her knees hit the floor. “You ever done this before?”
“No.” Her wry gaze flicks up to mine before returning my waist, where she’s pulling my belt free. She opens the snap and starts easing the zipper down. “But I’ve seen some porn. Plus I’ve read a lot of books. And I…”
Her voice trails off. With the pressure of denim and the zipper easing up, my cock’s already trying to bust free. I drag the elastic waist of my briefs down over the base of my shaft, and maybe she didn’t get a good look before when I was stroking myself, but she sure does now. Thick and long, the fat head an angry red and already beaded with pre-cum.
“Oh,” she whispers.
“You changing your mind?”
“No. It’s just… I’ve imagined this. And, um. You’re bigger.”
And getting harder with her every word. But although it’s killing me, I’m going to let her take her sweet time.
“What else did you imagine?”
Nervously she licks her lips, gaze darting to my face. “You looking like you do now. But I thought you were angry.”
So I was mean and had her on her knees. “And what’d you do?”
Her eyes locked on mine, she leans forward until her hot breath is torturing the head of my cock. Her voice is a throaty whisper as she says, “Then you told me to make you come.”
My dick’s never been so fucking hard. On a low growl I tell her, “Make me come, then.”
She moans as if that harsh demand is the sexiest thing she’s ever heard. But the sexiest thing is her small hand wrapping around my thick shaft. It’s her mouth opening up over the head of my cock. It’s her pink tongue darting out to taste the drop of pre-cum at the tip.
Fuuuuck. My breath hisses through my teeth. I fist my hands in the cushions, stopping myself from burying my fingers in her hair and shoving my cock to the back of her throat and commanding her to suck.
It’s her first time. It becomes a chant in my head, a mantra to keep control. Her first time. Go easy.
But Emma doesn’t go easy on me. She bends over my cock, wraps both hands around my meaty shaft, and takes as much as she can into the sultry torment of her mouth. Without prompting, she starts sucking on me. Sucking and working her tongue and letting all that drool lubricate the twisting stroke of her hands, like she knows exactly what she’s doing, but her inexperience is there in the careful way she never takes me deep enough to risk choking, as if she thinks gagging on my cock might ruin the effect instead of making it all even hotter. But that careful attention, that innocence is so fucking sexy. I can’t look away, can’t stop groaning her name. Her golden hair’s a wavy curtain framing the erotic perfection of her face, those full lips wrapped around my dick—and her hungry gaze keeps flicking up to meet mine as if checking to see if she’s doing this right, but it couldn’t be any righter. She could be all teeth and jelly fingers and I’d still be ready to come just from that hungry look in her eyes telling me how much she wants this, how much she wants me to love it.
And I love it too damn much. My control’s slipping with every slick caress of her tongue, every wet pull of her mouth, every tight pump of her hands.
“Harder now, baby.” Through clenched teeth I make the rough demand. “You feel so goddamn good, sucking my dick like that. A little harder and you’re gonna make me come.”
As if just the thought of me coming deepens her own arousal, she moans around my cock. Immediately her rhythm becomes faster, harder.
“Fuck.” Groaning, I fist my hands deeper into the cushions. Only a miracle is stopping me from thrusting into her mouth, from fucking her face. Her first time. But that thought isn’t working as a leash on my control anymore. Because Emma Williams is sucking a cock for the very first time and it’s mine.
The only cock she’s ever wanted is mine.
“Gonna come, baby,” I grit out. My big hands wrap around hers, tightening our grip on my shaft. “Pull back unless you want my cum filling up your mouth.”
Oh fuck, she does want it. Because she doesn’t pull back. Instead she makes a deep hungry sound and sucks harder, and that’s the fucking end of me. The orgasm bulldozes into me, my cock jerking in her grip and my cum exploding past her lips. Too deep, because now she chokes a little and draws back until just the bulging crown is in her mouth, but I couldn’t stop this now if I wanted to, and her face, sweet Jesus. Her face—her eyes locked on mine and her skin flushed and her full lips still sucking right at the tip. Another pulse shoots down the length of my shaft as that look wrings every drop of cum from my dick.
Holy shit. My chest heaving too hard to get a word out, I cup her cheeks. It takes her a long second before she swallows my cum and she makes a funny face as she does it, and the next second I’m laughing breathlessly when she reaches for h
er wine and chases the taste by draining her glass.
“You’ll get used to it,” I tell her and she laughs, cheeks bright red and eyes gleaming. Then she laughs again when I add, “You must read some dirty, dirty books if that’s where you learned to suck cock like that.”
“Some.” Smiling, she crawls up onto my lap, straddling my thighs as she kisses me with the flavor of chardonnay and cum on her lips. It’s sexy as hell, and so is knowing that she’s got no panties under her skirt, and her bare pussy is hovering right above my bare dick.
It’s enough to get my cock stirring again and my mouth watering. “Are you wet?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she hums against my lips, then says, “But halftime’s over.”
“Fuck the game.”
She giggles and kisses me again. “And just think of how hot I’ll be if I have to wait—sitting next to you, knowing that as soon as the game’s done, you intend to eat my pussy. With every play, I’ll be thinking about how much closer I am to having your mouth on me. Think of how wet I’ll be then.”
I’m not sure who she’s trying to get hotter, me or her—but it’s working.
“All right,” I tell her, and she looks damn satisfied as she scoots over. After I tuck away my cock, I open my second beer and refill her wine, then sit back again.
This time when she starts reading, she turns sideways, leaning back against the cushioned arm of the sofa and draping her long legs over my lap. The hem of her skirt slides up, just a little. Not enough to see anything beneath. But these next two quarters are going to fucking kill me.
I slide my palm up one of those long striped socks before letting my hand rest on her lower thigh, my fingers stroking the inside of her knee.
This is the fucking life, I decide—a beer, a game, and a hot pussy waiting for me.
But I’m wrong. Because about five minutes later, I look over, and Emma’s not reading anymore. Instead her eyes are closed and my phone is lying on her chest with her hand still loosely clasped around it. Beneath her sweater, her small breasts rise and fall on deep, even breaths.
And this is the life. The best life. One that’s even better than I imagined. One where Emma is comfortable enough and trusts me enough that she’ll fall asleep right next to me. Now I just have to persuade her that a life together would be better than she can imagine, too.
Starting with when she wakes up.
6
Emma
The game must be over.
I didn’t intend to nap, but I can’t think of a better way to wake up than with Logan’s tongue dragging over my clit. Oh my god. My pussy’s already wet and aching, as if he’s been trying to nudge me out of sleep for a while, and my body’s way ahead of my brain.
Softly I moan, reaching for him. My fingers tangle in his hair as he lifts his head. He must have spread me out on the chaise, because I’m lying flat with my thighs open wide, and my feet aren’t dangling off the cushions. Everything’s dark—not due to the mask, because I’m faintly aware of Christmas lights shining somewhere off to the side—but as if he’s already turned off the television and all the lamps.
Voice low and rough with amusement, he says, “Finally awake, then?”
Not all the way but getting there. “Mmm.”
He seems to take that as a signal to redouble his efforts. His mouth lowers again, the firm grip of his hands pushing my thighs wider. Hungrily he latches onto my clit and even as I’m crying out with the agonizing pleasure of it, his fingers slip through my slick folds and press against my entrance.
“Let me know if it hurts, baby,” he says gruffly, then begins easing a finger inside of me.
It doesn’t hurt. The initial penetration stings a little, but then his tongue glides over my clit, and it just feels wondrous and full.
“It’s good,” I pant breathlessly. “So good.”
A low groan is his response, his mouth never leaving my clit, his hand slowly thrusting. And I must have been close to an orgasm before I woke up, because I’m so close now, almost frantic with the need to come—then stiffening, stiffening, as a sharp stretching ache builds at the entrance of my sex. Because he’s added another finger. Slowly he pushes it deeper, watching me, and it hurts but the pain’s already fading, until I’m just left with that feeling of being stretched and overfilled.
“All right?”
“Yes,” I whisper, though I’m not really too sure—until his mouth lowers again, and he slowly licks and tugs at my clit, and his fingers start thrusting gently, deeper and deeper. Then I’m truly all right, beyond all right, the sensations racing through me becoming more acute with every lick, every pump of his hand. And suddenly I’m right there again, right on the edge, but I’m higher, dizzy with the sheer pleasure of his touch. Then the world narrows with sudden solid clarity, narrows to the width of my skin and the stroke of his tongue, the incredible fullness of his fingers. I come with my back bowing, choking on my scream, my pussy squeezing that wonderful thickness inside me.
Groaning, Logan rides out my orgasm, then gently withdraws his fingers and softly licks the cream from my pussy lips before rising over me. His mouth finds mine in the dark, the tang of my arousal on his tongue and lips, and he smells so good—like soap and some woodsy fragrance.
Too soon, he breaks the kiss and murmurs against my lips, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I reply before I even realize what I’ve said. Then I do, and a couple of things hit me all at once.
It’s Monday morning.
Logan is showered and fully dressed.
And I’m in his bed.
My gaze shoots to the window. Still dark out. But that doesn’t mean anything. This time of year, the sun doesn’t come up until after I’m supposed to be at work. “Oh my god. What time is it?”
“Six thirty.” With a grin, he stands and reaches for my hand to pull me up with him. “If you want to hop in the shower, I’ll head down and start the coffee and some breakfast.”
Six thirty. No need to panic, then. Except I feel panicky, anyway.
I try to hide it, smiling and babbling something like, “Shower, good, okay,” before rushing to the bathroom. Inside, I stare at my flushed face in the mirror. My heart’s racing and anxiety knots my gut. Because last night was perfect. So perfect. This morning was, too. But now reality’s going to set in.
And I don’t want it to.
But it does. It always does. That’s when those amazing things he said last night—about us being together, about putting a ring on my finger—he won’t be so certain about those things anymore. There will be something, something that changes his mind. And he won’t want me any longer.
At least he wants me now. For a little while.
With two shower heads featuring multiple massage settings, beautiful cream tile and glass doors, his shower’s as oversized and as incredible as the rest of his house is. I want to linger but I rush through, and emerge smelling as good as Logan did earlier. The anxiety in my gut has loosened some, but a heavy ache has taken up residence in my chest. Because I can see myself here, in this house, in this bedroom. I can see myself with Logan.
And when this is over, everything I imagine having with him is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
I find a sweatshirt and sweatpants waiting for me, laid out on the bed. They’re both far too big, but I’m able to pull the drawstring on the waist of the pants tight enough that they don’t slide down over my hips. My own clothes I fold into a little pile and carry down the stairs with me.
The scent of coffee and bacon leads me to the kitchen. The rumble of my stomach sounds louder than my footsteps, and seems to announce my presence.
In a blue flannel shirt and black Carhartt carpenter pants, Logan looks up from the pan of scrambled eggs that he’s scooping onto a pair of plates. Appreciation lights his icy blue eyes when he sees me in his sweats, but he doesn’t say a word. He just lets his eyes tell me that he’d eat me up again, even when I’m drowning in shapeless clothes.
“Yeah.” He sets a mug and two plates on the bar. “You need cream and sugar?”
I shake my head. He takes the stool at the end of the bar—where he’ll be sitting adjacent to me, instead of sitting side by side. We’ll be looking at each other, I realize. And there will be no hiding from him.
I wonder if he knows I want to hide.
I set my mug next to my plate—then realize I might have been wrong about our seating arrangement. “This isn’t mine, is it?”
It’s piled high with more eggs and bacon than I can possibly eat. But a glance at the other plate tells me that it’s just as full.
“Too much?” He takes the other stool. “I just made double of what I usually make.”
Laughing, I demonstrate the same thing he demonstrated to me last night—holding up my hand against his. “That size difference is probably a good guideline for meal proportions, too.”
“I guess I’m just not used to cooking for a woman,” he says casually, as if he has no idea how telling me that lifts through my chest like some sweet song. “Eat what you can and we’ll give Lucy the rest. And maybe she’ll like us a bit better afterward.”
I glance over to where the yellow dog is curled up on the floor in front of the refrigerator door, her eyes locked on Logan’s big hands. “You think she might?”
“Nah. I’ve given her hundreds of these.” He picks up a crispy piece of bacon from his plate and Lucy lifts her head. “And she wouldn’t care if I got hit by a truck tomorrow, as long as the people who moved in here after my funeral still fed her.”
He tosses the bacon Lucy’s way. She leaps up and scarfs it out of the air, then lies down again—with her back to us, as if to let us know that she still doesn’t care about our existence.
I grin and take a piece, too, but I’m not throwing it to the dog. Instead I start in on my own breakfast.
Logan digs in, too, and he’s quiet until he’s about halfway through. Then he says, “What are you doing on Christmas Day? Are you going to your friend Traci’s place?”
