by Amiee Smith
BREAK FREE
Amiee Smith
BREAK FREE
Copyright © 2018 by Amiee Smith
www.amieesmith.com
PUBLISHED BY:
AMY Publishing
Oakland, California
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
For all the dirty flirty ladies who dare to dream.
Come in. Relax.
Welcome to the world of the Smart Girl Mafia.
Hot men.
Nerdy. Geeky. Weirdo. Women.
Stay awhile.
CONTENTS
1. Lynn Scott
2. Nick Willingham
3. Lynn Scott
4. Nick Willingham
5. Lynn Scott
6. Nick Willingham
7. Lynn Scott
8. Nick Willingham
9. Lynn Scott
10. Nick Willingham
11. Lynn Scott
12. Nick Willingham
13. Lynn Scott
14. Nick Willingham
15. Lynn Scott
16. Nick Willingham
17. Lynn Scott
18. Nick Willingham
19. Lynn Scott
20. Nick Willingham
21. Lynn Scott
22. Nick Willingham
23. Lynn Scott
24. Nick Willingham
25. Lynn Scott
26. Nick Willingham
27. Lynn Scott
28. Nick Willingham
29. Lynn Scott
30. Nick Willingham
31. Lynn Scott
32. Nick Willingham
33. Lynn Scott
34. Nick Willingham
35. Lynn Scott
36. Nick Willingham
37. Lynn Scott
38. Nick Willingham
39. Lynn Scott
Preview of Book Two: Strangely Amazing
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About Amiee Smith
CHAPTER 1:
LYNN SCOTT
“We should fuck,” Nick says.
Sugar Ray’s “Fly” streams from the speakers in the backyard a decibel louder than the muffled voices at the party. Jon’s thirty-third birthday celebration, in full swing.
Nick and I are sharing a cigarette in front of our friends’ expansive Craftsman house in the most exclusive neighborhood in Pasadena. The big tree above our heads is decorated in thousands of white lights, illuminating our faces.
Elation. Excitement. Joy forms at the corners of my mouth, but my eyes narrow as I receive the cigarette from his olive-skinned hand.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You heard me, Lynn.”
The American Spirit dangles from my brown fingers. Taking the cigarette from me, Nick’s hazel green eyes meet mine. My heart races.
Nick Willingham was my high school crush. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen (like, really). He was the leading man in my schoolgirl fantasies. I taught myself to masturbate using his eleventh grade yearbook photo.
Back then, we hung out in different cliques. Three years ago, his best friend, Jon, married my best friend, Jen. Since their wedding reception, he and I always share a cigarette during a J + J organized event. During each encounter, we’re cordial. Polite. Responsive in the way friends of friends are, but never anything more… until tonight. In the fifteen years since graduation, I’ve had many dreams come true. But never one as thrilling as the athletic man standing in front of me, initiating a hook-up.
“When?” I whisper.
Nick comes within inches of my face. He’s at least a foot taller than me. I lick my lips. The need to lean into his mouth is intense. I will my hands to stay by my side, fighting the desire to caress his jawline. I can almost feel the dark stubble against my fingertips.
“Now,” Nick says.
Withholding a moan, I long to wrap my arms around his neck and rub my body against his muscular torso. I resist the arousal rooting and sprouting throughout my body— an urge as natural, wild, and organic as bright orange California poppies.
“I’m not having sex with you in the house. And I can’t leave. I have cake duty,” I say, battling every desire within.
J + J assigned all their closest friends a job to do tonight. I can’t skip out on my commitment, even if my impulsive mind would prefer being naked with super-hot Nick Willingham.
“I’m on cake duty too. We have forty-five minutes. How about the back seat of my car?” Nick asks.
An early autumn breeze rustles the leaves in the tree above our heads. The sound beckons my body to proceed. I’ve lost fifty pounds over the last seven months, abstaining from hook-ups to stay focused on my goal. Three weeks ago, I saw my dream number on the scale. I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to relaunch my dirty flirty life with my smaller, fitter body. And he is beyond perfect.
Hooking up with Nick Willingham on a Friday night is a dream come true.
“Let’s go,” I say.
CHAPTER 2:
NICK WILLINGHAM
Lynn said yes?
Before she changes her mind, I toss the half-finished cigarette in the mason jar ashtray. (Neither she nor I really smoke. We just pass it back and forth.) Placing my hand on the small of her back, I direct her down the block to my car.
Over the last three years, I’ve admired Lynn. She’s warm, with a sweet smile and a knack for witty banter. I’m always mesmerized by her petite figure and full tits, but I’ve resisted making a move. She lives in San Francisco. And I don’t do long-distance relationships. Also, she never seemed interested. Lynn has a way of getting this gaze that is neither here nor there.
We arrive at my silver Mercedes G550 SUV. I open the door, motioning her inside. Lynn pauses, peering up at me with eyes the color of milk chocolate. She’s not wearing her nerdy dark-framed glasses. Her full lips are making it hard… to think about anything but sucking and biting. I want to bend down to kiss her, but she’s quiet. Too quiet. Is she hesitating?
She probably isn’t used to hooking up. I’m not into hook-ups either, but tonight will be an exception. Lynn’s a nice, smart woman. I’d even describe her as shy. I’m into shy girls. I’ve been with enough to know they need more time than forty-five minutes.
“Lynn, we can wait until after the party and go back to my place,” I say.
“No. I don’t want to spend the next three hours counting the minutes in wet panties.”
I groan inwardly. Lynn is already wet for me?
She smiles and climbs into the car, I follow.
It’s the first time I’ve been in the back seat of my SUV. The dark tint on the rear windows provides the privacy we need. When I bought the car, I had the option of bucket seats, but I selected the bench. And I’m glad I did. I’m 6’3, but Lynn is small, so our accommodations are the perfect fit.
The door closes and her soft hands cradle either side of my face. Fingertip
s caress my jawline. Lynn’s lush lips capture mine in a carnal, urgent, dirty kiss. I shift a bit, wrapping my arms around her slender waist. I want to slow down. Be a gentleman. Savor this. But Lynn is in control— her mouth, slanting over mine with a hungry, skilled fire.
Damn, this woman can kiss.
I’m undone. My hands move in a frenzy, pushing up the hem of her blouse and palming her tits through the lacy fabric of her bra. Lynn moans into my mouth. Her nipples turn pebble-hard. I break the kiss, lifting the white top over her head.
In the dim glow of the street light, Lynn is radiant. Like me, she’s thirty-three (Jen threw us each a party this year), but her skin is as smooth as that of a much younger woman. Dark curly hair hangs below her shoulders and her voluptuous tits overflow the cups of her lacy black and white bra. Lynn could be a sexy coed on Tumblr. I wish I had pics of her in my library. The vision of jacking off to images of her naked on my tablet or phone makes me yearn to be inside of her.
“Take off your jeans,” I say.
Delight paints her face. She acts quickly, kicking off her tan Tory Burch flats before unbuttoning her dark jeans and sliding them over her slim hips. She settles back into the seat. Using my index and middle fingers, I rub her pussy lips through her matching panties. I can’t help it. I need to know she’s wet for me. Lynn leans her head back and drops an “Oh, Nick.” Her nipples strain against the fabric of her bra, causing my mouth to pucker.
I’m a tits guy and Lynn’s plump breasts are a rare all-natural treat. Dipping my head, I nip one of her peaks with my teeth through her bra. Lynn moans, lifting her hips off the seat and grinding against my hand. My fingers slip past the edge of her panties and into her center.
I gotta be inside this woman.
“I want to be on top,” Lynn says, reading my mind.
I retract my wet fingers and lift my sweater and undershirt over my head. After retrieving a condom from my wallet, I shove my jeans and boxers to my ankles. Rolling the rubber down, my dick is at full attention. Lynn doesn’t hesitate, removing her panties and straddling my legs. Her shapely bottom rests against my thighs. A long, thin, silver chain with a jagged stone the color of Himalayan sea salt hangs between her tits. I palm the stone, our eyes meet.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Rose quartz. I use it for luck,” she says.
“Does it work?”
“Oh, yes. I get to do this.”
Lynn places her small hands on my shoulders and lifts her hips, covering my dick with her liquid gold. Eyes closed, she eases up and down. I hold my breath. I’m in heaven. Her breathy moans fill the car.
Damn, she’s tight.
“Nick, you’re so big. This is amazing. I want more.”
Her hips move in rhythmic circles, increasing in speed. I’m lost in the rapid motion of her heat against my erection. My body throbs from my head to my toes. If I don’t slow her down, our quickie will be over too soon.
I grip her hips, holding her steady. Her eyes fly open, yearning all over her sweet face. I wish we were at my house, in my bed, and that I had all night to be buried between her legs.
“I’ve waited three years to see your tits. Show me,” I say, trying to gain some control.
Lynn’s slender, purple manicured fingers lower the cups of her bra. Dark nipples tumble out. My mouth salivates, sucking a peaked tip. I praise her breasts with my tongue. Her sultry moans turn to desperate whimpers. Lynn tries to grind against my cock, but I hold her in place. I’m still not in control and the slightest rock of her hips may send me into climax.
Lynn leans back and thrusts her hips forward. My dick slips deeper inside of her. Groaning loudly, my mouth abandons her nipple.
I watch her. A sexy, vixen-grin covers her face. She licks her top lip. Her hand runs down the center of her body to where we are joined. Lynn rubs her two middle fingers over her clit several times. She brings her fingers to her mouth, sucking the tips before returning to her clit. I’m entranced. This pixie woman is getting herself off in a swift, circular motion while I’m halted inside her.
My eyes narrow. My cock twitches.
My mind… blown.
Lynn isn’t shy at all.
My sweet, smart woman knows how to fuck.
CHAPTER 3:
LYNN SCOTT
The need to come is overwhelming.
I rapidly strum my clit. Nick is trying to slow down our hook-up. I appreciate his self-control, but I haven’t had sex in like, forever. And my vibrators, all top-of-the-line, can’t compete with the broad shaft filling me up.
So yes, I’m tempting him to get on with it, but I’m also shamelessly getting myself off. I moan, applying more pressure to my clit. My body shudders in sweet readiness.
Nick grips my ass, lifting me off his dick. (Dude is really that strong.) His hazel green stare, commanding attention.
“Turn around,” he says.
In the fog of my almost-orgasm, I’m slow to react.
“Turn around. Sit on my lap. Straddle my thighs. I’ll guide you.”
I reverse, moving into this new position is less awkward than I expect. I find his lap, resting my shins and knees on the soft leather seat. While I’m impressed with my flexibility, nervousness lurks at the edge of my desire.
I love the art of sex. My mind is an encyclopedia of sexual positions. While I’m aware of reverse cowgirl, I’ve never experienced it. What if I’m not into it? What if I can’t sustain the position until orgasm?
I breathe deeply, forcing myself to relax. This morning, before catching my flight to L.A., I ran to the top of Nob Hill. If I can move my body up and down one of the highest points in SF, I can ride Nick’s incredible cock until we both come.
Nick’s strong hands guide my hips over his dick. Excitement pushes my fears aside. I want this man inside me. This hook-up is a dream come true... he’s the man I measure all others against.
I rock my hips against him. Nick continues to hold my waist, stilling my natural impulse.
“Please, Nick. I’m so ready.”
My plea is a surrender of control. He rewards me with feathery kisses on my back.
“Put your hands on the front seats.”
I do as he says, my body angling forward. Nick slides my pussy down onto his shaft, moving in and out at a wildly decadent pace. My tits jiggle. My breathing heavy. He’s worshipping my glorious spot with his cock and my clit with his fingers. Pleasure quakes throughout my body. Yes! This is so good. I tremble. Nick rubs my clit faster, applying the right amount of pressure.
This is why we changed positions. He wants to be the captain. I don’t mind. This is unbelievably good. My climax grows from my center, radiating sublime sensations. Euphoric. I don’t want him to stop again.
“I’m so close,” I say.
“I am too,” he groans.
The clench of my orgasm halts me in place. I cry out. Nick grips both my hips, pounding his way to release. I wish I could see him climax. The vision of his eyes closed and his gorgeous face strained in satisfaction, sends me overboard.
I disappear into my imagination.
In my fantasy— Nick is my hero. I, his heroine. This is not a hook-up. Each grind is an act of love. This is not a quickie, but a declaration of togetherness. Our sex symbolizes the end of our magical and sometimes messy journey to happily-ever-after.
And just as the vision appears in my mind’s eye, it dissipates.
Nick thrusts his thighs forward and finds his own release. His deep, guttural moans are more stimulating than the act of fucking and I piggy back on his orgasm with another of my own. My core tightens and grips, and I come harder than I do with my vibrator. Our moans meet and crescendo into labored pants of exertion.
Holy Unicorn. I just had sex with Nick Willingham.
I slump against the passenger seat headrest. Nick plants kisses up and down my spine. My breathing and the sweet suckling of his lips against my skin is the only sound in the car. This moment between sex and returning to
real life is sacred. I appreciate that he’s not in a rush to move on.
The Sencha ringtone ends our intimate moment. I follow the noise to Nick’s jeans bunched at his ankles.
“I have the same tone set on my phone,” I say.
Reaching between my legs, I hold the condom in place and lift. Our connection officially over. Shifting off his lap, Nick holds my hips steady. I sit next to him, but I’m in no rush to get dressed. With the dark tint on the windows, the SUV seems like a luxurious all-leather cocoon, coaxing me to stay still and enjoy my post-sex haze.
“Cake duty alarm. We’ve got fifteen minutes,” he says.
Nick retrieves his phone from his pants and silences the alarm. I observe him through unfocused eyes. He removes and ties the condom, resting it on the seat before pulling up his boxers and jeans. Retrieving his T-shirt and sweater from the floor, he pulls them over his head.
Nick moves with the gracefulness of a true athlete. He played water polo in high school and college, and even made the Olympic team.
Even after a decade, his body is still insane— golden skin covers rippling muscles and six pack abs. I wish we had another thirty minutes (or a whole night), because I’d give anything to kiss him… all over. My hook-up numbers are high in the double digits, but no man has been as attractive and satisfying as Nick Willingham.
“I’m going to get something out of the back,” he says, opening the door just enough to hop out.
I pull my bra into place. The memory of his mouth on my breasts is so intense I swear I can almost feel his tongue. Reaching for my blouse, I slip it on before scanning the posh back seat for my underwear.
Everything about Nick is expensive. The dark gray cashmere sweater hugging his muscular shoulders. His deep brown pompadour hairstyle. This silver G-series Mercedes SUV. The dark charcoal loafers on his feet.
Like him, I grew up affluent. My parents’ salaries and net worth are at the top end of the curve. I’ve netted several six-figure years, both when I was working for Google as a technical writer and in my now full-time gig as a romance author.
But Nick’s affluence is a whole different level of wealth. Unrestrained. Curated. Purposeful. Lavish. I’d love to know the inner workings of his mind. Our conversations over the years have been cigarette-brief, so I know very little about him. (I know he’s really fucking hot.)
