Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Book 1)

by Amiee Smith

  “Anyway, my mom had to hire a private investigator to find me. Yeah, total rich kid drama. But I get it. I caused them a lot of grief. I’m their only kid. My mom sees a lot of ugly shit in her job, so they were assuming the worst. I will never forget the look on their faces when I walked into the lobby at the hotel. My parents. All the girls. I felt bad for worrying them so much. Having so much fun, while causing the people I love a lot of hassle. Only then did I realize that maybe I hadn’t made the best decision.”

  The last bit of tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders breaks. Lynn feels the shift too because she rests her cheek against my chest. Each blink of her thick lashes fans away any lingering strife between us.

  “Instead of explaining why I stayed in Vancouver, I let everyone believe it was my ADHD. And maybe it was, partially. I do think my disorder and my creativity are connected in some twisted way. I didn’t understand my muse back then— how it takes hold and nothing else exists but the characters in my head. It’s difficult to explain, so I learned to run all my decisions and plans through my friends and family. Not because I needed money or approval. I didn’t know how to balance my happiness with their concern for me. Even moving to San Francisco… I had to get the job at Google as an excuse to break free. And I’ve spent the last eight years strategically trying to feel the way I felt when I was in Vancouver, without hurting or alarming the people I care about.”

  Lynn sits up, sipping her wine, and hitting the vape pen.

  “This need to break free… is it why you’ve avoided being in a relationship?” I ask.

  “If that’s the case, I probably said yes to the wrong relationship. But you, Nick Willingham, my dreamy Olympian, are too perfect to say no to.”

  • • •

  “What’s the story with you ordering four pizzas?” I say, carrying the tray into my bedroom.

  Lynn is wearing a short, sleeveless, white A-line dress and her feet are bare. She flutters throughout my room lighting several large white jar candles with matches. Candles cover every flat surface in the space. The dull scent of sulfur floats in the cool air.

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d enjoy. I ordered three, hoping to get it right.”

  I deposit the tray on the blue blanket she has spread out over my bed. After our bath, I’m feeling renewed and relaxed. My attire, while not something I would typically wear on a date, matches my mood— a black short-sleeve Henley shirt, blue relaxed-fit jeans, and my feet are also bare.

  “I didn’t have all these candles in my house,” I say.

  “I ordered them on Postmates from a boutique on Sunset while you were gone. I’m going to wash my hands.”

  Lynn pops into my attached bath before returning to the bed for our picnic. I’m in awe of how she could pull together our date night in less than an hour and without a car.

  “Thank you for my flowers,” she says.

  Lynn stares at the small bouquet of red roses in a clear vase on the nightstand; the side of the bed I think of as hers.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, cutting into a piece of pizza.

  “I have a gift for you too. Look under your pillow,” Lynn says.

  I reach under the thick pillow and pull out a white envelope. My name is written on the front in purple ink. I’m used to buying gifts, not receiving them. I’m not sure how to react.

  “Should I open it now?” I ask.

  “Please.”

  I recognize the envelope. It came from my office. Inside is handwritten instructions on how to redeem a thousand-dollar gift card with American Airlines. I glance at her for an explanation. Candlelight reflects off her warm, brown-eyed gaze and sweet white smile.

  “For the day when you get off work and just want to see me.”

  Damn, her endearing words shock my core. Soon, I won’t get off work and just see her. Travel. Planning. Scheduling. The 300-plus miles, a barrier between us. I’d deal with the Mafia and her mom and maybe Michael every day if it meant I could eat pizza or kale chips in bed with her every night. I mentally push the drops of melancholy away in fear of tainting the rest of our week together.

  “Thank you, Lynn. I plan to use it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I have some more gifts for you.”

  “I see the box.”

  She’s referring to the white pastry box on the tray.

  “That’s our dessert.”

  Panic comes over her face.

  “It’s not vegan cake. I promise. Open it.”

  Lynn delicately opens the box. Inside; six large strawberries covered in vegan dark chocolate.

  “Oh, Nick. They’re luscious.”

  “It’s a bit cliché, but it seemed more special than a bar of dark chocolate.”

  “It isn’t cliché at all. Thank you,” Lynn says quietly.

  I forget this is Lynn’s first time in the dating game. Nothing is cliché. At least in my world, chocolate-covered anything is synonymous with romance. Which is ironic because she writes romance and has a T-shirt with the word on it.

  “This is really good,” I say.

  My high has kicked in. Every bite of food tastes spectacular. Fennel and parmesan bless my taste buds.

  “Which one? The Blanca with sausage? I added the sausage.”

  “Yeah. It’s hitting all the right spots. Good call. Though I could have eaten the vegan pizza.”

  Her pizza is surprisingly tasty and filling. A cheese-less pie with a thin sourdough crust, a layer of red sauce and a medley of sweet white corn, cauliflower, charred greens, chopped Manzanilla olives, and cherry tomatoes, drizzled in olive oil.

  “I figured you could take the leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”

  She remembered I take lunch every day.

  “Actually, I’m having lunch here tomorrow. I’m not going in until the afternoon.”

  “You’re not sticking around in fear that I might get lost, are you?” she laughs.

  “No. I figured we’d be up late, so I rescheduled my site visits. Speaking of getting lost and staying up…” I say, walking into my closet.

  “That’s some closet, Nick. I probably could do four cartwheels in a row in there.”

  I laugh, returning to the bed with a brown eco-friendly gift bag.

  “This is for you.”

  Lynn wipes her hands on the cloth napkin on her lap before peeking inside.

  “Oooh,” she purrs.

  I appreciate her response to my main gift, but she doesn’t pull it out. Instead, opting for the white box.

  “It’s a fitness tracker with a GPS system. It connects to your phone so you always know where you’re at and where you’ve traveled. You download the app to your phone.”

  After picking up the vape pen on my drive, I stopped by Best Buy to blow off some remaining steam. I let one of the store clerks convince me to buy the black, high-tech wristband, “a gift for my girlfriend who gets lost easily, though she’d probably prefer I bought a TV for my living room.”

  “Will the app be on your phone as well?” her question tentative and uneasy.

  “No. Why would it be?” Relief fills her face and I connect the unspoken words. “Lynn, I never doubted your safety today. I know you can take care of yourself. It’s one of the qualities I admire most about you.”

  “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

  Lynn finishes her pizza, placing her plate on the tray. I do the same.

  “Let’s have dessert later,” she says.

  “Okay. Do you want to watch TV instead?”

  I’m being coy, still unsure as to what she’s thinking. Lynn looks down at her fingers toying with the hem of her dress. The last thing I want to do tonight is watch TV, but she hasn’t said anything about my other gift. Is it too much?

  After work, I ventured into a store way outside my boundary lines to buy her gift. I want to know how she feels about it, but I need to wait. I can’t command or push. Not tonight.

  “No. I don’t want to watch TV,” Lynn says, rising fro
m the bed.

  She doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in her voice as she leaves the room. I want to go after her, but I wait it out. She comes back holding a black satin eye mask.

  “I ordered this with the candles. It will go well with my gift,” she says.

  “It depends on whose night it is. I want to see everything,” I say.

  “They work for both of us?”

  Her eyes glow with excitement. Her delighted face is as good as a bag of OG Kush and taking her from behind— combined.

  “Yes. They’re adjustable,” I say, with a slow smile.

  “We need to carry this tray to the kitchen and make a decision. Because neither of us is sub or dom. We just like to fuck.”

  I pick up the tray and hustle to the kitchen. Lynn folds up the blanket and follows behind me. We work in silence, putting food and dishes away and wiping down the counters. I carry the pizza boxes to the outside trash. Returning, I find Lynn standing next to the island with two glasses of water.

  “Hydrate, Superstar. The downside of concentrates is extreme cotton mouth and I don’t want you to be distracted,” she says, handing me a glass of water.

  “Lemonade Haze has Skunk #1 in it,” I say sheepishly, before drinking my water.

  I hope she gets what I mean. I can’t read her. Maybe she’s too tired to be kinky?

  “Yes, I know. It’s why I want to rip off your clothes and beg you to bend me over the table. We need to have a discussion first.”

  My horny girl’s head is exactly where both of mine are.

  Lynn and I go back to my bedroom and sit on our respective sides of the bed. The gift bag between us.

  “Nick, whose night is it to wear the leather cuffs? Or should we take turns?”

  CHAPTER 25:

  LYNN SCOTT

  Nick is quiet. Too quiet. I fight the impulse to lift my darling white dress over my head (thanks, Raquel). The Skunk #1, a known aphrodisiac, has me ready to play kinky with my superstar.

  I remove the exquisite, black bondage cuffs from the gift bag, placing them on the nightstand. Nick looks like Rodin’s “The Thinker” sculpture, illuminated in candlelight. He hadn’t considered we’d each want to restrain the other as much as we’d want to be restrained.

  With each minute I wait, my panties become more and more soaked. The soft leather cuffs are so well-crafted, I know he didn’t buy them in some neighborhood sex shop. This is handmade kinkery gear.

  My mental light bulb flickers on. I leave Nick’s room to grab my laptop. My feet scurry against the hardwood. Will he appreciate what I’m about to share? My heart jumps in my throat. I stop by the kitchen for a little liquid courage, pouring myself a half-glass of Tempranillo.

  I go back to his bedroom, shutting the door with my foot.

  Glossy, hazel green eyes follow me as I climb into bed. Nick lounges against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He looks so cute and strong and really stoned all at the same time. His hair is product-free, a rarity. I love the way his shirt hugs his pecs. His relaxed shoulders are less towering than when I got home from my DTLA adventure.

  He was so handsome standing in the kitchen in his sandy brown work boots, light blue work jeans and tucked-in, sun-faded Willingham Contractors shirt. But his muscular forearms crossed over his chest made him look mean, pissed off. I can’t fault him. Today, he got a front row view of the circus I’ve spent the last decade trying to contain. A little pang of guilt fills my chest, mixed with nervousness. I sink deeper into the bed. A big gulp of the peppery wine, necessary.

  “What’s up with the Mafia guzzling my wine like it’s a box special?” Nick asks.

  He takes my glass, swirling it as if he’s a sommelier before bringing it to his lips.

  Nick is not used to the Smart Girl Mafia’s boozing ways. When we’re together, there is no sipping. Just a game of who can get inebriated the fastest so we can craft some scheme to solve a problem in our lives in between dancing and telling dramatic stories and off-color jokes.

  “Sorry my friends weren’t respecting the wine,” I say.

  I rest my computer on my lap and take the glass from him. I sip slowly before placing it on the nightstand next to one of the jar candles. The three hundred bucks I dropped on the twenty large candles littered throughout the room is one of the “best investments I’ve ever made.” There is no need to turn on the lamps. The dazzling candlelight fills the room beautifully. Enchanting. Magical. A fairy tale date night.

  “You respect the wine. I love that about you. I love the way you taste too.”

  Nick distracts me with nips and kisses up and down my neck.

  “I have something to share with you. Something I’ve never shared with anyone else.”

  “No one else? Not your harem of booty call dudes? Mafia? Parents? Fans?”

  With each question, a nip.

  A deep moan emerges from the back of my throat. I push my computer to the side and bring my mouth to his. My fingers curve around his soft damp hair. Our kiss, unrestrained. Full mouth. Lips smacking. Tongues tangling.

  “Forget it,” I say.

  Pulling away from his lips, I straddle his lap before continuing the tongue-thrusting kiss. Nick runs his hand under my short, fluttery skirt, his fingers grazing the lacy edge of my thong. (Raquel again.)

  “Take these off. I want them.”

  I comply. Moving off his lap, I shimmy out of my pale pink underwear and hand them over.

  “I love how wet you get. Are you always like this? Or is it just for me?” he says, sliding them into his pocket.

  I can’t lie to him.

  “Both. I only get this wet with you… and when I read a really fantastic trashy book.”

  I had a lot of good sex in my fat girl days, but being with Nick is electrifying. I try to mount him again, but he halts my progression.

  “Show me,” he says, pointing to my computer.

  I rest my back against the headboard and open my laptop. Typing in my password, I hand it to him. My heart sits in my throat as I wait for him to say something. With each click and scroll, I feel as if I’m in my blue, bare midriff tank in the middle of DTLA.

  “You've never shared this with another dude?” he asks.

  “No one has seen this. It's the culmination of all my research over the years. I use it when I write,” I say.

  “You know this makes you a sex nerd?” Nick says, a playful grin forming all over his gorgeous face.

  “Oh, Goddess! That title would be an honor. But other than with you, I've only done missionary or doggy style.”

  “Really? You enjoy being on top.”

  “Oh, yes. I love it with you. I never felt comfortable until now. I'd worry that I was too heavy to be good at it.”

  “Because you’ve been with weak-ass guys. Nothing is bad when we’re together.”

  “These last few days have been the best sex of my life,” I say.

  “Let's make it even better. Email this to me,” Nick says.

  He hands my laptop back and retrieves his tablet from the nightstand drawer.

  “I don’t know, Nick.”

  In my world, this document is sacred. I’ve spent the last five years researching and perfecting it with images, detailed descriptions, and step-by-step instructions. It’s my guilty pleasure.

  “It will stay between us. I want to reference it on my tablet instead of carrying your laptop around from room to room,” he says.

  His matter-of-fact tone sets me at ease.

  “Okay,” I click around, opening my email. “Room to room, huh?”

  “Lynn, your Book of Fuckery is going to require a lot of space. There are seventy-five positions in this document. I plan to put a nice dent in this list before you leave on Sunday.”

  Exhilaration runs through my body like flashes of lightning. I always hoped that when I finally met the right guy, I’d get to try some of the sexual positions I’ve spent so much time researching. I really am a horny girl— arousal takes
over, pushing all doubt aside. It also helps that Nick embodies everything I respect and appreciate about a man.

  “What's your email?”

  “Nick.Willingham18@gmail.com.”

  “Done. What’s next?” I ask, closing my laptop.

  He opens the document on his tablet and scrolls up and down with his finger. It’s as if he’s debating and comparing. Planning. (Yay!)

  “I'm torn between #27 and #41. Though I’d prefer #41,” Nick says.

  I curl up next to him on the bed. The intimacy of being huddled over his tablet discussing sexual positions is unreal. I feel so very lucky. The cool rose quartz nestled between my breasts, more evident.

  Position #41. Suspended Congress. It is the most physically demanding of all the positions outlined in my Nick-coined, Book of Fuckery. Of course, he chose a position that requires him to lift me, gripping my ass while my legs are wrapped around him. I’m only now getting strong and he has a bum shoulder. This position could go terribly wrong.

  “I’m not sure we’re ready for #41,” I say with sincere apprehension.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I’ve never felt safer with a man than I feel with Nick. A low growl sounds from within his chest, sending fluxes of lust throughout my core.

  “Take off your clothes,” Nick says.

  We both rise from the bed. (Finally!) I lift my dress over my head and unclasp my bra, letting both drop to the floor. Nick removes his clothes and scrolls his tablet. His fully erect dick causes my body to buzz with anticipation.

  I place the eye mask next to the cuffs on the nightstand. If I had my phone, I would snap a picture of the two to post to my Facebook super-fan group for #KinkyFriday. I want to take a pic of Nick with his tablet for #HotGuyReading to post on my author page (waist up, of course).

  Nick drops his tablet on the bed and retrieves both the eye mask and the cuffs. Lifting his chin, he commands me over to the bare light gray wall next to the nightstand.

  “Put your back against the wall.”

  I do as he says, the cool wall caressing my skin. My nipples tighten. Standing in front of me, he dips his head to take one of my sensitive peaks in his mouth. The sight of his pink lips sucking my deep brown areola is more stimulating than the sensation of his lapping tongue. I moan, my hands cupping his incredible shoulders.