by Emma Chase
“Did you not hear the same song I did?”
His voice rises with exasperation. “So fucking what? It was a song. Kate is marrying you—you have a son together.” He cups his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “Get over it.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I am. I am over it. But . . . when I see him . . . when I see them together—it drives me nuts.”
“Why?”
“Because I still think he has feelings for Kate.”
“Again—why?”
I grind my teeth. And clench my hands. When I open my mouth, the God’s honest truth comes tumbling out. “Because I would never let her go, Matthew. Ever. No matter what happened—no matter what I did, I’d keep hoping, trying, until she came back to me.”
Matthew nods compassionately. “And that is why you are marrying Kate, and Warren is not. Because he was able to let her go. It wasn’t the forever kind of relationship, it was the for-right-now kind. And he did get over her. It’s the same way for Kate. So stop torturing yourself—and the rest of us—and just fucking enjoy it. You won. She’s yours.”
I think about his words for a moment. And then I shrug. “Either way, no harm, no foul. I get peace of mind, Warren gets his pickup skills upgraded, and Kate will be pleasantly surprised that I’m not jumping at the chance to put him in a shallow grave. Everybody wins, right?”
Matthew nods thoughtfully and finishes his drink.
Over the speaker system, the lifeguard calls our team number, and we get ready to nail the game.
Chapter 8
By the time we head back to the villa—as the returning water-volleyball champions we are—afternoon has slipped into dusk. It’s my favorite time of day. The sun is setting and the air smells like summer—a mix of earth and chlorine and freshly cut grass. I swipe my card through the security gate surrounding the house and walk toward the front door.
Something in the window catches Jack’s eye, and he freezes. “What the hell . . .”
I follow his gaze through the window. I see the girls in the library, sitting in a circular formation on chairs dragged in from the dining room. They’re wearing long, pink, satiny robes and open-back, fuzzy, black heels. In the center of the circle stands a tall, fiftyish blonde in full black-leather dominatrix attire. She’s sort of hot—in an aging-hooker, been-around-the-block, her-pussy-is-probably-as-wide-as-the-Lincoln-Tunnel kind of way.
I whisper excitedly, “Goddess party.”
See? Dreams really do come true.
Matthew fist-pumps. “Yes!”
Like SEAL Team Six, we stealthily invade the villa single-file. Once inside, we line up—totem-pole style—in front of the library’s mahogany double doors. Without making a sound, I crack the door—just a little. Just enough to watch and listen. In one hand, dominatrix lady holds a mini, purple vibrator—in the other, a matching remote control.
“We call this the Master. You insert the vibrator into your panties, and your gentleman takes possession of the controller. It’s noiseless and discreet, but powerful. With the remote, he can alternate speed and pressure at his discretion. . . .”
Matthew whispers, “I have got to get me one of those.”
I murmur, “I’m gonna get five.” I envision our weekly staff meetings in the conference room taking on a whole new meaning.
Dominatrix lady goes on, “And now, ladies, let’s continue our oral instruction. Your bananas, please.”
Instantly and without shame, each of the girls picks up the large banana that has been resting on her lap. And puts it in her mouth.
Holy Mary, mother of God.
“Remember to relax your jaw . . . breathe on the outtake. Watch your teeth . . .”
My eyes are glued to Kate as the banana slides smoothly in and out from between her perfect pink lips. I’m so turned on, I could hammer nails into a two-by-four with my cock. I mean, I’ve been where that banana is going many times before, but something about watching Kate give head from this point of view is crazy erotic. It’s like . . . live-porn dinner theater.
“Use your other hand, ladies. The testes are the neglected stepchild of the male genitalia. Knead them, massage them, caress them—they need your love too.”
Yes. Yes, they do.
In a hushed voice, Jack puts into words what all of us are thinking. “Anyone else about to jizz in their swim trunks? This is . . . this is like every fantasy I’ve ever had all rolled into one.”
I can’t help but agree. “Me too—except the part about my sister being there. And Delores.”
Matthew is insulted. “Hey, my wife is magnificent.”
You wanna know what else is magnificent? A black panther, streaking across a valley, going in for the kill. Doesn’t mean I want to mount one.
I tear my eyes away from the fruit-blowing fest and look down at Matthew. “Your wife’s a psychopath. I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick. She’d probably pull some kind of booby-trap shit and shove razor blades up her twat to try and slice my cock off.”
Was that too crude?
“That’s a fucked-up thing to say.”
Pick a conspiracy, any conspiracy—the JFK assassination, Area 51 . . .
“The truth usually is.”
The guy code restricts how much you can mock a friend’s significant other. There’s an imaginary line. And if Matthew’s reaction is any indication? I just crossed it.
He lands an angry punch to my right leg. In the spot above my knee—the charley-horse region—that makes pain echo up and down my femur.
“Ow! God damn it!”
I shift my weight to my other leg to keep from falling over, but I step on Warren’s hand and set off a not-so-quiet domino effect.
“Hey! Those are my fingers, asshole!”
“Dude, stop pushing!”
“Shut the hell up, I can’t hear!”
“You’re ruining it!”
“Stop fucking punching me!”
You know what’s going to happen next, don’t you? Yep—the doors open. And the five of us tumble into the room in a heap—like a pileup after a fumble.
Of course.
There’s a collective gasp at our intrusion—the kind of sound a sunbather would make after getting doused with a bucket of ice water. Meanwhile, the man-pile does its best to untangle.
“Ompf . . .”
“Ow . . .”
“Get your knee off my balls!”
“Get your balls off my knee!”
I’m the first to recover. I hop to my feet and flash the girls a dashing smile. “Hello, ladies.” I hold up my hands, palms out. “Sorry for the interruption. Carry on, pretend like we’re not even here.”
But the lust spell has been broken. With a meaningful look, Delores peels her banana, then takes a big, chomping bite out of it.
I flinch.
My sister huffs, “You’re back early.”
Erin continues analyzing the remote control of the must-have vibrator. Kate is the only one who doesn’t seem upset by our arrival. She leans back in her chair and stares at me dreamily, her dark eyes big and shiny. Then she sighs. “Hi, baby.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The rest of the guys are now standing, and Jack approaches dominatrix chick, who’s busy packing up her naughty paraphernalia.
His come-on is a cross between James Bond and Rico Suave. “O’Shay. Jack O’Shay. If you’re in need of an assistant or a model to demonstrate correct technique . . . I would be honored to fill that role. I’m available until tomorrow evening.” He holds out his card and whispers, “Call me . . . cell phone’s on the back.”
She looks him up and down appreciatively, fingering the card with one red nail. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
But Matthew, like me, isn’t ready for the party to end just yet. “Wait, you don’t have to leave now.”
Dee-Dee stands and holds up a magazine. “I have a catalog, Matthew. Let’s look it over together in our room—you can make a Christmas list.”
Hi
s eyes follow her as she walks out, then he scampers after her like a puppy chasing a bone.
Erin announces that she’s taking a nap, and my sister and Steven disappear without a word to each other, or anyone else. My eyes never leave Kate. It’s only been a few hours . . . but still . . . I missed her.
“You look relaxed,” I comment. “Did you have a good afternoon?”
Kate stands and grazes her palms over my chest and across my shoulders, feeling me up. “It was nice. But I know how to make it even better.” She wraps her arms around my neck and slides her tongue around my ear. It’s soft at first—teasing. Then she plunges inside with the perfect amount of pressure to make my knees want to buckle.
Every guy has a spot. A highly sensitive place that, when stimulated, goes right to his dick. For some, it’s the neck or the stomach. For some freaks it’s the toes. But for me? It’s my ears. Kate knows this.
Sucking lightly on my earlobe, her hands skim down my sides around to the back, before settling on my ass with a firm squeeze. I’m not complaining—this is me here—a little grab-ass or jerk the johnson is never a bad thing. But Kate is usually more on the conservative side. Less overt with her sexual advances, particularly when other people are nearby.
I lean my head back to look at her face. Her smile is lazy, and her eyes—did I say they were shiny? They’re not. They’re glassy. There’s a difference.
“Have you been smoking Warren’s crotch stash?”
She bites her lip. Guilty as charged. She holds up two fingers, pinching them together, and closes one eye. “Just this much.” Then she gives me an innocent, adorable look. “Are you mad?”
As I said before, I’m not into drugs. They’re not just a vice—they’re a crutch. A chemical support for weak-minded individuals who can’t deal with life’s everyday bullshit. But it’s not like Kate is popping Mommy’s Little Helpers three times a day. Since I’ve known her, she’s gotten stoned exactly twice—both times with Dee-Dee, while the four of us were on vacation together. Kate doesn’t buy or grow her own stuff. She would certainly never get high around our son.
So if she wants to kick back and toke up once in a blue moon, I’m not going to be the self-righteous, overbearing asshole who gives her shit for it. “Of course I’m not mad.”
Her smile grows. “Oh . . . that’s good. Because I have plans . . . plans that require you not being angry.” She giggles wickedly. “Well . . . maybe a little angry would be okay.”
Then she attaches her lips to my neck, sucking and kissing, moaning softly. Have I mentioned that weed makes Kate horny? Oh, yeah, it does. Which is another reason I’m perfectly happy with her current condition.
I sweep her up into my arms, princess style. She squeals. Then I tell Jack, “We’ll be in our room. Don’t knock on that door unless the place is on fucking fire.”
Now that the goddess host has left the building, Jack’s feeling needy. “I thought we were going to play Xbox?”
“Plans change.” I swing around and make my way toward our room.
“That’s not cool, man. Bros before . . .” My glare cuts him off. Because there’s no way I’m going to let him finish that sentence when he’s talking about my fiancée.
He takes the hint. “Fine. Dicks before chicks, then.”
“You might want to rethink that. Because while you’re out here jerking your game remote with Warren, I’m gonna be in there, with Kate. No contest, buddy.”
I walk through our door and kick it closed behind me. Then I set Kate on her feet, cup her face with my hands, and kiss the breath right out of her. I pull the pink robe down her arm, exposing the creamy flesh of her shoulder. I taste it with my tongue, then slowly make my way up to her neck.
Her head rolls to the side with a moan. My hands make quick work of the robe and the black, strappy nightgown underneath—sliding them off Kate’s body into a ring of satin around her feet. After kissing her lips deeply one last time, I kneel in front of her, soaking up the sight of her beautiful bareness.
She’s perfect. It shouldn’t surprise me—I know what she looks like. But still, every view of Kate’s firm tits, her flat waist, her toned, smooth legs, revs me up like a kid getting his first glimpse of porn.
Because she’s mine. Because she’s amazing. Because she wants me as badly as I want her. And this is the way it’s supposed to be—the way it’s supposed to feel. The way it always will—an intense haze of lust and heat and adoration.
Her heavy-lidded eyes look down at me as I lean forward and kiss the skin around her pussy. She’s completely smooth and soft—freshly waxed. Kate pulls back just a bit at the contact.
“Tender?” I ask.
It’s times like this I’m particularly glad I’m a guy. Because manscaping with an electric razor is one thing. Getting hair ripped out in large clumps with hot wax? No thanks. Sounds like a goddamn torture technique, doesn’t it?
Though the results are awesome.
She exhales. “Just a little sensitive.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
I cup her ass and bring her sweet snatch to my mouth. I caress her with my tongue—like an artist stroking a fresh canvas. Slowly at first. Then deeper, with more purpose—more pressure. And I’m overwhelmed by the texture—the sight, the taste, and the scent. It’s sublime sensory overload.
The saints can keep heaven, because this spot between Kate Brooks’s legs is so much fucking better. Paradise on earth.
We’ll stop right here for a second. Don’t want to ruin the vibe—but we should talk about a “very special” topic. A topic that the male youth of today are tragically under-informed about. I like to call it cunning linguistics.
You may know it as going down. Dining at the Y. Carpet munching. Having a box lunch. The point is, pussy-eating is an acquired skill. All that making-the-alphabet-with-your-tongue crap is for lazy schmucks who couldn’t find a G-spot with a fucking flashlight and a navigation device.
You have to hone your craft—develop your technique. It’s a lot like . . . basketball. Just knowing the right moves isn’t a guarantee you’re gonna score points. Because you have to know whom you’re playing with—the type of moves they’re partial to. Too much attention to a sensitive clit kills the momentum. Not enough attention and the chick will be checking her watch thinking, Is he done yet? Body language is crucial. Reading the signals—taking cues.
At the moment, Kate’s pussy is dripping—wet desire clings to her thighs. And it’s fucking glorious. Women should never be embarrassed about being turned on. Even if you squirt like a high-powered water gun or gush like Old Reliable—be proud. Guys love it.
Because it can’t be faked.
As “Sally” demonstrated in that 1980s Billy Crystal movie, just because a woman acts as if she were coming, it doesn’t mean she really is. For some, every pant, scratch, and squeal may be suspect. Is she really getting off? Or is she just tired of getting nailed? But feeling, seeing, that slick desire tells men that you’re actually into it. That they’re doing it right. And that makes us guys want to do it more.
Now that my good deed is done for the day—back to the bedroom.
Kate’s hips start to rotate against my face. My hands help her along. She leans her upper body back against the wall. Her breaths come faster and her face turns upward. Her eyes close. Then the explosion comes. She grabs the back of my head, holding me in place as she clenches and grinds against me. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Fucking gorgeous.
After a minute, her grip loosens, and her eyes open. She looks down at me with a satisfied smile, and I kiss a path up her body as I stand. Her limp arms rise slowly up and around my neck, and just before she presses her mouth to mine, she whispers, “So good.”
I thought so too, but it’s always nice to hear. As she kisses me, my hands find her ass again. Kate’s ass reminds me of a kid’s favorite stuffed animal. Once it’s within my reach, I just can’t seem to let it go.
I drag her up my bod
y and her legs lock around my waist. Now that I’ve gotten Kate off, my plan is to slow things down. Take our time. Because once you have kids—time is never your friend again. Even in the dead of night, there’s always the thought, the nagging fucking possibility, that time will run out. But that’s not the case now.
James—whom I love with everything I am—is my parents’ problem. I plan to make the most of it. By spending the next few hours doing all the fun, naughty—loud—things I wouldn’t risk doing when he’s nearby.
“I owe you a massage,” I whisper to her.
But Kate has other ideas. She reaches down between us and pulls my rock-hard dick out of my swim shorts. She strokes it expertly, until my eyes cross. “You can massage me later. I need you to fuck me right now.”
Christ. I love it when she gets bossy. With one hand, I push my shorts down the rest of the way. Then I line us up and slide slowly inside. “God damn.” Her body swells around me. Takes me in and holds me tight.
It might sound stupid—overly romantic—to say that Kate’s body was made for mine. But that doesn’t make it any less true. My hips pull back, and her muscles squeeze harder, not wanting to let me go. I push in deeper till Kate’s ass hits the wall behind her. I pump into her with short, hard strokes, thumping against the wall in a drumming rhythm. We gasp and moan together—cursing and humming—with every thrust.
It’s not gentle. Or quiet. We’re loud enough for the rest of the house to hear us. Hell, we’re loud enough for Indonesia to hear us. Holding her against me, I turn around so my back’s braced against the doorframe of the bathroom. I lift her up and down smoothly. My arms strain from the action, and a sheen of sweat covers our skins.
Then I take a few steps into the bathroom, to the vanity counter. I perch her on top, knocking clinking bottles of perfume and face wash to the floor. I kiss her deeply, and her tongue dances against mine. She pulls back and grips my hips with her hands, taking over the pace.
She moans and begs and orders, “Slow.”
I do as she commands, rotating my hips in sensuously slow circles. Clashing against her, bringing us closer to that powerful pinnacle with every breath we take.
“Fuck . . . ,” I hiss, because it feels too good not to.
“Drew . . . ,” she answers with a soulful whimper.
Kate’s legs tremble, shake under my steady hands. I move faster, pump against her harder, greedy for the feeling of her tight, hot muscles pulsing and contracting around me. The heels of the black shoes that still encase her feet dig into my ass as she matches the give-and-take of my hips with her own.
Then she’s clinging to me—chest to chest—her teeth biting into my shoulder as she screams. “Yes . . . yes . . .”
When you’ve had as many orgasms as I have, they tend to blend together, forming one general happy memory. But every once in a while, one stands out from the rest. It’s a moment I’ll think about later—relive on my next business trip when masturbation is my only recourse.
This is one of those orgasms.
Ecstasy rips through me like a submarine missile tearing into the ocean. I lean forward over Kate, pressing her against me. Trying to get closer—to absorb every ounce of bliss she’s giving me. I think I shout her name, but I’m not sure.
Several moments later, after the sound of my blood pounding in my ears has lessened, I look into Kate’s smiling eyes. She pushes my damp hair off my forehead. Then she kisses the tattoo of our son’s name on my chest.
And she hugs me—holds me—resting her cheek against my heart. “I love you, Drew.”
It should be weird to have such sweet words and tender actions come after the rough and raw screwing we just enjoyed. But for us? Nothing weird about it.
For us, it’s perfect.
Chapter 9
