Chasing Casey

by Jane Anthony

  “Fuuuuuck . . .” I groan, my hand disappearing in the hair at the nape of her neck. Whenever she touches me, I turn into a cave dweller and lose all capability of speech. I’m going to be so late for work, but screw it. I’ve fantasized about Casey’s plump lips on my dick from day one, but even the hottest dreams don’t come close to the real thing.

  Her hair falls around her face, teasing the bare skin on my thighs. Taking it in my fist, I guide her with my other hand. When I feel myself hit the back of her throat, my head falls back. She gives the base a light squeeze with her hand, jerking in a fluid carousel motion that knocks me on my ass. Side to side. Up and down. Sucking the very soul from my body through the tip of my cock.

  Looking down at her kneeling on my bed, I admire her perfect curves, thanking a God I didn’t believe existed until right this second. Guess it’s true. No one’s an atheist thirty seconds before an orgasm.

  The polite thing to do would be to tap out and let her know I’m about to finish, but the sight of her ocean eyes looking up at me from beyond light blond lashes unleashes an animal within me. She’s my angel with dirty wings. Mine. And I want to fill her. Own her. Plant my seed inside her any way I can.

  Spasms wrack my body as I blow down her throat. She doesn’t even flinch. Just swallows my cum with her mouth still clamped around me, then slides me out slowly, suckling the last of my climax from the tip and letting go with a bowing string of saliva still clinging between us.

  I fall forward, bracing myself with my hand, my mouth forming a circle as I exhale hard. Casey jumps off the bed and trots to the bathroom, while I sit on the edge with my pants still around my ankles, reeling and dizzy from quite possibly the best blowjob of my life.

  Casey is a rare find. A good girl when she has to be and a bad one when she wants to be. And she’s all mine. I have no idea how the hell I found her, but I’m never letting go.

  CHAPTER 14

  Casey

  AJ’S BACHELOR PAD makes me grin. Actually, I’m grinning anyway. Amazing sex does that to a girl. All morning, I found myself losing whole chunks of time just daydreaming about him. The way his gray eyes churn with raw, erotic desire. A look that leaves my breath choppy and my panties wet with each passing gaze.

  Alone with my thoughts, I walk through the quiet house just taking it all in. He lives like a refugee. The only furniture in the living room is a couch; a crazy sound system and a movie theater-sized television hang on the plain white wall. There are no tables, no color, and nothing on the windows but stark white mini blinds. It’s almost as if he moved in but never bothered to settle. The apartment Missy and I share is so full of personal artifacts, it’s stuffed to the gills, but AJ has nothing but the barest necessities. I guess it’s a guy thing.

  The kitchen is just as empty. The cabinets house service for two—two mugs, two plates, and two bowls—and the fridge is full of take-out containers, condiments, rolls, and a single onion. On the front, a lone photograph dangles from a piece of Scotch tape. A couple looking at each other with love so fierce I can almost feel it vibrating off the faded photo paper. Two little kids with dark hair and goofy faces hug their legs. A portrait of a loving family. So innocent. The woman is beautiful, and the kids are cute, but the man in the photo steals my breath. Much like Zakk, the resemblance to AJ is uncanny except for the eyes. The jovial twinkle in them is proof that he has everything he’s ever wanted.

  When the phone rings, my silly grin returns, but I’m shocked to see it’s not AJ calling. It’s Austin.

  “Hey, baby girl. Just makin’ sure you’re all right.” The sound of his voice makes my heart beat in my ears. Last time he called, it was to tell me Gran was gone.

  “Hi, Austin. I’m fine.” I wait for his response, but he doesn’t say anything else. “Is that all?”

  “Yeah . . .” The silence hanging between is odd. He sounds so vulnerable. I’m pacing the floor in small tight circles, waiting for him to drop another bomb. Momma died . . . the ranch was sold . . . Surely, something scream-worthy is about to hurtle from his lips. I brace myself for the impact of a tornado, but all that comes is a gentle wind. Regardless, it knocks me over just the same. “Well, nah. That ain’t the whole truth. I kinda just wanted to hear your voice again.”

  The beating of my heart gets louder. “Why?”

  “’Cause it’s the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard. Maybe someday, I’ll be lucky enough to see the pretty face that goes with it.”

  I swallow hard, pulling a lonely glass from the cabinet and filling it with water to quench my dry throat. Wrapped in AJ’s shirt, his scent surrounds me. The apex of my thighs still tingles from his recent presence there, yet the baritone of Austin’s drawl is like a hug from far away. “Thanks for checkin’ in, Austin. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.”

  “It ain’t nothin’. Just thinkin’ about you is all. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye, baby.”

  My body shakes from inside its core. After all these years, why now? I’m finally starting to feel happy. Things with AJ are going well. Why, after I’ve finally moved past my emotional baggage, does God push Austin Krehley back into my life? I’ll never understand. But the clock on the stove flashes 5:00, and AJ will be home soon. I can’t worry about it now.

  I manage to find a brick of ground beef in the back of the freezer and chuck it in the microwave to thaw. Bright sunlight peeks through the closed vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door in the back of the kitchen. I walk around opening the windows and blinds, cranking up the stereo. Birds jump around the backyard through the bay window near the sink. The promise of summer lies ahead in the bright sunshine gleaming on the lawn. Another summer in a stretch of many; another chance to start anew.

  I’m starting over. AJ and I—together.

  The microwave beeps as the front door creaks open. All thoughts of Austin dissolve as AJ comes in, deliciously dirty and happy as a clam. Black stains litter his coveralls, and his red trucker cap looks a little worse for wear. Thick cardboard peeps out beyond the tattered fabric on the cracked brim. Across the front reads Morello and Son’s. Even covered in dirt, grease, and that destroyed hat of his, he still looks so damn good that everything dampens in response. My palms, my mouth, and the spot between my legs that’s suddenly pounding with persistent need.

  “That is a nice shirt,” he beams. “But I think it would look way nicer on the floor.”

  “What, this old thing?” I answer, with a curtsy.

  After my shower this morning, I threw on a tee from AJ’s dresser. The words Ozzy for President stand out across my chest on the threadbare shirt that hangs down to my thighs. I look ridiculous.

  “I’m fixin’ to get supper on the table. Go get washed up.”

  The sound of Gran’s voice coming out of my mouth startles me. Every evening as a kid, I’d run through the house after being down at the stables at the exact moment Gran was getting dinner on the table. It’s such an insignificant part of one’s childhood, but for some reason, it’s a distinct moment I can’t forget. Over a decade later, I can still smell the scent of the soap in her kitchen. A mix of aloe and honeysuckle. A fragrance that will forever remind me of her.

  “Aww, baby. You’re cooking for me?”

  “A man’s got to eat, right?”

  The scorching look in his eyes, coupled with his mischievous grin, makes my body react. I did want to eat. Now, I want to rip those coveralls off and make him dirtier.

  “I’ll be out of the shower in five.” He walks past, leaving a chaste kiss on my lips on his way to the bathroom.

  Slow country croons out of the stereo. My hips sway to the sexy sound of Jason Aldean as I press the meat and chopped onion together into patties. Lost in my own head, I don’t hear AJ approaching until his fingers tangle in my ponytail. His thumb hooks the neck of my shirt, tugging gently as his lips sear my neck. He nibbles me like a savory snack and then glides his tongue across my shoulder.

  “Dinner’s gonna burn,” I mumble, but foo
d is the last thing on my mind. Every touch of his hand and scrape of his teeth strikes my nerves like lightning.

  “I’m not hungry for food.”

  Stubble scuffs along my skin as he slowly kisses, licks, and bites his way from shoulder to shoulder, fisting my hair with one hand while palming my breast with the other. I turn my head to catch his lips. He grants me one wet, smoldering kiss before yanking his fist to expose more of my throat to his hungry mouth.

  His dominance overwhelms me. I’m flying high, tipsy from the soft caress of his lips on my skin, and drowning in need as his hand slips beneath the waistband of my panties. My mind is racing a mile a minute. The world goes silent. Nothing can stop the desire spiraling around me the second his naughty fingers find what they’re looking for.

  “I thought about this pretty pussy all day,” he groans against my hair as his calloused fingertips tickle my damp flesh. “So hot.” Two thick fingers inch between my lower lips. “So wet.” I moan, feeling the stretch as they plunge into my depths. “And so, so fucking tight.”

  Freshly showered, he smells crisp and clean, but the lingering odor of oil clings to his skin, permeating my nostrils and making me dizzy. AJ’s a gentleman in public, but a man in private. He knows how to give and when to take and doesn’t hesitate to do either.

  A sigh floats to the sky as his teeth squeeze the delicate skin on the back of my neck, and his free hand snakes around, joining its rough twin. He’s magic. All sleight of hand, tricks, and illusion, he fills me with one hand while circling my swollen clit with the other. He plays me like a hi-hat. Keeping the beat as a cry tears from my throat that’s part porn flick, part horror movie.

  The force knocks me backward. He slips his hands from between my legs and locks them around my waist, holding me upright while I pant and whimper my way back to life. “Burnin’ It Down” still murmurs in the background. AJ’s lips brush against my ear. “Goddamn, baby,” he growls, letting my earlobe slide between his teeth. “That was so hot; I’m tempted to fuck you right here.”

  I arch my back, pressing my backside against him. A hard ridge rises beneath the heavy denim of his jeans. When my center heats a second time, I silently pray that he makes good on his threat. “What’s stoppin’ you?”

  He turns me around to face him, still nipping at my neck, but doesn’t give in to the need that has my body crying out for him. “I want you to stay with me.”

  “I wasn’t plannin’ on runnin’ away.”

  “No.” He lightly shakes his head, running his thumb across my cheek. “I want you to stay here, in my house. Move in with me.”

  “But you hardly know me.”

  “I know you’re the one I want. Life’s too damn short, Casey. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

  When shit with Davis hit the fan, I knew I deserved it because of the way I left things with Austin. Eye for an eye. But I’ll never know what I did in my life to deserve AJ. The magnetic connection I’ve felt from day one is unexplainable and unavoidable. It scares the bejesus out of me. Every time I look at him, my heart wants to burst from my chest and jump right into his hand. I spent five years alone, never coming close to meeting anyone who makes me feel the way AJ does. Every look owns me, every touch overwhelms me, and every smile makes my heart smile just as wide.

  It can’t last. It’s just too perfect. Disaster looms on the horizon.

  I can feel it.

  CHAPTER 15

  AJ

  CASEY SITS SO close to me at the kitchen table that our thighs brush together as we eat. Or, rather, I eat. She nibbled the edges of her burger and declared herself full. Now, it’s getting cold on her plate while I wolf down my third. They’re burned to hell on one side, a result of our little rendezvous at the counter, but hell if I care. I’m just happy to be fed. And the beautiful girl in my T-shirt doing the cooking was the perfect appetizer.

  “Why don’t you park the truck in the garage?

  “I can’t.” I stuff the last of my burger in my mouth. Ketchup clings to the corner of my lips. I wipe it away and bring our plates to the sink. She cooked, so I’ll do the dishes. Eventually.

  “Why not? You got some kind of tricked out muscle car in there?”

  A loud bubble of laughter bursts from my chest. “Jill is the car fanatic of the family. I just fix them.” Her gaze darts to the door in the kitchen and back to me. In her eyes, I can see my cryptic answer burning a hole in her brain. “That’s where I keep the victims!” I say with evil laughter.

  “Nuh-uh!” She laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. As if there’s a slight possibility that I might actually have a room in my house with bodies piled up to the ceiling.

  “Come on. I’ll show you.” I extend my hand, but she only looks at it. “I’m not a murderer, Case.” I chuckle. “I promise.”

  She slips her petite hand in mine, letting me pull her off the chair. The garage door hides in a little mudroom right off the kitchen where I keep my washer and dryer. The naked light bulbs flicker to life as we enter, and Casey’s eyes gleam when she sees what’s inside.

  “This is my studio.”

  Thick foam panels cover each wall, the ceiling, and garage door. They are meant to absorb the sound, so I don’t bother my neighbor when I play my drums. I can’t park my truck in here because it’s sealed shut.

  She walks farther into the room, taking it all in. Her hand grazes over the mixing board against the wall. It’s similar to the one I use at The Wreck but has far fewer knobs and faders. This one is for personal use. My little toy to play with when I feel like laying something down.

  “Do you know how to play this?”

  With dancing blue eyes, she ogles my collection. Hanging on the wall is a Jackson V guitar. The deep onyx finish gleams in the sporadically placed recessed lighting. The corner is nicked, but that’s fine with me. It went for a bargain at a closeout sale, and I couldn’t resist. It’s just like the one Randy Rhoades himself played. Jameson was jealous as hell when I came home with it. He’s the guitar player in the family, and my collection blows his away.

  Next to it hangs a Gibson Les Paul. The bright yellow center fades to a dark orange hue around the edges in a beautiful sunburst paint job. It glimmers with a faint glittery finish that picks up every shaft of light that filters into the room. Another amazing yard sale find I couldn’t pass up. This would be why I have nothing in my house. Musical hobbies are expensive.

  With both of those two electric beauties hanging side-by-side, Casey still stops in front of an old acoustic in the corner. A vintage Gibson sits in a rack all by itself. A relic collecting dust that no one’s even looked at in I don’t know how long. Every dent and scratch in the old worn wood tell a different story from my childhood. I can still hear my dad plucking the strings singing “Dust in the Wind” while my mother hummed along. Of all the things in this house, that’s the only thing that means anything to me. That and the photo on my fridge.

  “I can play a little.”

  I gently lift the Gibson from the rack. Sitting on a stool, balancing it on my knee, I’m ten years old again. My father is sitting on the couch next to me. The huge, clunky guitar takes up the majority of my lap and the space between the frets is too wide for my little fingers, but my old man is patient as I try my best to play the song he’s attempting to teach me. The only song I had learned to play from beginning to end before the drums caught my eye and I gave up strumming for banging.

  Trying to remember the chords in my head, I place my fingers on the frets and play. I close my eyes and let the sound take over. The simple notes of Tesla’s famous love song fill the garage. It transports me back in time. It’s not perfect, but it’s there. Every note. Every chord. Just the way my dad taught it to me.

  “That was beautiful.”

  “I’m not much of a guitar player, and I’m definitely not a ballad guy,” I reply, placing the Gibson back in its spot.

  “What kind of guy are you?” Her playful tone makes my dick jump. The smirk
etched in her face sets a mosaic of dirty thoughts spiraling through my mind, including, but not limited to, setting her on top of the monstrosity of a kit in the center of the room and banging her like a floor tom.

  “I like my music like I like my women—loud and dirty.”

  I return her smirk with one of my own as I squeeze through a small open space and sit upon my throne like the king I am when I’m surrounded by this much awesomeness.

  Hi-hats, splashes, rides, crashes, bass drums, toms, snares—they all sit in a systematically placed circle with a swivel stool in the middle. A low-key re-creation of Neil Peart’s Time Machine setup. Well, as best I could get it anyway.

  “This is my baby,” I say with a grin. A combination of acoustics and electronics, it’s much larger than your standard percussion kit. It has twenty individual drums, eighteen cymbals, and a jungle of hardware to navigate around the setup. It’s a beast, and I’m hella proud of it.

  This is my church. I don’t need a higher power. I don’t need prayer books, hymnals, or the blood of Christ on my tongue. This is where I feel holy.

  “It looks complicated.”

  I drag Casey through an opening in the kit and set her down on the stool between my legs. The clean, floral fragrance of her skin hits my nostrils and travels straight to my dick, which I’m positive she can feel growing along her backside. “Here,” I murmur, slipping a stick into each hand. “Now cross your arms like this.”

  With both our hands on the sticks, I cross our arms over her body. “This stick hits the hi-hat . . .” A tinny ting-ting-ting sound fills the room as I tap the stick on the hats “And this one hits the snare.” A ratta-tat-tat snaps to my right as I let the stick bounce against the skin.

  Together, we do a standard jazz beat, nothing fancy, but she laughs with that amazing giggle that tickles my spine every time I hear it. “See? Easy.”

  “Mmmhmm. Sure it is, drummer boy. Bet I know how to make it hard for you.” She wiggles her ass into my crotch a little before standing up and shimmying out from the set. Not only did she throw down a challenge, but she also left me with a massive hard-on.