Beauty and the Running Back

by Colleen Masters

  I swallow a huge howl as Dean flutters his tongue against my clit, sliding his fingers deep inside of me until he reaches that sweet spot only he knows how to find. A surge of sensation erupts deep inside of me, spilling out through my entire body and leveling me in its wake. I come as Dean licks me up, savoring every drop. My chest rises and falls like mad as he lowers himself on top of me, brushing the hair out of my eyes.

  “Jessa,” he says, his voice rippling with excitement, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want us to be a family forever. Before I start this season, I want to make it official.”

  As the haze of my orgasm starts to lift, his meaning hits me square between the eyes. I sit bolt upright among our tangled bedsheets, staring at Dean in the near darkness of our bedroom.

  “Are you asking me…?” I breathe.

  “Jessa Cahill,” Dean says, taking my trembling hands in his as he kneels before me, “Will you marry me?”

  Proving that Dean’s not the only person in this family who can execute a tackle, I leap into his arms and knock him flat on his back with the ferocity of my kiss.

  “Is that a yes?” he grins as I run my hands through his sandy blonde hair.

  “That’s a hundred yeses,” I whisper, holding his gorgeous face in my hands, “I can’t wait to be your wife.”

  I sit back on Dean’s lap, his enormous cock brushing against my warm wetness. An ecstatic smile spreads across my lips as I raise my hips, letting the tip of his member trail along my slick slit. His eyes screw up as he lets out a low, delighted groan. Looking down at this glorious man, I can scarcely believe my luck. Not only have I found a partner who’s kind, and brave, and driven, and focused… I’ve also found a man whose cut, sculpted body I can’t get enough of. Though god knows I’ll spend the rest of my life putting that theory to the test.

  Our voices rise to the ceiling of our bedroom as I lower myself down onto Dean’s thick cock, inch by delicious inch. His hands dig into my ass as I take him all the way inside of me, savoring the feel of him as he fills me up. We fall into a seamless rhythm as our hips buck wildly, each of us egging the other on toward the height of bliss.

  Dean sits up on the bed, holding me in his lap as I bounce wildly on his delectable cock. His mouth finds my nipple as he drives his manhood ever deeper into my eager body. The elation of our decision to wed, the excitement that unfolded today, and the pure bliss that is Dean’s body against mine combine into a potent cocktail of delight. I can feel him reaching his tipping point as he buries his fingers in my hair, tugging my head back and exposing my neck to him. He kisses deeply along my throat as I take him even deeper—and all at once we’re tumbling over the edge together, falling head over heels into a bottomless free fall of pleasure. We hold each other close as we come hard together, our bodies melting into one completed circuit of sensation.

  As we collapse into each other’s arms, my mind scrolls back through all old the twists of fate that have brought the two of us to this moment. I smile to myself as sleep rushes in, remembering the first time I ever laid eyes on the handsome, self-assured running back who would change the course of my life forever. If Buck had actually managed to throw a decent spiral that August day, who knows where Dean and I would be right now? I think I can say one thing for certain: never has so much happiness come from one badly thrown football.

  I curl against Dean’s side and let slumber wash over me, the rise and fall of his chest rocking me to sleep after what will always be one of the best days of our young family’s life.

  THE END

  * * *

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  Stepbrother Billionaire

  By Colleen Masters

  Chapter One

  * * *

  “I thought you said this was going to be a small gathering,” I shout, raising my voice above the blaring music. I can feel the pounding bass line vibrating through my body as I hesitate at the edge of the gigantic house party.

  “Did I say that?” my best friend, Riley, grins back. “I meant to say that this was going to be an ‘epic rager unlike anything you’ve ever seen’.”

  I roll my eyes at her as we’re swallowed up by the teeming crowd of our classmates. I should have known better than to think that Riley would spend her Saturday night anywhere but at a legendary party. She and I have been best friends for all seventeen years we’ve been on the planet. But even so, our ideas of what makes a “good time” are starkly different. If I had any sense at all, I would never have let her drag me to this party. I’d much rather be curled up at home with my sketch pad and a cup of tea. But seeing that the damage is done, I suppose there’s nothing to do but try and have a good time.

  “Here you go ladies,” a burly junior boy says, sidling up to us with a red plastic cup in either hand. “First drink’s on me.”

  “Warm beer, now with extra roofies?” Riley says, cocking a perfect eyebrow at him.

  “We’re all set, Champ,” I tell the boy, producing a flask full of my dad’s very fine whiskey from my purse. It’s not like he’s using it much, these days. “Better luck next time.”

  “What a couple of buzz kills,” the kid grumbles, sulking away.

  “Great party so far Ri,” I laugh sarcastically, unscrewing the top of the flask.

  “Just remember, Abby—in less than a year, we’ll never have to deal with high school boys again,” she points out, accepting the flask as I pass it her way.

  “I can’t wait,” I say wistfully, “I know you’re not supposed to wish away your youth or whatever, but the sooner high school can be over with, the better.”

  “What? You’re not enjoying your glory days?” Riley asks with mock astonishment, gesturing toward our fellow partygoers.

  I look around at the party unfolding all around us. Some rich kid’s parents are out of town, and the entire school has descended on their McMansion to spend the night getting wasted, listening to someone’s crappy iPod playlist, and making questionable choices about who to sleep with. I nearly step on two people going at it right in the foyer, writhing all over each other in a drunken tizzy. With a wild yell, some kid tries to swing on the crystal chandelier, only to miss and fall flat on his face to onlookers’ uproarious laughter.

  “If these are our glory days,” I say to Riley, “We’re in serious trouble.”

  “Come on,” she laughs, slipping her fingers through mine, “I’m sure we can find a quieter corner somewhere. There must be, like, a hundred rooms in this place.”

  I let Riley tug me off through the party, ignoring the tipsy dudes who make lesbian jokes about us along the way. As gorgeous as my best friend is, with her silky black curls, tanned skin, and amazing curves, I’ve never been the least bit interested in “experimenting” with her. We’ve only ever loved each other as sisters. But the fact that I’ve never had a real boyfriend leads some people in my school to question whether I’m into guys at all. The short answer is, I’m plenty into guys. But finding one that’s worth the time of day at my Connecticut high school has proven to be impossible.

  Well...just about impossible, anyway.

  The party is just a forest of legs and torsos from my vantage point. At five foot three, I’m what you might call “vertically challenged”. Being petite is great for hide-and-seek, but not so great for feeling like anything close to an adult. Or being treated like one. But in a couple weeks’ time, the world will have no choice but t
o acknowledge my adulthood—at long last, I’ll finally be turning eighteen. The only question that remains is how quickly I can get out of town and be on my own once I’m officially a grown-up. As Riley and I climb the sweeping staircase and sidle into the master bedroom suite, we pass a passed out classmate who’s had his face graffitied with permanent marker penises.

  Yep. Adulthood can’t come soon enough.

  We poke our heads into the master bedroom, and I note with relief that it’s far quieter in this corner of the house. Maybe we can just hang out here and ride out this shit show in peace.

  “Uh-oh,” Riley mutters, glancing down at me with a wicked glint in her eye. “Look who’s here, Abby.”

  I peer around my best friend, scanning the dozen or so people already hanging out in the master bedroom. It only takes half a second for me to see who it is she’s talking about. My solar plexus rocks on its axis as a very familiar set of blue eyes turns my way from across the room.

  “Shit!” I squeak, ducking back around Riley’s taller form. “I didn’t know he was going to be here!”

  “The entire school is here, Abby,” Riley laughs, “You could have guessed.”

  “He’s supposed to be too cool for this sort of thing. Or whatever,” I say, rolling my hazel eyes. “Come on. I don’t think he saw me. Let’s just go—”

  “Hey, Sis!” a rough baritone calls from across the room. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  I groan as a volley of chuckles goes up around the room, and turn to see Emerson Sawyer, my blue-eyed nightmare, striding toward me. He’s easily six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a tapered torso, and effortlessly defined muscles. His mop of shaggy, chestnut brown hair is artfully tousled, a stray lock swooping across his forehead. He’s making jeans and a crimson tee shirt look as good as a three piece suit, and has a lit cigarette cradled in his full, firm lips.

  Naturally, my personal nightmare looks like an absolute dream come true.

  “Don’t call me that in public. Or ever,” I tell him, crossing my arms to hide the fact that my heart is slamming against my ribcage at his approach.

  “Why not, Sis?” he grins rakishly, taking a long drag of his smoke.

  “Because it’s creepy as hell,” I reply, exasperated, tucking my long, ash blonde hair behind my ears. “And it’s not even true.”

  “Sure it is. For all intents and purposes,” he shrugs.

  I’ve known Emerson Sawyer for nearly four years, now. Or, rather, I’ve known of him for four years. Our Connecticut town has two elementary schools that feed into the same high school. Emerson and I attended separate grade schools, which were pretty starkly divided between the richer and poorer families in town, but ended up at the same high school together. I noticed him the very first day of freshman year, when he mouthed off to our sex ed teacher for taking a hard line in favor of abstinence (the most characteristically Emerson thing ever). He, on the other hand, had no idea I existed. Until this year, that is, when both of our lives—personal and social—got turned upside down.

  “What’s the matter? You ashamed to have a brother from the wrong side of the tracks?” Emerson presses, jostling me out of my thoughts.

  “Don’t put that on me,” I snap back, “As if you can stand having a prissy rich girl for a would-be-sister.”

  “You are kind of a bummer,” he says flatly, “But if it makes you feel any better, it’s your personality I hold against you, not your money.”

  I stare wordlessly at Emerson, knocked into sullen silence once again by his masterful putdown. By now, Emerson has figured out exactly how to get to me.

  About two months ago, I got the shock of my life when my widower father, Robert Rowan, announced that, after four years of refusing to date, he had just met the new love of his life. Her name was Deborah, he told me. They’d met at AA and “really hit it off”. He talked about her incessantly, stayed out all night like he was a teenager again, and generally weirded the hell out of me.

  After just two weeks, Dad told me that he was in love, and wanted to introduce this Deborah to me as soon as possible. I begrudgingly agreed to be around for dinner the following night to meet his mystery woman. We lost my mother Sandy to a terrible car accident just before I started high school, so the idea of a new woman in my father’s life was a little hard to swallow. Still, I did my best to put on a happy face and be as supportive as possible. I’ve never been very good at saying “no” or standing up to my dad, so it’s not like I had much of a choice.

  As our doorbell rang the next night, signaling Deborah’s grand entrance into our family’s life, my dad asked me to answer the door. It wasn’t until I was en route that he mentioned Deborah’s son would also be joining us for dinner. When I swung open the door to welcome our guest and her plus one, I’m surprised that my jaw didn’t crack from hitting the floor so hard. There, standing on my doorstep, was Emerson Sawyer. And I could tell from the blank, disinterested look in his eye that he had no idea who I was.

  “What’s this?” Emerson interrupts my thoughts, grinning as he snatches the metallic flask out of my back pocket. A trail of sensation sears along the skin just above my belt as his fingers brush against my bare flesh. Goosebumps spring up where his fingertips glanced against my body. It’s like my every cell is hard-wired to respond to him. I need to give each and every one of those cells a stern talking-to.

  Emerson knocks back a slug of booze without checking to see what it is first, and lets out a raucous hoot as he tastes the strong whiskey.

  “You brought the good stuff!” he crows, draping a muscled arm across my shoulder. “This must be from Daddy’s stash, huh?”

  “Give it back, Sawyer,” I demand, trying half-heartedly to push him away from me. If I’m being perfectly honest, the feel of his hard, solid body against mine is something I’ll never stop secretly jonesing for—but he can never know that.

  “Come on, Sis. Sharing is caring,” he teases, holding the flask up in the air, just out of my reach. Mocking my height—or lack thereof—is one of his favorite hobbies.

  I sigh, refusing to engage in his game. Sometimes, I miss the days where Emerson didn’t even know my name. We don’t go to a gigantic school—there are about three hundred kids in our senior class. So for the first three years of high school, I was able to harbor a huge, unrequited crush on Emerson without ever actually having to speak to him. Emerson’s a lacrosse player, part of the “in” crowd. Because our school is so diverse, socio-economically speaking, popularity doesn’t depend on how much money your family has. If it did, I might actually be known around school as something other than “that short girl who’s always drawing.” But the gods of popularity did not decide to favor me, it would seem. My very petite, nerdy, soft-spoken self is just about invisible in the halls of McCarren High School. In fact, these days, the thing I’m best known for there is being the daughter of the guy Emerson’s “hot mom” is dating.

  Oh, goody.

  “Just take the damn flask,” I mutter, turning on my heel to go, “I’m out of here anyway. Enjoy yourself, Sawyer.”

  But as I attempt to make my grand exit, Emerson steps directly into my path, his staggeringly built body blocking my way. I collide with his muscular form, my hands landing flush against his abdomen. I have to swallow a moan as I feel his insanely cut six pack rippling beneath my fingers. I step quickly away, catching Riley’s amused gaze. She knows all about my feelings for Emerson, being my best friend and all. Hopefully, the other dozen people here in this room can’t see right through me, too. Especially Emerson himself.

  “Don’t be such a downer,” he laughs, handing me the flask and extinguishing his smoke in someone’s discarded red cup. “Stay and have fun for once in your life.”

  “I’m not a downer. You’re just a pain in the ass,” I reply, snatching the flask out of his strong hands.

  “Hey. I had a very troubled childhood,” he says over-dramatically, laying a hand over his heart and arranging his featu
res into an anguished pout. “I can’t help myself.”

  “Who am I, Officer Krupke?” I ask, laughing despite myself. “Give me a break.”

  It’s no wonder Emerson is so popular, with his wicked sense of humor, his bad boy good looks, and his devil-may-care attitude. He could have his pick of any girl in our school, of that much I am absolutely certain. I’ve been keeping careful tabs on his romantic life for years now, and he definitely doesn’t seem to be the “relationship type”. He’s hanging out with a new girl every weekend, just about. And it seems that this weekend is no exception.

  “Hey Emerson,” a breathy voice says from over his shoulder. Two thin, manicured hands slide around his torso from behind, and a beautiful, green-eyed face peeks around his built form.

  My heart clenches painfully as I recognize Courtney Haines, a gorgeous redheaded girl in our senior class. She’s our resident thespian, the beautiful star of every single school play, talent show, and choir concert. She’ll probably head to New York after graduation and become some Broadway sensation. But right now, she seems pretty happy in the role of Girl Who Gets to Make Out With Emerson Sawyer Tonight.

  I have to admit, I would be too.

  Stop that, I chide myself, shaking off my discomfort. You’re not allowed to like him like that anymore. Your parents are dating. Plus, he thinks of you as an annoying little gnat...when he thinks of you at all. Get a grip, Abby.

  “Hey Riley. Hey Abby,” Courtney Haines says, draping Emerson’s arm over her shoulder. “Glad you guys could make it to my little shindig!”

  “This is your house?” I exclaim, looking around in wonder. My dad’s place is pretty stately, but her home is truly a den of luxury. It’s more of an estate than anything else. Our area of Connecticut is chock full of gigantic homes, but her family’s puts them all to shame.

  “Yep. And this would be my room,” she smiles smugly, letting her hand travel down into Emerson’s back pocket. “My parents were nice enough to give me the master suite and everything, their dear hearts.”