Hollywood Prince

by Kim Karr

  Way too eager to see her, I find my mind drifting from my task at hand to visions of bending her over this desk, or taking her up against the door before she even crosses the threshold. Or perhaps . . . there is so much more.

  Anticipation licks up my spine, my entire body growing heavy with lust as I imagine her tied to my bed, and spread for me. Being balls deep inside her. Thrusting so deep, so hard, until she calls out my name over and over and comes around my cock.

  Somehow, she’s become a drug, and like any good addict, I am hooked. The withdrawal is going to suck.

  “Hey. I made it.”

  Twirling around in my chair, I almost fall off it as my body leaps to life. Amelia is standing in the doorway to my bedroom, naked, except for the scant material of a leopard thong covering her sweet pussy. “Take it off,” I command in a quiet voice. No hello, no greeting of any kind is in me right now, just an urgency to see her bare body and to get inside her as soon as humanly possible.

  “In a hurry?” she says, her pulse visibly pounding with excitement in her throat.

  “I feel like I’ve been waiting all day,” I tell her, my voice tight with need.

  Amelia obeys, her hair tumbling around her face as she bends, and slowly, very slowly, lowers the material over her hips, and then kicks it out the door. Her eyes are on me the entire time, that body language of hers one that can’t be denied. This particular one conveys that sleepy look, which glows with a burning desire.

  Does she even know what that does to me? “I can’t wait another minute to be inside you,” I tell her, staring at her and catching the wanton look she’s giving me.

  Everything about us is dangerous. The way we need to connect, the way neither of us can wait, the forbidden fruit all we can think about. Adam and Eve. Layla and Majnun. Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Guinevere and Lancelot. And we know how those stories ended. Still, none of that matters as I find myself unable to wait another second to have her.

  Opening my desk drawer, I pull out a condom from my latest stash and realize I need to stock up because for all the shit I take for whoring around, I’ve never had this much sex.

  Now completely naked, she steps toward me. “Good thing, then, that you don’t have to.”

  More than ready for this, I unfasten my fly and pull out my dick. A small noise escapes her throat and I quickly roll the condom on. When she’s standing between my legs, now spread wide in the chair, I smile at her. “Turn around to face away from me.”

  And she does. No questions asked, just anticipation more than evident in that gaze of hers.

  The large, thick leather chair doesn’t even creak when I scoot to the edge of it. Once there, I reach up to put my hands on Amelia’s waist, and within moments I’m guiding her onto my waiting cock.

  She gasps when I sink into her wet pussy and I groan when her ass comes to rest on my lap. Oh hell yes. She is tight, so tight, and her body is so responsive to mine. So much so that she’s already quivering around me with only a few shallow thrusts upward.

  I lick my fingers and use them to wet those always cherry-red nipples of hers, and then I pinch and roll them into tight peaks.

  Amelia turns her head and kisses me. Our tongues meet and dance, slowly at first, then faster. When my hands slide down her belly to find her clit, she breaks the kiss with a small gasp.

  The chair starts to creak beneath us and I jerk my hips up to push inside her deeper, stroking into her wetness and taking everything I can.

  The possibilities of pleasure are endless. I can play with her clit so easily in this position while she rides my cock, or I can return to palming her breasts and take her to the edge over and over.

  But fuck if her pussy isn’t like liquid heat surrounding my cock, seducing me to take her deeper and deeper into the depths of hell, and therefore making playing with her nearly impossible.

  Amelia gets the rhythm of this position fairly quickly, and I have to stop playing with her clit and just hold on. I’ve learned quickly that I don’t have to teach her what to do. I haven’t had to all week. And in this case, I don’t have to guide her hips to rise and slam down on my rock-hard cock. She has figured it all out on her own. And fuck if it doesn’t feel so goddamn good.

  Within seconds, I am on fire, my arousal sharp and rising higher with every single lift and slam of her body. This is going to be quick for the both of us, no lazy climb to the top right now. My body buzzing with adrenaline, I thrust hard and fast, my hips slapping loudly against her ass. Her response is to push harder on my cock until I’m balls deep and losing my mind.

  “Fuck, that’s it,” I tell her, and nuzzle her neck to nip her earlobe.

  I watch as chill bumps dance across her skin and she moans, already close to her own orgasm.

  “That’s it, baby, ride me, get us both there.”

  “Oh God, oh God,” she chants.

  The guttural moan she makes fuels my own impending orgasm into a full-fledged inferno.

  This is down and dirty. I fuck into her deep and hard, she riding me in the same relentless, forceful rhythm that has me gasping for each and every breath.

  “Touch yourself,” I tell her in a strained voice. “Use your fingers, Amelia. I don’t want to leave you behind, but I’m not going to last much longer.”

  She hurries to finger her clit.

  “That’s it, baby. That’s it. Touch yourself faster. Ride me harder. Fuck, that’s it. I’m going to come so hard inside that sweet little pussy of yours.”

  Those dirty, illicit words send her hurtling right over the edge. Her back bows and her hands find mine, pressing down on them with the same ferocity she is using to slam her ass down on my hips.

  If I could have filmed this, I would have. I want so much to watch her face as she explodes around my cock in a wet rush.

  I fuck her until her last scream, and then I let myself go into the blinding light. Finding that place where nothing exists, I still, and then give one last thrust, draining myself dry.

  Sweat beads my brow and the exertion must be more than evident on my face because when she turns, she looks the same. Her gray eyes glow with a primal heat that bears the evidence of satisfaction. And I assume my blue eyes reflect hers.

  “You’re fucking beautiful,” I growl, when she falls back against me.

  “I doubt that right now,” she laughs.

  “Don’t,” I tell her, my fingers dancing across her clit and sliding up and down her wetness.

  She shudders as my touch triggers a tiny aftershock. And then so do I when her swollen pussy squeezes my cock tight. After a long moment, she whispers, “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  I kiss her neck, nipping at her sensitive flesh. “I know you do,” I tell her, and then find myself saying, “I want to film us.” It just comes out.

  Not saying no, she simply asks, “Why?”

  “I want you to see what I see. To see how beautiful you are when you come.”

  She turns then to look at me, wetting that lovely mouth with her tongue. “Okay, you can. But only for you and me.”

  With not an ounce of humor, I assure her, “I’d never let another man watch the way you come when you’re with me, baby.”

  I nip at her shoulder. “How about Saturday night?”

  “What about Maggie and Keen?”

  “Turns out Mr. Gerhardt needs a dog sitter, and guess who he asked.”

  Her laughter is out of control. “You,” she manages, trying to run her fingers through my hair in her twisted position.

  I push her upward to her feet and lightly tap her bottom. “Go clean up,” I tell her, and then rise behind her to remove the condom.

  She heads for my bathroom, but quickly looks over her shoulder. “So Saturday night, then?”

  I nod, disposing of the rubber, and then opening my desk drawer to pull out a sheet of paper. “Yes. We have that whole big house, hot tub and all, to ourselves. And I want to fuck you bare.”

  Stopping in the doorway to the bathroom,
her fingers grip the door frame. She’s on the pill. We’ve already discussed that. I know she’s never had unprotected sex; we’ve discussed that as well. I never have either. When your mother gets accidentally pregnant twice in her life within two years by two different men, you never want to chance it. Until now. Until the craving to take her bare, feel all of her, and in a way make my mark on her before this ends, becomes way too much to withstand.

  I flick the paper with my finger. The noise has her head turning again, this time slower, eyes flashing with heat.

  My heart pounds in my chest. “I went to the clinic. I’m clean. Here are my results.”

  Now wide-eyed, she looks at me. Is she going to shoot me down? And then she smiles that thousand-watt smile of hers that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. “Good,” she says. “Those condoms are a pain in the ass.”

  Relief flashes in my own eyes and I cast her a smile filled with enough enthusiasm to make me hard again.

  “Hey, Pantydropper.” Cam’s voice is coming from the bottom of the stairs. “I think your latest conquest left something behind.”

  Panic fills the distance between Amelia and me. I motion for her to close the bathroom door and then quickly do up my fly before rushing toward the door that I stupidly left open.

  Just outside it, at the top of the stairs, I come face to face with the guy who has become my best friend over the past couple of years, the guy whose little sister I just banged, and instantly I know I’m going to rot in hell.

  Guilt plagues me as I try to find my voice. “Hey, what are you doing here?” I manage.

  “I brought my sister’s lasagna. She said she’d bring it over, but I think she hit the sack early.”

  “Fantastic,” I tell him.

  “Why do you ask? Are you not happy to see me?”

  I step past him and head down the stairs. “You know I always love to see your ugly mug, but isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  He chuckles, following me, and completely unaware that his sister is hiding in my bathroom. “Yeah, I have been kind of lame lately,” he says, “but nothing beats your brother.”

  “Hold that thought,” I tell him, racing past Amelia’s underwear and through the living room in case she left her clothes anywhere in sight. Unlike Cam’s house, this house has a galley kitchen. Long and narrow, and luckily with little space to leave anything, or noticeably leave anything anyway, with all the baby stuff everywhere. Opening the refrigerator, I grab two beers and hand him one. “Now, do tell.”

  Popping the top, he tosses it in the sink and then hikes up on the counter. “Okay,” he says, “so we’re at one of the hotel’s finer restaurants and the service is slow, on purpose, you know?”

  I nod, popping my own top and taking a quick swig.

  “Keen, who I guess was on baby duty the night before, has one fucking drink, and then, right in the middle of the restaurant, while we’re waiting for our meals to arrive, he starts snoring.”

  Eyeing the wrapped dish on the stove, I set my bottle down and head toward it. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Serious as fuck,” he laughs. “Right there in the middle of the restaurant, while Maggie and Makayla are talking wedding plans.”

  The scent of the food makes my stomach growl as I pull the tinfoil aside, and I grab a fork. “Yeah, that little guy hates to sleep. I think both Keen and Maggie might keel over from exhaustion before he gets a two-hour stretch in.”

  Cam runs a hand through his hair, his own exhaustion clear. “Don’t say that, man,” he says. “Makayla offered to keep Presley Saturday night at our house so Keen and Maggie can go out on a date and have some time alone.”

  When I offer Cam a piece of lasagna, he shakes his head no, and I resume my position across from him to dig in. Around a mouthful of food, I say, “Good thing I won’t be around then.”

  He gives me a wicked smirk.

  I take another sip of my beer and then ask, “What?”

  He hops off the counter and sets the empty in the sink. “After you took my sister to that engagement party, and then seeing you home all week, I thought maybe you were back on that celibacy kick. Guess I was wrong.”

  Hell.

  Before I can even answer, he steps closer to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “She’s planning on going to that wedding with you next Saturday. Don’t—” He pauses.

  Guilt floods me, and my heart fucking flies out of my chest.

  “Don’t forget you invited her to tag along. She’s counting on it,” he says.

  “I wouldn’t do that to her,” I tell him, swallowing the surge of anger I feel that he thinks so little of me.

  “I didn’t think so,” he offers as a way of making peace I guess, and then heads for the door. “Oh, and one more thing,” he says before he opens the kitchen door. “Makayla wants everyone to have dinner at our house tomorrow. Seven. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll be there.”

  The door closes and I sag in relief. My pulse beating a mile a minute, I make my way to the stairs and drop onto one and sigh.

  Putting my face in hands, I can’t help but wonder . . . what the fuck am I doing?

  WONDERLAND

  Amelia

  Visions of a porn studio and Johnny Wadd are all I have been thinking about.

  Yes, bright lights, huge barrels of lube, racks of bathrobes, and Johnny’s thirteen-and-a-half-inch cyclopean trouser snake are what have been filling my dreams, or rather my nightmares.

  Hey, don’t look at me like that. I only watch that stuff when Carter makes me. He’s into porn, big time, mostly gay, but depending on the actor, sometimes straight as well. But really, what I know about porn studios isn’t from watching porn.

  Last year Carter flew to Kink.com in San Francisco to tour the studio, under the guise of doing a magazine shoot for work, but really, he solicited the spread.

  Good for him.

  Right?

  Anyway, when he got back, he told me all about it, and the giant barrels of lube are true. He took a picture and showed it to me. There are two of them, both blue. One kind of lube is water based, the other silicone, and both barrels have huge pumps attached to the top.

  Right now there are lights all right—not huge spotlights, though, but rather twinkling ones above the hot tub. The night is gorgeous, a little chilly, but warm inside the confines of the bubbling water.

  Brooklyn’s laughter is out of control, so much so he’s holding his stomach. “You really thought that?” he asks.

  Taking a sip of the champagne he bought for us to drink, I narrow my eyes at him across the small expanse. “You could have been more specific.”

  “Baby,” he laughs, tears practically streaming down his face. “I didn’t think I had to tell you I would use my iPhone. I mean, I’m not Ron Jeremy.”

  Overhead the moon is full and the stars twinkle just like the lights. I sigh, looking up at them, and rest my head against the tile of the hot tub. Today, Brooklyn took me hiking in Crystal Cove State Park. And Cam was aware. As with the wedding, he didn’t even think twice when I told him.

  The lying is getting to me, though, and I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

  Brooklyn reaches through the water and props my feet on his lap. When he begins to massage them, I moan in sheer pleasure. When he presses into my arches and rubs my soles, I groan out load.

  “Was it too much hiking for you?” he asks me.

  “No,” I laugh, “I live in New York. I walk everywhere. The boots, though—they were Makayla’s and didn’t fit right.”

  His gaze turns serious. “You should have told me. I would have stopped and got you a pair that fit.”

  There is a softness in his voice that makes my heart squeeze. Most of the time it is easy to pretend this thing between us is only sex, but then he shows me a side of him I don’t expect, and I wonder if it could be more.

  A dangerous thought. One I shut down immediately. I heard my brother the other night. Geez . . . he
called him a pantydropper, again. This time it stung deep in my chest, like a knife to the heart. But isn’t that what he is? After all, I’d dropped my panties for him without him even asking. I’m sure I wasn’t the first, and I’m certain I won’t be the last.

  I pull my legs back. “It’s all good. I’m fine, but I think I’m ready to go inside. If that is okay with you?”

  “Sure. Are you cold?”

  I nod. “A little.”

  As if worried about me, he stands and hauls me into his arms. “Come on, I have just the thing to warm you up.”

  With his hands on my naked body, and the touch of him branding me, it really does seem like we could go beyond the short time we’ve designated to be together, except we haven’t told anyone about us, and even if I didn’t know he’s not my Mr. Right, I don’t live in California. A long-distance relationship could never work. Ever.

  When Brooklyn hands me a big, white fluffy robe, I laugh. “See, this is just like a porn stage, after all,” I say.

  Before I’d arrived, Brooklyn had started a fire in three fireplaces. The one in the kitchen, which is wood, and the ones in the family room and bedroom, which are gas. With the fire now blazing, the smell of burning wood is decadent as he opens the door from outside.

  The Gerhardts’ kitchen is any cook’s dream. White marble counters that glisten under pendant lights hanging from the tall ceiling. A huge eight-burner stove. Two ovens. And three sinks. The house I grew up in was nice, but it was a brownstone with limited space. In this house, I think I could get lost.

  As soon as Brooklyn sets the empty champagne bottle on the counter, he looks at me. “Tell me what’s going on?” he asks.

  I glance away. “Nothing.”

  He takes my chin in his hands and forces me to look at him. “Amelia, tell me.”

  Another wave of emotion swirls through me. I move closer. When I try to kiss his mouth, Brooklyn turns his head. Our bodies are touching, but he doesn’t let me touch his lips with mine. We stay this way, unmoving, for a moment or two—so long I think I might have aged fifty years.