Smoke: A Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  I swallow. He means it. He really means it. Brody, the hot as hell fireman I’ve had a crush on since he started coming in to the Coffee Joint, wants me. Tonight. I swallow again. Despite the champagne, my mouth is dry. My head is a whirlwind spinning around and around. Suddenly, surprising myself, I blurt: “You know I had a crush on you, don’t you?”

  Brody nods shortly. “I had an idea,” he says.

  “A major crush,” I go on, aware that I might be embarrassing myself but too drunk to care. I stop, think: I can’t let him win! “But that was before I got to know you,” I add. “I don’t have a crush anymore.”

  Brody nods again, the same nod someone gives when told a blatant lie. “Sure,” he says.

  He pays the check, walks around to my side of the table, and pulls my chair back for me.

  “Quite the gentleman,” I laugh. “I’m impressed.”

  The restaurant is just above first floor level; steps lead down to the street. I know I’m drunk, and yet I also know I can conquer these steps without assistance. I grip onto the handrail and make to climb down them—and I fall.

  I seem to fall for a long time. I’m going to cave in my skull, I think numbly. What an end to the date that’ll be!

  I’m about to smash into the sidewalk when Brody’s strong arms envelop me. He lifts me off my feet as though I weigh nothing. For a moment, the embrace feels familiar. I try to think where I’ve felt it before—

  But then his lips are on mine and I am lost to the world. I moan. I bring my hands up and grip the strong muscles of his back.

  Asshole, jerk, it doesn’t matter. I can’t fight it anymore.

  Chapter Eleven

  Darla

  I have never kissed somebody so passionately and unreservedly in my life. It’s like our bodies have a mind of their own.

  We kiss on the street; we kiss in the cab; we kiss on the stairs on the way to my apartment. My hands move over his muscles, squeezing, feeling the hardness of them. They’re like steel. They’re like rock. They’re like wood. They don’t give an inch. There is no layer of fat, like with Charley, just solid, immovable muscle.

  Stopping the kiss long enough to take my keys from my handbag is horrible. Brody moves from foot to foot impatiently and I rustle around in my bag. Then I unlock the door and throw it open and Brody pounces on me. I squeal, a mixture of shock and delighted surprise, as Brody lifts me off my feet and carries me into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.

  He drops me on the couch and stands over me, staring down with dark, brooding eyes. Eyes brimming with passion. I glance down at his pants. His cock is clearly outlined in the fabric, huge and urgent. He reaches down, grabs my hand at the wrist, and presses my palm down on his cock. Then, maneuvering me like a mannequin, he begins to rub himself, using my hand. I should be outraged. How dare he handle me like this! I should think. Who does he think he is! But I don’t. There’s something animalistic about him, as though we have been thrown back in time and he’s a caveman and I’m his woman.

  Then he lets go of my hand. “Rub it,” he says, in a commanding tone of voice.

  I would never normally let a guy talk to me in that tone of voice. I wouldn’t stand for it. But with Brody, it’s different. He’s so big, so muscular, so in charge. Let’s face it, I think. He’s hotter than the fires he fights for a living, and that’s that.

  I rub his cock up and down, up and down, feeling the immense length of him.

  Then I can’t take it anymore. I grab at his belt, unclasp it, and slide it from the loops. Then I unbutton his pants and pull them down. His cock springs up, huge, intimidating. At least nine and a half inches, maybe ten. A huge, rock-hard rod of pleasure.

  I don’t know what’s come over me, but I’m not about to stop long enough to ask myself. Brody reaches down and slides his fingers through my hair, and then directs my mouth to his cock. I allow him to move me. And that’s what it is, I reflect. Being moved. I open my mouth and he pushes his cock inside of me, letting out a low, guttural grunt. His cock fills my mouth, the tip hitting the back of my throat. I’d never let a man do that! I’d never let him treat me so roughly.

  But fuck it. This is Brody, the man I’ve had a crush on since I first laid eyes on him. I don’t care if he’s a jerk. He’s a jerk with a muscular body and a huge cock.

  I suck his cock eagerly, taking pleasure in his moans. I force my mouth down all the way to his balls, my nose pressed against his ab muscles, and then pull away, spit and pre-come spilling from my mouth. As I suck, I reach down between my legs, bring my hand up under my dress and touch myself.

  “Fuck,” Brody groans, as he watches me touch myself. “Fuck, fuck. I need you. Now.”

  In a jumbled series of quick movements, he pulls his cock from my mouth, kneels down, yanks my arm away, and slides his hand between my legs. He presses his middle finger down on my clit, through the thin fabric of my underwear, and stares into my eyes as he rubs me. “I want you to come before I fuck you,” he says. “You’ll do it for me.”

  It’s not a question.

  He rubs faster and faster, arm pumping, and all at once the only thing that exists is that single hot spot of pleasure. He presses down so hard on my clit he lifts me slightly off the couch. But he doesn’t stop. I brace my hands on his shoulders, biting down on my lip with so much pressure I taste blood in my mouth. I don’t care. The pleasure builds, higher, fiercer, hotter, until I am standing on the edge of a precipice and all I want to do is topple over.

  “Come for me, Darla,” he says. “Come for me now.”

  As if his final word is a trigger, the pleasure releases in a great wave. It surges through me. I clamp my eyes shut and let the pleasure rock through me, floating on it, vibrating upon it. Wave after wave crashes through me and my panties get so wet I can feel it, the wetness pressed between his hand and my lips. Then, with a long, sighing breath, the orgasm is over and I lean back, panting.

  “We’re not done yet,” Brody says.

  He grabs my hips and turns me over as easily as another man would handle a bag of sugar. He places me on my knees. He’s going to fuck me, hard, from behind, I think, mouth dry, pussy aching for it. Oh. My. Fucking. God.

  He grabs my panties, pulls them down, and then lifts the hem of my dress up around my back, revealing my bare pussy.

  “You’re so damn sexy,” he moans. “Fucking hell, Darla. I’m going to fuck you so hard. Can you take it hard, baby?”

  “Mm-mm.” The only sound I can make; words are too difficult right now.

  He kneels down beside me and brings his cock to my pussy, pressing the head against my clit.

  Fuck! I need him inside of me! Now!

  He toys with me, circling my clit with the hard tip of his cock, pushing it down to my lips, close to my hole, and then withdrawing it.

  I let out a groan of frustration, of lust, of urgency. A groan that tells him all I need is his cock inside of me. It’s a groan that reveals my true desires to him. I can’t play the disinterested, uncaring woman when I’m groaning like this. I groan louder.

  I’ve never wanted a cock more in my entire life. Sex has always been something that just happened at the end of a date or something you did with your partner. This is something else. It’s like a giant’s invisible hands have gripped me and are now shaking me around, sending pulsations through my body. Lust brims over inside of me. I realize I’m sticking my tongue out, panting. I must look like an animal, I think. But that doesn’t seem to matter. Maybe we are animals now. Maybe that’s what we’ve become.

  I push my ass back, brushing my pussy firmly against his cock.

  He reaches down and grabs my ass cheeks, pressing them together. I twist my neck and see that he’s staring down at my ass with wide, captivated eyes. It’s like he’s never seen a woman before or—

  “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he whispers.

  “Fuck me, then,” I moan.

  He grins his cocky grin, and then w
ith one quick thrust, he pushes himself inside of me. I bite down a scream. His cock is thick and long. As he pushes it inside of me, I feel my pussy stretching to fit him. It’s easily the biggest cock I’ve ever had inside of me. It forces my lips open, pushes deeper and deeper, until the tip of his cock is pressed right up against my sweet spot, a tingling point of pleasure inside of me.

  “God, yes,” I moan.

  “Fuck,” he grunts.

  Then he pulls out, and I feel every tiny movement of it, the lips of my pussy stretching around him. Then he thrusts back in. And in a few moments, we are lost in the rhythm of it. He pounds into me, gripping my hips and thrusting hard, again and again. I grip the couch cushion in my hand, tearing away pieces of fabric underneath my fingernails. I push back in time with his thrusts, bouncing my body, eager for his cock to touch my sweet spot again, now, please!

  He spanks my ass. Something I’d normally want to be asked about beforehand with any other man. But Brody isn’t any other man. Brody is . . . well, Brody. And when he spanks my ass—slap!—and I feel the redness, the pain, the cool sting, I open my mouth and let out a high-pitched moan of pleasure. He spanks me again with complete confidence. He doesn’t hesitate. That’s what makes it captivating and lustful instead of rude, I decide. The confidence of him. The way he just does it. Another man would tap me lightly before spanking me like Brody does.

  His cock pounds into my sweet spot like a jackhammer, continuous repetitions which build the pleasure inside of me. I imagine my sweet spot as a small pinprick of heat; with every thrust, the pinprick grows larger until it touches my entire pussy. It fills me up and he keeps fucking me. I think: This is Brody. Brody is fucking me from behind. Brody has me bent over and he’s fucking me. Brody, the man you’ve had a crush on for such a long time, is pounding into your pussy right now. Brody is taking you. Fuck, fuck, fuck—Brody is taking you!

  The circle of heat grows until I can’t feel anything else, just a burning deep inside. I clamp my eyes shut. I moan. But the moan comes out soundlessly, strained and breathless. I push back even harder, with even more force, and the longer I moan, the closer the orgasm becomes. Finally, sound enters my voice and the room is filled with the lost-in-pleasure moans of a woman. She doesn’t sound like me. I’ve never moaned like that. I’ve never experienced such all-encompassing pleasure.

  “You sexy bitch,” Brody sighs, pounding into me even harder. The continuous slap-slap-slap of our flesh hitting each other and his spanks drives us on. Bitch, he called me, I think, but it’s a dim and faraway thought. Brody is dominant. Brody knows what he wants. And the mood I’m in, he could call me any name under the sinful sun and I wouldn’t complain. “Come for me, Darla,” he moans. “Come for me. Come for me. Come for me.” On the last word, he thrusts into me so ferociously I’m surprised he doesn’t break me. I tumble forward, head slamming into the couch cushions, biting down.

  He is dominating me.

  Oh, fuck, yes . . . dominate me, baby! Make me yours! Fuck, take me! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  “I . . .”

  “I . . . am . . .”

  “I . . . am . . . coming!”

  I close my eyes, clamp my teeth, and focus solely on the gyrations of his immense cock.

  The orgasm takes hold of me. Hands grip my entire body and I’m thrown about as the orgasm hits me. I don’t know where I am. All I know is the gigantic circle of heat inside my pussy, moving through my body and touching my fingers and toes, my breasts, my face. Everything is red. Everything is hot. I bounce on his cock and I come and squirt on him.

  “Oh, fuck,” I pant. “Oh, fuck, fuck . . .”

  “Thank God,” Brody groans. “You’re too damn sexy.”

  He thrusts into me one final time—and then he falls away.

  After a while, when the panting and the desperate breaths have passed, we face each other, both smiling like fools.

  “So,” Brody says, “when can we do it again?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Brody

  I’m a prick, an asshole, a jerk, a piece of shit, a player. I’m dog, a wolf, a lion, a hunter.

  I’m all these things and more, all the things women say they don’t want but secretly do. Maybe Julia broke something inside of me. I’ve considered that before. I remember the man—boy, really—I was when I found out she cheated on me. A pathetic mess. Snotty like a little kid. Lost as though my relationship with the proverbial High School Sweetheart was a raft and suddenly it was gone and I was floating through an ocean, no land in sight. And I floated, and I was lost, and all of that shit. But I didn’t wait for land. I made my own land, crafted it out of cockiness and arrogance and all those things women say they don’t like. And then I got a taste for it. And then I became it. I never had a problem with that.

  But over the next week and a half, Darla and I spend a lot of time together, and I don’t go to meet her as the prick, the asshole, the jerk, the piece of shit, the player, the dog, the wolf, the lion or the hunter. I don’t change, don’t become somebody else. Not yet, at least. But we meet for more than sex. It’s been a long time since I met a woman for more than sex.

  Over eleven days, we go on four dates, which must be some sort of world record for guys like me. We have sex, of course, mind-bending, dirty, nasty, hot, passionate sex, but that’s not all we do. If I thought that Darla Castle would be content to be a fuck buddy, I was wrong.

  One lunchtime whilst Darla is patrolling the streets looking for more work we meet for lunch at a small Italian place on the corner near the fire station. Marco gives me a damn hard time about it. “You going to meet your little lady, man? You going to make sweet love to her, man? Shall I get you a ukulele, man? You can sing a sweet song and serenade her, eh? You are a romantic lover boy now. I can see it in your eyes.” I tell him where to get off and walk down the street.

  A strange thing happens when I lay eyes on Darla. Not just the time at the Italian place, but every time I see her. I smile a lot, but usually it’s an arrogant smile, a smile I’ve placed on my face. Whenever I see Darla, I feel a genuine smile spread inexorably across my face, like two puppet strings are tugging at the corners of my lips. She turns to me, looking sexy and vibrant and full of life, with her kink in her hair making her look different to all the other girls. And as she turns to me, I smile.

  “Any luck on the job hunt?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. I order us a couple of slices of pizza and some coke and we take a seat on the benches outside the restaurant, opposite each other, our legs touching. And even that gets me thinking, even the simple touch of her knees get me thinking, make no mistake.

  “The world is full of baristas,” she says. “But I’m good at what I do. I have good references. I’m sure I’ll find something. I wish they’d start rebuilding the Coffee Joint, though.”

  “Insurance,” I mutter, with a shrug. “How are you for money?”

  “I have some saved,” she says. “I should be okay for at least a month.”

  I nod. Why do I care? I ask myself. But not just about the money. I ask myself this question countless times every time we meet. Why. Do. I. Care?

  We go to the movies to see some blockbuster and I notice that Darla’s trying to stretch her legs out in the tiny space between her seat and the seat in front of her. None of my business. What do I care if her leg is aching or cramped? And yet I find myself swapping seats with her, giving her my aisle seat, so that she can stretch her leg out. Or when I’m at her place and we’re in bed together and it’s late at night, pitch-dark outside, and she’s fast asleep. I’ve only done it once, but still, once is enough . . . Sitting up, propped on one elbow, looking down at her sleeping face and just watching.

  It’s like this woman, with her charm and her sex appeal and her independence and her no-bullshit attitude is changing something inside of me.

  Don’t be a fool, I tell myself. A woman can’t change you in eleven days.

  Maybe not, not completely, but I can’t deny that I’m
starting to care about her. And more than her body, more than the sex.

  We go to a ball game and as we’re walking to our seats some guy says something about Darla, about her ass, about what he’d like to do it. He turns to his friends and starts laughing. I face him, arms wide, fists clenched, and stare the bastard down until he mutters, “Sorry,” in a terrified voice.

  Darla tells me not to start a scene. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor,” she says. “I can take care of myself.”

  I just nod. I’m sure she can take care of herself. But she should tell that to her face. When I stare the guy down, she has a small smile on her lips, and her cheeks are red and flushed just like they are before we have sex. Despite what she says, she likes it. It makes her horny, makes her feel protected, makes her want me even more.

  And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about myself this past week and a half, it’s that I want Darla to want me even more.