I want to see that look now, even though we aren’t anywhere near a bed, and I press my lips harder against her and kiss her through the fabric, licking and licking until she’s soaked through and rocking her pussy against me.
“Put your hands in his hair,” Ben grates out. “He likes that. He likes being your toy, don’t you, Caleb?”
My nod has the added bonus of stroking my tongue against her clit, and she cries out, her hand threading through my hair and holding me fast to her cunt.
I obey the unspoken command, sucking her pouting little bud until her thighs are quivering against my face, and then I hook a finger around the wet fabric and allow myself a taste straight from the source. I slick my tongue between her folds as I coax one of her legs over my shoulder, and she leans back against Ben for balance as I fuck her cunt with my mouth.
“That’s it,” Ben coaxes darkly. “Open up your pussy for Caleb. Let him inside.”
She slides her leg farther across my shoulder, and the plump outer petals of her sex unfurl even more, allowing me to lick deep, right at the very heart of her. I fumble with my fly as I taste her, unable to stop myself from pulling out my erection and giving it a few rough strokes.
Fuck, she tastes good. Sweet, with the tiniest hint of sour and salt. Her pussy is so tight, even around my tongue, and it makes me shudder with anticipation to think of how it’s going to feel on my cock. Wet and hot and squeezing me, like her body is demanding my come.
I’ll give it to her. Now that we’ve all been tested and she’s on birth control, we can finally fuck raw, and the feeling is like nothing else in this world. My cock gives a hard flex just knowing what it’s about to get.
Ireland writhes against my mouth, and I realize Ben has his cock freed too so her silk-covered ass can rub against him. He’s got his big hand wrapped around her throat now, and whatever he’s murmuring in her ear has her getting more and more worked up. I can taste her need, and I can feel it in the fierce tug of her fingers through my hair.
“Enough,” Ben finally growls. “Up to bed. I need to fuck.”
Stumbling upstairs, Ben and me shedding clothes as we go, we kiss and grope and grab until we’re all in our bed. I drag Ireland against me so her tits are crushed into my chest, and I lick at the seam of her mouth until she parts it and lets me in. I can never get enough of kissing her, of feeling her lips so soft and yielding against mine, and her tongue like hot silk with her perpetual cinnamon taste from her favorite gum.
I reach down to mold my hand over her cunt, and my fingers brush against Ben’s fingers as he plays with the little star of her ass, probing it open a little more roughly and urgently than normal.
He knows what we’re going to do tonight, and it’s got him all worked up. I can’t blame him. I could almost come against Ireland’s soft belly right now just thinking about it. But I hold it together long enough for Ben to order Ireland to take my cock and feed it inside her.
There’s a moment—always that first moment—when the plump head won’t fit. When my erection is too big and her pussy is too small, and the pressure is so insane that I think I might erupt right then and there, before the entire tip is even inside.
I live for that moment.
Holding my cock in both hands, she stirs the swollen head against her opening before she tries again, rocking and circling until finally, finally, I start to sink into her tiny channel.
The hot squeeze of her is like the grip of heaven itself, and I push in, needing to fuck, needing to thrust. With a sucked-in breath, her hands fly to my shoulders, and she holds on as I work the edge off my need by giving her a few rough strokes.
“Hold still,” Ben says in a voice that demands obedience. “She’s gonna take me too.”
Ireland moans her assent, arching as much as she can while pierced with my length so she can make her little entrance more available to Ben.
The usually stoic Ben isn’t immune to the sight. A muscle in his tight jaw jumps as he looks down at us, her intimate place speared by my flesh and her ass presented to him the way he likes. With a harsh swallow, he grabs the lube and slicks himself up until his cock is a glistening column of need, and then he swirls some against Ireland’s tight hole for good measure.
“Ready, sweetheart?” he rasps.
“Please,” she breathes. “Yes, please.”
It’s slow work. Each inch makes her squirm and pant, her fingertips digging into my shoulders so deeply that I know I’ll bruise, but I’ll happily wear the bruises as badges of honor. Every single one is worth the look on her face now, with her eyes hooded and her lips parted and a flush that dusts the apples of her cheeks and the top of her chest.
Each inch is also work for me, because the extra pressure is almost too much for me to handle without coming—especially coupled as it is with the erotic squirm of Ireland on our cocks and the rough, reassuring rasp of Ben’s legs against my own. The firm brush of his sack on mine.
Soon, he’s fully seated, and you’d never guess the three of us have ever been cold, because now everything is heat and sweat and damp. With long, rolling movements, we fuck Ireland in tandem, keeping her filled and stretched, rubbing each other through the thin, shared wall of her body in a touch more intimate than almost anything else in this world.
It doesn’t take long. It never does like this. Ireland says it’s like being split in half, but being split in half by an electric rainbow made of orgasms. I don’t know about all that, but I do know having her sweet body pressed against me, her clit grinding on its favorite place above my cock, and Ben’s erection fucking against my own is more than any man can handle. The moment Ireland comes apart in our arms, we follow, grunting with a few final fast strokes and then erupting inside her. My balls draw up tight as my shaft swells, and then I release wave after hot wave of my seed inside her, spending so hard that my vision grays out around the edges. I let out a satisfied roar as all the sizzling, aching pressure finally relieves itself, and Ben gives his usual bitten-off grunt—the most he ever loses control in bed. I savor the feeling of his cock throbbing so close to mine as much as I savor the lingering flutters of Ireland’s pleasure, and I allow both to pull the very last drops of my climax out of my cock.
“God, you’re such a beauty,” I say, kissing Ireland everywhere, petting her and praising her for taking both of us like such a good girl. Ben echoes my praises, kissing her neck and stroking her hair until she’s practically purring. We both slip free from her body in a wet rush, and Ben goes to get things to clean us up.
He and I exchange a look as we do.
It’s time.
“What do you say we change into our pajamas and go have some warm apple cider by the tree?” I ask casually. Too casually maybe, because Ben rolls his eyes behind Ireland’s back at my bad acting as he scoots back on the bed with a towel.
However, Christmas and everything Christmasy is Ireland’s favorite thing, so she just nods happily. “Sounds amazing.” And then she rolls over like a princess to let Ben attend to her while I clean off, get dressed, and go downstairs to get everything ready.
A few minutes later, we’re around the tree with the fire going and steaming mugs of spiked cider for us all. Greta-dog nestles on the couch next to Ireland, who’s cute as a fucking button in her flannel pajamas covered in snowmen, but Ben and I remain standing.
“I can make room,” she says, preparing to move. “Or we can put Greta on the floor?”
Greta gives a huff, as if she knows she’s about to be evicted.
“Don’t move,” Ben says in his soldier voice, and Ireland goes still, looking confused. We go over to the tree to get the two little boxes we’ve nestled in the branches. She blinks at them and then blinks at us.
They’re not wrapped, tied only with small red bows, and her breathing speeds up as we pull off the ribbons together and open the boxes together.
As we kneel together.
“Ireland,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry with nerves. “I know it’s on
ly been five months, and I know it’s all moved fast. But I’ve never been surer of anything in my entire life—that I want to spend it with the two of you.”
“We want you to be our wife,” Ben continues for me. Tears glimmer in Ireland’s eyes as he speaks. “We want to marry you and cherish you and spend forever with you. And I know there will be so much to figure out legally, and I know it will never be the easy road, but it’s the only road I want. Marry us, baby. Please.”
“Oh,” she says, starting to cry in earnest now and putting the back of her hand to her mouth. “Oh God. Yes. Yes, of course.”
My sternum cracks open and pure sunshine beams out. I’d hoped she’d say yes, of course—I wouldn’t have asked if I thought it was unwelcome, but still—to hear your woman say yes to forever is still the best kind of feeling. My own eyes are wet as Ben and I slide our rings onto her finger, each ring one half of a diamond-studded Celtic knot so that when they’re put on together, they make one whole design.
Ireland flexes her hand, enraptured by the glitter of our rings, and it’s both unbearably arousing and unbelievably—almost spiritually—gratifying to witness.
Ben is ready to fuck her again, I can tell, but we’re not quite finished. I reach into the pocket of my pajama pants and pull out another ring.
It’s made of beaten metal that’s been hammered and burnished to a dull gleam, as quiet and strong as the man it’s going to belong to. I take Ben’s hand, which is suddenly shaking, and I slide it onto his finger.
“I love you,” I tell him, my best friend and lover and weary, mysterious soldier. “I want all three of us to be married, together, in a ceremony apart from anything we do legally. Maybe only two of us can be married on paper, but in our hearts, it will be all three. Tell me yes, Ben. Tell me yes.”
The corner of Ben’s mouth hooks up in a smile at my command. “I thought I was the one who gave the orders around here.”
I kiss him. Hard. And then Ireland is joining in, and the three of us are kissing with more fierce possession than we ever have before, the firelight catching the new rings and sending beams of reflected light around the room.
“Well, then,” I finally manage. “I’m ordering you to order us around for the rest of our lives.”
“Yes,” Ben says. “Yes, of course, and fuck you, I’m crying now.”
He is.
Ireland kisses the tears off his cheeks, and somehow that turns into the three of us on the floor, kissing and grinding and eventually fucking while the fire crackles and more snow spits outside. I catch Ireland and Ben looking at their rings more than once as we make love, and if I felt eight feet tall before, there’s no telling how I feel now.
Like the luckiest man alive, the luckiest man who’s ever had the privilege of being alive. With my farm and my Clementine-cow and my Greta-dog and my truck.
With my broody ex-soldier.
With my curvy girl.
Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.
* * *
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Acknowledgments
Firstly, I have to thank my amazing agent, Rebecca Friedman, who co-pilots with boundless energy and kindness.
A resounding thank you to my heroic editor, Scott Saunders, who cleans up tenses and straightens out straggly subplots with the patience of a saint—and to the rest of the Waterhouse team: Meredith Wild, Robyn Lee, Jennifer Becker, Yvonne Ellis, Haley Byrd, Kurt Vachon, Jonathan Mac, and Jesse Kench. And my eternal gratitude and awe go to Amber Maxwell for creating a gorgeous-as-heck cover for Ireland and all her curves!
An especially deep and humble thanks are owed to Julie Murphy, who spent long, late hours talking over plot points and characterization with me, as well as helping me catalog Channing Tatum’s and Adam Driver’s best physical attributes.
To Ashley Lindemann, Serena McDonald, Candi Kane, and Melissa Gaston for their tireless toil and love! To the Snatches and other authors who make working in this bananas industry possible—especially Tess and Natalie, who keep plenty of beer and sparkling water in their house for me, and any author who has tolerated my lust for dance parties on a retreat: thank you. I owe the Kiawah crew a special shout-out for plot help and, in particular, Ally C for helping me with the nitty-gritty details of Kansas farming.
Loving and margarita-soaked thanks to the Jarrett girls—Aunt Paula, Aunt Jan, and my own Grandma Sandra—the farm girls in my own family!
And finally, I have to thank you, the reader. Thank you for going on this journey with me and Ireland!
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Misadventures with a Book Boyfriend
March 2019
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Excerpt from Misadventures with a Book Boyfriend
I was Oliver Connely, for Christ’s sake! A household name—especially if the house had women living in it. For the past decade, my face had been plastered on billboards and buildings around the world and every magazine cover from GQ to Esquire. I’d walked for top designers in Milan, Paris, and New York. I was at the top of my modeling game.
But today?
Today I could barely pay my rent.
I’d heard of the proverbial “wall” from others in the industry but smugly laughed it off, never believing it would happen to me. After all, I was the most sought-after model of my generation. But my twenty-seventh birthday loomed like a dark cloud on the horizon, and the blustery wind that blew in before the storm took all the modeling jobs out to sea with it.
And now I was the guy scraping together change to pay his fucking cell phone bill.
Well, my agent, Harrison Firestein, might not be calling, but my favorite lounge chair at the pool in my condo complex certainly was. I’d been setting up shop there a few times a week to perfect my tan, relax, and forget about the stress in my life.
Since I actually was expecting a call from Harrison, I made sure my phone was charged and then grabbed my backpack and strolled across the complex to the pool.
I usually had most of the place to myself during the week. Everyone in Southern California was so health conscious and worried about wrinkles that sun worshipping had fallen prey to self-tanners and fake ’n bake salons. But I’d grown up in rural Iowa, where the summer was barely a quarter of the year and not a decent four-fifths. I hadn’t yet given up appreciation for how the sun warmed my skin and gave me a sense of peace like nothing else in my regular routine.
I usually worked out five days a week, but I took an extra day off this week because—honestly?—I just wasn’t that into it. It was so much easier for me to get motivated when I knew I had a shoot coming up or a show to walk. Since my phone had been unusually silent, I lacked the drive to hit the weights. Where were the job offers from Harrison?
The pool was particularly busy, and I questioned if I’d mistaken today for a weekday when it was actually a weekend.
No. Definitely not.
Skye Delaney, my best friend and amazing roommate, had been out the door at five thirty this morning like she was every workday without fail. Her punctuality used to annoy me, but I’d learned to admire her for her dedication to her career. I might not like the asshole she worked for, but she loved what she did and made a great wage doing it.
We’d been best friends since sophomore year at UCLA, and she’d been my rock when my family abandoned me for dropping out—and also through the crazy ride of my modeling career. It probably looked like we should’ve just hooked up and called it done. Been there. Tried that. We had less sexual chemistry than the leads in a bad rom-com. We could laugh about it now, but at the time, it was a disaster.
As I surveyed the crowd at the pool, a vacant lounge chair near the deep end called to me from across the deck. Three little shithead kids were screaming “Polo” in the shallow end while one of their pal
s turned in haphazard circles randomly shouting “Marco” to coax out their clap backs. Who was the sadistic bastard that came up with that game in the first place? I sent up a mental thank you to the ingenious creator of the AirPods in my backpack that were about to drown out the racket.
A cluster of empty chairs just a few feet from mine could pose a potential problem if those kids took a break and decided to camp out there, but a quick scan of the rest of the pool-goers yielded a view of their mothers across the deck. Two were absentmindedly watching the game in the water; the other two were huddled together, obviously talking about something they didn’t want the others to hear.
I loved people watching. I’d done a good amount of traveling in the last few years, and often times I was alone. Making up people’s backstories had become one of my favorite pastimes. I didn’t even try to get it right. I just tried to make it interesting.
My own parents were two of the most boring adults I’d ever met. They met in high school and had been stuck with each other ever since. When I’d come along as an unwelcome party favor from their senior prom night, any hope of leaving that small town and making something of their lives went down the toilet with the first flush of morning sickness.
If the rest of middle-class America were in the same boat, I’d have begged that sucker to pull a Titanic. In the stories I created, people were happy, had adventures, and made the most out of every day.
A nasally voice broke through I Prevail’s rendition of “Blank Space” being belted into my ear canal. “Anyone sitting here?” Judging by the “annoyed mom” look on the woman’s face when I opened my eyes, she had already asked more than once. I pulled the little white pod from my ear and gave my practiced grin.
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