by Amiee Smith
SPACE BETWEEN
Amiee Smith
Table of Contents
Title Page
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
Previously in the | Smart Girl Mafia Series
CHAPTER 1 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 2 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 3 | BRIT PALMER
EIGHT YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
EIGHT YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
EIGHT YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
EIGHT YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
EIGHT YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
EIGHT YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 4 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 5 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 6 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
EIGHT YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
EIGHT YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
EIGHT YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
EIGHT YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
EIGHT YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 7 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 8 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 9 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 10 | BRIT PALMER
EIGHT YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
EIGHT YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
SEVEN YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
SIX YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
FIVE YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
THREE YEARS AGO | BRIT PALMER
TWO YEARS AGO | ALEX WILLINGHAM
ONE YEAR AGO | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 11 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 12 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 13 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 14 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 15 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 16 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 17 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 18 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 19 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 20 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 21 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 22 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 23 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 24 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 25 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 26 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 27 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 28 | BRIT PALMER
CHAPTER 29 | ALEX WILLINGHAM
CHAPTER 30 | BRIT PALMER
THANK YOU FOR READING
GRATITUDE
MEET AMIEE
COPYRIGHT
AMY Publishing
California
Space Between
Copyright 2019 by Amiee Smith
www.amieesmith.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
DEDICATION
For all the talented weirdos. We crave your radiance.
Welcome to the world of the Smart Girl Mafia.
Previously in the
Smart Girl Mafia Series
Break Free (Book 1)
After hooking up at a party, can an introverted novelist and an ex-Olympian find their way to happily-ever-after?
Read Break Free here.
***
Strangely Amazing (Book 2)
After a string of flirty text messages, can an ambitious scientist and a billionaire from Beverly Hills negotiate their way to happily-ever-after?
Read Strangely Amazing here.
A-SIDE
CHAPTER 1
BRIT PALMER
“Brit, come sit on my face.”
Arousal floods my sex.
It’s Saturday morning. Hints of dawn peek from behind the white plantation shutters in Claire’s floral country living room. A bird chirps a constant melody.
Last night, Alex and his brother’s friends crashed the Smart Girl Mafia quarterly sleepover.
Even in our 30s, my friends and I still kick it like we did in college. But now, we do so with fine food and booze. And lately, fine men.
“What if someone walks in?” I ask, quietly.
“I doubt anyone is up this early,” he whispers.
I want to do it. Alex is skillful with his tongue. So skillful. It’s his thing.
For eight years, he’s asked: “Can I go down on you?”
Every time, I responded: “We’re not there yet.”
Last night we arrived. It was our first sexual experience. We haven’t even kissed.
I was a little drunk and high on the relief of finally being done with my dissertation. Finally being done with my doctorate degree. Finally being done with the last eight years.
He lies across from me. We were assigned to sleep on two sofas facing each other with a coffee table in between. The scent of homemade cinnamon apple potpourri wafts in the air.
“How do we do this?” I ask, tossing the thick white comforter off my body.
“Take off your panties and straddle my chest.”
He’s shirtless, on his back. The white comforter bunched at his feet reveals black boxer briefs. The life-like dragon tattooed on his muscular pec summons me forward.
Rising from the sofa, my peacock kaftan-style nightshirt falls mid-thigh. I slip off my black bikini panties and toss them on the pile of clothes I wore last night. I pause at the edge of his sofa.
“I’ve got a lot of thigh. How will you breathe?”
I’m 5’10. 162 pounds. While Alex is 6’1, fit, with a broad chest, he’s just a man. A man who needs air to live.
That would be a hell of a story to tell my friends on our truth hike: I accidently killed Alex, orgasming on his face.
“I’ll survive. Be a good girl. Come here,” Alex says, removing his silver titanium glasses.
I’m no pretty girl. I’m no distressed damsel waiting for a man to rescue me. But when this blue-green-eyed man says “good girl” my body flames with need.
Imagine the most attractive man... Alex Willingham is hotter than him.
At 31 years old, he appears older and wiser than his age. Light olive complexion. Conservatively cut deep brown hair. Chiseled jawline. Always clean-shaven.
“Stop worrying, Brittney. You’re not going to kill me.”
“How did you know that was what I was thinking, Dragon?”
“After eight years, I know how my do-gooder wife thinks.”
CHAPTER 2
ALEX WILLINGHAM
Sitting up, I reposition myself on the sofa so there is space between the top of my head and the armrest. I clasp her hand, drawing her close. Her long black nails graze my palm.
“Push up your nightgown. Climb on top.”
She lifts the shear fabric to her waist. Dark brown curls shield her sex. Her toned thighs straddle my torso in a kneeling position.
Releasing her hand, I draw her knees forward, so they rest on either side of my head.
I grasp the undersides of her thighs and lift my wife onto my face.
Her pussy smells like joy.
Brit rests her elbows on the arm of the
sofa. The hem of her nightgown tents my head.
“Oh, Dragon. We’re really going to do this.”
Yes! We’re really going to do this.
Eight years. Eight years of a sexless marriage.
We didn’t marry for love or happily-ever-after. We married for money. And the agreed terms included a no-sex clause.
Because there is no room in my life for anything but my work and my wife, I’ve remained celibate.
Last night, my dick didn’t reach the promised land. But I got to do my favorite thing... eat pussy. And I need to do it again, before the glow of our first encounter wears off, and she returns to “we’re just friends.”
We are not just friends. However, our marriage shatters the paradigm of what it means to be in a committed, heteronormative relationship.
“Heteronormative” is her language. My mind doesn’t think in big words. I’m a money dude, “a capitalist pig” helping the ultra-wealthy stay ultra-wealthy.
If I weren’t married to this bionic-brained woman with beautiful light brown skin, long, curly dark hair, and piercings everywhere, I wouldn’t know what heteronormative means.
She expands me. Makes me better. But even in my enlightenment, I’m still a man who loves pussy.
With my wife’s lips spread wide above me, I run my tongue over her clit... just once. She tastes like happiness. A second time. Life doesn’t get any better than this. A third time. Let’s stay here.
I slowly lick her nub, letting her settle in, and find her rhythm.
Brit used to be a burlesque dancer. One night, eight years ago, before our marriage of convenience, she shimmied and jiggled all over my studio apartment.
Now, I want her to dance all over my mouth.
Moving my hands to the top of her thighs, I shimmy and jiggle my tongue all over her sex.
I’m giving my wife full consent to ride my fucking face.
CHAPTER 3
BRIT PALMER
Whatever Alex is doing with his mouth feels good. No, better than good.
It feels like the beginning... the beginning of... a song.
Oh. Right there. I moan, circling my hips in time with the rhythm of his tongue. His mouth keeps a consistent pressure and pace. Spreading wider, I sway my kitty girl against his face.
This is like the song, “Just Friends,” from the album, Charlie Parker with Strings. It starts slow. Just the strings. Then Bird comes in on sax, flying around the melody, wild and fast, taking up all the air.
Alex’s tongue laps my clit again and again, increasing speed, and moving with the same intensity of a Charlie Parker solo. I twirl and shimmy my hips, matching his pace. My nub dances all over my husband’s handsome face.
Oh, this could be love. Love for the moment. Love for all that exists between us. Love for “Just Friends.”
I rock my pelvis against Alex’s tongue-lips-nose. A swift steady groove of lick and grind. Lick and grind. I could ride him all morning but be no closer to orgasm. I need pressure on my spot.
I bear down, taking up all the air. And giving my husband full consent to eat my pussy.
Reaching between my legs, I run my nails through his hair, scratching his scalp. Dragon’s masculine hands squeeze my thighs to express his approval. After eight years of marriage, I know what he likes. I’m his good girl.
Alex extends his tongue inside my sex. It feels like the perfect song. Arousal slices through my body, piercing the center of my core. I motion my hips from side to side, front to back, letting his tongue hit the spot. That spot. I’m so close.
His mouth feels like joy. Happiness.
I dip my head forward, and moan. I’m so glad my nightgown covers his head. Because if I could stare into his eyes while he tongue-fucks my pussy, I’d gratefully agree to be chained to him for eternity.
“Yes, daddy. Yes,” I moan, grinding his mouth.
Alex knows I’m close.
He shifts, grabbing my waist. His lips suction my clit. In a fluid, ridiculously powerful expression of man, he ever-so-slightly lifts me up, again and again.
Oh, my everything. The pressure. The friction. The stimulation. The suction. Oh, my throbbing clit.
With his mouth clamped on my nub, my ass bounces up and down. I sigh and moan, quietly. Trying desperately not to wake anyone in the house. My hairline beads with sweat. My heart races. Alex sucks my clit and pounds my hips against his mouth over and over, again and again. My climax imminent.
This is better than fashion and food. Why did we wait eight years? This is better than my fingers against the keys of a piano or the strings of my guitar. Why did I deny myself this soulful pleasure? This is better than my voice hitting the highest of notes. Why? This is better than just friends.
“I’m going to come.”
Alex laps his tongue over my clit in just the right way. He’s an expert. This is his thing. Probably a fetish. I shudder, panting and bucking my way to release. My pussy contracts and twitches.
I orgasm all over Alex’s face.
As soon as I finish, he lifts me onto his muscular chest. His rapid heartbeat keeps time with my still pulsating center.
The house is so quiet. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head toward the ceiling. A melody plays through my inner ear. My song. An ardent slow tune. It sounds like liberation...
And then Dragon opens his fire-breathing mouth.
“Brit, I’m your man! We’re going to be a normal couple. Tell the Mafia we’re together. I’ll move into the mansion next week. It’s time for us to build a real life together. I’ll still finance your album, but you need to get another teaching job.”
Umm, he’s trying to change the ending to the song. My song.
I slide off his chest. My feet find the hardwood floor. With my eyes still closed, I’m seeing with my ears. I reach the other sofa. Lying down, I stretch out my legs and wrap myself in a cozy cocoon. It feels so good to rest. It feels so good to turn my back on him.
In a few hours, I’ll go on a Smart Girl Mafia truth hike and reveal to my friends I let Alex go down on me. Twice.
And then I’ll leave Dragon and all his scorching demands.
Leave L.A. and go up to Oakland.
My life is a song. An ever-changing melody.
But it’s my right to choose how it ends.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
I knock on a door with the name plate: Brit Palmer, Teaching Assistant. USC, Thornton School of Music. Jazz blares on the other side.
“Come in!”
“Ms. Palmer. I’m Alex Willingham. I’m in your section for JAZZ 401.”
“Brit. Shh. The song just started.”
Ella Fitzgerald’s “How High the Moon” plays on the record player perched on a bookcase in her tiny cluttered office.
She sits, legs crossed, behind a desk in black trousers, a white tank blouse, and black ankle boots with a metal stiletto heel.
A tattoo, in what appears to be Arabic, covers the length of her left inner forearm.
A small silver hoop cups her left nostril, matching the three silver hoops in her ears.
A tiny hoop, a tragus piercing, circles the part of her ear in front of the ear canal.
Silver rings, different sizes and designs, cover each of her fingers.
Her nails, long and very black. Her style, glam rock with hints of couture.
Love for the music shimmers in her cognac eyes.
I ease into a chair, facing her. For seven minutes we listen to the vocal acrobatics of “The First Lady of Song.”
The tune ends. She stands, returning the record to a cover with a black and white picture of Ella dabbing her brow. I own the same record.
“‘How High the Moon’ was one of my Aunt Mia’s favorite songs. She loved jazz. Ah...she passed away a few years ago,” I say.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Your aunt had good taste in music. I’m considering doing a version of this song for my doctoral performance class. What can I do for you, Alex? Most students
don’t come to office hours the first week of the semester.”
I flash a smile crafted to charm. “I wanted to introduce myself. We went to the same high school. I was a freshman when you were a senior. You may know of my older brother, Nick Willingham.”
“Sure. He played water polo in the Olympics. Nice to meet you, younger brother. I look forward to having you in my section for the History of Jazz,” her voice coldly genteel.
She shuffles through papers on her messy desk. A big black Fendi purse sits in the middle surrounded by an empty Cup of Noodles, a bottle of hot sauce, and a silver razor phone.
Why does a girl with a $4000 bag still have a flip phone?
“This is my last semester of school. I’m already being considered for a job at a brokerage firm, but I need a 3.0 GPA. Maybe we can go for coffee and discuss the class.”
At the start of every semester, I visit my female TAs to introduce myself. I say all the right things. I compliment their intelligence. Tell them I sometimes struggle with reading and writing. Ask them out for coffee. By the end of every meeting, I know I’ll pass the class. School is not my thing. I gotta do what I gotta do.
Still standing, Brit’s cognac eyes meet mine. She’s so still. So poised. So confident. And those nails.
“Oh, so you want to be a capitalist pig when you grow up. Just what the world needs. If you want a 3.0, you need to study instead of going for coffee with your TA. I’m here every Friday afternoon to answer any questions you have about the course. You may bring me coffee. Grande mocha, half-caf. A muffin or cheese Danish or both is always appreciated.”
I will be there every Friday, with coffee and pastry.
Not because I need her help, I know enough about jazz to pass this class with ease. But something in me needs to hang in this woman’s orbit. Circle her. See the world through her hypnotic eyes.
“Ms. Palmer, I plan to study real hard for this class. I love jazz. My aunt left her house to my brother, but her record collection to me.”
“Record collection? I’m intrigued. What’s your favorite recording?”
