“Hell yes.” I couldn’t help staring at his hard cock. In just a few seconds, it would be inside of me.
Jake noticed my gaze, and a hint of a frown crossed his face. “Should I get a condom?”
I frowned too, until I realized what he meant. It was strange … in all the time I’d wondered if he was seeing anyone, it hadn’t occurred to me that he might be wondering the same thing about me. “I’m still on the pill, and I haven’t been with anyone since you.” I didn’t ask him. I wanted to, but I didn’t. But he answered me anyway.
“I haven’t been with anyone else, either,” he said, and I closed my eyes thankfully. It felt like the last ounce of tension from those long three months drained out of me at those words.
He climbed on the bed, and I bent my knees, legs spread. I wasn’t embarrassed anymore. I was open for him. I loved him. I wanted him.
“You ready for this, Red?”
“Make my fantasy come true,” I said, winking at him.
“Yeah?” he said, a wicked look crossing his face. “Should I invite a bunch of guys to sit in the next room and drink beer while I fuck you?”
"Okay, maybe not that part,” I said, grinning. My grin quickly turned into a shriek as Jake grabbed my ankles and pushed my knees toward my shoulders. He slid the cold silver yardstick under my calves and took hold of it with a hand on either side of my legs, just like in the fantasy.
It felt so naughty. And Jake made it even more so with his wicked words. “Such a slut … folded in half, waiting for me to take you. Are you going to be a good slut for me, Red?”
I’d never understood how some things I’d slap him for saying outside of the bedroom turned me on so much inside of it. But his dirty words had me panting and moaning again, and he hadn’t even entered me yet.
“Please, Jake,” I begged.
“Please what? Take you? Fuck you? Fill you up?”
“All three,” I panted.
“With pleasure,” he said, adjusting his hips. I felt the hard, swollen head of his cock brush up and down my slit. I wanted him inside of me so badly, but I couldn’t move. My hands were spread wide and tied; I was doubled over. All I could do was wait and beg and plead with him to take me hard.
“C’mon, Jake, please … please take me …”
And then he did. With a powerful thrust of his hips, he pushed all the way in. God, it was so deep. This position was the deepest I’d ever felt.
“You’re so tight. You feel so fucking good,” he growled. After a three-month dry spell, no wonder I was tight. But I wasn’t dry now. He’d slid in so easily.
He held himself there another long moment, as he looked into my eyes. “Please,” I cried again.
Then he began to thrust, and again, it wasn’t gentle, and again, I loved it. Folded in half, chained to the bed, being ridden by a wild man, and I loved every minute of it.
“Please, harder!”
“You got it, Red,” he said, increasing his pace even more. He was still pinning me down with that yardstick, and he was watching my breasts bounce with every thrust. He’d never change in regard to that kind of thing, but I didn’t want him to.
I could barely breathe, it was so intense. Jake slammed into me, making my body rock across the bed. I opened my mouth wide, trying to draw enough breath. He was literally taking my breath away. It felt that good.
We were both getting close, and Jake moved his hand to the middle of the yardstick, pushing down, and his other hand reached between us. He managed to get the index finger of his other hand pressed against my clit without missing a thrust. Oh god, it felt incredible.
Within seconds, I was coming hard, my muscles clenching around his hard cock. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, but I wanted him to come, too. Moments later, he did, crying out as he spurted deep inside me. For a few moments our bodies jolted together, and then he collapsed on top of me.
I moaned as Jake pulled out of me. I wished he could stay inside of me forever. But I also wanted him to take me in his arms, and for that, he needed to uncuff me. He did so, still breathing as heavily as I was, and finally he laid down next to me, wrapping his arms around me.
I nuzzled my lips against his chest, feeling his strong heartbeat under his skin. He kissed my forehead. “I love you, Fiona.”
“I love you too, Jake.”
He held me tight for several minutes until finally he shifted around, half sitting up, and fished the yardstick out from between us. “Maybe next time we should invest in a real pool cue,” he said.
“Definitely,” I said. “But what are we going to do with an apartment and a house?” I had no idea why that occurred to me right after sex, but somehow it did.
Jake didn’t comment on my non sequitur. He laid back down beside me and kissed me again. “It’s okay. I got a short-term lease. I was hoping I wouldn’t be staying there very long. I can leave whenever.”
“So you’ll move back in?” I said, smiling up at him.
“Are you kidding? Have you seen how many repairs this house needs?”
I laughed and smacked him on the arm. “That’s why I need you here. Well, it’s one of the reasons,” I said, kissing him.
“Then I’ll move back right away.”
“Do you really think it’ll be different this time?” I asked.
“Yeah. I really do. We know now what it’s like to be without the other. We know how bad it feels. So we’re just going to have to suck it up and be adults and deal with problems as they come up.”
“That sounds like a plan,” I said, tracing lazy circles in the dusting of hair across his chest. “Did you ever think, when you asked for that first Fiona’s Finest that it would lead here?”
“No, but I’m sure glad it did. Thank you for tonight,” he said, kissing my forehead. “For everything. For cleaning and drying my stuff. For the meal. For the hot sex. Oh, and for that dress, too. You looked so beautiful in it.”
“Thank you for not tearing it off me. Now I get to wear it again.”
“How about you wear it tomorrow night, and I’ll take you somewhere nice?”
“Sounds good to me. Where are we going?”
“That’ll be my secret for now. But it’ll definitely be someplace with a pool table in the back room.”
I laughed and smacked him again. He pinched my nipple in return. And that led to round two. It was a long time before we got out of bed, but that was okay. It was our bed again. And even when we left it, I knew we’d both be back again soon, the next night and the night after that.
For the rest of our lives.
END
***
About the Author:
Sophie Brooks enjoys reading, writing, seeking, and dreaming about romance! She feels most likely to experience the romantic side of life while traveling to new cities, hiking through the mountains, or making new friends. She'd love to hear from you. Please keep in touch by signing up for her mailing list.
See all her books at her Amazon page!
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Sophie Brooks
www.sophiebrooksauthor.com
***
The Billionaire and the Con Artist
By Leanne Brice
Prologue
April
I guess I’m probably going to die, I thought as I sat shivering next to the garbage bin I just checked for food, knees pulled up to my chest, my skinny arms wrapped around them.
Maybe I should have just stayed. It wasn’t so bad, was it?
A brief warmth passed through me at the memory of what it was like to be inside a cozy house, to have a consistent place to go home to every day. A familiar room.
The bedroom was all mine too—I didn’t have to share my clothes or desk or anything.
I had a solid roof over my head, at least two square meals a day.
I could easily grab blankets if it got too cold, turn on a fan if it got too warm.
I had quick, easy access to snacks...
I remembered my foster father
and shivered again, this time, not from the blistering cold.
I hadn’t thought about where I’d go, what I’d do once I fled my foster home—I only knew I had to get out of there.
And now, after living on the streets, sneaking into buildings and sleeping on hard floors, subsisting on shoplifting and scraps, I wondered if it was a wise decision.
I had pretty much all I needed in that house. They hadn’t even beaten me!
Sure, my foster mom didn’t believe me or care about the night visits from my foster dad, but she had cared about making sure I was fed. That I had pencils and books for school.
This is so stupid, I thought, pulling my knees tighter as I tried to keep myself warm. It really shouldn’t rain on Christmas Day.
I wondered if it had rained the year before and I just hadn’t noticed because I was too busy opening presents, and I cursed myself from fleeing a good thing once again.
“Hey,” a voice breezed in, lightly penetrating my miserable fog.
I was sure I was hearing things when the voice drifted over to me, or at least sure it wasn’t being directed at me if it was real.
Since becoming a drifter, I realized I had become sort of invisible to the general public, an unremarkable part of the scenery.
No one tended to notice me, despite the fact that I was practically a child and obviously very alone.
I mean, a child to them—I was fifteen years old, pretty much a grown woman.
“Hey, kid,” I heard the feminine voice say again, and I looked up to find an actual woman staring at me, one who looked very real and not like a hunger-induced apparition at all.
One who wasn’t that old, but certainly wasn’t young like me.
In her twenties, maybe?
I couldn’t really tell.
People came in stark categories to me—kid, almost-adult, adult, and ancient.
The woman wasn’t a kid or almost-adult, and she certainly wasn’t ancient, so as far as I was concerned, she could be anywhere between twenty and forty.
She had light brownish eyes, dark hair and a facial scar that made it even harder to guess her age, but she was still pretty.
“You must be so cold,” the woman said sympathetically. “And hungry. I can help you. Let’s get you warm and fed and cozy. Come with me.”
The woman straightened up and extended her hand, smiling maternally.
I stared at the woman’s hand for a moment before taking it, never actually considering not going with her, of course—just momentarily trapped in disbelief that someone was actually reaching out to me. Someone wanted to help me!
I didn’t know this woman from Adam, but I just knew this kind stranger could help me stay alive.
The hazel-eyed woman would keep me safe.
Part 1
Laying Plans
If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time.
Chinese Proverb
Chapter 1
April
5 years later…
I take a deep breath as I exit my unremarkable, gray-stoned apartment building, unsure whether I’ll ever return to it or not.
I told my roommate I was going home to Nebraska for a few days—a total lie, of course.
I learned long ago it’s rarely beneficial to be upfront; in fact, the truth can and will work against you at every opportunity.
My roommate doesn’t need to know my true destination—if anyone comes looking for me for whatever reason, he’ll just end up sending them on a wild goose chase.
Haha! Nebraska.
It’s my own personal little joke.
Anyway, he got last month’s rent from me, and I haven’t left a mess or anything behind so he’ll be fine if I never come back—I paid him upfront in cash for four months, first and last.
I just never wanted him to know my real name.
My sob story convinced him that I was in dire straits, a sympathetic figure that he was happy to take in, barely able to contain his surprise that a girl like me took up his Craigslist offer.
Once we met, it was all good—my assessment of him said I had nothing to fear of the shy-looking, pudgy nerd, and he was even more convinced of my damsel-in-distress state once he took in my petite, youthful form and the lost puppy eyes I gave him.
Plus, being faced with a lot of cash can magically stop people from asking too many questions. Especially guys; girls tend to be way nosier.
The cash was courtesy of a GoFundMe campaign, by the way.
Look, if someone can raise tens of thousands of dollars on Kickstarter to make a bowl of potato salad, anything goes when it comes to crowdfunding, and you would not believe how many guys are supportive of boob jobs.
Thanks, pervy Good Samaritans!
I have no intention of getting a boob job, though, despite my fabricated A-cup sob story.
I did send my biggest backers a photo of a sexy nude rack so they could be happy they helped out a poor flat-chested young girl in need and jack off to the thought of their generosity and the lewd visual for infinity.
The before and after photos were more than easy to obtain, and anyway, none of it matters, ultimately—I got what I wanted, they got what they needed.
People love easy ways of feeling good about themselves, and I’m more than happy to give it to them.
My current trip is being funded by bleeding heart animal lovers who can’t resist the photo of a pretty young blond girl crying over her sick dog.
Thanks, stock photos!
I can’t just rely on GoFundMe and Kickstarters, of course—especially since it’s best to keep it moving; I’ll leave too many traces tapping the same pool.
I continue toward the bus stop, everything that matters to me in my nondescript backpack, but I halt in my tracks as an unexpected wave of joy and relief washes over me at the sight of a familiar ‘face.’
I watch Lorax as he (or she? I never figured it out) scuttles his fat body toward the nearest garbage bin, a large piece of donut in its tiny rodent jaws.
I recognize the rat by his sheer size at first—he’s practically the size of a cat—and then confirm identity by the dent in his tail.
I named him Lorax after the character in some book one of my foster moms read me when I was twelve.
Yes, I’m aware it’s a kids book below what should have been my reading level then, but I was only just learning to read at the time—my biological mom had home-schooled me, leaving out the whole literacy part, and then one day, she dropped me off at some fire station and I haven’t seen her since.
Oh, that’s where Nebraska comes in—the state had a Safe-haven law at the time, allowing people to drop off any kid under eighteen, so my mom got in there before they were all, Whoops! Didn’t really mean for a bunch of toddlers, tweens, and teens to get legally abandoned.
The funny thing is, we weren’t even from there—she drove all the way there to do it.
But hey, when opportunity knocks, you better goddamn answer, am I right?
Anyway, the law soon changed to specify that only babies under a month could be given up, but by then, I had been returned to my state of origin to become a ward of that state, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Now that I’m heading to Vegas for the first time, immediate future unclear, I’m happy for the chance to say goodbye to Lorax—it gives me some sort of closure on this chapter of my life.
I suppose I’ve come to think of him as a pet I keep on a very long invisible leash.
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” I say affectionately to him before continuing my path to the bus stop.
Trust me—it doesn’t matter if someone notices I’m not actually talking to a person, or even if they realize I’m talking to a rat.
This is Los Angeles—you wouldn’t believe how many people are here talking to themselves, blue tooth or not; in fact, forget blue tooth and inside voices accidentally becoming outside ones—with vagrants galore having a grand old time chatti
ng up the air or a pipe in a wall, nothing to see here.
* * *
I’m vibrating with excitement as I head to the Downtown L.A. bus station.
It’s like my body is way ahead of my mind—like it senses something major about to happen, but in a good way, and I’m ready for whatever’s going down.
I think it means I’m going to make a buttload of money and won’t have to worry about my daily take for a while. I know there’s a huge concentration of potential marks in Vegas with the tourist turnover and other mega opportunities to score big.
Most people go to Vegas to gamble, right? One way or another—their sex life, their money, their career. They’re taking a chance.
I suppose that could be true of many other places, but Vegas is the place for dreams of scoring something huge.
I’m going there to gamble, too—but I don’t take my chances with poker tables and lever-operated machines.
My phone rings as I pay for my ride, and I know it’s either my best friend Taylor or spam that managed to find its way to my burner phone.
I answer it on the fourth ring as I settle into my seat.
“What’s up?” I answer, smiling because I recognize the number as Taylor’s after all.
“Dude, we’re so gonna clean up,” she says to me. “I’m over five thousand dollars already.”
“Five thousand dollars?” I sort of screech, earning the attention of several people near me.
I compose myself quickly.
I usually keep my cool pretty easily, but hell—that’s almost a year of rent for the apartment I shared in L.A.! Not that I’d actually stay there a year.
I’m hoping this Vegas trip gets me out of there and into a better one. With a damned dishwasher.
“Shit. Yeah, that’s definitely a good start,” I say. “How the hell did you do that?”
Seriously, Taylor just got there less than half a day ago.
At that rate, the week or so we plan to hang out there could set us up for a year!
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 98
