Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology

by Nikki Sloane, Elle Kennedy, KL Kreig, Leslie McAdam, Lynda Aicher, Mara White, Marni Mann, Rebecca Shea, Saffron Kent, Sierra Simone, Veronica Larsen, Xio Axelrod

  With a groan, he captures my mouth again, his tongue hungrily sliding inside. I can taste myself on him and it makes me even wetter. I hook a leg around his hip and let out a frustrated sound when I once again encounter the cotton barrier.

  “Why are these still on?” I growl.

  “Because you haven’t taken them off me. Bad girl.” His eyes gleam.

  Bad girl, indeed. What am I thinking, allowing this glorious cock to remain covered? I grip the elastic waistband and shove the briefs down his hips, and there it is, Dirk’s dick. Dirk’s big, hard, wonderful dick. I almost weep with pure joy. I want it inside me so badly I can barely breathe.

  He must read my mind, because something akin to desperation flashes in his eyes. “I wanted to see your mouth wrapped around my cock, but I need to be inside you even more and I think you agree.”

  “I so agree.”

  Without delay, he leans over the edge of the bed and fumbles for his jeans. “Probably should’ve had this handy before we started,” he mutters, returning with a condom.

  I sit up and wrap my arms around him from behind. I stroke his chest, my thumb grazing one flat nipple. “Hurry,” I plead.

  His laughter tickles my cheek. “Has anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that your dick is so fucking hot?”

  He twists to grin at me, even as he rolls the condom on. “Are you always this outspoken?”

  “I told you, honesty is my thing.”

  He shifts around and brushes his lips over mine, then whispers, “I fucking love it.”

  The next thing I know, his hands are under my ass and he’s lifting me onto his lap, impaling me with his erection. There’s no preamble, no teasing. He fills me to the hilt, and I grab his shoulders to hold on for dear life. Holy shit, this is amazing. I feel so full. My inner muscles clench, eliciting a croak from him.

  “Jesus, you feel good.” He brings his hand between our bodies, circles my clit with his thumb, and my eyes damn near roll to the top of my head.

  “We’re good at this,” I tell him. Even I don’t miss the slight awe in my voice.

  “Yeah,” he says huskily. “We are.”

  And then we start moving and it’s as if we’ve fucked hundreds and thousands of times before. I ride him, and when the position isn’t giving me everything I need, I shove his chest and he falls onto his back, laughing. Then he grips my hips and pounds into me with sharp upward thrusts.

  One hand slides up to cup my left breast, his voice an encouraging rumble that fills the bedroom. “That’s it, baby. Ride my dick. Make yourself come again.”

  “On it,” I mumble.

  He chokes out another laugh. “Yeah, you are.”

  I laugh, too. But not because of the lame joke. I’m in the midst of the best sex of my life and it’s happening with a stranger named Dirk. Who would've thunk it. Tension coils tight between my legs again, but just before I’m about to fall apart, Dirk sits up and flips us over so that I’m on my back. He’s on top of me now, fucking me hard, powerful hips thrusting, hitting a spot so deep that he wrenches the orgasm out of me. It’s so intense, all I can do is lie there, my legs hooked around him, my heels digging into the tightest ass I’ve ever encountered as I come and come and don’t stop coming.

  “That’s it, Emilia. Yes,” he growls, burying his face in my neck. He makes a strangled sound as he shakes from his own release.

  We lie there for several heart-stopping moments, breathing heavily. “That was ridiculous,” he mumbles.

  “Yeah.”

  He finally rolls over and stares up at the ceiling. His chest is still heaving. So is mine. I can scarcely catch my breath.

  “Emilia,” he says.

  “Hmmm?” I glance over.

  He flashes me that dimpled grin, which I need to memorize, pronto, because I won’t be seeing him again after tonight.

  His tone is thick with urgency. “We need to do that again. At least ten more times tonight.”

  “Agreed.” I roll toward him. “So let’s stop wasting time by talking.”

  * * *

  It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning when I pry myself out of Dirk’s arms. I chose to hook up in his room for this reason—so that I could leave whenever I wanted and wouldn’t have to deal with the awkward morning after.

  I quietly slip out of bed, and there’s a delicious soreness between my legs. I can’t even remember how many times we had sex tonight. I don’t think we made it to ten, but the array of empty condom wrappers on the carpeted floor tell me it was at least—I squint—five times. I’m pretty sure that’s about the number of orgasms I had. I don’t know if Dirk even came the last time. He’d been hard as granite, but I don’t think anything actually came out. He was drained. I drained Dirk.

  Dammit, why does his name have to be Dirk?

  Sighing, I gather up my clothes. It’s time to say goodbye to this magical creature and go back to my own room. I quickly slide into my underwear and leggings. I can’t find the tank top, but I throw my sweater on anyway. Whatever. Dirk gets a souvenir.

  “You’re leaving?” His sleepy voice stops me before I can turn the doorknob.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I have trouble sleeping if I’m not in my own bed.”

  “It’s not your bed,” he says drowsily. “It’s a hotel bed.”

  “You know what I mean. I just . . . I prefer to sleep alone.”

  “All right.”

  I can’t make out if his tone holds disappointment or relief.

  “Leave me your number,” he adds.

  No, it’s not relief. He is disappointed.

  I look over my shoulder, but I can’t quite see him. He’s just a shadowy lump on the bed. “Dirk . . .” His name sounds awkward on my lips. “I told you, this was a one-time thing.”

  “You said you’re here for the weekend. Let me take you to dinner one night.”

  “That’s probably not a good idea. I’m going to be busy with my friends.”

  “You’re really not going to give me your number?” When I hesitate for a beat, he goes on and says, “It’s fine. I'll message you on the app.” The bed sheets rustle. “Good night, Emilia.”

  “Good night,” I murmur as I walk out the door.

  It’s not until I reach the elevator bank that I pull out my phone and open the hook-up app.

  I experience only the briefest moment of regret before I click on Dirk’s name and press unmatch.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You’re here!” Marcy’s happy shriek causes me and everyone else in our vicinity to visibly wince. She’s not allowed to be shrieking, because she has a naturally high voice to begin with. It’s one of those cute baby voices that, unfortunately, leads many people to assume she’s an airhead. In reality, she’s a rocket scientist.

  I’m not even joking—Marcy is an aerospace engineer at NASA. Or something like that. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what she does in D.C. It sounds very complicated.

  And then there’s me, the lowly graphic designer, or at least I was up until last year. Now I run the design department at my advertising firm, though we’re not exactly building spaceships over there. The project I’m currently heading is an ad campaign for men’s underwear.

  “Of course I’m here,” I tell my oldest friend. “I’m the maid of honor.”

  She throws her arms around me in a hug tight enough to cut the air supply to my lungs. “You look amazing,” she says when she pulls back.

  Clearly she’s lying, because I saw my reflection this morning and I looked exhausted. It took several coats of concealer to cover the bags under my eyes. And I can’t even bask in the reason I’m tired: Dirk and his fabulous dick. Because they’re in my past now, my orgasm-laden past. Now that the rest of the wedding party has arrived, for the next two days I’m here for Marcy and only Marcy.

  “You’re the one who
looks amazing,” I correct. “I swear, you’re glowing.” She really is. Her cheeks are rosy and she’s beaming from ear to ear. “Sure you’re not knocked up?”

  “Fairly certain,” she answers with a snort.

  She links her arm through mine and leads me across the hotel lobby. It’s bustling with new arrivals. I think Marcy said there were about a hundred guests attending the wedding. Which is small compared to other weddings, but that’s still a lot of people to be staying at one hotel.

  “My mom is so excited to see you,” she says as we find a small seating area away from the crowd.

  “I’m excited to see her too.”

  Marcy’s mom Joanna was my surrogate mother growing up. My actual mom died in a car accident when I was five, and her death completely shattered my dad. She was the love of his life. Losing her made him desperate to find a replacement, which resulted in a slew of stepmothers over the years. We’re on number six now, though she doesn’t like to be referred to as my stepmother.

  Belinda is twenty-six, which makes her thirty years younger than my dad and five years younger than me. And I hate to say it, but she’s dumb as a bag of flour. It makes me sad, because Dad is super intellectual and holds a PhD in Philosophy. But I think after wife number three (not counting my mother) he gave up on trying to find that perfect replacement and started letting his male needs drive the bus, because his wives get younger and their boobs get bigger.

  Joanna, however, was the mother that my stepmoms weren’t. She’d pick me up from school every day and I’d go to their house until my dad came to pick me up. I’d have dinner every weeknight with Marcy and her parents. When I got my first period, Joanna was the first person I told. She took me to the drugstore and showed me what I needed to tell my dad to buy. I’m not sure I would have survived puberty and adolescence without her.

  “Where is she?” I ask, searching the lobby for Joanna’s familiar auburn curls.

  “She’s getting my dad settled upstairs. He has a migraine.”

  “Oh no. Is he going to be okay for the rehearsal dinner?”

  Marcy nods. “He should be. He took his meds. I think it was the flight, and the altitude here. We probably should've gotten married in D.C., but my grandparents are too old to travel.” Marcy’s family is originally from Blue Valley. They lived here until she was six, before moving to Virginia, where I met her in the first grade.

  “It really is beautiful here, though,” I assure her. “This chalet is such an amazing location for a wedding.”

  “Right? Devon actually picked it. Originally, I wanted to do it in the church where my grandparents got married, but it’s so tiny. It wouldn’t have been able to accommodate everyone.”

  “So, Devon picked the venue. Good job, Devon.” I grin. “And when do I finally get to meet this mysterious man?” They’ve been together for a year and a half, but since Marcy and I hadn’t really been in contact for the last two, I haven’t even met her soon-to-be hubby.

  “Hey,” she chides gently, “I send you Facebook invites for everything, Em.”

  Guilt pricks my stomach. She’s right. She does. Trivia nights at the pub, board games at their apartment, the engagement party I was out of town for. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much the last couple years,” I say quietly.

  A shadow falls over her eyes. “It’s okay. I’ve missed you, though.”

  “I missed you, too. I’ve been so caught up in this new job. For the first time ever I’m not answering to some jackass boss. I’m in charge of the whole department now. But it is a lot of hours,” I admit.

  “You work too much. You always have.”

  “Look who’s talking, Ms. Astronaut.”

  “You know I’m not actually an astronaut, right? I design and test hardware for spacecraft flight systems.”

  “That sounds like an astronaut to me, dude.”

  “I don’t actually go up into space, dude.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, Mom wants to take us out for brunch, so let’s look up a couple of restaurant options on Yelp.”

  I pull my phone out of my purse. “Just us, or with the rest of the bridal party?”

  “Just us. It’ll be a nice intimate catch-up, just the three of us, before all the wedding chaos hits. Tonight’s the rehearsal dinner, so the bridesmaids and groomsmen and immediate family will be there, and I guess you won’t meet Devon until tonight because he’s planning on—actually, wait, there he is now!” Marcy whips up her arm and waves to someone across the lobby. “Babe!” She points happily to me. “It’s my BFF!” she calls to her fiancé.

  I turn, armed with a smile and a wave.

  But in a heartbeat, the smile freezes on my face, and my hand drops limply to my lap.

  The man by the elevator banks is more than just familiar to me. I memorized every inch of his tall, muscular body last night.

  I had his dick in my mouth.

  His lips were all over me.

  We fucked through half a box of condoms.

  Nausea bubbles in my stomach and then barrels up my throat. I gulp hard to stop myself from throwing up.

  On the other side of the cavernous room, Dirk gives a half-hearted wave in our direction, then makes a harried gesture to indicate he’s got to keep moving. He quickly ushers a white-haired lady into the elevator. His hand is splayed over her bony shoulders, that big hand with the long fingers that were buried inside me when he made me come.

  Holy shit, I’m going to hurl. I’m actually going to vomit right here on Marcy's pretty red ballet flats.

  I can’t even believe this is happening.

  I slept with the groom.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It’s a miracle I manage to make it through brunch without throwing up. Seriously, it requires superhuman effort to keep my lobster bisque down, all the while pretending to listen to everything Marcy and Joanna are saying.

  The moment we return to the hotel, however, my luck threatens to run out. Bile coats my throat as Joanna and I step out of the elevator. The wedding party and guests are all staying on the third and fourth floors of the lodge. Marcy is in the penthouse, sharing the honeymoon suite with—my stomach lurches violently. With her fiancé. Dirk.

  No, not Dirk. Devon. That bastard was on a hook-up app using a fake name. I should’ve known nobody would ever be named Dirk. It’s a porn star name. A fake, dirty cheater name.

  My God, I have to tell Marcy.

  Right?

  “You’re looking a little green, Em,” Joanna says in concern.

  “I think the lobster isn’t sitting well with me,” I mumble. I’m already fumbling in my purse for my keycard. “I’m sorry, Mama Jo, I need to, um, take care of this. I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner.”

  I frantically tap the card until the keypad flashes green and then dive into the hotel room. But once I’m kneeling in front of the toilet, I don’t actually lose my lunch. Now that I’m alone and able to sit with my own thoughts, my stomach begins to settle.

  Okay. I need to figure this out.

  Marcy’s fiancé, the man she’s going to marry tomorrow, had sex with the maid of honor.

  In the maid of honor’s defense, she didn’t know he was the groom. And chances are the groom didn’t know he was boning the maid of honor. In fact, I don’t think the groom cared who he was boning as long as it wasn’t his soon-to-be wife.

  I have to tell Marcy. I just . . . have to.

  My throat closes up. This time with overwhelming guilt. I slept with Marcy’s fiancé. Unknowingly, yes, but she’s still going to be devastated. And she's never going to forget this. Even though I didn’t go out of my way to seduce her no-good, lying fiancé, his penis was still inside my vagina last night. No friendship could come back from that kind of biological betrayal.

  Maybe it wasn’t him?

  My brain makes a last-ditch effort to defuse this horrible bomb that will blow Marcy’s life to smithereens. Her comment about those Facebook invites suddenl
y comes to mind. Of course. I can easily verify who this guy is.

  I hurry to the bedroom, grab my phone, and log on to Facebook. A billion notifications await me, but I ignore them all. I hardly ever go on this damn thing, mostly because it seems everyone uses it to whine about their problems or pick online fights.

  When I go on Marcy’s page, I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that my face is green again. Yup, that’s Dirk. Right there in her profile pic. He and Marcy are smiling at the camera, and his perfect teeth taunt me. He looks more wholesome in this picture, his gray eyes missing the sensual gleam, but I guess he saves that for his anonymous hook-ups, when he’s cheating on my best friend.

  I scroll through her feed. There aren’t as many pictures of the happy couple as I expect, but there is a status update that says she and Devon got engaged.

  Fuck you, Dirk. I’m going to rip your fucking balls off.

  I tamp down the bloodlust and close the app. I have no idea how I’m going to handle this awful situation. The rehearsal dinner is in a couple of hours. I need to shower and get my hair done, then pick up all the bridesmaid dresses for tomorrow from the dry cleaner downstairs. Deliver them to each room, make sure they fit.

  Being a maid of honor is stressful, and that’s before you factor in the fact that I slept with the goddamn groom.

  * * *

  By the time I’m done zipping up the little black dress I brought for the rehearsal dinner, I’ve come up with a plan.

  First, I’m going to confront Devon/Dirk. Alone, in order to give him a chance to offer his side of the story. Yes, the idea that he could have a “side” makes me want to laugh hysterically, because what alternative explanation could he possibly have? He cheated on the woman he’s going to marry. Not once, either. We fucked all night long. Oh, and then—and then! He tried to ask me on a date. He wanted to have dinner with me. He’s actually a monster.

  Nevertheless, I’ll be the bigger person and give him the benefit of the doubt first.

  Then, once he confirms that he is indeed a monster, I’ll take Marcy aside and tell her everything before the rehearsal dinner gets underway. There’s no way I’m letting everybody shower the happy couple with well-wishes and make speeches.