Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology
Page 34
“Maverick.” I change into a sitting position and drag her naked body into my lap, cradling her head on my shoulder. I run strands of silky locks through my fingers until she’s eased into me, her body completely pliable. “The time we’ve had hasn’t been nearly enough for me, either, but as long as I’m working for your father, he has control of every aspect of my life.” And yours.
She remains silent. She knows I’m right.
“He controls my career path, my income.” You. “He can make or break me in an instant.”
And the “unintended consequences” he referenced, well, I don’t even go there, because I’m not yet sure how that will play out with my father or with Kael. I want to believe Richard has some measure of honor in him, but that’s questionable at best.
“My father only wants to see me happy.”
Sure he does. With the man of his choosing, running his company. Everything is about what Richard wants, not Mavs.
“How will that work for us if I stay and he is the puppet master?”
“I—”
“It won’t,” I reply firmly. “Look at me.”
She does as I ask, the water balancing along her lower lids spilling over in waves at the movement. Her pain is my pain. It wrecks me. I can hardly bear the thought of leaving her.
I patiently wipe each drop away with my thumbs until they are mostly gone. It takes a few minutes, but I’d do it for hours if need be. “If I want a life with you, which I desperately do, I need independence from everything here. I need to be able to support my wife and my children on my own two feet, with no handouts or IOUs from your father.”
A quick smile. It’s progress.
“Your wife?” Her voice is small, her question big.
“Yes, my wife.”
“And children, huh?” She bites that lower lip. Damn.
“Loads.” I slide my tongue along her jawline. She giggles. I love her giggle.
“How many?”
“Five. Boys.”
“You don’t get to determine the sex, you know.”
“Actually, I do,” I chuckle, tapping the tip of her nose with my finger.
“Ha, ha,” she replies dryly. “And my father doesn’t do handouts, by the way.”
Cheeky. There’s my girl.
“Don’t I know it. Look.” I wrap her legs around me, suppressing a groan at the heat her pussy is giving off. I’m as hard as steel and I want nothing more than to push inside her, raw as raw can be. “I know it’s not ideal, but this is the only way, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she sniffles, looking away. Her inky lashes are spiked with the remnants of her tears.
Reaching over to my nightstand, I pull a tissue from the box, handing it to her. “Nothing to be sorry for, Small Fry.”
She takes it and wads it up in her fist, plucking at the edges hanging out. “I’m being childish, I know.”
“Hey . . .” I wait until she lifts her gaze. “We have our entire lives ahead of us. In the scheme of things, this is a blip in time. We take things slow and get your father used to the idea of us, and I promise you, it will be smooth sailing from there.”
I leave the elephant in the room, taking up way too much space for my liking. This is about her father, yes, and it’s true I feel I have no other choice but to relocate temporarily, yet I haven’t forgotten for a second that I’ll not be here and Kael will.
I don’t like it, but there is nothing I can do about it either.
Her arms snake around my neck. She presses pointed nipples into my chest, hard and taut. Ready to be punished, I do believe. I hope this means we’re past the quarreling phase.
“You think?”
Think?
I can’t think of anything but getting her flat on her back in seven seconds or less, giving her more orgasms than she thought physically possible. I want to wring them from her until her vision fades to black and her limbs go limp.
“Yeah, I think.”
Enough talking.
My hands slide around the firm globes of her ass. I spread her cheeks apart, feathering a finger over her puckered skin, making her moan and clench up. I slip lower and gather juices, this time rimming her with a little more firmness, before breaching a place I’ve been dying to explore.
“Killian.” Her voice is hoarse. Wanton.
“Feel good?”
“Yes.” Her pupils dilate and when she starts undulating, it pushes my finger in up to the first knuckle. “God, yes.” Her head falls backward, that long mane flowing to the small of her back—the sexiest part of her body in my opinion. “Killian,” she breathes again.
This time my name is an overture, an entreaty. She has no need to ask twice.
“Tell me what you need, baby?” I ask. Withdrawing my finger, I lay her down, arranging her on top of my comforter. Her breasts are high, her belly is concave. She is a siren.
“You.” Our eyes lock. “Just you.” I waste no more time. I scoop up another condom, rip it open with my teeth, and roll it on, all the while enjoying the show she’s giving me.
“Mavs, fuck,” I grunt as her middle finger disappears between her center.
“Do you like that?” she pants. Spreading her legs wide, I see how much she enjoys this. She circles her clit, unashamed of what she’s doing.
“Very much so, yes,” I grumble hoarsely. I want to devour her, make love to her, hold her, indulge her, own her, worship her. Marry her. “I want to watch you make yourself come.”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. I stroke my shaft, squeezing at the base until I feel more pain than pleasure. “I want you to make me come,” she throws back, that smart mouth of hers in full force.
“Oh, I will, Small Fry, but I am chivalrous after all.” I sit back on my knees, gesturing for her to continue. “Ladies first.”
It takes two blinks, but then she grins wickedly, and my Maverick readily complies, inhibitions nonexistent. She has no idea how immeasurably sexy she is. Or how loved or how wanted.
Command.
Control.
Patience.
I was a fool to ever think I possessed these characteristics when it comes to Mavs. She is the master of those over me, not the reverse. And without a second thought, I am okay with it.
This time two fingers come out to play, and as her breaths increase and those tiny mewls of pleasure leave her throat, I can’t help but join in on the fun. I thrust two fingers inside to feel her inner walls clench as we bring her to completion together not once, but twice.
Then as I hold her in my arms and sink into the only place I’ll ever call home again, I think to myself, finally.
Finally.
It only took twenty-seven years, but I am finally where I was always meant to be, and there is not a force known to man that could tear me away from Maverick DeSoto now that she’s mine.
♬
Your Everything is essentially a prequel to my two-time USA Today bestseller Black Swan Affair. If you haven’t yet, read more about Maverick, Killian, and Kael, available now HERE.
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Think I’m In Love
Leslie McAdam
“Think I’m in Love” – Beck
♫
Cracking my knuckles, I frown, make a fist, rotate it out bodybuilder-style, pop my bicep, and ask in a deep voice, “Do you haff Hello Kitty tooth-brusshh?”
The room erupts into laughter.
Okay, that’s not true.
Kim’s parents guffaw, but Shane’s facial expression remains glacial. Handsome, but so grave, like we’re talking about whether he’s ever going to have rhubarb streusel pie again in his life. That’s his favorite.
While I’ve got a good idea of what’s wrong with him, I table figuring out if there’s anything new on his list of control-freak neuroses until after we help Kim double-check what she’s packed.
&n
bsp; If you’re keeping score, I’m counting Kim in the laugh column, since she’s struggling not to snicker.
She snaps her fingers, tilts her head, her cute, dirty-blond hair bouncing in a ponytail, and feigns seriousness. “Darn. I totally forgot.” After debating whether she should make a last-minute trip to our local Hy-Vee Pharmacy, she points to a small bag. “Oh, wait. It’s in there. Thanks for the reminder, Randy.”
What better way to send our bestie off to Spain than to make sure she’s packed a toothbrush, clean underwear, and her plane tickets, all the while doing a spot-on Schwarzenegger impersonation? At least that’s what I figure.
With my spiky black hair and dark eyes, my appearance doesn’t resemble Arnie by any means—especially since I’m not wielding a huge gun and I don’t have on sunglasses. Still, my audience gets the point.
We’re hanging in Kim’s parents’ living room, a place where Shane, Kim, and I have loitered together since kindergarten, a decade and a half ago. While we wait for her mom’s famous corn casserole to bake and listen to her dad’s jokes, we work through Kim’s last-minute nerves. After all, she’s taking the first flight of her life tomorrow, and it’s not some puddle jumper to Chicago. Our girl’s saying buh-bye to Iowa and leaving the U.S.A. like she’s got an offshore account she’s gotta secure before someone finds out about it.
While the tension in Kim’s mom’s jaw gives away her anxiety about her baby girl studying abroad for the semester, and Kim’s jumpy for obvious, going-to-Spain reasons, the one who gives off the vibe of being the most ill-at-ease is the dreary moose on the couch—my other best friend, Shane.
Assuming best friend is the right term.
If I’m the jokester and Kim’s the sweetheart, then he’s the serious one—
—and the gorgeous one, with russet brown hair, chestnut eyes, and a T-shirt stretched across his sculpted chest that says, “Gamers don’t die, they respawn.”
Bless his nerdy little gamer heart.
Unlike me, Shane actually resembles a bodybuilder, since he’s practically moved into the gym. After seeing how much time Shane spends ensuring his appearance is pristine and all the effort he expends to regulate every aspect of his life, I just don’t wanna do it. Doesn’t mean I can’t admire his dedication, though—or his physique. Still, I’m the messy to his neat, the chaos to his structure, and the fuck-it to his earnestness. I have other things to do with my time.
Like increase my skill rating on Overwatch.
Anyhoo, after going through a few more essential items on her packing list, Kim confirms that she indeed has the electronic thingamabob Americans need so their gadgets don’t fry in Europe, and she smiles at me expectantly. We’re done making her list and checking it twice, so it’s time for my punchline.
“Then, hasta la vista, baby,” I grunt in my Ahnold voice. Everyone groans, and I clap my hands twice like chop-chop. “You’ll be back.”
My work here is done.
I take a seat in the closest unoccupied space, now turning my attention to Shane and trying to figure out the best way to make him feel better.
He and Kim have been “dating”—if you can call it that—since our junior year, but it’s really more like they just know who they’re going to prom with.
Me.
Kidding. I tag along. I honestly think Shane asked her out partly because it was the first year he didn’t have a class with her, and none of us could go very long without seeing the other two, and partly because he didn’t want anyone to get suspicious about whatever was building between him and me. Even if whatever built so slowly, it was like watching one of those time lapse painters on the internet—a few daubs of color here and there appear to be nothing at first. Then the dots and blotches of nothing form a portrait—whole, beautiful, and conveying a singular idea, and you wonder why you didn’t see it before.
While I’ve been able to see our whatever for a while, I’m not sure he can.
I’ll admit a part of me hopes he’ll want to take a break from her and go on an adventure of his own—risking whatever with me, but that might require a miracle. He took the news that she was leaving pretty hard, and he’s spent more time ruminating on it than I’d consider healthy—not that I’m an expert on health. I practically own stock in Cheetos.
Having Kim leave to go see the world on her own doesn’t jive with his orderly life. Her trip was not scheduled, and it does not compute. He probably had her penciled in to do some activity every day for the next few years, and he’s grouchy he has to plan his future all over again.
I think it’s fantastic she’s getting out of Iowa and studying in another country, and while I’ll miss her, I’m not moping about it. I’m happy for her, and impressed she won an outstanding scholarship. She’s off on a journey to the unknown.
Still, I’m worried about him. He’s ignoring me, ignoring Kim, ignoring her parents. Shane’s knee bounces so much, I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes flight. I want to lean over and put my hand on it, but that wouldn’t go over well.
In fact, just about all of my thoughts about him wouldn’t go over well.
That’s a story for another day.
We chat with her parents a bit more. Right as we’re about to get up for dinner, Shane clears his throat. He’s adorable when he does that, acting all in charge. I stifle a smile.
He stands in front of Kim, his back to me, and starts talking, his voice cracking from disuse. About how he and Kim used to play together in the river.
I was with them too, but who’s keeping track?
How she helped him with his homework. I internally shrug. She helped me, too.
How she was homecoming queen to his king.
He’s got me there.
“Nice speech, bruh,” I interrupt, but Shane turns around and glares at me.
Something about his glare reads off to me. I tease both of them all the time, but normally neither of them take offense. At all.
With a shaky voice, he keeps talking, and as his words pour out about how much she means to him, and how much he cares about her, I start getting a bad feeling about this.
He gets down on one knee before her.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I gasp.
He says phrases like, “I can’t imagine a future without you,” and “I want to make sure you know how much I want to make that future real.”
No.
He reaches in his pocket—
No.
—and pulls out a little velvet bag.
I want to scream, but I’m frozen in my seat. I can’t move a muscle. This is the proverbial car crash happening right in front of me, and I can do nothing to stop it.
He tips something into his hand, and it drops to the floor.
A ring.
My heart seizes.
He isn’t.
Oh no. He is.
I thought what was between them was just friends. Keeping our group together.
What the actual hell?
Heat infuses my cheeks. My stomach turns sour. I’m going to faint.
“It was my grandma’s,” Shane says to Kim. “I love you. Will you promise you’ll come back to me?”
I can’t hear the room for the rushing inside my head. He didn’t just do that. Kim’s mouth drops open, her hand flies to her chest, and she gasps, leveling him with an incredulous stare.
She’s as surprised as I am.
Keep it together, Randy.
Yeah, I think disgustedly. Keep it together while he shits on everything you and he have shared. Whatever. But I can’t say that.
None of us can, especially not in front of her parents.
“Oh my God, you’re making her Yoko Ono,” I blurt out, because if I don’t say something funny, I’ll cry.
Kim’s head swivels to me. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Yoko Ono broke up the Beatles,” I explain, hoping I’m hiding my need to hurt someone with a nonc
halant shrug.
Because I’m not allowed to feel this way. Not when our relationship—whatever it is—is a secret from everyone.
Or apparently nonexistent, according to him.
Now Shane’s head slashes toward me, his expression controlled, but I can see fury in his eyes. “You interrupt my proposal with Yoko Ono?”
“Is that a proposal?” Kim asks with a trembling voice.
The rest of what they say gets lost in the fog that enters my brain. By the end of the night, she’s wearing his ring.
And I’m suffering in silence. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I do neither.
While we eat dinner, I sit at the dining room table and make jokes I don’t mean, knowing all the while he’s chosen her over me.
* * *
As I step outside to leave, I run into Shane and Kim kissing on the porch.
Dammit.
They had to pick this moment to lock lips. I rarely see them kiss, and it’s normally a public peck. I’m pretty sure they’ve fucked maybe three times, because it’s safer to lose your virginity with your best friend than the way I did it—meeting a random guy in a bar in Kansas City.
Seeing him with her wrenches my heart into a lump of hot molten metal.
“Come on you two, break it up,” I say in a voice heartier than I feel. “Let’s go, loverboy, before you get in more trouble. Have fun in Spain, Kim. I know you will.”
I make a beeline for his car, waiting for him to join me, and fume as he says goodbye and heads toward me.
Don’t get me wrong. Kim’s great. I adore her as my closest friend. I want only what’s best for her. But Shane’s not best for her. He’s for me.
If only he would stop pretending.
I mean, just last night, he hung out a little too late. A little too long. But he left in a hurry, cutting us off before things—
Is that what spurred this proposal?
He reads my mood as we pull away from the curb since it’s fairly obvious—I’m so mad I can’t talk, my hands clench into fists, and steam curls out of my ears. Thankfully he gives me the courtesy of not talking either. As he maneuvers the streets, his expression is more of one resigned to his fate rather than excited about his future bride. Like he was expecting a low score on a test or a guilty conviction and, yep, there it is. Getting engaged, he should be on cloud nine—or even bounding over to cloud ten—but he hasn’t even gotten to cloud one.