Blue Shoes #3: New Adult Erotic Romance

by Knight, JJ

  He pats his stomach with his hands. “Come on. How do you really feel about carrying my signed photos around in your purse?”

  My arm moves without hesitation. I punch him right in the abdominals with my small fist.

  He lets out an oof noise, but I know he’s not hurt.

  “I deserved that,” he says. “Come on. Hit me again. How do you feel when I say I’m coming home for dinner, then I call you two hours late and say I lost track of time?”

  I punch him again, right in the same spot. He’s expecting it, and his stomach is like a wall.

  “How about when I drive too fast?”

  I punch him two more times.

  “You’re too nice to me,” he says.

  I punch him three times. My muscles are getting warmed up, and I’m punching harder, throwing my shoulder into it.

  “There’s my fighter,” he says.

  I tell him to go to hell, and rain down more punches. I’ve never hit anyone before, and this feels good.

  I’d keep going, but he’s caught me by the wrists.

  “Jess?”

  I stare up at him, my head still swirling with emotions. The thin, blue light inside the atrium is weak, like we’re in a fish tank, deep underwater.

  “This isn’t how we solve our issues.” He holds my fists in my hands.

  I try to step back, to pull away, but he doesn’t let go. This isn’t fair of him. He tricked me into hitting him, to prove a point. I howl in frustration, like an animal, trying to break free.

  “We’re better than this,” he says.

  I don’t have anything to say.

  My eyes blur.

  I don’t have anything left to give.

  He lets go of my hands and takes a step back.

  I take three steps toward him and shove my face into his.

  He steps back again.

  I move forward faster.

  We keep going, until he bumps against a glass wall with his back.

  He seems surprised by me, surprised by what I’m doing.

  I stare into his eyes, looking deep, looking for a sign he still wants me.

  He bows his head forward. Our noses touch. I tilt my head to the side. He breathes on my mouth. Our lips are almost touching.

  I could stand higher on my toes and kiss him, but I don’t.

  “Dylan,” I say softly. “I’m willing to work, to chase you if I need to, but you have to meet me partway.”

  “And you have to be honest with me. Tell me when I’m out of line.”

  “Fine. You’re out of line.”

  “Right now?”

  “Absolutely. You’re out of line, and you’re being a—”

  His mouth crushes down on mine. I can feel by the curve of his lips that he’s smiling. He liked me giving him hell.

  He kisses me deeply, the wolfish hunger rising. I open my mouth to welcome his tongue. He puts his hands around my back, pulling me tighter.

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan moves his lips across my cheek and onto my neck. He nibbles on my earlobe.

  I put my hand on his chest to stop him.

  “We’re in a glass atrium,” I whisper.

  He stops kissing my ear and neck. “We are.”

  “Is this place private?”

  He pulls back from our embrace. His dark eyebrows rise suggestively. “I could take you on a tour of the place.”

  “What’s there to see?”

  “This is my home away from home. We had this place booked for the whole month, so I ordered in some furniture.”

  Suddenly, everything makes sense. He’s been staying here, at the mansion. That’s why he hasn’t been at the house.

  He takes my hand and leads me out of the atrium. The rest of the house is dark, with only a few lights on, probably run with timers. We pass by the kitchen, and now I see a few dishes in the sink. He’s been living here, hiding out.

  We walk down a hallway, into a master bedroom the size of a small apartment. There’s a mattress on the floor in one corner, and clothes everywhere. He’s got my old laptop here, propped up on a cardboard box near the bed.

  Dylan crosses over to the one lamp in the room, a cheap standing light that looks like it came from a dumpster, and flicks it on.

  I run over to my old laptop and grab it, laughing. “I haven’t seen this in ages. I thought we threw it out.” I examine the duct tape holding it together. There appears to be another layer of fresh tape.

  He shrugs. “I missed you. I found that in the garage, and it reminded me of you.”

  I laugh so hard, I’m in danger of crying. “Thanks a lot. A ratty old laptop held together with tape reminds you of me.”

  He takes the laptop from me. “Everything reminds me of you.”

  I go quiet. Everything?

  He continues, “I came by here a few days after you left for Italy. We had some problems at the house. I didn’t want to bother you with it, but some girls followed me home and tried to get into the house.”

  “They… followed you home?” I give him a look out of the sides of my eyes. This had better not be going somewhere bad.

  He looks sheepish. “I guess a bright blue Maserati is easy to spot, even in a city like L.A. They started showing up at the house every night, ringing the doorbell and drinking on the doorstep.”

  Oh. So there was a kernel of truth to some of those stories about girls at the house, late at night. Only a kernel, though.

  I look around the messy room. He was not planning to bring me here tonight.

  “So… are you living here now?” I ask.

  He grins. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  He comes closer and stops in front of me. His broad shoulders and strong body are a wall again, but this time I like it.

  “No more thinking,” he says.

  “But…”

  His dark eyes glint in the warm glow of the lamp. “No more talking.”

  I nod to show him I agree. No more thinking or talking. It’s been a long day, from my confrontation with Ryanna, to the showdown with Chet, and then the long drive and meeting with the investigator. I feel like I’ve lived a month’s worth of L.A. life in just one day.

  Dylan moves slowly. He unbuttons my blouse and gently slides it off. I kick off my shoes and stand before him in my bra and skirt, even shorter without my heels.

  He pulls his shirt off over his head. The scent of his bare skin hits my nose, and I inhale deeply. I’ve missed everything about him, but smelling him makes me miss him more, even though he’s right in front of me. I reach out to touch him, to make sure he’s real.

  His chest is hard, and he looks lean, like he hasn’t been eating enough. He’s still strong, but I want to take care of him. I run my fingers across his flat, square pectoral muscles, then over his small, firm nipples.

  He flexes under my touch, his lines becoming more defined. I sweep my fingertips down his center, toward his navel, then up again. He’s got red marks just below his ribs. It takes me a moment to realize the marks are from where I was punching him. He’s not bruised, but I feel ashamed. He invited me to hit him, but I shouldn’t have had to do it. I should have told him when I was angry, and not let it build.

  “There,” he says, jarring me out of my thoughts.

  I look up at his face. He’s staring at the spot between my eyebrows.

  “The frown line,” he says. “It just came back.”

  I take a deep breath and let my face relax. “I was just thinking,” I explain.

  “No more thinking. You promised.” He drops to his knees before me, and now he’s looking up at me. His face is open and calm. I don’t think I’ve seen him like this in a long time.

  He looks serene.

  He unclasps my bra and tosses it aside.

  He cups my breasts with both hands, then runs his hands down my sides and over my hips, over top of my skirt. He repeats this, gently holding my breasts for a moment, then tracing my curves.
It’s like he’s memorizing me, painting my body in his memory.

  Still kneeling before me, he reaches back for the zipper of my skirt, unfastens it, and slips it down. I step out of the skirt, my legs shaking. He bows his head forward and kisses my stomach, trailing down, over my underwear.

  He reaches the seam at the bottom and presses his mouth into the fabric, blowing warm air onto me. I start to tremble with anticipation.

  He leans back, resting on his heels for a moment as he gazes up at me. Thoughts come to me. I don’t know where I stand with him, or what our relationship is now.

  He points to my forehead, to the worry line between my eyebrows. He’s right. I’m thinking again, when I said we’d take a break from all that.

  I have so many questions, but I push them away.

  He’s upright on his knees again, bare chested, but still in his jeans. He’s unbuckled them at the top, to release himself.

  He reaches up again to my breasts, only this time he’s not as gentle. I can feel his hunger for me as he squeezes my flesh and pinches my nipples to hardness. He presses firmly with his hands as he strokes down the sides of my body. He grabs hold of my underwear like he’s angry at them, and pulls them down.

  I can scarcely step out of my underwear before his mouth is on me, between my legs. I gasp and instinctively try to step back. His touch is so intimate, so intense, his tongue already pressing into me.

  But his hands are firm on my hips, not letting go.

  He nudges my legs, spreading them apart. He drives his tongue deeper, his lips firm upon me, coaxing me to pleasure.

  I come quickly and unexpectedly, crying out. I’m gasping for breath, my hands in his hair. The climax ripples through me, and I’m shocked I’m still able to stand.

  He lets out a satisfied chuckle, eases back, and gives me a love bite on the top of my thigh.

  I can barely catch my breath before he’s on his feet, standing before me. He takes my hand and brings my fingertips to his hardness. His whole body reacts to my touch. I’ve never felt him quite as pent-up as this.

  I touch him, and his whole body stiffens to match the length in my hand. He feels like he might burst, like he hasn’t had release since Italy.

  He doesn’t have to tell me as much, because I know. I can feel it in his body, in his energy. And I know him.

  This is why he has the beard. He hasn’t touched himself in any way since he abandoned me in Italy. He’s been punishing himself. I’ve gone easy on him, compared to how he is to himself.

  He groans and thrusts himself against my hand.

  He needs me, and now I’m here.

  I step backward, toward the low bed. He moves with me.

  We walk back as one, and lower ourselves to the bed.

  I reach down to help him remove his jeans, but I’m distracted by his hands, all over me. His mouth is on my breast, and then on the other, sucking hard on my nipple. With the suction, electricity ripples through me.

  I’m hot again, on my back, opening my legs to him. I reach again for his jeans, fighting to get them down while also using my grip on the waistband to pull him against me.

  He’s gasping as he kisses me, his breath ragged with urgency and his movements stiff.

  Somehow, we get his jeans and underwear down just enough to free him. He moves his body up along mine, pressing his hardness against my inner hip. He’s so firm, he could bruise me. I can feel the difficulty of his restraint as he kisses me, pressing his lips hard against mine.

  I tilt my lower body and press against him. He reaches down and locks his fingers around the sides of my hips, holding me still and pressing me down.

  “Shh,” he says, even though I didn’t say anything.

  He wants me to slow down, so it’s not over too quickly. I whimper and thrust my tongue into his mouth. He lets out a surprised sound, moaning into my lips.

  I tilt my hips again, arching my back and writhing underneath him. He thrusts in reflex, sliding hard in the tight space between our bodies.

  He groans, and then he hunches his shoulders forward, pulling his hips away. He pulls away from my mouth and looks down into my eyes.

  I need him inside me, and I can’t wait any longer.

  My hands are on his lower back. I move them down and clutch his round muscles. I dig my fingertips in.

  He is positioned between my legs, the tip is so close I can’t touch it, but I can still sense him there, ready to enter me.

  I widen my eyes and dig my fingertips into his flesh.

  He moves slowly, like he’s taking my virginity again. He enters me, one slow, hard inch at a time. The whole time, he doesn’t take his eyes off mine. He barely blinks.

  I writhe underneath him, squirming with pleasure. This isn’t like our first time, where there was a pinch, a sharp pain with the pleasure. This time, the only pain comes from him moving too slowly.

  The more I try to lift my hips and urge him deeper, the slower he goes. He pushes in, then pulls back. One step closer, one step back.

  I let go and allow my arms to fall back on the bed. I stretch out completely, my arms wide on either side. I let my knees fall out to the sides, then stretch my legs out. He wants it slow? I can go slow.

  I lift my chin, stretch my head up, and close my eyes.

  “Don’t go to sleep,” he murmurs.

  “I’m tired.” I try to play it straight, but there’s a grin on my face. He knows I’m not tired.

  “Shh,” he says.

  I squirm under him like I’m getting comfortable, and then reach for a pillow for my head. He chuckles and then pulls out of me. I keep my eyes closed, pretending I don’t care.

  I can hear the rustling of his clothes, of his jeans being removed the rest of the way. I bite the inside of my lower lip, my insides trembling with anticipation.

  He pauses, naked now and kneeling between my legs.

  I let out a sigh like I’m ready to drift off to sleep, then I roll onto my side.

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can hear him breathing. I feel his hand on my leg, at my ankle. He strokes the side of my leg, all the way up to my hip.

  He growls, “You sleepy?”

  “Jet lag,” I murmur. “Mmm. This bed is comfy. I can see why you’re camping out here.”

  “I guess we could go to sleep,” he says.

  Instead of answering, I lift one leg and playfully push against his chest with the ball of my foot.

  He grabs my leg firmly and uses it to pull me toward him.

  I roll onto my stomach and grab my pillow.

  He lets go of my leg and gives me a playful swat on my butt. It stings, but feels good. I hug my pillow tighter to my chest and let out a moan.

  He growls in response and slaps my butt again.

  I groan and writhe my body, still on my stomach. As he spanks me again, I tilt my hips and grind myself against the bed like it’s my lover.

  I feel his powerful hands on my thighs, pulling my legs apart. I hold my breath and wait silently. He quickly grabs me by the hip bones and lifts my lower body straight up in one powerful movement. I gasp and steady myself on my knees.

  He’s between my legs again, first with his fingers. I’m slippery and hot. He groans, his voice low and thick with lust, and then he enters me. My body shakes as thrusts into me. Everything quivers when he reaches the end of each stroke.

  There’s no slowing down now, only urgency. His fingers grip my hips tightly, slamming me against him. I cry out for more.

  He grabs a handful of my hair and tugs my head back as he drives deeper and deeper.

  I start to climax again, my whole body bright and glowing.

  He lets out a low groan, and our cries mix together, high and low, in harmony.

  There’s a gush of heat inside me as he releases.

  The moment stretches out to eternity, and I’m flooded with him, filled with our beauty.

  We’re together.

  Our voices keep mixing together, along with our breath and our he
at and our bodies.

  This is serenity.

  Chapter Eight

  We lay in silence on the low mattress. The ceiling is so far away when you’re not on a bed frame or box spring.

  I tell Dylan this, and he laughs at me. Then he goes quiet and says, “Wow, you’re right.” He reaches up, stretching his fingers to the ceiling. “What if the world was suddenly upside down and we fell onto the ceiling?”

  I stretch my hands out. “I’m ready.”

  The lamp is still on, filling the room with a warm glow. I don’t know what time it is, but I could probably sleep, if I close my eyes.

  We both giggle and stretch out our arms and feet, bracing ourselves for this imaginary fall.

  He reaches for my left hand and rubs his thumb over the diamond of my engagement ring.

  “You’re still wearing this,” he says.

  I pull my hand away from his and to my chest. The mood turns serious. I turn to him. “Are we still engaged?”

  “I don’t know.” He reaches for my hand again and pulls at the ring. It’s a perfect fit, nice and snug, and it takes him a few seconds to pull the ring off.

  I’m so shocked, I don’t know what to say.

  He sits up and gets onto his knees on the bed. I also sit up and clutch the sheets to my chest. I can feel the worry line between my eyebrows returning.

  He kisses the ring, then palms it and makes a fist around it.

  “Jessica Rivera, I’m sorry I left you in Italy. You shouldn’t marry a guy who’d do that to you. That’s why I swear, right now, that no matter what happens, I will never leave you again. Not unless you want me to, for your own good.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

  He holds out his fist and opens it, palm up.

  “Jessica Rivera, will you forgive me for being every bit as bad as the reporters make me out to be?”

  “You’re not really that bad.”

  “Will you marry me?” he asks.

  His eyes are glossy, the deep brown lit by gold glints.

  I look down at the ring. This is it. He proposed to me once before, and I knew he loved me then. We thought our problems were behind us, and it was time to start the Happily Ever After.

  But a lot of life has happened since then. I can’t pretend my life is a fairy tale, or a happy song that’s the same every time you play it.