by Teagan Kade
I don’t have to reply. Peyton speaks first. “No conjugal visits either, sorry.”
That elicits the smallest of smiles from me. I can’t help it. “I wouldn’t have come anyway.”
“Probably wise given the mattress had the thickness of a Graham cracker.”
Another long stretch of silence.
“What now?” I ask.
“Let me make it up to you, take you out to dinner.”
“When?”
“Tonight, in town. The old man made me move in with my brothers off campus. I guess he thinks they’ll keep me out of trouble. Clearly he hasn’t spent much time with them lately.”
There’s a big neon warning sign flashing in front of my eyes that wasn’t there prior to this invitation, but I push it aside out of sheer curiosity and maybe that fleeting desire to be with him again, in those arms, taken, breathless… “And if I agree?”
“I promise you a night you won’t forget.”
“We still talking about dinner?”
“And dessert.”
I ignore the innuendo. “All right. Jesus. Why the hell not? But I want maximum grovel, you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. I’ll text the details, and Erin?”
“Yes?” I reply hopefully
“I mean it, thanks for giving me another chance.”
“Mmm,” I say, not sure how to respond.
There’s an awkward set of goodbyes before I hang up.
The warning sign shifts back into position and I swear it’s the size of a billboard now.
The cursor blinks blank on the screen before me, tells me this is not going to be enough. Who am I kidding? I do need Peyton King in this article, and what do you know, the perfect opportunity to dig deeper just popped up.
*
The Crimson doesn’t pay well. My meals most nights are frozen and not especially appetizing, which makes the steak I’ve ordered at the restaurant in town close to orgasmic. Who needs Peyton King when you’ve got a ten-ounce Wagyu sirloin so buttery and melt-in-your-mouth there’s surely a law against it, or there should be given the fifty-dollar price tag. But screw it, Peyton’s paying and a girl needs to eat.
I see him watching me, one arm over the back of his chair, pulling off that casual-formal duality he does so well. Even the linen shirt he’s wearing magically skirts between the two.
I place my fork down. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I just like watching a girl who knows how to eat a steak, is all.”
I stab my fork into the last bite. “If you’re thinking I’m some kind of tomboy you’re going to turn into your personal sex slave, to enlighten in the ways of BDSM, you’ll have to think again.”
“You didn’t seem to mind when I took control.”
He’s got me there. I shrug my shoulders and avoid eye contact even though I’m clamping my legs tight under the table. “Perhaps, but a tomboy? No. Uneducated in certain carnal desires, sure, but a tomboy I am not.”
He rocks forward to stare at me across the table. “Most girls would order a cobb salad, maybe peck at it a bit, but you’re just diving on in. It’s fucking awesome.”
The couple trying to have a peaceful, romantic dinner on the table beside us give Peyton a look of distaste. He raises his eyebrows at me and I have to laugh, doing my best not to choke on the last mouthful of heaven.
Beside me sits a squishy Peyton bought for me. It looks a bit like a clam with eyes, though I’m assured it’s actually a heart. It’s kind of cute.
The wine’s going to my head, but I manage to turn the conversation around to the bar fight and Peyton’s subsequent stretch as a jailbird. Three times I have to excuse myself to use the bathroom (read: furiously scribble down notes on a napkin), digging and digging until I’ve gotten more than enough to use in the article. Of course, I’m not sure I’ll even use this information, but I take it down regardless like the good journalist I am. You know, just in case. I feel fucking guilty doing it, but I do it anyway knowing if this all falls through at least something beneficial will come from it.
Peyton talks about his dad, how this is the last time he promised to bail him out, moving in with his brothers and some very enlightening tidbits about those three I certainly hadn’t heard before.
How do you even pee properly when it’s like that? I muse.
It seems King Senior did a particularly good job smoothing the aforementioned bar fight over, which is no surprise given who Stone is and the legal power he probably possesses at the touch of a button. It would play well for the article, all this behind-the-scenes cloak and dagger business, the silver-spooned taking care of their own, but again, I’m not sure if I’ll use it.
Or that’s what I’m telling myself leaving the bathroom for a fourth, and hopefully final, time.
Peyton looks concerned. “You all good? There some sort of secret bar back there I should know about?”
“The only thing on tap is soap and water, I’m afraid,” I smile, seating myself. “Should we order dessert?”
I thought main course was good, but the deconstructed cheesecake that is dessert is on a whole ’nother level. I’m actually moaning at one point, my eyes closed. They snap open when I feel Peyton’s hand on mine. “Earth to Erin, you’re starting to cause a scene.”
I’m hunting my plate for more, but there’s not a single crumb left. “Bring me here again and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
He smiles at that. “Don’t tempt me, Ms. Nash.”
“Now you’re making me sound formal.”
“Sometimes formality can be nice.”
“Sometimes,” I reply cryptically.
“Want to come back to my place, meet my brothers?” Peyton offers.
God damn he’s looking irresistible tonight. I’m supposed to be on high alert, extra cautious, but that thousand-yard stare of his is so disarming, so mysterious it’s hard to say anything but ‘yes.’
“Great, I’ll have the valet bring the car around.”
The car turns out to be something sporty, black and especially low. I basically have to do a split to get into the thing. It smells of leather and cologne inside, sounds like the devil has stepped on a Lego brick as we shoot off into the night.
The conversation turns to me and I’m happy to let it. We discuss our favorite South Korean films, both over the moon that Parasite managed to pick up the Oscar this year for Best Picture. Peyton actually brings up a raft of cultural differences in the film I hadn’t picked up on before. It’s quite a shock, to be honest, the depth of his knowledge and understanding.
A surprise a minute, I consider.
The King residence is set in the hills overlooking town, street after street of sprawling mansions and perfect gardens. As I step out of the car (correction, climb out), I realize the place even smells like money.
The double doors of Casa Del King unlatch with almighty ka-chunk and we step through into the hallway.
A voice shouts from upstairs, “Back already, Romeo? What happened? You told her you wanted to fuck her in the ass again, didn’t you? You’ve got a problem, bro.”
Footsteps on the stairs, a figure emerging at of the bottom of them in a Mets jersey. Said figure’s eyes bounce between Peyton and me, settling back on me. “Oh shit. I didn’t know…”
Peyton face-palming, says, “Erin, meet Titus.”
As he steps into the light, I can see the family resemblance. He’s younger than Peyton, a bit boyish around the cheeks and jawline, not quite as sculpted as my man.
Your man, I laugh.
Someone else shows up from an adjoining corridor and I do a double take, because I’m staring at…
“They’re fraternal, if you’re wondering,” cuts in Peyton, hand spanned protectively against my lower back.
“Phoenix here is the basketball pro. Titus? Well, I guess he’s pretty good at shining up his shaft.”
“Baseball,” sighs Titus, leaning forward conspiratorially. “He means I’m a fucking gun at baseball.�
��
“Aren’t there four of you?” I ask Peyton.
“He saved the best until last,” says a husky voice behind me.
I spin and find what is no doubt the fourth and youngest King, and apparently the most mysterious, sophomore Nolan, standing there in jet black boxers and… nothing else. In fact, all four of these guys are ripped and toned, fratty man-fection incarnate. That said, they’re also unique in their own ways. They’ve barely said anything and yet already I get a feel for the pecking order around here.
“Boys,” says Peyton condescendingly, “this is Erin.”
They offer their greetings one by one, surprisingly cordial.
“We’re going to head down back and I trust you’re going to leave us alone, aren’t you?” continues Peyton. He’s eyeing the others so hard I’m surprised they don’t have holes in their heads.
Each brother nods knowingly.
“Yes, Your Highness,” bows Titus. “By all means,” he says, waving us on.
Nolan stops me as I walk by, looking to Peyton. “Careful with this one,” he says. “He doesn’t always play nice.”
“Neither do I,” I wink.
Titus wolf-whistles. “Fuck, yes. Enjoy, kiddos.”
Once we’re in the back of the house, what appears to be a den of some sort, Peyton closes the door and locks it. “Ignore those idiots.”
I place a pensive finger on my chin. “I don’t know. They seemed kind of charming.”
“You did hear Titus, didn’t you?”
“Okay,” I laugh. “Maybe the ass-fucking thing was a bit too much.” I look around. “Or is this where the ass-fucking happens?”
Peyton laughs. “If you like, though the hot tub’s nicer.”
“There’s a hot tub?”
“Outside, enclosed and, by order of my father, safe from prying eyes.”
“But I don’t have a bathing suit,” I complain.
Peyton’s smile grows. “Neither do I. Shall we?”
I spin around, pointing. “Your brothers are right past that door. What if they come in?”
“They won’t.”
Well, this is happening faster than I expected, but I agree nonetheless. “If I see them, find a peephole or security camera… anything…”
“We won’t be disturbed,” reassures Peyton, already stripping off, which only makes this whole damned thing harder to resist. “What are you waiting for?”
I’m still rolling my eyes as I remove my top and pants, a proud Peyton standing before me, his baby’s arm of an erection looking completely abstract against the rest of his body.
I pause in my panties and bra, somehow feeling even more naked in them.
“Come on,” pushes Peyton, taking a step towards me.
I take hold of my panties and with a single huff draw them down my legs, folding them and placing them on top of the rest of my also neatly folded clothes on the side table.
I undo my bra and cover myself, but Peyton moves forward and takes my arm away, slinging it around his back. I do have to admit the skin-on-skin contact is nice.
“That’s better,” he says, kissing me before sweeping me off my feet and carrying us out into the cold bite of night.
The hot tub’s in a large gazebo ringed by plants and shrubs, a cozy little oasis.
Peyton sets me down at the edge of the hot tub, jumping in, the steam rising around him in wispy tendrils.
He swivels me around to face him and separates my legs, lowering himself into the water so only his head remains, the world’s sexiest submarine.
I shiver when his fingers part my sex. Concerns about the brothers interrupting us are gone.
“I’ve never seen anything so perfect in all my life,” says Peyton, and I believe it.
He slips between my legs casually and makes the sentiment physical. He runs his tongue along my wetness, along the hot, slick desire that runs from my core.
The heat from the water is steaming up the insides of my thighs, a hint of chlorine in the air, the contrast between the chill in the open air and the warmth of the water delightful.
I’ve missed this, I know it, but it somehow feels familiar, too.
I want to hold back, the conflict in my head also familiar, but it’s too good. I want this as much as he does — it doesn’t get any simpler than that.
The gazebo’s filled with my breathless moaning, a silent panting.
He slides a finger inside me and I momentarily levitate from the edge of the tub, hands gripping it hard for support. I’m floating, sky high.
And I never want to come down.
He works with slow and practiced precision, forever bringing me to the edge before pulling back, always knowing where my limit is. No one has ever shown me this kind of attention, this exacting sense of my own pleasure.
No part of me is left unloved. His hands roam over my thighs, my buttocks, my belly, always moving and shifting to light up some new part of my body. I’m his own veritable treasure chest.
But it’s the gem he finds nestled between my folds that really makes him come alive. His lips drag over the nub of my clit. He sucks it into the heat of his mouth, pressing against it with the underside of his tongue.
For a moment I’m sure he is going to pull away and I subsequently reach for his head, holding him in place between my thighs. Wherever we are headed, I want to go, and now.
He gently sucks and pulls, works at the hot space of my sex until I’m shaking uncontrollably, bucking against his beautiful face.
Only when I’m teetering on the edge does he pull away and climb my body, dragging us laughing into the water.
When he sinks into me, his cock running deep, I shudder uncontrollably. I cry, actual tears dripping from my face as he whispers into my ear exactly how it feels to make love to me. He details everything, his vocabulary far more versed than mine in female anatomy.
My head sings in time with my body, everything in the universe in tune.
There are no wild acrobatics or pretzel-like positions. He doesn’t attempt to fuck me through the floorboards like before.
No, this is a side of Peyton King I haven’t seen before, softly rocking inside me, over and over and over again until I can barely breathe.
I lever against him, that aching pressure against my clit unravelling me from the inside-out.
We move like this until I’m on the edge, water splashing over the sides of the tub, the steam turning my face slick and wet.
I hold the back of his head and look up into his eyes and the deep intensity within them. He’s so beautiful, so very, very beautiful.
And he’s mine.
The thought is enough.
The tether breaks me and my orgasm rolls through my body in a never-ending wash of pleasure so strong and profound I’m not sure if I’m alive or dead.
He whispers, “I love you,” lifting us from the water, his hands under my ass. He repeats it as he lets himself go, the warmth of his release welcome.
And I float no longer.
I fly.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PEYTON
Being woken up to someone squatting and subsequently slapping you in the face is precisely the reason I live alone.
Nolan tries the other cheek. “Come on, big boy. It’s game day.”
I reach up and push him off me. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
He climbs off the bed, checking out the things on my desk, probably looking for what he can pocket later. “You’ve been living by yourself for what, a year? That’s a year’s worth of driving you nuts we’ve got to work through, and hey, it’s fucking entertaining.”
I find a shoe on the floor and throw it in his direction. He ducks just in time, the shoe colliding with the wall.
“See,” he smiles, “lightning reflexes, possible only with complete mastery of the inner self.”
I toss the other shoe. He collects this one with an outstretched hand. “And it would seem, my good brother, you have not yet mastered sai
d self-control.”
I look for a T-shirt. “You want me to practice self-control living with you assholes? It’s a good fucking test, I’ll give you that. You live like animals. I don’t know if that’s a fridge downstairs or a bio-weapons lab.”
“You can blame Titus for that.”
I stand up, hands on my hips. “You seen the state of the carpets? Their natural color is cream you know, not lentil brown.”
Nolan seats himself at my desk, legs swinging on top of it. He’s wearing his favorite Jordans, something I’ve always found odd considering Phoenix is the basketball guy. “Since when did you grow a vagina and start caring about the god-damn carpet?”
“Since I learned to take pride in my place of residence.”
Nolan reaches for a T-shirt at the back of the desk, tossing it to me. I catch it with one hand. “Our place of residence,” he corrects, reaching for a neon Rubik’s cube.
Nolan can never seem to sit still for too long. They diagnosed him with ADHD when he was younger, though nothing was really done about it. Some would say he’s just hyper, ‘spirited,’ lives a bit more in the fast lane than most. It also means he’s easily distracted, which is why the smell of freshly cooked pancakes quickly draws him from my room. That would be Phoenix, cooking up a mixed-berry-and-choc-chip pancake storm downstairs.
That I have missed.
I close the door shaking my head. “What were you saying about self-control, brother?”
I sit on my bed and find my cell, text Erin. She replies with a kiss emoji, telling me she’s thinking about me with a wink. She didn’t exactly feel comfortable staying over in this hell house. I couldn’t really blame her, even if I might have begged otherwise.
‘I’ve been thinking about u 2,’ I reply, which is no lie. I came so hard in my sleep last night it required a midnight sheet change. Haven’t done that since I was sixteen.
She asks if I’m ready for the game tonight.
I smile, fingers working. ‘Never been better. U coming? U should.’
Having her there would be a big step. It would be a public declaration of sorts, but I think I’m ready for that, to take this thing to the next level.
