Cougar (Chauvinist Stories Book 2)

by Elise Faber

  I paused, not sure I’d be willing to settle for just a single night with the most interesting woman I’d ever met.

  She pulled back, glanced up into my eyes. “Deal?”

  “Deal.” I’d worry about the one-time thing later.

  A smile curved my lips as I reached for the top button on her blouse, flicking it open to reveal a tempting triangle of pale flesh. Dropping my head, I pressed a kiss there then dropped my fingers to the next, slipping it through the buttonhole. Another kiss to silken skin before moving through the rest, peeling the pale pink silk wide open to reveal a soft stomach and a nude bra.

  Not lace, not particularly revealing.

  Still containing the hottest set of tits I’d ever seen.

  I fell to my knees, darted my tongue out to taste her belly button, letting it drift up to tease the sensitive skin just beneath her breasts. Which was the point she let her arms fall, the shirt dropping from her shoulders to tangle around her wrists.

  Perfect.

  I gripped those wrists, holding them captive then used my other hand to nudge up her bra and suck one pink nipple into my mouth. Sweet like honey. Spicy like pepper. The sunshine was absent, mostly because I had absolutely no clue as to what it actually tasted like.

  Artie jerked when my lips hit that tight little bud, flexing against my grip before pushing herself closer. “More,” she groaned.

  I preferred to give direction, but I could damn well take it in this situation.

  Releasing her arms and yanking the shirt off, I continued working that sensitive nub, pulling on it deeply, using my tongue and teeth, learning what she preferred, what made her cry out, what made her squirm against me.

  “Enough,” she said, trying to pull back, but I simply swept her up into my arms, walking down the hall as I slammed my mouth down onto hers.

  As far as first kisses went, it was out of order, tasting her mouth after her breasts, but damn if I was going to regret having her nipples on my tongue. Still, I’d been intending on finding a horizontal surface as quickly as possible, but her lips meeting mine, her tongue and teeth meeting me stroke for stroke and nip for nip, froze me in place.

  Or rather, it had me twisting and pinning her against the wall, shoving myself between her legs as she spread them wide, grinding my cock against her center.

  She yanked at my shirt, fumbling with the buttons.

  Distantly, I heard a few plinks as the round plastic circles hit the hardwood floor, but I couldn’t summon the energy to care that Artie had probably just ruined the one nice shirt I owned. Yes, I’d directed a few films, two of which were considered box office successes, but the pay from them had been shit.

  Though, I’d recently been offered a few new jobs with good paychecks.

  The money just hadn’t hit my account as of yet.

  But Artie didn’t care about my one good shirt or my paycheck, she was scrabbling at the material covering my chest, and the sexy mewling noises she was making in the back of her throat had my cock twitching.

  Control.

  But also . . . I needed to be inside her.

  Eventually, I used my hips to pin her firmly against the wall so I could tear off my shirt and toss it to the floor.

  “Fucking finally,” she murmured, running her hands over the planes of my chest, almost reverently. At least until she slightly dug her nails in, making heat burst out from my chest, arrowing straight to my groin and making my head spin. “Mouth. Now.”

  She didn’t say where, and I had my own plans.

  I took her lips in a kiss that had us both groaning and arching against each other, her legs convulsing, her hips tilting and gyrating. I ground against her, eventually breaking for air, but using the opportunity to kiss my way along her jaw, down her throat, nipping at her collarbones. Gently, I lowered her legs to the ground, making sure she was steady on her heels before kneeling and reaching for the button on her slacks.

  Her hands stopped mine.

  “No?” I asked.

  “Hell, yes,” she murmured. “But these heels aren’t exactly for standing. Help me take them off?”

  I was torn between asking why the hell she was wearing shoes that weren’t adequate for standing and shrugging off the intricacies of the feminine mind so I could get my mouth on her pussy.

  I took option two, lifting one foot then the other and tugging off her shoes.

  This time when I returned to the button on her slacks, she didn’t stop me, just arched her back slightly and shimmied her hips so the material fell to the floor.

  My mouth went dry.

  Lace. It didn’t match the bra, but the turquoise was skimpy and see-through, and the glimpse I got of her pussy through the flimsy fabric was enough to have white edging my vision.

  I had to get my tongue in there.

  One swift movement had the underwear at her ankles, another and it went sailing in the direction of her heels.

  Artie didn’t shy, didn’t hesitate. She just spread her thighs and gave me pink, glistening folds.

  White haze turned red, and I dove at her.

  Three

  Artie

  Youth had its perks.

  Boundless energy, eager tongues, fingers that—

  Pierce pressed the flat of his tongue to my clit, and I about shot out of my skin, but by the time I’d opened my mouth to tell him to go easy, he’d already gentled his strokes, slowing down and coaxing me back up, edging me toward a peak I knew would be the most intense I’d ever experienced.

  Slow and steady. Then fast and hard. Teasing then almost too much. And yet I was spiraling up, progressively climbing that precipice.

  One finger teased my entrance, circling and gently probing then sliding up to stroke just beneath my clit. It was the most coordinated—and pleasurable—experience of my life, having every bit of Pierce’s focus directed at me.

  I saw the director in him, the way he was able to reduce the world down to a single focal point, capturing my reactions, putting them together with his actions to create something that was intense and fulfilling, and . . . the best fucking sexual experience of my life.

  That teasing finger slipped back down, but instead of teasing, it slid home. The abrupt invasion made me cry out, my hips arching forward—

  Right into Pierce’s mouth.

  He sucked my clit, worked his finger, and . . .

  I exploded.

  Pleasure spiraled out of my center and tore through my limbs, sparking flames through my nerves, making my mind haze over, my knees go weak. And he kept working me, wringing every drop of pleasure out of me until I was a limp mess cuddling against his chest, both of us collapsed on the hardwood floor.

  We hadn’t made it ten steps from the front door.

  That had to be a fucking record.

  Fucking record.

  Heh.

  My lips twitched, and Pierce brushed my hair out of my face. “What is it?” he asked softly. “What’s put that look on your face?” One brow came up suggestively. “I’m hoping it’s because you just experienced the best orgasm of your life?”

  I chuckled. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

  “So, it’s not my orgasms?” His face fell, but I was wise to his tricks by now.

  I lightly smacked his chest. “Yes, the orgasm was a good one, you big faker.” I tapped my chin, considering. “In the top hundred, for sure.”

  He snorted, poked me in the ribs—

  With his finger.

  Heh.

  Orgasm-drunk, but that wasn’t a bad problem to have. I giggled, both at my joke and then because he was tickling me.

  “You’re drunk,” he accused, fingers dancing over my hip.

  “I had one cocktail at lunch,” I teased. “It takes more than that to get an old chick drunk.”

  “It was a joke,” he muttered and amended. “How about pleasure-drunk?”

  “I was thinking orgasm-drunk,” I said with another giggle, but then he was kissing me and my laughter faded, thi
ghs clenching instead as pleasure began slowly curling in my center. The man could fucking kiss.

  “Bedroom?” He broke away to ask, scooping me up effortlessly at the same time.

  Twenty-fucking-two.

  Holy shit.

  I could work with this.

  Pointing down the hall, I said, “Last door on the right,” and then I made myself useful, running my tongue up his throat, sucking lightly, then kissing my way across his jaw.

  His mouth teased mine, coming close, drifting away, but by the time we made it through the door to my bedroom, we weren’t interested in teasing.

  The heat in his eyes matched the fire burning through me.

  Pierce dropped me to the mattress, and I scrambled up, yanking open my bedside drawer to extract a condom and toss it next to the pillow. He was working on the button of his slacks, drawing down the zipper, pushing the fabric down and tossing it to the floor.

  Black boxer briefs.

  Yup, that was exactly right.

  Especially when they were the punctuation mark on the most incredible set of abs I’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Twenty-two,” I murmured, stroking a finger between the indentions. “Yes. Thank you, universe.”

  He snorted. “It’s the not-having-enough-to-eat diet.”

  My brows drew down, heart sinking. “What? You don’t—”

  “Starving artist is a term for a reason, Artie,” he said lightly. “But I’m not starving anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact, I’ll be sporting a beer belly in no time.” He nipped her ear. “I was joking. I’m fine.”

  I forced a smile. I wasn’t generally a soft mark, but I definitely didn’t like the idea of this funny, kind man not having enough to eat. “If you—”

  He cut my words off with a kiss. “I’m fine.” A flick of his tongue. “Now, can we regain some focus? I don’t think that discussing my diet is all that sexy.”

  “It gave you these abs,” I said, ignoring the twinge of emotion. “So, I find I can’t hate it.”

  He laughed, tugged me so I was sprawled beneath him. “Now, where were we?”

  “I think you were putting that sharp tongue to use.”

  “I think you mean highly skilled.”

  “I don’t care what you call it,” I declared, “so long as you get it in my mouth.”

  A wicked grin. “I can do that.”

  Then his tongue was in my mouth and there were no more words, just caresses and kisses and moans. He kissed me until I forgot all about starving artists and the real world. He kissed me until I was a writhing mess that could barely remember my own name.

  He kissed me until my hands stopped stroking his chest and drifted south, slipping under the waistband of his boxer briefs to cup the hard length of him.

  Groaning, he pumped into my hand, not protesting when I reached for the condom and rolled it on, not delaying when I lay back and spread my thighs, not hesitating to thrust deep and—

  “Holy fucking shit,” I moaned.

  “Fuck, yes,” he groaned.

  Pure chemistry, or perhaps it was just that our personalities melded, though I couldn’t deny that he was really fucking hot—but whatever the reason, the feel of him sliding home, of filling me to the brim, had surpassed his mouth as the singular most pleasurable experience of my life.

  He didn’t fuck like a twenty-two-year-old—fast and furious and single-minded.

  He was intense, yes, but he was also calculating.

  Deducing my pleasure down to precise movements, using deliberate touches and strokes, the man played my body better than anyone I’d ever been with. And I’d been with a whole variety—young, old, shy, arrogant, black, white, Asian. My work brought me all over the world, and I wasn’t a prude. If there was chemistry and I liked the man, and if he was into me in return, I went for it.

  But Pierce was the best I’d ever gone for.

  I was almost disappointed we would only be together this one time, that I would only ever allow myself one time with him.

  Then I focused on how lucky I was to have this moment with Pierce.

  Maybe I worked best in temporaries, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy it for all it was worth.

  “Hey.” A nip to my jaw, his hips slowing to a halt. “Where’d you go?”

  I smiled up at him. “You’re doing great”—he snorted—“it’s my brain that doesn’t like to cooperate.”

  “Hmm.” He dropped his head, so his mouth was very near my ear. “How about we do something to get that brain of yours to stop messing up what I happen to think was a pretty incredible . . .”

  Hands weaving into his hair, I brought his lips to mine. “Fucking,” I murmured when we broke apart for air, thoughts fading, hips already moving against him. “Yes, it’s good. Yes, I’m into it. No, my brain never shuts the hell up.”

  “As a person with a similarly annoying brain that can’t keep quiet”—Pierce darted out his tongue, tasting the corner of my mouth—“I have an idea about how to fix that.”

  My lips curved. “I think I’m going to like it.”

  A smirk. “I think you are.”

  And then, true to his word, he took my mind off my thoughts. Mouth dropping to mine, he braced himself with one hand and slid the other down. He moved, thrusting deep, fingers delving between my thighs to circle my clit. Just like before, his focus was intense and perfect and because of him, for the first time in forever, my brain went completely clear of extraneous blips of reason. It was able to focus solely on him, on us, on what I was feeling.

  Uh-oh.

  But even I was too far gone to recognize that warning.

  Instead, I wrapped my legs around Pierce’s hips, tilted my pelvis to allow his fingers better access to my clit, and held on as he rode me straight over the edge to orgasm.

  Yup, I thought after my pleasure had faded and thoughts began invading my brain again, best fuck ever.

  Four

  Pierce, Five Years Later

  I spotted her on the red carpet.

  Blonde hair cascading down her spine—and I said spine because her dress was completely backless, giving me glimpses of bare skin and a backbone I’d kissed my way down five years before.

  One incredible night half a decade ago.

  And I could still recall every touch, every moan, every moment.

  I sucked in a breath, shifted from foot to foot, trying to force those memories down. Most of the time I was fine. My work kept me busy and it wasn’t like I’d gone full-monk after we’d had our fun.

  But Artemis Miller had left her mark on me.

  Now every time I saw her, I could remember how she felt as she wrapped her thighs around my hips, how she kissed, how—

  “Pierce!” She waved an arm and hurried over, somehow navigating the carpet and long train of her dress in five-inch heels without issue.

  I caught her arm when she came close enough, bending to press a kiss to each of her cheeks in turn. “How are you?”

  “Great. Great,” she said. “But what about you?” She cupped my jaw. “You look incredible! I heard you were filming in Hawaii. Is this”—she dropped her hand from my face and gestured at my body from toe to forehead—“tan from work or play?” A wink. “I’m guessing play.”

  “It’s—”

  “Pierce, Artie, give us a look!” a photographer shouted.

  Obediently, we both spun to face the crowd of lenses. I definitely didn’t love the sea of black circles staring down at me—hence the reason I spent most of my time behind the camera—while Artie never seemed to be fazed by anything.

  She allowed the paparazzi a few shots in a couple of different poses then linked her arm with mine and led us off the marks.

  Her raised eyebrow had me answering her previously interrupted question. “It’s mostly work, though I did get in three days of surfing after we wrapped.”

  “You’re going to get eaten by a shark one day, you know that, right?”

  “Meh,” I teas
ed back in what had become a familiar conversation over the last years of running into each other at events like this. “I’m more likely to die in my car on the way home from surfing than from a shark.”

  “With the way you drive?” She sniffed. “That’s probably true.”

  “Hey! I’ve been in a car with you driving,” I teased. “I seemed to remember very desperately clinging to the Oh Shit handle.”

  “Lies!”

  We both laughed and I felt the same pang I always experienced when I ran into Artie at industry affairs. Longing. Bittersweet. Same as I’d felt when I’d woken the next morning in her bed to find her gone, a note on the nightstand thanking me for a great night and telling me to take my time in her shower and fill my stomach from her fridge because she’d flown halfway around the world for her latest project.

  One night.

  Hadn’t been enough.

  And for all my plans of dealing with it later, I could hardly be congratulated for my skills. Artie had handled me, effortlessly and wonderfully, while at the same time insinuating an impenetrable barrier between us.

  Distance and aplomb.

  She had it in spades.

  “How’s your latest?” I asked, keeping our arms linked as we started to stroll through the open doors that would lead into the theater where the award show would be held.

  Her lips curved, excitement filling her pretty blue eyes. “It’s going great. We’re actually ahead of schedule and our lead”—she named an up-and-coming Asian comedian—“is just exceeding every expectation. We’d hoped she would be able to pull off the dramatic role, but I can’t lie and say I wasn’t the teeniest bit worried.”

  “Teeniest bit?”

  She blew out a breath, pale pink lips forming a very distracting O that had my cock remembering that mouth very intimately and forcing me to lock down the memories of our night together. “Technical terms, I know.” A laugh. “What’s happening after Hawaii?”

  I’d just finished filming the remake of a famous comic book big budget movie. “Not much,” I admitted. “I’m going to be bogged down in post-production for a while, but I don’t actually have my next project lined up.”