by Sophie Lark
I can hear her moving around, but I can’t see what she’s doing because I’ve been in here so long that the glass enclosure of the shower is opaque with steam.
So I’m startled when Aida pushes her way inside, completely naked.
“Hey!” I say. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Showering, obviously,” she says. “Some asshole pulled me into the pool.”
“I’m already in here.”
“Really?” she says, fixing me with an unimpressed stare. “Thank you for informing me of that fact. That’s the kind of razor-sharp observation and inside information that’s sure to secure you the Alderman seat.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor,” I say to her, in my father’s most insufferable tone.
“Taking lessons in humor from you would be like asking a dog how to perform an appendectomy,” she replies.
She elbows past me to grab the shampoo.
Her bare arm grazes my stomach, and I become acutely aware that we haven’t actually seen each other naked before now.
I’m used to girls who keep their bodies torturously slim by any means necessary—diet, pills, pilates, and even surgical intervention. Aida obviously doesn’t bother with any of that. From what I’ve seen, she eats and drinks whatever she likes, and she probably hasn’t seen a running shoe in years. As a result, she’s curvy, with a soft stomach and a big ass.
But I have to admit . . . her figure is pretty fucking sexy. She’d probably hate to hear me say this, but she kinda has that classic bombshell look—like I could slap a fur bikini on her and she’d be Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C.
It makes me curious what it would feel like to grab a handful of that soft flesh, to watch her ride on top of me. To throw her around and manhandle her, without worrying that she’s going to snap like a stick figure.
Her smooth brown skin looks even better when you can see more of it. The hot shower is bringing a pink flush to it, particularly across her chest. I’m trying not to stare at her full, round breasts, but the way the soap suds slide down the chasm between them is so distracting . . .
The warm water runs down her body, to the delta between her thighs, where I can see her freshly waxed pussy, completely bare, looking softer than velvet. The fact that it’s waxed for me, under my instructions, is incredibly erotic to me.
Aida is so wild and rebellious. Making her do anything is an incredible feat. She’s determined to spite me, to do the opposite of whatever I say.
The more she rebels, the more I want to control her. I want to bend her to my will. I want to make her do whatever I say, for my pleasure . . .
My cock is getting swollen and heavy between my legs. I see a flutter of Aida’s black lashes as she glances involuntarily downward.
She quickly looks away again, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair. But soon enough, her eyes are drawn back to my body.
I know I’m in good shape. I work out every morning, sixty minutes of intense weight training, followed by thirty minutes of cardio. I have the chef make me macro-portioned meals so I ensure the perfect protein, carb, and fat intake. All of that has led to a well-muscled physique with a solid six-pack.
Aida’s eyes linger over my abs, and the member continuing to swell under her gaze. It’s standing out from my body now.
“See something you like?” I ask her.
“No,” she says, stubborn as ever.
“You fucking liar.”
I step closer to her, so my erect cock brushes against her bare hip. My thigh slides between hers, slippery with soap. I thrust one hand into her thick, dark hair, wrapping the wet rope of hair around my palm and then tugging her head back so she has to look up at me.
“You fucked up our wedding night,” I tell her. “You know we’re not actually married until we sleep together.”
“I know that,” she says.
“You haven’t been eating anything else poisonous, have you?”
Before she can answer, I press my lips hard against hers once more.
When I kissed Aida at the church, it was only to finish that stupid ceremony. Now I’m kissing her because I want to taste her mouth again. I want to press my whole body against hers and run my hands over that silky tan skin.
She’s incredibly soft. I don’t know how someone with the personality of a cactus can have the softest lips, shoulders, and breasts that I’ve ever touched. I want to run my hands over every inch of her.
At first, she’s stiff and unyielding, not wanting to respond to me. But as my thigh grinds against her bare little cunt, and as I take her breasts in my hands, she gasps and her lips part, allowing me to slide my tongue inside her mouth.
Now she’s pressing back on me, grinding her pussy against my leg. She’s kissing me back, deep enough that I can taste the lingering tang of chlorine on her lips.
I slide my hand down her belly, all the way down to her bald pussy. I rub my fingers over the perfectly smooth lips, loving how bare and exposed she is. Then I part her folds and find the tiny nub of her clit, swollen from the heat of the shower. I circle my middle finger around it, reaching down to test how wet it’s making her, then returning again to the most sensitive spot.
She gasps when I touch her there and squeezes her thighs around mine, rubbing and pressing against my palm with her cunt.
I slip a finger inside of her, making her moan. She moans right into my mouth, a deep and helpless sound.
I knew it. She’s a horny little slut. She likes sex as much as I do.
That’s perfect. Because if she wants it, if she needs it, then she has to come to me. And that’s one more way I can control her.
I rub her and finger her until I can feel her legs starting to shake. Her breath quickens, and her thighs squeeze tight as she gets closer and closer to climax.
Right when she’s at the edge, I stop touching her and withdraw my hand.
“Don’t stop!” she gasps, opening her eyes and glaring at me.
“If you want to cum, then suck my cock first,” I demand.
She looks down at my cock, so hard that it juts straight out from my body.
“Fuck no,” she says. “I’ll just do it myself.”
She leans back against the shower wall, putting her hand between her thighs. Her fingers slide between her pussy lips, and she exhales softly. I grab her by the wrist and yank her hand away.
“Hey!” she shouts, eyes flashing open again.
“Suck me off, or I’m not letting you cum,” I tell her.
She glares at me, cheeks flushed from heat and from the denied orgasm. I know it’s boiling inside of her, spinning around like a cyclone. I’m sure it’s nagging at her, making her ache and throb, and hopefully feel desperate enough to do as I demand.
I put my hand on her shoulder and push her down to her knees.
Reluctantly, she grips the base of my cock.
Her lips part, and I see the gleam of her teeth. I wonder for a moment if I’ve made a horrible mistake. I’d really rather not lose my dick to the temper of my new wife.
But then her warm, wet mouth closes around my cock, and my brain short circuits. If I thought her lips were soft before, I had no idea how they could feel on the painfully sensitive head of my cock. They slide over and around, completely enveloping me. Her tongue flicks against the underside as she gently licks and sucks.
Fuuuucking hell, she’s good at this. It’s no wonder Oliver Castle was obsessed with her. If she sucked his cock like this just one single time, I could imagine him following her to the ends of the earth to get it again.
She slides her hand up and down the shaft, her mouth and fingers working in tandem. Her other hand reaches underneath to gently cradle my balls, stroking the underside of the sack.
All these sensations together are rocketing me toward orgasm . . .
Until she drops my cock and stands up again.
“That’s all you get,” she says.
God, her obstinance is infuriating. If I said the grass
was green, she’d call it purple just to spite me. I really should take this opportunity to teach her a lesson.
But she and I both want the same thing in this moment. A rare instance of our impulses aligning. And we want it so bad that desire outweighs malice.
Aida puts an arm around my neck, steadying herself while she lines the head of my cock up with her entrance. Then she wraps both legs around my waist as my cock slides all the way inside of her.
I grip her thick ass with both hands, my fingers digging into her cheeks. I hold her up as she starts to ride me, her arms locked around my neck, her soap-slippery body grinding against mine.
As hot as the shower might be, her pussy is even hotter. It clenches around my cock, squeezing me on the inward and the outward motion of the thrust.
I was wrong in my assumption that Aida isn’t athletic. She’s riding me with the vigor and enthusiasm of a sexual Olympian. I’m used to girls who pose themselves in the most attractive position possible, then lay back to let you fuck them. I’ve never been with someone so . . . eager.
As she gets closer to the edge, she starts to ride me even harder, her pussy like a vise around my cock. She’s slamming down on me over and over. The intensity of the strokes and the heat of the shower is making me dizzy.
But there’s no fucking way I’m tapping out. I press her back up against the glass wall and fuck her all the harder, determined to prove that I can dish it back to her twice as heavy.
When her eyes start to roll back, I feel a surge of triumph.
“Oh my god . . . oh my god . . . oh . . . Cal . . .”
I’m wringing the climax out of her. It’s going on and on, drawn out by every stroke of my cock. It’s so fucking sexy seeing that rebellious expression wiped off her face, watching her submit to the pleasure surging through her body.
I’m doing this to her. I’m making her feel this. Whether she hates me or not, whether she wishes it were anyone but me, she’s helpless to resist it. She loves the way I’m fucking her.
With that thought, I explode inside of her.
I mean, I really explode. The orgasm is like an atom bomb, hitting me without warning. My balls are ground zero, and the shockwave rockets through every last neuron, all the way out to tips of my fingers and toes. In the wake of that sensation, my brain can’t send any other signals. My body goes limp, and I have to put Aida down before I drop her.
I collapse against the opposite shower wall, both of us panting and flushed.
Aida refuses to meet my eye.
It’s the first time she hasn’t been able to look at me. No matter how I’ve tried to stare her down, she’s always been up to the challenge.
But now she’s rinsing off slowly, pretending to be totally absorbed by her cleaning routine.
She called me Cal. She never did that before. Except to make fun of me at the engagement party.
“So that’s it,” I say to her. “It’s official.”
“Right,” she says, still not looking at me.
I like her embarrassment. I like that I’ve found this chink in her armor.
“Good to know you’re not completely awful at sex,” I say rudely.
Now she glares back at me, eyes bright and ferocious once more.
“Wish I could return the compliment,” she says.
I grin.
Aida, you little liar. Keep it up, and I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap. Or maybe something else . . .
13
Aida
Living with the Griffins is strange, to say the least.
The only person who seems happy to have me there is Nessa. We weren’t exactly friends at school, but we were cordial enough, from a distance. We know some of the same people, so now we can talk about all the weird shit they got up to since graduation.
I think Nessa likes having me there because I’m the only person who doesn’t behave like an Ambition Bot. I’m willing to actually talk at breakfast, not just work and eat in silence. Plus, we’re both taking classes at Loyola, so we can ride to school together in Nessa’s Jeep.
Nessa is a genuinely kind person, something you don’t see a lot of in the world. Plenty of people act nice, but it’s just manners. Nessa gives away all her pocket money to homeless people, every single day. She never talks shit about anybody, even people who totally deserve it, like her siblings and her most vapid friends. She listens when people talk—I mean, really listens. She’s more interested in you than in herself.
I don’t know how a bunch of sociopaths managed to raise a girl like that. Actually, it’s kind of tragic, because the Griffins look at her kindness as a failing, like some mild disability. They joke about how soft she is, how innocent.
I know Callum cares about her, but she’s like a pet to him, not an equal.
Nessa welcomes me with open arms, glad to have another sister. Especially one that’s slightly less of an asshole than Riona.
I don’t know shit about having a sister. All I know is what I see in movies: braiding each other’s hair, stealing each other’s clothes, sometimes hating each other, sometimes crying on each other’s shoulders. I don’t know if I could do any of those things without feeling idiotic.
But I’m glad to have Nessa as a friend. There’s a peacefulness to her personality that helps smooth down some of my rough edges.
Actually, I spend more time with her than I do with my new husband. Callum is working insanely long hours in the lead up to the election, and I’m usually already asleep in our shared bed by the time he comes in.
Maybe it’s on purpose. We haven’t hooked up again since our official “consummation” of the wedding.
That took me by surprise. I barged into the shower because I was cold and tired of waiting, and I wanted to show him that he couldn’t intimidate me, not by half-drowning me, and certainly not with a little nudity.
I didn’t expect him to kiss me. And I definitely didn’t expect him to touch me that way . . .
Here’s the problem. I like sex. A lot. And I’m used to getting it pretty frequently.
So, unless I’m going to start cheating on my brand-new husband, which is a really bad idea for a variety of reasons, then there’s only one place to get my fix.
And it’s not exactly like I have to grin and bear it. Callum is hot. He’s cold, and arrogant, and a total control freak—he’s already chewed me out five times this week for leaving clothes on the floor and spattering the mirror while I’m brushing my teeth, and not making the bed when I get up an hour after him. But none of those things change the fact that the man is genetically blessed. His face, his body, and that cock . . . none of it is hard to look at.
And he’s got some skills, too. He doesn’t fuck like a robot. He can be gentle, he can be rough, and above all, he’s extremely perceptive. He reads me like a book.
So I wouldn’t mind exploring this whole married sex thing a little further. But he’s been too busy—or avoiding me.
Of course, when he does finally need my help, he asks in the most obnoxious way possible, which is not asking at all.
He corners me in the kitchen, where I’m trying to toast a bagel. The Griffins’ toaster keeps popping it back up again, because it probably hasn’t been used in ten years since I’m the only one in this house familiar with the concept of carbs.
“I have a fundraiser tonight,” Callum says. “Be ready at seven.”
“Sorry,” I say, jamming down the lever on the toaster and holding it in place, “I’ve already got plans.”
“Doing what?”
“Lord of the Rings marathon. All three movies, extended version. I won’t be finished until tomorrow around noon.”
The toaster makes an angry clicking sound, but I hold the lever in place, determined to brown my bagel even if it makes the machine explode.
“Very funny,” Callum says, narrowing his pale blue eyes at me. “Seven o’clock, and make sure you’re not late. I expect proper hair and makeup. I’ve already laid a dress out on the bed.”
>
I let the bagel pop up, nicely browned at last. I start spreading a nice thick layer of cream cheese, glomming on even more when I see Callum’s expression of disgust.
“Do you have my lines ready for me, too?” I ask him. “Maybe you should just hang a placard around my neck, with whatever you expect me to say.”
I take a huge bite of my bagel, enjoying it all the more because I know Callum probably hasn’t let himself eat one in years.
“If you could refrain from cursing every third word, that would be a start,” he says, his fingers twitching involuntarily. I’m pretty sure he’s dying to snatch the bagel out of my mouth. He’s holding back because he doesn’t want to antagonize me before the fundraiser.
“I’ll damn well try, sweetheart,” I say around a mouthful of bagel.
He glares at me and stalks off, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Well, not totally alone—I still have plenty of snacks.
I make a bowl of popcorn so I can at least start The Fellowship of the Ring.
As I head toward the theater room, I see Riona coming from the opposite direction, carrying a stack of folders. She looks flustered and stressed, as per usual. I don’t know why she’s always knocking herself out trying to impress these people—it’s pretty clear that her parents see Callum as the star of the family, and her as a supporting character at best. Yet the more they push her to the side, the harder she fights for them to notice her. Watching it bums me out.
Not that I have much sympathy. Riona was a grade-A bitch at school. Queen of the mean girls. The only reason I didn’t get more shit from her is because I was younger and therefore beneath her notice.
That’s pretty much how she acts having to live in the same house with me. So I can’t resist poking at her now and then.
“You wanna join me?” I ask her, holding up the popcorn bowl. “I’m about to watch Lord of the Rings. Ever seen it? There’re some characters I think you might really identify with.”
Specifically, the ones that eat human flesh and are born out of muddy egg sacs.
Riona gives a dramatic sigh, annoyed that I’m even talking to her.
