Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  “Too easy, too,” he sighed, the sound turning guttural and primal in the back of his throat. My breath caught in my throat as his mouth found the hollow at my collarbone, his fingers stroking a nipple, the sensation filling me with a wet yearning that could only be filled by him.

  Now.

  It was finally perfect.

  Without words, we dropped to the bed, his hands exploring my body, my climax ready in anticipation of Sam’s attention. Greedy hands—mine—soaked his body in, the freedom to roam more sensual than the actual caresses, my mind unwinding and relenting, all fears and worries dashed away by access to this delightful play.

  A few kisses, wet and wild with the need to express years of want, and then his mouth traveled down my breasts, over my belly, and then exactly where I needed to be appreciated most.

  I stopped him with my hands against each side of his face, and he tipped his head up, eyes dark and filled with a timeless lust that seemed to be spun, wholesale, from the emotions that hovered in the air.

  “Thank you.” A tearful chuckle came out of me as he stroked my thigh, light traces on the inside making me shudder.

  “For what?”

  “For proving I wasn’t a fool for wanting you all these years, and for hoping that somehow this could be real.”

  Pulling up, he crawled over me, hovering with a hard, muscled ease. Heat escaped from his skin in waves, matching my own. “Let me show you how real we can be, Amy.” Bending down, he planted a sweet kiss on my mouth, changing to a luscious promise. And then—

  The rush of his tongue against my folds, the throb of my engorged lips and the raw intimacy pushed me to the edge too fast, so fast I couldn’t breathe, years coming out in seconds, my fingers buried in his hair as he pushed me into abandon so quickly it surprised us both. As another orgasm grabbed me and shook me I cried out his name, the word all I knew, my body ragged and worn by the time his tongue stopped playing the virtuoso performance.

  I reached for his hard self but his hand stopped me. “No. I need to be in you tonight. Deep in you. I want to touch the very core of you, Amy, and to watch your face as you come again, knowing you love me and I love you.”

  Desire rushed full force again, bursting through my soul. “I do love you.”

  “I love you, too.” The kiss was wet and lush, the taste of me on Sam’s tongue like a possession. Own me, I thought. Not in some obsessive way, but in a reciprocity and reveling in each other.

  I twisted and reached for my little end table, his hands all over my ass and breasts. Fumbling, I found my quarry and opened the foil wrapper, slowly rolling the condom over Sam’s pulsing cock.

  “Ah, God,” he groaned, and then he did something I never expected.

  Stretching out, he pulled me on top of him, guiding my hips into place so I perched above him. “I want to watch you in the moonlight,” he said as I dipped my head down to kiss him.

  “Ride me.”

  Sliding down over him was like coming to my real home, like finding my true core, as every connection of flesh with Sam strengthened me. The feel of him in me was so complete, and his hands filled with my breasts, the exotic, lavish touch more real than any reality I’d ever struggled to uphold.

  Urging me with his hips, I began to pull up, then plunge down, gasping as he thrust back. Sam took one hand and reached between us, finding my sensitive clit, and stroked it with lazy circles. I tightened and he groaned, so I pulled my muscles inward and the effect was like lightning.

  “That’s... incredible...” he said.

  “So is that,” I murmured, meaning his fingers, playing me with perfect rhythm as separate parts of my body tightened and loosened, limbs and core all pulsing in different combinations until I increased the speed of our movements, Sam’s urgency and powerful strokes making me shake, building a powerful pressure inside me I’d never felt before.

  “Oh, God!” I rasped. “What is this?”

  “Let it happen,” he said through gritted teeth, his own orgasm obviously close.

  And then.

  And then.

  I arched up, my body no longer mine, our bodies now a distinct entity, cleaved and welded together as one, the climax greater than any I’d ever experienced. Sam’s hoarse words matched my cries of ecstasy and I rode him with unbridled, unselfconscious bliss.

  Lost in every aspect of what our bodies and hearts and mouths and hands were doing right now, we existed solely to connect and bring pleasure to each other, the mounting pressure now released in a white-hot power that seemed otherworldly. Love, in flesh form, transported me, the rush of my hair against my back, the whisper of his fingertips at my breasts, the hot breath that danced between us all part of so many years, so many dreams.

  My fingers dug into his shoulders, my ass curled up, my body shook and wept until I collapsed on him, completely spent, my breathing labored and hard, hot air curling into his neck and hair as we both twitched and panted our way back to the pale imitation of life that others called “reality.”

  A kiss on my shoulder shook me out of my stupor. “Amy.”

  “What?”

  “I just love saying your name while I’m in you.”

  That made me laugh and that made him no longer be in me. We descended into a fit of giggles that took a very long time to control.

  “I love you. I love being able to say that,” I confessed.

  “I love you, too.” He kissed my shoulder. “And I love hearing you say it.”

  We rested in silence, staring at the ceiling, my breasts pressed into his ribs, one hand playing with the hair on his chest, his palm caressing my arm. The way our skin effortlessly molded together, like we were made to fit together, gave the moment a deeper meaning.

  “Amy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I ask you a question? Are we still being truthful?”

  “Of course. Always.” My fingers played with the little thatch of hair on his chest, the red a deep auburn.

  “Darla made a joke once about your hoo-ha.”

  I froze.

  “Something about a phone.” Warm palms roamed over my breasts, just touching for the sake of touch.

  “You know, Sam.” I cleared my throat. “Sometimes there can be too much truth in a relationship....”

  :)

  Thank you so much for reading Random Acts of Trust. All 10 books in the Random series are FREE to read in Kindle Unlimited. The next book in the Random series is Random Acts of Fantasy.

  You have so much more reading ahead of you.

  You’re not done yet. Keep flipping for more.

  Excerpt: Random Acts of Fantasy

  Read the third book in the series, Random Acts of Fantasy!

  In this hilarious sequel to the New York Times bestseller Random Acts of Crazy, Darla, Trevor and Joe learn that "happily ever after" is more complicated than expected as a surprise invitation for the band to perform at an island resort changes everything…

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  Darla

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. My Aunt Josie had sent me the link with a cryptic comment: Don’t get bird flu.

  What the hell did that mean? I clicked and read:

  Naked Man Steals Chicken, Evades Police

  Hockenfield Times, May 3, 2013

  Hockenfield, Mass.

  By Janet Simkin

  Hockenfield Police Chief Bart Jansen has issued an alert for a white male, early twenties, with blond hair and blue eyes who stole a chicken from farmer Mike Lemper’s coop this morning at 2:33 a.m. The man is completely naked, and while unarmed, is considered a potential threat to public safety.

  “I heard rustling and figured it was a fox,” Lemper explained. “Instead, I got an eyeful. Naked guy, young, wearing a collar around his neck like a dog. And a guitar. Nothing else. He kept calling my laying hen ‘Mavis’ and hollered he was eloping with her.”

&
nbsp; After a brief scuffle, during which the chicken scratched him, Lemper let go. The man shouted, “I wasted my only answered prayer!” and fled.

  Lemper called 911 immediately, though the cruiser was delayed as the operator struggled to understand the nature of the call, but local police arrived within eleven minutes.

  Too late.

  “The suspect escaped on foot with the allegedly stolen chicken under his arm, headed for the Mass Pike,” said Jansen. "Concerned citizens with any information are advised to contact the Hockenfield Police at our non-emergency number at 413-555-1000, and travelers on I-90 or any other interstate should not, as always, pick up naked hitchhikers by the side of the road.”

  Bird flu. Haha. Motherclucker.

  Sitting here at the reception desk at work, I found myself wondering what I was supposed to do with that piece of information. Torture my boyfriend Trevor some more, sure—but, um… he stole Mavis?

  The man stole a chicken from a henhouse while naked and high, right before I met him seven months ago?

  Random Acts of Crazy indeed.

  It wasn’t just the name of Trevor and Joe’s band. Living out here in the Boston area meant seeing him and Joe plenty enough, even though everyone—Uncle Mike, Mama, hell, even Aunt Marlene, the resident slut of my hometown, Peters, Ohio (and it took a lot to earn that title, if you know what I mean…)—thought that moving out here meant I’d find myself chained to someone’s basement wall and erotically tortured within an inch of my life, then sold off into some underground of sexual slavery where cellulite was worshipped.

  Hey. Wait a minute. Maybe that would have been better than sitting here with a plastic-guarded letter opener, a pile of junk mail, and an anti-virus program malfunctioning on my new computer.

  Me, Joe, and Trevor had some talking to do.

  Tucking that into a dark corner of my mind to be dealt with later, I looked around the small office and marveled that I was getting paid to work somewhere that didn’t require a polyester vest and a pile of sawdust next to the mop bucket in case of vomiting customers (or their dogs). Office jobs that paid $40,000 per year just didn’t happen for people like me. What a life change these past few months.

  Picking Trevor up by the side of the road back in Ohio, naked as the day he was born except for the guitar he wore. Meeting his best friend, Joe, when Joe came to retrieve him, six hundred miles from their home in Massachusetts. Falling for them both. Moving to Cambridge. Starting my job at Good Things Come in Threes, the dating agency my aunt ran. Enrolling at Harvard.

  Harvard. I know!

  That one had been at Joe’s urging—he’d so carefully walked me through how to take courses at Harvard’s super-secret night school (super-secret to me, at least—Harvard letting me take a class seemed like inviting Kanye West to ghostwrite for Jonathan Franzen), and now here I was, taking an English course and a math class, all on account of my stupidity in picking up a naked dude wearing a guitar back home.

  If it weren’t for stupid choices, I wouldn’t have made any choices.

  That this one turned out so well was either dumb luck or divine interference, and I didn’t see the hand of God anywhere near these days, so I leaned on the lucky side. Maybe I was part Irish. I’d have to ask Mama the next time we talked, which would be tonight, because lately Mama was so lonely she glommed on to whatever I would give her in terms of attention.

  Hours alone now (what with Uncle Mike on the road) meant Mama had been doing double-time on entering online sweepstakes, and the result had been, well…

  I reached back and plucked the ass floss that passed for underwear out of my butt crack.

  Mama had won me a complete set of underwear from a rust-proofing company that sprayed chemical coatings on car undercarriages. The giveaway slogan was “Don’t Let Rust Destroy What You Love Down Below.”

  The g-strings had rust spots on the tiny little postage-stamp front cloth and made me feel like I was looking at a medical textbook full of pictures of STDs, but hey—free underwear, right?

  The guys hadn’t seen them yet, and I did a mental check to groom the lady parts, because right now my muff must look like a dandelion covered in a rust-coated muzzle.

  With a little pink tongue.

  Let’s swing away from that image, because once I start comparing my lady bits to things that require muzzles I need to question my own sanity. Or sex life.

  Or both.

  Leaving Ohio had been the ballsiest move ever. Took even more ovarian fortitude than picking up Trevor that night, all tan and blond and muscled and just plain old yum. Moving away took even more courage than giving in to what me, Trevor, and Joe had turned out to actually want that night at the bar, after Trevor sang me the new song he’d written, just for me. No other man in the band had written a song for their lady… love? Crush? Booty call? Eh. Call me whatever you want.

  Just sing to me. And about me. Because when a naked soul finds you, you find them right back.

  Abandoning every preconceived notion I had about who I was and what I would turn out to be was like killing a piece of myself off and hoping against hope that it would grow back better and stronger.

  I smiled.

  “It did,” I whispered to myself in the echo chamber of the quiet office.

  I caught a familiar set of golden-haired legs walking down the outside flight of stairs. Even through the thin sliver of window that slitted the main door, I could catch Jack’s approach.

  Jack. Deliverymen with hot legs were worth their weight in gold. Who else could make those brown shorts seem like something out of a Gap ad?

  And then there was that grin.

  “Hey, Darla,” he said as he smiled back. Surfer dude mixed with a hint of hot porno actor. He was a pre-orgasm on legs. Toned, tanned legs that a woman could imagine bent at the knee with his head between.

  “Jack!” I gasped, looking straight into his eyes, doing that fake control thing where you will your mind to stop imagining his face buried between your thighs as you hope what you’re thinking isn’t written in three-inch letters in permanent red marker all over your face.

  Even if it feels like it.

  “Hooked up any threesomes?” he asked, waggling thick brown eyebrows that slanted down just a touch at the edges of his eyes, giving him the perpetual look of a hot Jake Ryan from that Sixteen Candles movie Mama made me watch every time it was on TBS.

  “Nope,” I said, looking away, wondering if my chest were as flushed as it felt, like an Arizona forest fire combined with a Bessemer furnace. I worked here at my aunt’s company, a threesome dating service. Jack knew what we did because you can’t deliver packages to a business and not know.

  “I’m sure you will,” he crooned. “Something special came for you. Need your signature.”

  “Sure. I’ll take it.” Our fingertips brushed and it was like having a feather dragged across my clit.

  You’re probably wondering why I’m all drooly for Jack when I have rock-star gods I can fuck damn near any time I want, and I will join you in your confusion. Let’s sit at the bemused table for a round of what-the-fuck discussion. My best guess is that being turned on all the time by Trevor and Joe is like buying a white car.

  (Bear with me here. I do have a point).

  Until you own a white car, you don’t notice all the other white cars on the road. And then, suddenly, they’re everyfuckingwhere. Invading the streets. Your neighbors own one, your boss drives one, and the ubiquity of it makes you a little dizzy.

  Like Jack. Being with two hot guys made me see hot guys with more acuity, and that meant my clit was at a libido-induced buffet of scrumptious masculine brunch.

  With a big old side of sausage.

  “It’s for you,” Jack said. The nondescript envelope felt like a lead weight in my palm.

  “You said that.”

  “No. I mean for you. Darla Josephine Jennings. Certified, signature return, blah blah your firstborn baby and all that required. Not for Good Things Fuck in Threes.�
��

  The joke had gotten old by the third time he said it a month or so ago, but a reflexive return grin stretched my mouth, one side curved up.

  Oh, honey, if only you knew.

  And the man talked about babies, which were conceived by sex, which made me think about his penis and… shit. There went my clit.

  Squirming in my chair, I stood, hoping it wasn’t obvious. Damn, Trevor was about to get rode hard when I got home.

  “Me?” The package he handed over was your standard overnight mail envelope. Sure enough—my full name, with my title. “Operations Assistant.” Josie and Laura decided that was the best way to describe me.

  I recommended “Grunt” but they vetoed that one.

  “You.” He handed me a little plastic electronic machine thing with a stylus. I signed where he tapped.

  After ripping open the envelope, I found… another envelope. This one felt rich. Rich. The slide of the paper fiber against the pads of my fingers was so alien, as if there were materials on earth I didn’t know could be generated. The luxury spoke of a different world, far beyond the confines of my office, certainly way outta this world compared to my trailer back home.

  I wanted to lick the envelope just to know that some part of my DNA was on something so fine.

  Jack must have seen my tongue peek out between my lips as I brought the fine paper closer to my face, for a look of alarm scattered over his face.

  “Uh, wow. This is…”

  “Yeah.” He emitted a low whistle and shifted his hips. I almost sighed aloud. Goddammit, girl, my conscience hissed, aren’t your two hot bods enough?

  “Yes!” I exclaimed in answer. Jack looked ready to bolt. “Um, yes—it’s an interesting invitation.”

  “I hope the wedding’s fun,” he said politely, then beat it out of there like I was the skanky ho on the first episode of a new season of The Bachelor.

  Huh. It did look like a wedding invitation. And then my phone rang. The display said “Mama.”