by Frankie Love
“You’ve got something there,” I say, pointing at my own nose.
“Here?” She dabs at it, but her nose is still powdered.
“Here,” I say, scooting closer to her on the picnic bench and brushing my thumb over the tip of her nose. Once she’s pristine again, I let my hand drift, tangling my fingers in her blonde waves and running my thumb over the impossible softness of her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
She smiles. “You’re handsome.”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
She nods.
And I do. I tilt her head up, bring my lips down to meet hers, taste the sugar on them and the natural sweetness of her skin. Brooklyn melts beneath me, melts into me, and for a moment, I forget we’re in the middle of a busy street festival.
The music, the people, the noise from the carnival games… all of it disappears and there’s just Brooklyn.
Perfect. Heavenly. Mine.
Then I pull back before I lose myself completely and do something decidedly unsafe for public consumption. Brooklyn is looking at me with stars in her eyes, her expression a perfect reflection of how I’m feeling right now.
A fierce possessiveness comes over me and I stand up, extending my hand to help her up.
“Where to now?” she asks.
“Let’s get out of here.”
5
Brooklyn
Prescott takes me back to his house, and my pulse is racing by the time we get there.
That kiss… this man… this night… it’s all so perfect and I can’t wait to see what happens next.
Prescott’s place turns out to be a renovated mid-century ranch in a quiet neighborhood. The outside is something I’m sure Cassidy would love, with her penchant for all things retro, but the inside reminds me of Cory and Martha’s house. It’s warm and comfortable, a place I instantly know I wouldn’t mind spending some time.
“Nightcap?” Prescott asks.
I nod. “What do you have?”
“How about a French 75, in keeping with the whole Casablanca theme this evening?”
“Never had one,” I say with a smile, “but I’m in the mood to try new things.”
He grins back at me, a wolfish look that heats up my core, then tells me to have a look around while he goes into the kitchen to prepare our drinks. I take him up on the offer, wandering from the living room into a small office area, and then into what is definitely the best room so far.
There’s a library with built-in bookshelves on all four walls, each one completely packed with books. There are a couple of comfy-looking lounges in the center of the room to curl up on, and there’s even a rolling ladder on tracks that go all the way around the shelves.
This guy isn’t just well-read… he clearly loves books as much as I do. Maybe even more, judging by the collection.
I’m just perusing his shelves and thinking about the fact that Cassidy and Nora never found me at the festival like they promised—and wondering whether that had been by design—when Prescott appears in the doorway with a couple of stemmed glasses in hand.
“Didn’t take you long to find my favorite room,” he says as he crosses the floor to meet me. “Were your librarian senses tingling?”
“It’s hard to miss a space like this,” I point out, accepting the French 75 he holds out to me. I lift the glass and notice the bubbles rising in it. Taking a slow sip, I savor it and ask, “What’s in this?”
“Gin, of course,” he says. “Lemon juice, simple syrup, and champagne. What do you think?”
“I like it,” I say. My pulse is still a little elevated, and inside I’m thinking, I like you even more.
Prescott is standing close to me, his deep, intelligent eyes sweeping over me, and I can smell the sweetness of the champagne on his breath. I sway a little closer, wanting a repeat of that kiss at the festival.
Instead, for some dumb reason perhaps having to do with the fact that this is my second champagne of the night, my mouth doesn’t know when to quit working and I tease him, “I have to ask… how is it that you have the complete works of Jane Austen?”
He smiles and looks at the shelf I’m referring to. “What, a guy can’t enjoy a little eighteenth century romance now and again?” He nods in the direction of a beautiful leatherbound edition of Pride and Prejudice and adds, “‘I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.’”
“It really is excellent,” I say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him how he can afford so many nice books and a cozy house like this on a non-profit owner’s salary, but that seems like a rude question for a first date, and besides… he’s looking at me with that grin again, like he wants to swallow me whole.
And honestly, I’d like nothing better.
I allow Prescott to take the half-empty glass from my hand, discarding both of them on a nearby bookshelf before he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. His body pressed up against mine is firm and strong and heavenly, and when I feel his cock against my inner thigh, already rock hard, a little shiver works its way through me and I know I have never wanted anyone as bad as I want Prescott right now.
“I like you, Brooklyn,” he says, his lips so close they brush mine. “More than I knew was possible in such a short time.”
I like him too—God, I like him—but desire and champagne have scrambled my thoughts and all I can manage is, “Shut up and kiss me again.”
He chuckles, then says in a growl, “Yes, ma’am.”
Our lips meet, and then his tongue finds my own. I melt against him, moving my hips subtly against his cock until he groans with pleasure. Then I do it a little more brazenly.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he complains, his hands finding the curves of my ass. “Been driving me crazy since I first saw you in this dress.” One hand hooks under the hem of my tight little red dress and he adds, “I’d love to see you out of it too.”
“Mmm,” I moan against his lips, my palm sliding down his stomach to find his cock. “That can be arranged.”
“Oh yeah?” He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, to read the desire flooding them, and then suddenly he’s lifting me off my feet.
I let out a surprised yelp but wrap my legs firmly around his hips. At first I think he’s going to press my back up against the bookshelf, take me right then and there, and while it’s a hell of a lot faster than I usually go, I’m ready.
My body is ready.
My heart is so ready.
But instead, Prescott whirls around and walks me over to one of the chaise lounges in the center of the room. He lays me down and scrunches up the bottom of my dress, pushing it up over my hips and revealing the lacy pink panties beneath.
“Mmm, I like these,” he murmurs, so close to me I can feel the heat of his breath through the lace.
I squirm with need as he slowly, oh so torturously slowly, spreads my thighs and nuzzles his face between my legs. He groans in time with the little gasps and whimpers that escape my own lips, and at last he brings my knees together again so he can slide the panties off.
When I’m bare and open before him, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
There’s not a hint of shyness, or uncertainty. All I want is him, and I can tell by the way he’s practically licking his lips as he drinks me in that he wants me too.
“You’re perfect,” he says, swiping one finger through the slickness of my folds. I wrap my hands tightly around the edges of the lounge, holding on for dear life, and my hips rise involuntarily, wanting more. Needing more.
“Touch me,” I beg.
He gives me that wolfish grin, baring his perfect teeth, then nibbles on my inner thigh. “Like this?”
“Higher,” I say, smiling coyly.
“Here?” He kisses the crease of my hip. He’s just teasing now.
“Please, Prescott,” I beg, and at last, he gives me what I want. What I need. He buries his face between my legs, tongue swiping over my clit as he presses one finger inside of
me, then another.
It feels so good my vision goes starry, and it seems like just a few seconds before I’m coming—hard—and bucking my hips against his mouth.
6
Prescott
Brooklyn completely loses herself as she comes, writhing and grabbing at the lounge I laid her on, and it’s about the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen. My cock feels like a steel rod in my pants, so hard it’s almost to the point of aching.
But it’s well worth the tease when she finally comes back to herself, lifting her head up and gazing into my eyes with those gorgeous sapphires, her hair a messy halo around her head.
“Best first date ever,” she says, sitting up, the bottom of her dress still bunched up around her waist.
I look down at the raging hard-on I’m sporting, then back up at her. “I don’t know… I think it could get a little better. If you want—”
Before I even finish my sentence, she’s scooting to the edge of the lounge, wrapping her thighs around me again, my cock nestling against her warmth.
“Oh God,” I can’t help but groan.
“I do want,” she says, her gaze a challenge.
I scoop my hands under her ass and lift her off the lounge. What I’ve got in mind can’t be done on this narrow cushion. Instead, I pick her up and carry her to my bedroom, kissing her all the way. She’s threading her fingers through my hair, rocking her hips wantonly against my cock even as I carry her, and the result is an incredible tingle that works its way from my head all the way down to my groin.
Jesus fucking Christ, this girl is going to have me creaming my pants like a teenager. I can’t remember the last time I got this worked up over someone—maybe never, because Brooklyn isn’t just a curvy goddess, she’s the complete package.
And I want to make her mine.
I drop her onto the bed and land on top of her, framing her shoulders with my hands. I kiss her, tease us both as I slide my cock up and down over her wet pussy, until I decide that we’ve both still got entirely too many clothes on.
I sit up, making fast work of pulling her dress over her head, and Brooklyn attacks the buttons of my shirt. She bares my chest, running her hands down my stomach while I work on the zipper of my pants… and the minute I’ve got them open, she springs my cock free.
She takes it into her fist, stroking my velvety length, then she leans forward and licks up the little bead of precum forming on my tip.
I shiver and brace myself, one hand on each of the posters at the foot of the bed.
God, I want her mouth on me, her tongue rolling over the head of my cock, those gorgeous eyes looking up at me as she does it… but I want to be inside her even more. I want to fill her up, make her scream, claim her as my own.
“Lie down,” I growl, then pounce on her before she even has a chance to comply.
She draws in a surprised, pleased gasp, and God, I want to hear her do that again. It’s all I want.
My rock-hard cock finds her sweet entrance, dripping wet and ready for me. I press into her, and she moans, her pussy already clenching with the first waves of a new orgasm.
“Oh my God, Prescott,” she whines, clinging to me and wrapping her legs around me again, drawing me deeper into her.
She feels so good. So right.
I want this moment to last, but at the same time, we’re both so ready to come.
“Give it to me,” she says, pleads, and that’s all it takes.
I buck into her sweet pussy, and she moves in cadence with me. I fuck her hard until she’s tilting her head back and screaming toward the ceiling, until her walls clench around my cock and squeeze every last drop of cum from me.
It’s an incredible release, an incredible feeling to have Brooklyn’s body so completely wrapped around me, but what’s even better is falling asleep in each other’s arms after, clinging to each other like we don’t ever want to let go.
In the morning, I wake up to the sun streaming through my window and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met nestled against my side.
When I kiss Brooklyn’s forehead, her eyes flutter open. “Good morning,” she says, her voice husky with sleep.
“Morning,” I smile. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Best sleep of my life,” she answers. “What time is it?”
I lean over the edge of the bed and fish my phone out of the pocket of my pants. “Seven-thirty. You don’t have to leave right away, do you?”
If I had my way, she’d call my house her home and never leave again… but even I’m struggling to come to terms with how fast I’ve fallen for this woman, so I at least have the sense not to say that out loud.
“Nope,” she says, reaching her arms out and stretching. “I’m off work today. What about you?”
“Wish I could say the same,” I tell her. “I’ve got to go into the outreach center for out after-school programming, but that’s not for quite a while. Do you want to go get breakfast?”
Brooklyn rolls over, draping one arm across my chest and resting her chin on top of her hand to look at me. “I have a better idea.”
I grin. “Oh yeah?”
“Do you have bread, milk and eggs?” she asks. “I want to make you breakfast. My famous French toast.”
“Mmm, sounds good. I’m sure I’ve got all that.”
“That way,” she says, craning her neck to kiss me, “we won’t be too far from the bed.”
She smiles coyly and I tell her that I like the way she thinks. I get her a clean robe from my closet, and pull on a pair of pajama bottoms myself, then point her in the direction of the kitchen.
I’m enjoying the view from behind as I follow her, wondering if the sway of her hips is natural or if she’s doing it just to test my resolve to make it all the way through breakfast before dragging her back to bed. Then she asks, “What are you doing after work? Maybe we could go back to the festival, do a few more things we missed last night?”
“Wish I could,” I tell her, “but I have dinner with my parents every Friday night.”
“Oh.” She pouts a little, and it’s honestly freaking adorable.
“You should come with me,” I tell her as we get to the kitchen.
She turns around. “To meet your parents? The day after we met?”
“Hey, we’ve been emailing for two months,” I remind her, and she laughs.
“Still…” she hesitates. “That’s a big deal, meeting the parents.”
I put my hands on her hips, back her up against the counter until she can feel the hardness in my pajama pants—which I’m starting to worry will be a permanent condition whenever she’s around. But I put that aside for the moment to tell her, “You are a big deal, Brooklyn. I told you last night that I like you, and I want to make sure you know I mean it.”
She smiles, but it looks like she could use some more convincing.
I bring my hands up to her neck, thread my fingers through her messy morning hair, bring my lips down to meet hers. And when I pull back to look at her again, I tell her, “I know it’s fast, but I also know what I feel for you is real. And unless I’m judging a book by its cover all wrong, I think you feel the same. Right?”
Brooklyn smiles, and this time it’s a little brighter. “Right. I like you too. A lot.”
“Good,” I say, beaming. “So come meet my parents tonight. At the very least, you’ll get a hell of a good meal out of it.”
She laughs. “Okay. This is crazy, but okay.”
I kiss her again, give her a little swat on the ass, and say, “Now let’s make some French toast.”
7
Brooklyn
Prescott goes to work around noon and I go home to putter around with my day-off chores—laundry, groceries, boring stuff that can’t possibly coYachts
mpare to the last twelve hours.
It all feels a little unreal, like I’m imminently in danger of waking up from the best dream I’ve ever had, but I’m willing to push my luck a little further. Even if I am feeling nervou
s about tonight.
How crazy is it to meet a guy’s parents twenty-four hours after you meet him?
Pretty crazy, I’m sure, but as I’m pulling my laundry out of the dryer, I think it would be nice to get confirmation—or maybe a little moral support.
I can’t call Cassidy because she’s all lovestruck and heart-eyed at having met the man of her dreams recently. She’d just tell me to go for it with gusto. And I can’t call Nora because she’s working today.
So I call the Bakers’ house, wondering if anybody will be around to pick up in the middle of the day.
“Hello?” Martha answers, and I instantly smile at the sound of her voice.
It’s been a while since I had time to visit, but she still feels like a second mother to me. “Hey, it’s Brooks. Am I interrupting writing time?”
“Not at all. Tabitha has just broken off the engagement and Jacob is off wallowing in self-pity,” she says, which I assume refers to her latest story, “I’m letting them stew for a little while so I figured now was a good time to make some writing fuel. If you’re free, I could use an extra hand with these blueberry scones.”
“Mmm.” I’m practically drooling onto my phone. “Actually, it’s my day off.”
“Perfect,” she says. “Get your butt over here, girl.”
“On my way,” I say, happily ditching my laundry for a much better—and tastier—chore.
Martha has always been there when I needed her, even when I was just a random kid who was always following her girls home from school. She’d give me a homecooked meal and a hug, and I always knew I could talk to her if I needed her.
I guess all I really want today is a little of that happy-ever-after optimism that she writes into all of her novels, because I’m falling hard for Prescott and it’s a little overwhelming.
But when I get to the Baker house, I go inside and hear crying. My heart stops.
“Martha?” I call, following the sound to the kitchen.
