Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  “Please…ah!” I cried out as his fingers twisted within me before resuming their steady, pulsing movements. “Fuck! You know what I want.”

  “Do I?”

  “Gah! Yes, you do!”

  I desperately wanted contact, and he refused to give it to me. Instead, he pulled away.

  “You smell so good,” he murmured with a brief kiss on my inner thigh and another into the small patch of hair that surrounded his fingers. “You have no idea how badly I want to taste you. But you’re going to have to say it.”

  “Taste me,” I repeated.

  His fingers had picked up their pace, and I was starting to lose feeling in my legs.

  “Taste what, Skylar? Say it.”

  “Taste my…oh, God…taste my pussy!”

  Brandon grinned devilishly. “Your wish is my command.”

  “Brandon!” I yelped as his mouth finally found me.

  The scratch of his unshaved cheek was deliciously rough against my inner thigh. He alternated between licking and sucking, his occasional deep growl vibrating over the sensitive flesh. His tongue was voracious, teasing and exploring as if he couldn’t get enough of me, couldn’t taste enough of me. I moaned, thrusting hard against the insistent rhythm set by his fingers.

  All of the energy in my body seemed to be gathering around his mouth and fingers. The hand that had been holding me down by the hip reached up to tweak one of my nipples, pulling on the hardened nub in time with the fingers inside me.

  “Oh, FUCK!” I cried as his tongue twirled, complementing the pressure from inside and beneath it. “Oh, God, Brandon…fuck…I’m…ohmygodI’MGOINGTOCOME!”

  My orgasm swept through me, pulsing through my tensed limbs in time with his fingers and mouth. Brandon hummed as he worked out the thrum of my heartbeat. I came, in wave after wave until every last bit of energy within me had been spent.

  At last, when all of the tension was gone, and I lay against the lacquered wood like a shot animal, he gently removed his fingers and lifted his mouth. He leaned his head on my thigh, looked up, and smiled sweetly at me.

  “I love making you do that,” he rumbled before standing up.

  His hands ran up the sides of my body, gently slipping under my back and lifting me up. I was limp, like a rag doll.

  “I love you,” I muttered into his shoulder. He chuckled and arranged my arms around his neck.

  “I love you too, Red.” One arm slipped under my legs, the other around my back, and in a fluid motion, he picked me up off the piano.

  “Where are we going?” I asked drowsily, content to play damsel in distress. He’d distressed me, after all.

  “Upstairs,” he said with a brief kiss on my cheek. He was moving quickly, with a lot more energy than I currently possessed. “First, we’re going to do that again, and then I’m going to finish the job properly.”

  Just the thought had me perking up. I bit his shoulder lightly. “Sounds good to me.”

  36

  Nestled in the impossibly soft sheets of Brandon’s bed, I blinked my eyes open against the bright sunlight streaming through the tall bay windows. Reaching my hand out next to me, I realized that I was the only one in bed and sat up, my sex-rumpled hair falling down my back.

  Scooting off the bed, I padded into the walk-in closet in search of something to wear—my clothes, as far as I knew, were still scattered around the piano. The piano he’d bought for me.

  I love you, he’d said. Move in with me. The words still echoed, sweet and soft, as if they had just been uttered.

  I glanced around the closet as if I hadn’t been in there several times. It was bigger than my entire bedroom. One wall was hung with evenly spaced designer suits, another full of shelves and drawers with immaculately folded basics. The third was stocked with shoes and other accessories, and an ottoman as big as a double bed sat in the middle of the plush carpet.

  Where would my homely belongings go in here? Could I get used to living in this kind of splendor? Would I ever feel completely normal in it?

  Despite the central heat, I shivered, and not just because I was naked. I tiptoed to one of the shelves and ran a hand over some of the soft cotton, all of it brand new. Brandon must have owned at least fifty plain white t-shirts. I didn’t even think I owned fifty shirts period.

  At the bottom of one stack, a ratty blue material caught my eye, and I tugged it free to find a worn Red Sox t-shirt smeared with paint splotches here and there. I smiled and pulled it over my head. In the mirror, I caught a glance of myself practically swimming in the shirt. I could smell Brandon in the time-softened fabric, and the thought made me smile. I may not have felt—yet—like I belonged here, but I was happy.

  I made my way downstairs, where I could hear the deep tones of Brandon’s voice in conversation with someone in the kitchen.

  “So, if she shows up, I’m not home,” he instructed Ana, who was intently scribbling in a small notebook. “Otherwise, you’ve got the rest of the weekend off until Monday. We’ll want the place to ourselves.” He turned when he heard my footsteps. “Hey, there she is.” His eyes flickered over my outfit, and he grinned. “Did I convert you?”

  I looked down at the Sox logo and back up. “Well, I’ll always be a Mets fan, but I’m starting to come around on Red Sox Nation.” I glanced at Ana and blushed. Shit, I was standing here in her boss’s clothes. And this t-shirt was very thin.

  “I’ll be downstairs if you need me, Mr. Sterling,” she said with a warm smile my way.

  She tucked the notebook into her back pocket, hefted a basket of rumpled clothes, including the ones I was wearing last night, and disappeared downstairs. Brandon poured me a cup of tea and set it on the counter next to a small pitcher of cream and a porcelain cup of honey. I shuffled over to fix my tea while he sat down on the chaise lounge, mug of coffee in hand.

  “Not that you don’t look sexy as hell in my clothes, Red, but where did you find that shirt?” he asked.

  I leaned against the counter, sipping my tea, one of his fancy Chinese blends. Damn, that was good. Okay, so maybe there were perks to living with someone as rich as Croesus.

  I shrugged. “It looked like the most comfortable thing up there. I didn’t want to ruin any of your nice new shirts.”

  Brandon gave me a funny little half smile and gazed at me with a raised eyebrow. “Is there really something so wrong with the finer things in life?”

  “Nothing at all,” I lied. “I’m just not sure why you need so many of them. Most of your t-shirts still have tags on them.”

  His face turned grim. “Yeah. Well. I guess when you know what it’s like to go without, you don’t ever want to have to do it again.”

  “Bubbe says that. She was born during the Depression.”

  “She’s a smart woman.”

  I took another sip. “Yeah, well, she also hoards cans of food that are ten years expired. Sometimes we even find them in her closet.”

  “Hey, she knows how to prepare for the worst.”

  “By getting too much of everything?”

  “It works, doesn’t it?”

  We sipped silently, the slurps echoing through the kitchen. It only emphasized just how enormous this place really was. Four floors, plus the servants’ apartments; thousands of square feet. For one man to live here…it was beyond decadent, really. It was obscene.

  “You don’t even use half the rooms in this place,” I pointed out. “It’s so huge. Doesn’t it feel empty?”

  Brandon shrugged from the lounge, where he was lying back against the backrest, his feet kicked up on a pillow.

  “I keep it full of interesting people,” he said, echoing the famous line from The Great Gatsby, although I wasn’t certain it was intentional. “It’s the best.”

  I considered his defense. “And you like the best?”

  He shot me a sharkish grin. “Always, Red. You know that.”

  I gulped. Something kept nagging at me, something that kept telling me how very out of place I was
in a house like this. With someone like this. I needed to ask again.

  “Then why settle for me?”

  Brandon blinked at the question as the grin disappeared. After pondering the question for what seemed like forever, he sat up, crooked a very sexy finger, and beckoned me to where he was. I sat down, and he leaned us back together. His palm slid up my thigh while the other pulled my head onto his chest. He was so warm, so large. I couldn’t help but feel safe tucked into him this way.

  “I think that question says more about you than it’s asking of me,” he said, stroking my hair. He pulled it lightly at the end of each stroke in a way that rendered me putty. “But I’ll answer it anyway. Aside from how beautiful you are, Red, you’re above all genuine. You’re genuinely intelligent. You’re genuinely kind. And even though you obviously have a low threshold for bullshit, you’re genuinely a loyal, dedicated person. But most of all, you’re honest. It may not be the most valuable quality for a lawyer, but I love that I can see every emotion on that glass face of yours. I see you, Red. Just like you see me.”

  I was glad that my face was currently buried in his chest so he couldn’t see the emotions that were certainly flying across it.

  “More like a freckle face,” I muttered, trying to distract from what was probably the best compliment I had ever been given. I had always hated the smattering of freckles that decorated my cheeks and nose, thinking they made me look like a little kid.

  “It’s a unique, fucking gorgeous face,” he insisted, sitting me up so I straddled his waist and he could clasp my cheeks between his hands. His eyes burned with such obvious intensity. I couldn’t have looked away if I wanted to.

  “You’re a classic ginger,” he said, stroking my cheekbones with his thumbs. “Hair like a sunset, green eyes, high cheekbones, those full, insanely kissable lips. But instead of the pasty skin most redheads have, yours is olive-toned under your freckles, like an Italian’s. Why is that, by the way? Is your mom dark?”

  “No, you can thank Bubbe for that,” I said with a shrug. “Jewish.”

  “Ah. And your freckles are from the Irish side, right?” When I nodded, he smiled. “I could get lost in this face, Skylar.” He drifted his lips over my cheeks and eyelids. “I think I already have.”

  Before I could tell him that his own face, with its straight, geometric lines, wide blue eyes, and deceptively full lips, drew me like a moth to a flame, he closed those lips over mine and showed me just how lost we could get together.

  “Please,” I whimpered when he finally let me come up for air.

  “Please what?” He dragged his teeth lightly over the edge of my shoulder blade as his hands tugged his shirt off me, leaving me naked again in the morning light.

  “Won’t Ana or one of your other…ah…people see us?” I asked, although I was already too distracted by the feel of his mouth to care much.

  “Don’t,” he growled, causing goose bumps to rise all over my skin. “No one is here. You just focus on what I’m doing to you.”

  His hands floated down to settle over my breasts, cupping each one briefly, as if to measure their weight.

  “Watch my hands,” he murmured. “Watch the way I touch you. Watch how your body responds.”

  Obediently, and barely able to breathe, I followed his orders, completely rapt as his thumbs brushed feather-soft over my nipples, causing them to pebble in delight. He sighed with satisfaction, and seized the tips between his thumbs and forefingers, tugging and twisting gently. I gasped, mired in the pleasure and pain of his touch. Brandon hummed with appreciation, tugged more so I leaned toward his waiting mouth.

  His teeth clamped lightly over one nipple, and I squeaked at the thrill. He took his time, teasing and nipping, rolling the tight, tender nub between his teeth while his fingers continued their torture on the other side. My hands tangled in his hair when he switched to the other nipple, merciless until I was writhing.

  I reached down to the hardness pressing through his shorts, but he released my breast from his mouth and jerked my hand away.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I said you have to watch. You can touch my face, hair, shoulders to hold on, but that’s it.”

  He returned to his work at my nipple, and I grasped ineffectually at his hair and rolled my hips, looking for a friction I couldn’t quite access. His fingers continued to alternately tug and pinch until he switched sides again.

  “Easy, baby,” he murmured at my breast.

  As he went back to his work, his hand slipped lower and found my clit.

  “Aaah!” I cried at the contact, but continued to watch him at my breast, watched his mouth take me in further as his thumb found a steady rhythm.

  “Brandon…” I moaned as he bit yet again, just hard enough to make me jerk.

  As I teetered on that delicate edge of pain and pleasure, an orgasm surged through my body. I collapsed and bit his shoulder back while I shook in his arms. He released my breast, but his thumb continued gently rubbing until my body stopped shaking.

  Lightly, Brandon nipped at my neck, waking me.

  “Good?” he asked. “I think that was a record time for you.”

  “Mmmm,” I groaned. “You’re getting better at that than I am.”

  He shifted. I could still feel his desire pulsing between my legs.

  “Your turn,” I said as I sat back up.

  I took another kiss that tasted of coffee and turbinado sugar. With a big arm around my waist, Brandon tugged me closer.

  “You don’t…I wasn’t trying to…” he muttered as I tried to tug down his shorts. “Red, aren’t you sore?”

  Finally, he lay free and heavy in my hands, and I greedily situated myself over him, wincing slightly as I helped him inside. We both sighed with content as he found his place, buried completely within me.

  “A little,” I admitted as I removed his shirt. “But you still feel good.”

  I moved, allowing him to find a bit of friction. His brow furrowed as if in slight pain himself, but he pushed even deeper. His hands slid up my back and pulled me to his chest as we started to move together.

  “Tell me again,” he murmured against my lips.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me you love me.”

  Oh. I pushed up so I could see his face. His muscle was warm under my hand. I stared straight at him without blinking.

  “I love you, Brandon,” I said. My heart skipped for a moment—out of fear or passion, I couldn’t tell. Most likely a bit of both.

  He watched me, shaking slightly as he pressed even deeper. “Say it again.”

  I hovered my face above his so we could breathe each other’s scents and enjoy the warmth of each other’s bodies.

  “I love you,” I whispered again.

  With a groan, he yanked me back down, forcing me to take him as far as I could, again and again. I gasped, but allowed him to seize my hips while we watched each other, completely rapt. I winced again, and he slowed his movements.

  “I knew you were sore,” he murmured. He moved again, this time with less force.

  “A little,” I said, but rolled my hips. I sucked in a breath. “It hurts, but in a good way.”

  “I guess I wore you out last night.”

  “Never,” I purred, and took another kiss.

  “I can’t,” he breathed into my mouth, as his movements began to pick up. His hands clenched, seeking better purchase in the flesh of my ass. He groaned again, almost as if in pain himself. “God, I can’t stop, Skylar.”

  “Don’t.” I pulled his lip with my teeth and urged him on, pushing down to meet him, thrust for thrust. The pain slowly receded, and very quickly all I could feel was blinding pleasure. “Oh God, Brandon, don’t. Don’t stop!”

  “FUCK!” he cried.

  We moved frantically, seeking that primal connection that can only be had when both lovers lose themselves completely. I don’t know exactly what happened next. I lost hold of his shoulders, closing my eyes so I could only feel the d
eep penetration. We shook and cried together, my body writhing atop his while he punished me from below. And at last, with final cries so guttural and complete that there was nothing left to give, we quivered and pulsed in each other’s arms.

  It was only then that I fell over his shoulder and allowed him to pull me close. His chest still quivered slightly beneath my cheek, and our skin was slick with sweat. But he held me tightly, unwilling to let me go, unwilling to break the connection.

  “Love,” he murmured into the tender place between my neck and shoulder.

  It wasn’t a statement or a proclamation. Just a word that captured the moment.

  “Love,” I repeated, my voice ragged and worn. “Yes.”

  A slow clap broke our sleepy silence from the other side of the room. Jerked out of our post-sex stupor, Brandon and I both scrambled off the lounge, tripping slightly over each other, and grabbed madly for clothes.

  “Jesus!” I clutched Brandon’s shirt to my chest and tried to find the armholes without flashing the stranger. A stranger who also happened to be...female?

  “Well, you certainly don’t waste time, do you? Love, was it?”

  The woman standing in the kitchen entrance was dressed immaculately in a pale cream suit and a camel-colored coat too perfect not to be cashmere. Her nearly black tresses were swept back from her angular face into a neat chignon, revealing tasteful pearl and diamond droplet earrings that matched the glinting ring on her finger. She was stunning. She was also a woman I had seen before, outside Brandon’s office only a few months ago. The one in fur who called him “darling.”

  I froze.

  “What the fuck?” Brandon roared once he had tugged on his shorts and t-shirt.

  “It was a nice show, Bran,” she said casually, tracing one elegant finger up the doorframe. “Although I can’t say it’s what I originally intended for that chaise. It’s a one of a kind, you know.”

  “Miranda, what the fuck are you doing here?” Brandon asked, this time keeping his voice barely below shouting level. His accent, however, couldn’t be hidden at all.