by Reid, Penny
A few things happened at once: we and the bed behind her were illuminated by overhead strands of fairy lights, set in a crisscross pattern to resemble the night sky and stars. A backdrop of the northern lights as viewed from Iceland fell in front of the curtain. Overhead colored lamps flickered on and off, recreating the effect of the ebbing and glowing photons caused by charged particles from the sun striking atoms in Earth’s atmosphere. A bottle of champagne within an ice bucket on top of a bearskin rug placed on a platform descended from the rafters, showering rose petals as it lowered.
Also, Jennifer gasped.
She spun all around, as though she didn’t know where to look first, and when she spotted the bearskin rug settle in place on top of the petals, she laughed with delight, giving me back her eyes.
“Oh, Cletus. It’s so—”
I kissed her.
Fisting my hand in her hair, I yanked her head back and kissed the fuck out of her and knew that this had been a mistake.
This plan? A mistake.
What had I been thinking? Champagne? Caviar? Bearskin rugs? Watching a simulated version of the aurora borealis while slowly seducing her? Using the backstage area of the cafetorium at the community center instead of just fucking her senseless in her bed at home? All of it foolishness. I was done waiting, I was so hungry, there would be no finesse or control.
Her fingers came to my shoulders for purchase, and it was a good thing because my hands were already under her skirt, lifting it, analyzing the type and thickness of the underwear she had on so that next steps could be taken with all haste.
But then, I found none.
She pulled away long enough to rasp out, “I’m not wearing any,” then her mouth was back on mine.
I growled like a starving badger, unable to keep a leash on this fierce longing for another second. I didn’t even think about stopping, couldn’t comprehend it. I grabbed her bare backside and realized her tights were thigh-highs suspended to a garter belt.
Another growl rumbled out of me, and I pushed her back on the bed. She fell, bouncing upon impact, her eyes big and watchful as I yanked down the zipper of my pants and placed a knee between her legs. Spreading her wider, her skirt pulled up over her hips, revealing her dusty pink opening, her clitoris, the smooth, pale skin between her thighs. Gripping myself, I reached into my back pocket, tore open a condom, and rolled it down my shaft.
“Cletus,” she said on a hitching breath, watching me, her fingers gripping the fabric of her skirt like she didn’t know whether to pull it down or hike it up.
Wordlessly, I sprang on her, taking the material of her dress out of her hands and pushing it up, exposing the rest of her body. She leaned forward, helping me pull it completely over her head. I swallowed another growl because she wasn’t wearing a bra either. Too long. It’s been too long.
I fastened my mouth to her breast, swirling my tongue around her nipple, biting, eliciting a soft, urgent cry. Hungry for the taste of her, the feel of her soft, smooth skin beneath mine, I sucked again, palming her other breast. Settling between her legs, I gave her clitoris a long stroke, and then another.
Turning her head to the side, she gasped for air as I reached between her legs, finding her hot and wet, silky and slick to the touch. Her greedy walls clamped down and pulled on my finger and she moaned, her eyes closing, her head lifting, her lips seeking mine.
I evaded her mouth, wanting her ticklish and tender neck as I positioned myself and pushed inside, sucking in a deep breath that filled my lungs even as they burned to take and claim this woman, to brand her as she’d branded me. Starving.
I moved, and it felt so fucking good.
Rolling my hips, flexing my stomach and bottom, the most erotic sound left her, an animalistic, thoughtless, senseless cry. Her eyes opened but they’d glazed over, like she was lost in a labyrinth of lust and longing. I bit her neck, slid my hands to her wrists and held them next to her sides as I bowed my back and looked down. I wanted to watch, I wanted to see, I wanted evidence beyond the sensation, and the sight was exquisite. It was art, beauty and gluttony and purpose.
My gaze trailed upward to her stomach, ribs, and I thrust deeper, harder, her body pushed higher on the bed. Her hips seemed to rock instinctively, increasing in tempo, searching, straining.
She said my name. She made promises. She said please. She said a lot of things. Each syllable, each word fueled me, though I did not really hear or process them. She was close, and so was I, and I wanted her orgasm first. I needed it.
And then I would make her orgasm again.
Releasing her wrist, I moved my thumb between us and circled her clit, tapped it. She trembled, sucking in an unsteady breath. Jenn pressed her head back, exposing her neck, her body taut. She came, and I followed, losing control of my rhythm, the last of my thrusts inelegant, hedonistic, selfish.
Jenn’s arms came around my torso, encouraging me to give her my weight, which I did. But just for a moment. I placed a kiss on her lips, her jaw, her neck, her breast. I stood and turned away to dispose of the condom. On my way back, I pulled my shirt up and off, tossing it away . . . somewhere. Next came my shoes, socks, pants, and boxers.
She propped herself up on her elbows, watching the reveal of my body, a lazy smile on her face.
But then she stiffened. “Cletus. It’s quiet,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the aurora borealis backdrop between us and the front curtain.
I stretched out on the bed, laving my tongue across the center of her breast, having admittedly forgotten where we were or that I’d had a plan, and part of that plan had been the complete clearing out of the cafeteria and the locking of the doors, never mind champagne and making love on a bearskin rug.
“Cletus!” She gripped my arm, shaking me. “What if someone heard us?”
“They’re gone.” I wrapped a hand behind her knee and tugged, encouraging her to straddle me because I wanted the view. My single-mindedness in this moment should’ve concerned me. I could not be bothered to be concerned. I want her again. Now.
Jenn allowed me to move her, and I slid my palms down her sides to her hips, liking the way my hands looked on her body.
She squirmed, a little puff of air leaving her and drawing my attention to her face. “Are you okay?” I asked, bracing myself for her answer. It’s not like I’d been especially communicative about my actions or solicitous of her desires.
On the other hand, she came. So . . . we’re probably good.
“I feel sublime.” Jenn stretched, her breathtaking body arching in a mesmerizing curve, her delectable breasts distracting me from the giant, satisfied grin on her lovely face.
“Really?” I asked her breast, massaging the pliant perfection. I loved her breasts so much. They deserve love notes. Sonatas and sonnets.
“Yes. Why do you look surprised?”
“Now that we’ve completed phase one and you can ruminate on the events of the evening, you’re not upset? About me being sneaky and high-handed?”
“What are you talking about?” Her amused question brought my eyes back to hers. “This wasn’t sneaky! This was wonderful. I love it when you take control, then I can just enjoy myself and not wonder if I’m doing everything right.” She made a face, like she thought I was funny. “Do you want me to pretend to be upset? Fake reluctance? My pen pal told me some men and women like that kind of thing, but only when both people are one hundred percent on the same page ahead of time.”
I flinched back, momentarily at a loss for words. “Are you—are you talking about role-playing?”
“Yes.” She nodded vehemently. “But before we do that, we should talk about it. I don’t want to do anything that’ll make you uncomfortable.”
I wracked my brain, trying to come up with something Jenn could do—which also turned her on—that would make me uncomfortable. If it ended in her orgasm, I couldn’t think of a single thing.
“Again, why do you look so surprised?”
“I . . .” I
scratched my temple, my brain suddenly too full of ideas, future sexy encounters, situations, costumes, props.
PROPS!
I loved props. And wigs.
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s just, I lured you here under false pretenses, and then forgot to seduce you.” Not that I had any regrets. In about ten minutes, I’d likely lose my mind again, it was good we were having this conversation now while I remained somewhat coherent.
“Then why do I feel seduced?”
“You do?”
“I loved every minute of it. I love seeing you go crazy for me.” Shifting so that she leaned over me, she traced the tip of her finger along my cheekbone to my temple. “You seem to think I’m not obsessed with your body. I assure you, I am obsessed with your body, and all the things it can do, and all the things I want to do to it, and all the things I want it to do to me.” As though to punctuate this statement, her hand trailed enticingly down my chest and stomach, a hard, grabbing, greedy caress and scratching nails. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifted up on her knees and fisted me in her hand.
I sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth. “Don’t do that unless you’re ready for phase two of the plan.”
She grinned again, widely. “There’s a phase two?”
“Yes. And it requires a tarp.”
“A tarp!” She tugged on me, her eyes bright with excitement.
I hissed, and she let me go, maybe thinking her ministrations were painful. They were, in a way, but her enthusiasm was pure perfection.
Grabbing her wrist, I brought her hand back and closed her fingers around the thick length. She watched our hands move and I watched her, showing her what I wanted now, which was slightly different than what I’d wanted before.
“Like this?” she asked, seemingly entranced.
“Just like that.”
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and her eyes returned to mine. I admired the hazy quality of her gaze, the hunger, the eagerness to please.
“Cletus,” she whispered, swallowing, her hand still stroking me. “I may not know everything about sex yet, like the logistics of all the positions and such, but I think about your body all the time—and, obviously, your heart and your mind.” She added heart and mind as though they were afterthoughts. “But just so we’re clear, I’d like you to lure and seduce me, all the time.”
“I don’t want to be selfish,” I said on a rush. But then I realized that statement was a lie, and I would not lie to Jenn, no matter what. My ten-minute window was looking more like five.
“Actually, that was a lie. I do want to be selfish,” I grumbled.
Before she could respond, I pushed her hand away and grabbed her torso, starving for the taste of her skin. I closed my mouth over her luscious breast and sucked, biting the already tender flesh.
She squirmed, panting. “Oh, that kinda hurts. Do it again.”
I did, my hand sliding between her legs, fingering the slickness of her opening. “I want this.”
Her throat worked, her nails digging into my shoulders, and she nodded.
I lifted the finger that had been inside her, painted her lips, and then dipped it inside her mouth, my body tensing with anticipation as she swirled her tongue around me, sucking, hot and wet and restless.
“I want this.”
Her eyes on mine, she nodded, opening her mouth to release my finger and moving down my body as though to accept another part of me.
I shook my head, catching her arm. “But first . . .” Encircling her wrist, I tugged. “I want you to sit on my face.”
She gulped, looking uncertain but nodding. Gingerly, she sat up, placing a knee on one side of my head, her gaze on mine. She hesitated.
“Will you be able to breathe?”
“Oh yes.” I grinned, cupping the perfection of her bare backside, encouraging her to place the other knee into position and open herself up to me. And then I licked.
She shivered, her hands reaching behind her for balance. “I—I—”
Jenn didn’t finish her sentence, couldn’t, and I watched every trembling breath, every sway of her breasts and body above me as I feasted and she rocked her hips against my tongue. Gorgeous.
I craved my Jenn to distraction, to my detriment, but also to my gain and benefit. We were still at the beginning, our beginning, and I’d never been as truly happy in my entire life as I lived and breathed and endured during the moments we spent together. As I watched her thoroughly come apart, relinquish control, and give herself completely to me, I marveled at the satisfaction I received in return. And it felt selfish.
But then, maybe selfishness and sacrifice can be one and the same, when they’re done in love.
-The End-
About the Author
Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
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Mailing List: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance
Email: [email protected] …hey, you! Email me ;-)
Read on for:
1. A Sneak Peek of Beard With Me, Book #6 in the Winston Brothers Series
2. Penny’s Booklist
Sneak Peek: Beard With Me, Winston Brothers Book #6
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“Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”
Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown / Peanuts
*Scarlet*
Caution tape barred the way to the chorus room. Gulping a hard bubble of air, my attention moved from the yellow tape to the hallway beyond it, to a white poster board next to the door. The sign had been set on an easel and it read, WET PAINT – DO NOT ENTER.
“No. No, no, no!” My eyes darted again to the yellow tape.
I gripped the paper sack holding my free school lunch. A sound of despair tumbled from my mouth. Heart galloping, pits sweating, my tongue tasting sour with dread, I had a moment.
And by a moment I mean I freaked out.
Officially, I wasn’t allowed to eat in the chorus room. No one was. But early on in my freshman year, I’d snuck in and hid myself between two rows of chairs, careful to dash inside before Mrs. McClure arrived for her lesson planning hour. I’d become quite skilled at leaving unnoticed after the bell rang for fourth period, when her students wandered in.
This had worked for the last (almost) year and a half, but it obviously wouldn’t work today. Making matters worse, this was the last month of school before winter break. There was no sneaky way to find a place to sit in the lunchroom when I’d spent the majority of the year not eating in the lunchroom.
Tugging on the recently repaired strap of my very, very old backpack—some might even consider it an antique—I stuffed the food inside, harsh movements made clumsy by swelling frustration. But then I paused, taking a slow, deep breath, and telling my shaking hands and thundering heart to cool it.
“How does the ocean say hello to the beach?” I asked myself, quietly supplying the answer, “Gives it a little wave.”
The stupid joke helped ease the tangle in my stomach and I cracked a smile, laughing lightly.
Don’t be stupid. This is no big deal. Whatever.
The first fourteen and a half years of life had taught me many valuable lessons. One of the most important was that the magnitude of disappointment was directly proportional to the magnitude of expectations. I’d known this for a while, but the concept had finally solidified in my mind this year during physics class when we’d learned about Newton’s third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It applied to life and hopes and dreams and expectations too.
Now I had a math equation to estimate my level of disappointment based on my level of expectation. Isn’t that nice?
My first mistake was coming to rely upon the chorus room. Second mistake was allowing myself to look forward to this moment. Today was Friday. Eating lunch in a quiet, heated place was a luxury. Free of people, free of bugs, free of people who behaved like bugs. Now I had nowhere to eat my lunch that wasn’t free of bug people.
“Come on now, Scarlet. You know better,” I murmured, rolling my eyes and angling my chin. “It could be worse. It could be the first month of school.”
My crack of a smile widened, and I sighed as I turned to the tricky zipper of my bag. I needed to be careful. If it was unzipped past a certain point, it wouldn’t re-zip and I’d go the rest of the day with my books and papers falling all over the place.
Plus, I’d have to find a new zipper to sew inside and that would be difficult. Blythe Tanner, who was usually my source for clothes and such items in return for help with can and glass recycling, wasn’t speaking to me ever since my dad threatened to disembowel her dad two months ago. Her father owned the junkyard and my father wanted to store stolen cars in his junkyard. Mr. Tanner—not being a criminal—refused.
A shiver raced down my spine and I promptly submerged it—and thoughts of my father—using a trick I’d picked up at ten years old: rephrase a situation as a scripted comedy TV show. Good old dad, always threatening disembowelments. What a character!
Yeah. I talked to myself a lot. I told myself a lot of jokes. I even had inside jokes . . . with myself. I guess folks needed to talk to someone, and it was mostly just me around for conversation. But that was just fine. I was an awesome conversationalist.
Closing my eyes, I knelt on the ground and placed the backpack carefully on the floor so I could gently tuck my food inside on top of my jacket. The back of my hand brushed against my prized possession, a Walkman CD player, and I was careful not to knock it around. With my eyes shut, sounds that were usually background noise sharpened and increased in volume. The rumble of students talking and eating became a roar, trays being set on tables, soda cans opening, laughter.