by Lauren Rowe
“I forgot how hot you are,” she says. “Oh my God.”
I rip off my briefs, letting my cock spring free, and crawl onto the bed next to her.
I press my skin against hers, jutting my hard-on into her hip. “Make yourself come while I watch you.”
She closes her eyes, exhales, and begins moving her hand more rapidly.
As she works herself, I kiss her shoulder and neck slowly. Goose bumps rise up on her skin. I tilt her head to the side and kiss the long nape of her neck.
She moans.
I continue laying kisses all over her neck, shoulders, and torso while slowly removing her pesky bra, and the minute her breasts bounce free, I take them greedily into my mouth.
She shudders.
I stroke my fingers up and down her arm several times and then let my fingers trail all the way down to hers, until my fingers are lying directly on top of hers, joining hers in pleasuring her pussy. She moans and continues working herself, my fingers fused with hers, my lips and tongue swirling over her nipples, neck, and ear.
“You been thinking about me this past week?” I mumble into her skin, working her pussy along with her.
“Every minute of every day,” she chokes out.
Our fingers work her clit together as our tongues slowly dance and swirl together.
I can’t take it anymore. I gently push her hand away and begin working her clit and wetness together with my fingers, using one of the fingering techniques I recently read about in one of Jonas’ books, and Kat’s soft moans instantly transform into full-throated groans. I gotta admit: I thought I knew it all before reading that damn book (twice), but I’ll be damned if it didn’t teach me a thing or two. I shift my fingers again, giving her something I’ve never done before, and she begins convulsing with pleasure.
She makes a tortured sound, and I slide my finger up into her ass, right against her anus, just in time to feel her body release with rhythmic waves against my fingertip.
Oh God, I’m so aroused, my cock physically hurts. I’ve never enjoyed giving a woman pleasure quite this much. “You know what I thought about all week long? Eating my whore’s magic pussy.”
Her eyes light up.
I wouldn’t say I’m a man who normally obsesses about going downtown, though I’ve always enjoyed it (with the right woman, of course). And yet, for some reason, when it comes to Kat, I’ve been literally craving the taste of her warm pussy day and night.
I spread her legs open and her breath catches with anticipation.
“Are you ready to earn your million bucks, baby? Because this is gonna turn me on.”
She nods vigorously, her eyes blazing.
I pull the fabric of Kat’s crotchless undies aside and swirl my tongue around and around, but the fabric keeps getting in my way. With a loud grunt, I pull down her undies and garter belt, throw them across the room, and then resume my assault on her with even more enthusiasm, licking and kissing and sucking every inch of her pussy until she’s smashing herself into my face, clutching the sheets, gripping my hair, and screaming at the top of her lungs.
“You taste so good,” I say, eating her voraciously. “So fucking good.”
She releases with a loud shriek, and as she does, the sensation of her flesh rippling against my mouth gets me off so hard, I lose my fucking shit. Without thinking about it, I crawl over her, place a knee on either side of her head, grip her hair (a lot harder than I should), and wordlessly plunge my cock deep into her mouth.
“Time to earn your fee, baby,” I growl.
Her response is immediate and through the roof. Either she’s a better actress than Gabrielle LeMonde or she’s really getting off on getting face-fucked. Either way, she’s moaning like a sheep at slaughter as her throat receives the full length of me. I respond to her enthusiasm by thrusting even harder and deeper into her warm, wet mouth, almost all the way.
She reaches up and yanks on me, pulling me into her, signaling me to go even deeper, fuck her even harder, so I do. Oh my God, she’s going insane with pleasure right now and I’m hurtling toward an epic orgasm myself on a bullet train—which means, motherfucker, I truly have to stop. Yes, I agreed to treat her like my whore—and, as it turns out, I’m quite happy to do it. But I didn’t jack off for an entire week on FaceTime, just to blow my load into the woman’s goddamned mouth.
I grip the top of Kat’s hair firmly and pull out of her mouth—and when she looks up at me, she’s in a stupor.
“You’re good at sucking cock, baby,” I say, rubbing the tip of my cock against the cleft in her chin. “It’s no wonder sheiks, kings, and presidents want you so bad.”
Her eyes light up. “I like sucking your cock, baby,” she says. “Let me do it again and make you come.” She lowers her mouth and licks my tip, making me shudder.
“No, babe,” I say. “I want my paid whore’s magic pussy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Say, ‘Whatever you wish.’”
“Whatever you wish,” she purrs.
Wordlessly, I guide her on top of me—moaning with pleasure as my cock enters her. The minute she’s on my saddle, I grip her hips and guide her pelvis into enthusiastic movement.
“Josh,” she cries, her tits bouncing wildly as she fucks me. “Oh my God, yes.”
She’s turning me on so much, I can’t even think. “You feel so good,” I growl, grasping her rocking hips. “Oh my God, Kat, you feel so fucking good.”
I slide my fingers up her ass—a move that’s pushed her over the edge in the past—and this time, as before, it sends her directly into an orgasm. Her entire body stiffens. Her eyes roll back into her head. Her moans and whimpers morph into shrieks.
Note to self: Kat likes ass-play.
When Kat’s climax subsides, I throw her onto the bed and guide her onto her hands and knees—and then, without hesitation, spank the shit out of her ’til she’s squealing and moaning and twitching, and then I grip her hips and fuck her again from this new position. I’ve positioned Kat this way for my benefit—doggy-style happens to be one of my favorite ways to fuck—plus, after the orgasm Kat just had, I’m figuring she’s all done and it’s my turn now. But after only a handful of deep thrusts, it’s clear my little whore is ramping up to go off again.
Jesus, she’s supernatural.
I slow down my thrusts, trying my damnedest to hang on, and she makes that sharp-intake-of-breath sound that seems to signal an impending orgasm. I’m pretty sure that particular sound means two things: one, my girl’s hanging on by the barest of threads, and, two, it’s time for me to yank that motherfucking thread and watch her unravel.
I reach underneath her and grope her breasts and pinch her nipples and she jerks underneath my thrusting body like a bucking bronco. Nice. I increase the speed and depth of my thrusts and she begins whimpering. Good. I reach around and massage her clit, using one of the techniques described in my handy-dandy new book, and she wails with pleasure.
“I’m addicted to you, baby,” I say, sweat dripping off my brow. “Fucking addicted.”
“Oh my fuck,” she responds. “Jesus Christ Superstar. Motherfucker.”
Clearly, she likes what I’m doing (either that or she took acid before we started fucking), but, still, she doesn’t release.
I bite her shoulder. Rub her back. Kiss her neck. Grab her hair roughly. All while thrusting and groping and licking and fingering her.
“Oh my—oh jeeeeeeeeezus,” she moans. “Yes.”
She sounds like she’s possessed. Why isn’t she climaxing? Women are impossible to figure out, I swear to God.
Shit. I can’t hang on much longer. This is too fucking good.
Oh. I suddenly know exactly what to do.
I drape myself over her back, my fingers still working her clit, my cock thrusting deep inside her, sweat dripping off my brow and onto her slick skin, and press my lips into her ear. “You’re worth every fucking penny, baby,” I whisper. “Every fucking penny.”
Boom. S
he comes like I flipped on a flashlight, screaming my name as she does. Ah, my little terrorist and her imaginary pornos. They’re the key to her soul. Her entire body is clenching and rippling violently around my cock. Holy fuck, I love getting this woman off. It’s my new favorite game.
I grab her hips and ram myself into her as far as my cock can go, making her scream with agony or pleasure—I don’t really know which (or care)—and blow my load into her like a fucking fire hose blasting a burning building.
When I finish, she collapses onto the bed in a sweaty heap, gasping, and I lie on top of her, my body covering hers, my chest heaving, sweat pouring out of me.
“Holy shitballs,” she chokes out.
“Damn.”
Once I’ve caught my breath, I sweep her hair away from the back of her sweaty neck and kiss her hidden Scorpio tattoo. “You’re my new favorite hobby, babe,” I say.
She giggles. “I like being your hobby.”
“You’re a beast.” I lick the back of her neck. And then bite it. And then I run my hands all over her sweaty body, making her moan with pleasure. Jesus Christ Almighty, I just fucked the living hell out of this woman not two minutes ago and I’m already electrified at the thought of doing it again. I can’t get enough of her. I’ve never felt addicted like this before. I bite her shoulder and she squeals.
I crawl off Kat’s back and lie alongside her, pulling her close to me on the bed.
“You’re a beast,” I say softly, hugging her to me. “So amazing.”
“So are you,” she replies softly into my chest, her voice quavering.
I tip her chin up and kiss her gently. “You’re the most fun I’ve ever had in bed, Katherine Ulla Morgan.”
Her face bursts with pleasure. “Really?”
“Not even a contest. You’re in a league all by yourself. The tippy-top.”
She grins.
“Worth every fucking penny,” I say softly.
“But you didn’t get your fantasy. We were supposed to be doing your fantasies first.” She runs her hand over my chest, right over my “Grace” tattoo. “You wanna regroup and do the thing with Bridgette? I’m totally willing... now.” Her eyes glint with something wicked.
“Fuck Bridgette,” I say. “I’m sure she already left, anyway.”
“You think?”
“If not, I’ll tell her to go.”
She smiles broadly. “But you seemed so turned on by the idea in Vegas.”
“Eh, things change. Life is fluid. You gotta roll with it. I guess it’s time to scratch that motherfucker off my bucket list—at least when it comes to you.”
Her blue eyes narrow sharply.
Clearly, I’ve said something wrong. “What are you thinking?” I ask. “You suddenly look like a chick.”
She assesses me with two chickified chips of blue granite for a moment. “I’m just trying to figure out why the change of heart—at least when it comes to me.”
I pause. She said that last part like she was gonna bomb my embassy—but I’d said those words to her as a compliment. What the fuck am I missing?
“Just what I said,” I say slowly. “When it comes to you, all bets are off. You’re a game-changer.”
“Oh,” she says. Apparently, she likes that answer. “After what you wrote about in your application—and how turned-on you were in Vegas when we talked about you watching me—I’m surprised. What’s changed?”
Kat’s right. I’ve done a one-eighty on the subject, at least when it comes to her. I can’t honestly say I’d never wanna watch two women again—but not if one of them is Kat. At least not now. But the truth is I felt literally sick about the whole arrangement the minute I walked into the hotel room tonight and saw Kat and Bridgette sitting together. I felt like I was taking a shit right where I eat. No bueno.
“Yeah, I was crazy-turned-on when we talked about it in Las Vegas,” I admit. “But that was before.” I trace her lips with my fingertip.
“Before what?”
Damn, she’s persistent. “You know,” I say.
“I actually don’t.”
“Before this past week.”
She grins from ear to ear. “What happened this past week?”
“I thought about you nonstop.”
“Oh.” She grins. “Well, I thought about you, too.”
“And not once did I fantasize about you fucking around with another woman. The only thing I thought about on an endless loop was doing what I just did to you.”
She bites her lip, but she can’t hide her smile.
“The thought of sharing you with anyone makes me wanna punch a wall or break a face.”
Her face lights up. “Well, gosh, that’s an unexpected development. Who would have thought?”
I lean back, narrowing my eyes at her. “You really are evil.”
“What?”
I shake my head at her.
“What?”
“I thought I was coming here tonight to play out my fantasy, but we were doing yours all along, weren’t we? Right from the start.”
She doesn’t reply, but her slow blink tells me I’m right—and that I played my part perfectly.
“Evil genius,” I whisper.
She grins wickedly. “I was totally prepared to do it for you, I really was—and I still will, if that’s what you want. But, yeah, I do admit I like that you couldn’t stand watching me with someone else—that you wanted me all to yourself.”
There’s a very long beat. I don’t know what the fuck to say or do, so I kiss her. And then I kiss her again, my heart racing. When we part lips, I touch her face again. She’s so fucking beautiful. And so fucking evil. She’s perfect.
“So, hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I think I’ve had enough of hotels for a while. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept in my own bed this past month. If it’s cool with you, I’d prefer to ditch this ramshackle motel and take you to my house. I wanna kiss every inch of the great Katherine Ulla Morgan in my own bed tonight.”
She presses her body into mine. “Awesome. Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything, but this place really is a dump.”
I laugh.
“You’re sure you don’t feel like you’re missing out if I don’t lesbo-out with Bridgette?” she asks. “Maybe we could do it on my next trip if you’re still—”
“Babe.” I touch the cleft in her chin and she abruptly stops talking. “No.” I exhale a long, shaky breath. “The thought of seeing you with someone else makes me wanna break a face.” Her face lights up. “And if I break a face, it’s quite possible I could get punched in return. And if I get punched, I might get a mark on my pretty face.” I shake my head, chastising her. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
She shakes her head in mimicry of my movement. “No way. Your face is much too pretty to get marked up.”
“Exactly. So that means from here on out, no one touches my Party Girl With a Hyphen but me.”
Sixty-Four
Kat
“Wow, you really like black leather, huh?” I say, looking around Josh’s sleek and spacious living room.
“Yeah. Makes life simple.”
“Your house is spectacular. If my mom were here, she’d fall to the floor, weeping.”
He looks at me funny.
“She’s an interior decorator.”
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Yeah, I had a top designer helping me.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward floor-to-ceiling glass on the other side of the room. “Lemme show you the view. It’s gonna make you say ‘Holy shitballs.’”
He pulls me outside into the night air and we’re met with a view of what might as well be heaven on earth.
“Holy shitballs,” I say.
Josh grins. “Amazing, right?” He motions to the infinite expanse of twinkling lights and rugged hills spanning before us into the night. “This right here is why people pay an arm and a leg for houses in the Hollywood Hills. Okay, so, over there, between those two hills? The Hollywo
od sign is right through there—you can’t really see it right now, but I’ll give you binoculars in the daylight. And if you look that way, that’s downtown L.A. over there.”
“Amazing. No wonder you love it here.”
“Oh, I don’t love L.A. I love Seattle. I just tolerate L.A.”
“Really?” I’m floored. I thought Josh loved living in La La Land with all his flashy friends. “I thought you loved living here,” I say.
Josh shrugs. “Nah, L.A. definitely gets old, other than the weather—the weather never gets old.” He points in a new direction. “See that house down there? That’s Chris Pratt’s house... ”
But I can barely process what he’s saying. Josh doesn’t love Los Angeles? Does that mean he might be open to moving back home one day? But, whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell is my brain doing? Josh has made it abundantly clear he’s not thinking about a long-term commitment. For crying out loud, only an hour ago the dude said he was scratching the two-woman scenario off his bucket list “at least when it comes to me”—which means it’s still on his agenda with other women, whenever (if ever?) this crazy whatever-it-is between us has run its course.
“Wow,” I stammer, even though I don’t know what the hell Josh was just saying. I think it was something about Joaquin Phoenix’s house?
“Let me give you the rest of the tour,” Josh says.
He leads me back inside and straight past his gleaming kitchen.
“Hang on,” I say. “Can I see your kitchen? It looks pretty fancy-schmancy.”
“Oh, it is. My designer redid the entire thing top to bottom when I moved in four years ago—we installed professional-grade everything.” He flashes me a crooked grin. “But since I don’t cook, it’s basically just for show.”
“You have a kitchen like this and you don’t cook?”
“Yup. I’m super-smart that way.”
“You don’t cook at all?”
“Not even a little bit. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve turned on this stove in four years—and at least two of those times, I was lighting a doobie.”
I laugh. “Josh, this is a frickin’ gourmet kitchen. Wolfgang Puck would kill for a kitchen like this.”