I look back up and grin. “Afraid I’m going to attract the attention of another deliveryman?”
That only elicits a growl and a kiss that’s much more possessive than the first. Both hands find my breasts now, knead and caress while mine slide up his neck and into his thick black hair, knocking the baseball cap to the ground. Nico drops his lips down my neck, and then, as he breaks away, plays with the straps of my shirt, pulling one strap over my shoulder, then the other until the entire neckline is below my breasts.
Keeping the straps wound around his fingers, he teases my nipples with the tightened fabric. Up and down over the sensitive nubs until my breath grows shallow, keeping his eyes on mine the entire time. When I moan a little, he drops the straps, and his thumbs feather down over the soft skin of my breasts, then over my nipples, making them rise even more. My back arches into his touch. Then he pinches, and any and all thinking ceases entirely.
“You got jokes, huh?” Nico asks as he tugs lightly on the ends of my aching breasts. They’re more sensitive than ever, and I know that feeling is only going to get worse in the months to come. If it’s anything like it was with Mattie, I’ll be tempted to run to the firehouse in the middle of the night just so Nico can take care of it.
He pulls again, this time harder. My eyes close against that intoxicating combination of pain and pleasure as he pulls again, forcing me to follow the movement and sit completely up until my lips meet his full, eager mouth. He kisses me deeply, pairing a bit of sweetness with the pain he inflicts.
Then, just as suddenly, his hands and mouth pull away, and I’m released back against the chair cushion with a light thump.
My eyes fly open. “Are you kidding?”
Nico sits up, black eyes dancing. “What?”
I shake my head. “There is no way you’re going to get me all turned on like that and stop midway. That’s just cruel for a woman in my condition.”
That wicked smile returns, just like I knew it would.
“And what condition would that be?”
I tip my head. “Pregnant, as you well know. And everyone knows you’re supposed to do what your wife tells you. You’re not supposed to stress her out, so you have to give her what she wants, whether it’s weird foods at three a.m. or sex with her hot firefighter husband.”
Nico tips his head back and laughs, and then, before I can say anything else, he slips one big arm under my back and another under my knees, and sweeps me off the lounge against his very broad shoulders. There won’t be any carrying me over his shoulder for the next several months, but that won’t stop him from picking me up in other ways. He’ll do it when I weigh an extra thirty pounds, too, as he proved the last time around. I was honestly scared he was going to break his back, carrying me up six flights of stairs, but the man is stubborn as a mule. Considering our son, it appears to be a family trait.
“We could just stay out here, you know,” I suggest as I bury my nose into his neck, inhaling his salty-sweet scent. Soap. Sweat. Smoke. The combination is intoxicating.
“We could,” he agrees, though he’s already moving toward the house. “But the last time we tried that, Mrs. Mariano gave me dirty looks for a week.” He kicks the door shut behind him and gives me a long kiss, full of tongue and promise. “Face it, NYU. You’re too damn loud.”
I smack him on the shoulder, but I don’t argue as he continues carrying me up the stairs and into our bedroom, maintaining our kiss the entire time. The man is seriously talented with that tongue of his. I should have known better than to let him use it when we were outside, where the neighbors could hear.
He lays me on the bed, but when he tries to stand up, I snake a hand around his neck, keeping his face close for a moment more.
“Please,” I whisper. “You know. You know how I need it right now.”
Nico stands up, clearly checking me over. It’s not often I make this request, and when I do, it’s usually because I’m scared of something. Sometimes he doesn’t know what. The demons that used to visit me from time to time rarely stop by these days, but our life has replaced them with some others. I have more to lose now, just like him.
I stare as he removes his shirt, reveals every delectable muscle, every beautiful line of his chest and stomach, one button at a time. The funny thing is, I don’t even think he notices the way I’m drooling over him. He’s too busy thinking about what I’m asking, making sure I’m really okay.
“I don’t—I don’t want to hurt you. Either of you,” he says, though I can see by the way his hands are clenching at his sides that he wants to do exactly what I’m asking. Today, we’re both scared. We’re both searching for a bit of control, in the best way we know.
“If it’s going to happen again, it’s going to happen again,” I say, struggling to keep my voice from warbling. It’s one thing to think it to myself, but it’s another completely to say it out loud. “But you remember what the doctor said. Sex has nothing to do with it. Neither do any of the other things we normally do. The best thing we can do is just be ourselves. Together.”
Nico swallows, causing a muscle in the side of his jaw to tick. His hands flex again. He’s dying to do it. Flip me over. Ram inside. Release his frustrations onto my body the same way I’m dying to let him.
But still, he pauses.
He thinks too much. At least, that’s what I always tell him. Even though we’ve been together for as long as we have, Nico still doesn’t always believe I completely understand what I’m asking for. Or maybe he still can’t believe I like it as much as he does. Nico understands that deep inside, there is always going to be a part of me that burns a little, an anger that needs to be let out, a need to hurt, just a little. He gets it because he feels it too. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling bad about it.
Even though he spends most of his down time at the firehouse working out, he still has to take off for Frank’s a few times a week just to rid himself of the tension that builds up. Sometimes it’s just too much for my man to bear, and hitting something, whether it’s one of the heavy bags or Nate’s mitts, is one of the only ways to get rid of it.
This is the other. I wish he didn’t feel guilty about it, but the reality is, we both get what we need when he takes control, gets a little aggressive. I need to feel just a little pinch of pain. And sometimes he needs to give it.
I get up on my knees and shuffle to the edge of the bed, where I slip off my shirt and skirt so that I’m kneeling in front of him, almost naked. He watches me unbuckle his pants and pull them down so that, after he removes his shoes, he can shimmy out of them the rest of the way. I toy with the elastic of his boxer briefs, but only tug them a little lower than his hip bones. There is something so crazy sexy about the combination of muscle, bone, and tendon that converges right above that band. I lean in and lick the spot, then sit back up to kiss him properly.
“Please,” I whisper against his lips. “I’m not going to break. We’re not going to break.”
Then I clap his hand to my ass, which is still his favorite part of my body. Seriously, I could probably get this man to do anything I wanted if I kept his hand right here. It’s not a privilege I take advantage of a lot, but it’s nice to know it’s there.
Nico moans into my mouth, and his hand automatically kneads the full flesh.
“Fuck,” he breathes before sucking on my lip again with a slight bite. His other hand grabs the other cheek, and he massages them together, pulling me up against his hard length. “Jesus. Christ.”
I reach behind and cover his hands with mine. Then I clamp down, grabbing with him, and make him do it hard. Hard enough to leave a bruise.
“Ah!” he bites out.
Suddenly, I’m flipped over so I’m on my knees, my face pressed into the bedding while my hands are held together behind my back. My underwear is dragged down my legs, and before I know it, he’s pressed against my entrance, sliding in slowly at first, and then thrusting deeply into that warm, slick place where he still fits so perfectly
.
There’s no wait. No gentle touch or kisses to get me ready. He doesn’t take the time to lick or play with his hand—but he doesn’t need to, not today. His little game on the patio had me ready and willing well before he picked me up, and he knows it too.
And he knows I’m looking for something else anyway.
The crack of his hand meeting my flesh echoes through the air, and I shudder, in the best possible way.
“Again,” I call, low because my voice is muffled in the sheets. But he hears me.
His hand smacks my ass again and again, alternating between a light, brushing swat, and a full-on smack as he pounds harder, filling me completely with every push, every grunt. I press my elbows down, pushing back against each blow, groaning into the sheets every time his palm lands on my skin. I’ll be bright red by the time he’s done, and I’m absolutely loving it.
With the last, particularly rough slap, I scream into the sheets, and Nico pauses.
“Layla,” he barks. “Up. Now.”
I push up awkwardly, and he helps me the rest of the way so that I’m resting against his chest, both of us on our knees together while he remains buried inside. He twists us toward the shelves mounted over the bed, the ones that are doubly reinforced for moments like these, and sets my hands on the edge of the lowest one so that I’m bent at a slight angle, It’s one of our favorite positions, one that allows me to take him deeply, yet gives him full access to the front of my body.
He lifts one knee and sets his foot down on the bed, almost in a parody of a proposal, except he’s buried seven inches deep and giving me one of the hardest fucks of my life instead of an engagement ring.
“Is that how you want it, baby?” he asks as his hand slams down again. “You want it hard like this?”
“Ummmmmmm, yesssssss!” I shout, holding onto the shelf for dear life. When he takes me this way, I can barely think, much less speak in full sentences.
Nico’s hands float up my sides, resting briefly over my ribs, where my half of our matching tattoos stretches over my skin: in his handwriting, saudade para tí. His fingers trace the lines as he continues to thrust, harder and harder, while his fingers curl and his nails scrape my skin just a bit as he drops that hand down between my legs.
The effect is instantaneous. He pinches my clit, and it’s that tricky combination of pleasure and pain, the one that Nico always manages to find exactly right, that sets me off.
I begin to shake. He pulls the hand away.
“Nico!” I cry out hoarsely as my muscles tense. “Oh…fuck! Baby, I’m so close, sooooooo close.”
He slams in again, and again, but his words are no longer intelligible. I can feel him expand within me, growing bigger, longer, harder. It only brings me even closer to that critical edge, the place where I can’t hold myself back any more.
“Hold on, baby,” he grunts. Thrust. Smack. He winds a hand into my hair and yanks me back up against him. The hand at my clit works a little harder, then pinches a bit and pulls.
“Now, Layla,” Nico croaks. “Come with me, baby. Now!”
His teeth find my neck, and he bites. Hard.
“FUCK!” I shout as my orgasm launches through me.
My entire body shakes, seizing up against his strong, solid warmth, kept from toppling over by the arm around my hips and the other hand clasping my hair. I don’t know how he doesn’t come apart too, but it’s Nico’s strength that keeps us from falling over together. He’s shattered too. I can tell by the way every part of him wound around me is flexed, muscle, vein, and tendon all in high relief. His teeth still clamp down hard enough that I swear he’s going to draw blood, and he emits a long, almost pained groan against my skin as his release floods me.
Our life together has never been easy. We’ve had our battles to fight to be together, both coming from inside and outside of ourselves. Money. Family. This city and all the memories it holds.
We both have our outlets, our ways of coping, so that when we come together, we can give each other the best we have to offer. Most days they work, but sometimes they aren’t enough.
But this. This connection. This outlet. This heat. This love. This is always enough.
* * *
The End…for now.
(Click here for the Extended Epilogue)
Need more Nico and Layla? You can catch sneak peeks of these two in my upcoming forbidden romance, The Other Man. www.nicolefrenchromance.com/theotherman
Need more Nico? You can read about his early life in the Bad Idea prequel novella, Broken Arrow, free only to newsletter subscribers: https://BookHip.com/BBXWVX
After Party
A Bad Idea Story
Chapter One
Shama
The walls are shaking.
No, not those kinds, you dirty bird. I mean the actual walls of my hotel room are shaking. The windows rattle in their frames, the big platform bed shuffles on the carpet, and the big brass mirror over the vanity claps against the plaster.
“Don’t drop, don’t drop, you fucker,” I mutter without opening my eyes. How many earthquakes have I experienced in five years of living in L.A.? Ten? Twelve? Twenty?
I don’t even know. This thing is barely a tremor, hardly audible over the noise bubbling up from Santa Monica Boulevard. The only reason I can feel the damn thing is because I’m flat on my back. And, no, not in that way either. Jeez, you guys really are perverts.
Three. Two. One. The shaking stops. The mirror is crooked but has the good sense not to fall. No seven years of bad luck. I exhale. I need coffee. But to do that, I need to get up.
Seven years I’ve lived in L.A. Five since I took the job with National Records as a video production assistant. I did the job, and I did it well. Worked steadily up the ladder until I was eventually producing music videos on my own.
And now, two days since I left my apartment and officially began my ten-years-coming vacation here at the Santa Monica Marriott, not four blocks from my old studio.
You think you know how hard the music business is? No one tells you about behind the scenes. No one tells you about the boys’ clubs. The way they treat women like playthings. No one tells you just how hard you have to fight to make any of them listen to you. They hear a name like Shama Sandhu and assume I’m there to provide the “catering,” not to be the damn boss.
But now I’m finished. No more producing. No more music industry. No more of these assholes who, starting with my old DJ boyfriend, can’t seem to keep their dicks in their pants for more than five minutes.
You want to know something crazy? I originally wanted to be a video journalist. I started at NYU thinking I’d travel the world making docu-shorts and video essays for publications like The New Yorker or The Atlantic. Instead, it’s been seven years of telling people how best to “back that ass up.”
But I’m done. I paid off my bills. I saved my money. And now I have enough to take a full year off with my camera and return to the dream. I just have to tie up loose ends.
My cell phone blares its sickly sweet tinkle on the nightstand. The bed frame squeals as I grab the phone.
“What up, bitch?”
“Hey, girl. Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive before your trip. Are you ready to go?”
I smiled. My best friend, Layla Soltero, is seriously one of the sweetest people on the planet. Maybe too sweet. We lived together for three years in college, and she’s been a rock ever since. Unlike most, she’s never put off by my, ah, “harsher” moments. She’s one of the few people who love me for exactly who I am.
“Dude. I am more than ready. We just had an earthquake. I think this city is literally trying to throw me out.”
“An earthquake? Oh my God, Shams, are you okay?!”
A clamor sounds on the other side of the phone, like dishes jumbling on a table, followed by the squirrely voices of two small children. I smile.
“Mami, is Auntie Shama okay?”
I grin, shoving my hair back from my face. Mateo
, Layla and Nico’s son, is the cutest damn kid in the world. Their three-year-old daughter, Camila, better known as Coco, is a close second.
“Tell Mattie I’m fine,” I say as I haul myself out of bed.
“He wants to know when you’re coming for a visit.”
I study myself in the mirror, drawing a finger over the dark circles under my eyes. “Lay, I was just out there at Christmas.”
“That was six months ago. You’re really not going to come back before your year-long travel extravaganza? What if you die over there, Shams? What if you get eaten by a crocodile?”
I smile into the mirror. “She perished by way of crocodile” isn’t a bad thing to have in your obituary.
“This is the beauty of video chats, my friend,” I say. “God bless smartphones. And the fact that there are no crocodiles in New Delhi. At least, I don’t think.”
There’s a long sigh. I don’t tease her more, because I know it’s partly jealousy that’s motivating these comments. Well, I’m jealous of her too. Layla might not get to travel, but she’s got the rest of her life buttoned up. Two adorable kids. A job she loves as a social worker. And a sexy-as-sin, fire-fighting husband. Yeah, I don’t feel so sorry for Little Miss Domestic.
“So, what’s your plan before you leave?”
“I give the keys to the landlord at eleven, and then I get to check into the hotel. Two days as a tourist in L.A. I never thought I’d see the day, but I don’t want to leave the City of Angels on bad terms, you know?”
“Stupid city. I’m glad you’re leaving. They don’t deserve you.”
I have to grin. Layla has a personal vendetta against L.A. after Nico moved here for a year when they first met, and then when I moved here too.
“Eh, it’s not that bad. I’ll miss Huckleberry for one. Oh my God, those lemon croissants…I should go there today for breakfast.” I smack my lips, imagining the butter-soaked pastry that only me and about two other women in this stupid city are willing to enjoy. Only the people behind the cameras in L.A. ever eat. Whatever. More for me.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 108