by Emma Chase
I mean, seriously, you meet new people every day; it’s a common occurrence. But unless you have a stellar record like yours truly, you don’t screw a new person every day. So for guys, the first time you did the deed is definitely a day to celebrate.
And for me and Kate? That day is today, kiddies. It’s huge. One year ago, the course of my life was altered forever. The foundation of my existence was shaken.
And my bed frame.
That’s why I’m in the kitchen right now. See me? Whistling, slicing fruit, and squaring a variety of cheeses? They’re for later. We’re going to need them—gotta keep the energy up. Because, in my book, you don’t just memorialize a fuckiversary. You top it. And considering the Olympic-worthy high bar that was set that night? I’ve got my work cut out for me.
But I’m always up for a challenge. Pun intended.
I don’t want you to think that fuckiversaries are just about humping like dogs either. Although, that position is always fun.
But no, it’s also about tradition. Sentiment.
Presents.
For a first wedding anniversary, gifts are supposed to be made of paper or some kind of useless crap like that. My gift is so much better—Santa’s elves can eat their hearts out. Kate is going to lose it when she sees it. Her jaw’s gonna hit the floor. And her panties will be right behind it.
The front door opens.
That would be the lucky lady herself.
I left work at noon—had preparations to make—so I haven’t seen her since lunch. I walk into the living room. And there she is—bag in hand, a mid-length trench coat wrapped around her scrumptious little body. Her hair is down and shiny. Spiked black heels encase the tasty toes I like to suck on like a hard candy.
She smiles.
And as with every other time—it hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Hello, Boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend.”
Sickening, aren’t we? There’s a garbage can in the corner if you feel the need to puke.
I stalk towards her. “How was your day, dear?”
She puts her bag down, but leaves the coat on. “It was…distracting.”
I’m about to ask her what that means, but she cuts me off.
“What are these?” She’s referring to the lighted candles and rose petals strewn about the place.
Depending on your lifestyle, there are different definitions of romance. For some it’s classical music, a foot massage, or satin sheets. Personally, I happen to think a blow job during a Yankee game is ideal. But Kate is a more frilly, girly, kind of romantic. So these are for her.
“Candles.”
She smirks. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I mean what are they for?”
I walk around her, my eyes caressing every curve slowly—like my hands will be doing shortly. Then I lean in and whisper next to her ear, “They’re part of your surprise. Because today is a very, very special day.”
She shivers—in the good kind of way. And her voice drops low. “I know. One year ago today, I rocked your world.”
“You rocked my world?”
She nods, and her eyes sparkle. “Yep. Right off its axis.”
“I’m pretty sure it was the other way around.”
Her tongue peeks out and wets her lips. “You’re sadly mistaken, Mr. Evans.”
I move in closer. “Maybe you need a refresher, Miss Brooks.”
She tilts her head, looking up into my eyes. Daring me.
“I think a refresher is exactly what I need.”
My hand snakes around her neck, pulling her against me. And our lips mold together. A year ago, I didn’t appreciate the value of kissing. Then it was just a teaser—like the never-ending stream of previews you have to sit through in the movie theater until you get to the main attraction.
But with Kate, kissing is a whole fucking event in and of itself. The way she tastes. The way she moans. The way her tongue slides against mine. It’s goddamn dizzying.
My hands come up to remove her coat, but she grabs them. And she pulls back, a little out of breath. “Wait. Not yet. I left work early today—to pick some things up. For you.”
“I got you something too. Can I go first?”
I like being first. It’s just how I am.
“Okay.”
I stand in front of her. Then I slowly unbutton my shirt, keeping eye contact the whole time.
Kate tries to guess. “Did you take strip-tease lessons?”
I smile. “No. But I’ll keep that in mind for next year.” My dress shirt hits the floor. I lift my white T-shirt over my head. And Kate’s hand rises to my chest and trails down my stomach. I back away and wag my finger. “Patience, Kate.”
She stomps her foot and pouts. And I want to tell her just where she can put those pouty lips. But I don’t. Gifts come first.
Then it’s our turn.
Ha—did you get that?
I turn to the side and remove the gauze bandage that covers my upper right bicep. And then she sees it. Her eyes glaze over, and her jaw goes slack.
And she whispers, “You got a tattoo…of my name?”
It’s a black whip—that spells out KATE.
I hope you weren’t thinking it was going to be an engagement ring or something. Screw that. In today’s day and age, rings don’t mean much. Ask any married man who frequents the titty bars—rings can be removed.
But a tattoo? That’s forever. Permanent—unless you like the idea of having several layers of skin scraped off.
Kate’s fingers slide around it disbelievingly. “I love it, Drew. It’s the most…amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me. I love you.”
I cup her cheek with my hand. “Not like I love you.”
She smiles for a moment. But then her expression changes. And she looks…disappointed.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing…it’s just…you branded my name on your flesh. I guess I just feel a little stupid. All I got you were toys.”
My ears perk up. Like a dog hearing the rustle of his food bag.
“Toys? Would these toys be…naughty…in nature?”
Kate bites her lip. And nods.
Sweet Jesus. My mouth goes dry. “Can I…see them?”
Some guys aren’t into toys. Dildos—with their bells and whistles—can be intimidating. But not to me. I think of them as tools of the trade. Power tools, to be exact, and there’s no shame in using them. Even a master carpenter wouldn’t try to build a house without a handsaw and hammer, you know?
Kate takes a bag out of her purse. She reaches in and pulls out a short, velvet-tipped riding crop.
And my cock comes alive like Frankenstein’s monster.
For all you ladies out there? Take notes. Sex toys are the ultimate gift. Fun for the whole family. Okay, not really. But they’re definitely the gift that keeps on giving.
She hands it to me. “Remember a few weeks ago? In the living room when you…you know…with your hand?”
My voice is breathless. “Yeah.”
Of course I remember. You might not know it looking at her, but deep down, Kate is a total cock tease. She likes to push me to the edge—see me snap. And on that particular day, she’d been taunting me all morning, walking around braless in a barely-there tank top and underwear. At one point, she sat on my lap and wiggled around.
Then she hopped off claiming she didn’t have time to finish what she’d started because she had work to do.
And I lost it. I pulled her back, threw her across my thighs and spanked her.
Like the naughty girl she was. Wasn’t anything to write The Story of O about—just a few short slaps to the ass. But it was fun.
Kate smiles shyly. “I liked it.”
Oh, baby—she wasn’t the only one.
Kate reaches back into the bag from heaven. And pulls out a small silver cylinder.
It’s a vibrator. It almost looks like one of those practical-joke electric buzzer things we all had when we were kids. She hands i
“It’s called a—”
“Bullet,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I know.” I stare at it. And images of Kate writhing under me—bordering on the brink of insanity and begging to come—fill my head.
My voice comes out rough, but worshipful. “You are the most awesome girlfriend ever.”
I wrap my arms around her and kiss her. And it’s long and slow and appreciative.
Kate pulls back and smiles big. “There’s one more thing. I saved the best for last.”
She slides the belt of her coat slowly from the loops and grips the lapels with both hands. Then, in one fluid motion, she drops the jacket to the floor.
And I almost come on the spot.
Lots of women think lingerie is the magic ingredient of seduction. They buy something lacey and expensive and expect us guys to be drooling into our frigging laps. But it doesn’t really work that way.
At Christmas, for example, when you see a big, brightly wrapped package under the tree with your name on it, you’re interested. But it’s not the wrapping paper you’re looking forward to. It’s the present inside. Lingerie works the same way. It’s nice—but naked is always better.
Except for this.
This is the wet dream of every man born after 1975.
It’s the elite of eroticism.
The ultimate fantasy.
Oh yeah—it’s the Princess Leia bikini.
My mouth drops open. “Oh…my…motherfuck.”
Kate spins slowly. Proudly. “Do you like it? It’s crotchless.”
I’m speechless.
Seriously. I have no words. I’m pretty sure every ounce of blood in my body has been rerouted to my dick, so there’s not enough left in my brain to form them.
Kate’s voice is hushed and tempting. “If you promise to be good…I’ll let you chain me up like Jabba did to Leia.”
I break out of my horny-induced trance. I grab her upper arms and haul her against me.
“Baby, the only thing I’m promising is you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. She screams. And laughs. And I walk down the hallway, passing by my tray of prepared snacks.
Because, really—who the hell needs food?
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