by JA Huss
She probably knows this too, but she doesn’t care. The only thing she cares about is the way she suddenly feels.
And that’s when she comes again.
This time she grits her teeth and closes her eyes tight. A look that lands somewhere between pain and pleasure.
I continue to fondle her breasts, softer now, because I want her to enjoy the aftereffects of her orgasm. But also so she can recover. Be ready for more.
Because there’s more. Much more.
“Holy shit,” she mumbles, dropping forward onto my chest. Her head resting on my shoulder. “Damn, Lawton. I’ve never come three times in a row before.”
“Twice?” I laugh. “We’re not done yet.”
She lifts her head up a little so she can look at me. “Is it your turn now? Should I give back?”
Her wicked smile tells me exactly what she thinks “giving back” means. “I’ll get there, don’t worry. And while your offer is appreciated, my cock is very happy inside your pussy. Tonight is about you. Next time—if there is a next time—it can be about me if you want.”
“If?” She chuckles.
I shrug. “Life doesn’t come with a guarantee. I know that better than most.”
“Hmmm,” she says.
“But enough of the talk. Are you ready to go again?”
“Again.” She says it almost like a question. “Three times. I dunno if that’s possible.”
“Oh, it is.”
She looks at me, blushes a bright pink—which looks good on her bronze skin—and shrugs. “OK. But I’m warning you, the next time won’t be that easy.”
I stand up, taking her with me once again. And this is starting to feel like a familiar move between us, because her legs automatically wrap around my middle. Then I turn her around and place her on the couch. “Turn around,” I say. “Put your hands right here.” I pat the back of the couch. “And your knees right here.” Indicating the cushion she’s sitting on.
She smiles big. Blushing again.
I decide I like her. I think she’s capable of a lot of things. Has a lot of ideas. Most of them probably borderline crazy because of this weird obsession she has with Hanna Harlow. But Oaklee Ryan is one of those fun girls. The kind who keep you on your toes. The kind who make bad decisions based on emotion. The kind who probably make very bad exes because they end up doing psycho things like showing up at your work and texting you forty-seven times in one hour.
But all that makes it exciting, right? And if we get this TV deal, who knows. Maybe we’ll never be ex-anything. Maybe we’ll be friends, or lovers, or business partners forever.
She maneuvers herself into the position I want, placing her hands on the back of the couch and her ass directly in front of me.
“Nice tattoo,” I say, noticing it for the first time.
She looks at me over her shoulder and whispers, “Thank you.”
Its lettering spans the entire space between her shoulder blades. Not big and gaudy, like a gang tattoo. But small and feminine in script handwriting.
I lean over to read it out loud. “‘The world worships the original.’ Who said that?”
“Ingrid Bergman,” Oaklee says. “It’s supposed to say, ‘Be yourself. The world worships the original.’ But I think that first part goes without saying, so I left it unsaid.”
“Words to live by.”
“As I do,” she quips back, smiling at me.
I position myself close to her. Letting my cock slip between her ass cheeks as I move in a slow, back-and-forth motion.
“That feels nice,” she whispers.
I say nothing. Just concentrate on what I’m doing. Which is trying to hit her clit with the tip of my cock with each small thrust forward.
When I succeed, she moans. Bowing her head to rest it on the soft, overstuffed cushion of her couch. I do it again, and again, and then on the third time, she arches her back, which relieves her of the stimulation.
“Something wrong?” I ask, not bothering to hide my smile.
“It’s… intense.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“A part of me wants you to just fuck me hard. Just slam your cock inside me. I’d come that way, you know. I can tell. I can feel it building.”
“And the other part?”
“The other part,” she says, relaxing her back again so she can feel me against her clit, “the other part never wants this to stop.”
“Well, you might have a problem then. Because I can’t do both at once. So which do you want first?”
She huffs out a laugh. “You’ll probably get three out of me, but not four. No way. After this I’m gonna fall asleep, despite all your best-laid plans.”
This makes me chuckle. “Just answer the question, Oaklee.”
“This,” she says, turning her head so she can see me.
So I continue, and immediately I can see she’s on the verge again. On the edge of release. So I ease up and deliberately hold back the next time I move forward.
“Come on,” she whines. “You’re teasing now.”
“You wanted to know how to become multi-orgasmic. This is how it’s done. It’s a give-and-take. A this-and-that. Win some, lose some.”
She shakes her head. “I already had two and I’m ready for number three. That’s not multi-orgasmic enough for you?”
“That’s a very sad result, Oaks. I’m aiming for six at least.”
“Six?” She laughs. Louder this time. “Never going to happen.”
“You will,” I say. “Have a little faith.” And then I pound her. Hard, just the way she asked for it. So hard her tits are bouncing. Slapping against each other just like my hips are slapping against her ass.
It only takes about a minute of that to have her wailing. It’s a primal scream. Loud, and long as she moans out, “Fuck. Yes. Fuck. Yes. Fuck. Yes,” to the rhythm of my thrusts.
And then… she. Goes. Silent. Biting her lip. Squinting her eyes closed. Bucking her back as one of her legs drops, her foot finding the floor to steady herself.
Her muscles begin to quiver as she comes. Her teeth chattering like she’s been out in the cold. Her body a sweaty contradiction.
I let her collapse after that. Sit down next to her and let her curl up into me as her quaking muscles begin to relax and her heavy breathing begins to slow.
I play with her long, long hair. Hold a piece in my hand and use it like a feather. Dragging it up and down her spine to make her shiver. And say, “Let me know when you’re ready for number four. I can do this all night.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN - OAKLEE
I wake up to birds singing outside my window, and in that hazy state between sleep and waking, I have a dream about…
Sex.
Jesus Christ. I sit straight up in bed, my hair covering my face like a blanket. I swipe it away, making a peek hole to see through, and look over to the other side of the bed.
His side.
Which is empty.
As it should be, Oaklee, the inner voice says.
But there was definitely sex in this bed last night.
I flop back into the pillows, close my eyes, and think about it. How he made me come again, and again, and again. How I was so exhausted by the time we got to orgasm number seven my whole body was practically convulsing from the strain on my muscles. In fact, I feel sore. Not just my pussy. Like all over.
I was screaming. Which makes my face hot with embarrassment just thinking about it. I, Oaklee Ryan, am not a sexy screamer.
Until now.
He took dirty sex to a whole new level.
He. Is a freak. In bed.
Freak.
Uggggh. I flip the covers over my head and smile. Because it was fantastic. I feel like I never had sex before Lawton Ayers took me last night. Like every other time was just pretend compared to what he did to me. How he made me feel.
I sigh, then throw the covers off and swing my feet out of bed. I look around, straining to hear if he’s maybe in the bathroom or downstai
rs.
But it’s just silence. Well, the sound of the city down below, and the birds, of course. There’s like a bazillion sparrows and robins nesting on the roof up by the water tower. But I don’t think Law is still here.
Some girls might feel sad about that. A one-night stand usually comes with lots of regrets the next day. Either that or the inevitable, Will he call me again? Or won’t he?
I have none of those feelings. I only have… satisfaction.
Yes. I laugh, standing up to stretch. I only faintly remember him dressing me in this nightie last night before he fucked me one last time. And even though I look a mess when I glance over at the giant floor-to-ceiling framed mirror propped up on the wall near my closet, I feel beautiful.
I walk over to it and just stare at myself. At the peach-colored nightie with the white lace ruffle splitting the sheer fabric down the middle to reveal the lower cleavage of my breasts. The little matching panties. My long, bronze legs and my toned arms.
I picture him standing behind me. Maybe putting his arms around me as we stare back at ourselves through the mirror. Maybe he leans down and kisses me on the neck, his reflective eyes locked on mine.
We smile, I think.
Good God, Oaklee. Snap the fuck out of it. He’s pretend.
But I sigh again anyway. I don’t care. Last night was… wow.
I go downstairs, just to make sure he’s gone, and even from the top of the stairs I see that he left a note on the kitchen island.
My stupid, silly heart begins to beat fast and my feet skip down the long flight of stairs and cross to the center where I pick the note up and read.
Oaks,
I imagine you’re pretty hungover this morning.
Which makes me snort. Because while I do feel tired and my body is sore, none of that has anything to do with drinking beer yesterday. And for fuck’s sake, beer is my life. I drink it every single day in the tasting room. A twelve-pack isn’t enough to knock me down.
So I took the liberty of leaving you recovery instructions.
One—drink the bottle of coconut water immediately. It will hydrate you. It’s filled with potassium, which you need after the workout I gave you last night.
Two—take the two ibuprofen.
Three—I found your home gym. So I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a hangover workout. Don’t balk, either. This is proven to make you feel better after a hard night of drinking and sex.
I skim the workout, which consists of lots of sit-ups, a healthy dose of push-ups, and twenty minutes on the cycle, then go back to the letter.
Four—drink the second bottle of coconut water.
Five—take a long hot bath. There’s a bubble bomb waiting for you tub-side. Nice assortment to choose from, by the way. I chose strawberry shortcake because… well, you’re delicious and sweet.
Six—I couldn’t help myself. I picked you an outfit from your closet. I feel it’s only fair since you get to play dress-up with me.
Seven—Pick you up at one for shopping.
See you then,
The Boyfriend.
Oh. My. God. He’s kind of adorable. In fact, I’m thinking he’s way too good for that no-good Hanna bitch.
Maybe I should keep him for myself? I mean, I did buy him for two weeks. I could just pretend this is a game for her and make it mine, couldn’t I?
I bite my lip as I think about this. I already broke my no-sex rule. He probably thinks I’m an easy slut.
No, he said I was sweet and delicious. That has to count for something. And while I don’t have a great recollection of him getting off last night, I know he did.
I know he did.
Didn’t he?
Shit. What if I passed out before he got his turn?
I chew on my lip as I think about that. And while I’m doing that, I hear my phone ding an incoming text from… somewhere.
I look around, find my purse on the side of the couch, and dig around inside to find my phone.
Unknown number: Did you follow instructions?
Me: Who is this?
Obviously it’s Law, but I feel like being silly for some reason.
Unknown number: Look out your window to the east and find out.
I get up, walk over to the window, open the slider, and step outside.
Lawton Ayers is waving at me from his terrace looking hot as fuck in a pair of tan cargo shorts and nothing else.
“Hey!” he yells.
Which makes me giggle and walk over to the edge of my terrace to look down and see if anyone can hear him.
There’s a few people gawking up at him from the alley, but fuck it. I yell back, “I have one question for you.”
“Shoot, Oaklee.”
Jesus. I laugh. Because shoot and Oaklee—that’s kinda funny. “Did you…” But I can’t bring myself to yell it across the city.
“Did I come?” he yells back.
I put a hand on my forehead and feel the heat creeping up my cheeks.
“Yes,” he calls. “Twice.”
I nod my head and smile. “Good.”
“You look sexy in that, by the way. And I’m not trying to be a dick or anything, but if you’re still wearing that nightie that means you didn’t follow instructions.”
“I was just about to,” I yell.
“Hop to it, Oaks. It’s already eleven thirty and I’ll be there at one. On the dot.” Then he waves at me and goes back inside his apartment, closing up his slider behind him.
Someone whistles at me from the alley below, so I back away and go inside, closing my slider behind me too.
I don’t know what to think about this. I just twist the cap on the first bottle of coconut water and take a long gulp. Then I walk back over to the window and look out at his terrace, picturing that whole interaction in my head. Hell, who am I kidding? I’m reliving the whole goddamned night.
Freak. He is a freak in bed. Who’d have thought, right? This fancy-suit real-estate guy could rock my entire world. Seven. Times. In one night.
I absently walk back over to the kitchen island and pop the two ibuprofen in my mouth, then swallow them down with the coconut water and head to my gym. Because working out is a time to think for me.
I do the sit-ups on my giant ball because I like the support, then do half of the prescribed push-up count and get on the cycle.
It’s only then that I realize the cycle is positioned so it looks out at his terrace. So I spend thirty whole minutes daydreaming like a schoolgirl about Lawton Ayers. Which is ten minutes more than his orders.
I drink the second bottle of coconut water even though I still feel full from the first one. I feel like he went to a lot of trouble coming up with this hangover cure that I didn’t need, so I should honor that by following his instructions. And then I run the bath, drop the bubble bomb in, and know, with one hundred percent certainty, that every time I smell strawberries from this day forward, I will think of him.
The outfit he chose for me is… interesting.
Jeans, which I love. And they are old jeans with rips in all the right places. Worn thin and soft from years of washing and just a little bit loose.
An old brown leather belt that he must’ve chosen because the leather is worn and has lots of scuff marks on it. Like he knew this one was my favorite, and it is, so he was right.
A t-shirt that says, Save water, drink beer—which I forgot I even had—but was actually one I gave my dad for his fiftieth birthday back when I was a teenager. I found it when I cleaned out his room just before the renovation last year and couldn’t bring myself to throw it away because he wore this thing at least once a week until he died.
Like Law’s Johnny Cash shirt yesterday, it used to be black, but has since faded to light gray and all the hems have long ago given up and turned to nothing but frayed edges.
There’s also a pair of boots sitting on top of the pile. My very first pair of Frye boots. Dark brown leather engineer boots with silver buckles near the ankles. They a
re quintessential biker. I hate to admit it, but Law was right. I’m not proud of it, but I like a bad boy, what can I say. And I attract them with the bad girl look.
He’s got me pegged.
In fact it’s like Lawton picked through all of the hundreds of items in my closet and found the four things that say the most about me.
How did he do that? How did he know?
I put it all on, tucking in the shirt to show off the belt, then pulling out a little so it flows over my hips in a few places. When I pull the boots on and look at myself in the mirror I feel young again.
I feel free for some reason.
So many things hadn’t touched me yet back when I was a teenager. My father was still healthy and alive. The business was booming. Like totally going gangbusters. We’d just come up with Anarchy Orange IPA, which I totally had a hand in creating. And we were winning award after award in all the global beer festivals.
How did he know?
It was also before I met Hanna Harlow at college. Before she lied her way into my life and then promptly fucked me over. Before she stole my boyfriends, and my recipes, and my personality.
Before she stole my life.
I turn away from the mirror. Mostly because it’s almost one o’clock and I want to be downstairs to let Lawton up when the girls buzz me from the lobby. But also because it makes me sad to think back on those days. It makes me realize how much I’ve lost these past few years. And it would be tolerable—I could deal with stupid Hanna—if my dad were still here. He’d take care of her. He’d make it all go away. He’d handle things like he always did, protecting me from all the nasty in the world.
But all that paradise is lost and there’s no way I’ll ever get it back.
I feel like… like I’m alone.
I know I’m not. I have a ton of friends. Acquaintances, at least. I have fifty-two employees and most of them like me. There are one or two old-timers in the brewery I bump heads with every once in a while because we have different ideas about what new brews we’ll release each year. But they’re still here. They don’t quit on me. And I don’t bulldoze over them. I listen and we fight it out and come up with a compromise.