Crazy Good

by Rachel Robinson

  No amount of picturing horrible things can stop me when I feel her grabbing me like a vice grip over and over. I let go. I live in the damn moment because it is an epic one. The best one so far. Her head is thrown back and her face is beautiful in this state of ecstasy. I lean down and put one of her pink nipples in my mouth and I come. It tears from me like a fucking fountain, finally flowing after a century of sitting stagnant. My eyes fall shut and I ride the waves of this feeling, with Windsor still screaming my name underneath me.

  My dick finally stops twitching and her pussy isn’t clenching me every other second, but I don’t pull out. I want to stay inside her as long as humanly possible. I want this to be where my dick is every second of every day. I don’t think three times a day will be enough to satisfy this hunger I have for her.

  “One word,” Windsor whispers as she drags her hands through my hair. Love. Love. Love. I love everything about what just happened, about what is still happening.

  I heave a sigh. “Finally,” I admit. She laughs and the sound makes me even more delirious with love from my new position. It’s like I’m inside of the sound and inside of her at the same time. “Your one word.”

  Her hands stop moving. Her breaths stop. She’s going to tell me she loves me. She has to. I know that was just as mind bending for her as it was for me. “Ruined,” she finally says, laughing.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Before I can ask what the hell that means, she says, “I know why every girl you’ve had sex with is obsessed with you. You are like a sex God, with your big cock and perfect sex manners. You ruin it for all the other men in the world.”

  “Sex manners?”

  I feel her nod against me. “It’s all about me. I didn’t have to do anything and you knew exactly what to do. Was it as freaking fantastic for you as it was for me? I have to say, I’ve been thinking about sex with you for a long time and it’s even better than my brain could concoct,” she explains. I feel her gripping my dick. A few more of those and I’ll be at full attention again in no time. She’s wondering if sex was good for me? Was she not in the same room?

  “Windsor, I had to think about horrible things so I wouldn’t come the second my dick slid home.” I lean up on my elbows and look into her eyes. She smiles a half smile. “That’s the first time I’ve had to do that. That’s for sure. That,” I say, pushing my dick inside of her a little more, making her eyes flutter closed, “was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It was earth moving.” How’s that for a Mav ramble?

  She moans a little from the pressure and my dick is officially hard again. Ready for a second round. That happened a time or two in high school, but definitely not anytime in the recent past. It’s a testament to my new addiction. I slide out of her long enough to put a new condom on, and ease back into her tight warmth. Flipping her around without disconnecting our bodies, I position her so she’s on top of me. A lusty smile inches its way across her beautiful face and then she starts riding me like a fucking pro. Her tits bouncing, her hair swinging, one hand resting on my new tattoo, and her blue eyes fixed on mine.

  And maybe for the millionth time I change my mind about my favorite sight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Windsor

  His hands on my hips are so rough and feel so warm…almost as hot as the fire spreading through my veins. I am working him like I’ve never worked a day in my freaking life. Bouncing up and down on his humungous, thickness feels incredible. Not because it feels better than I imagined, but because he’s looking at me like he’s completely and utterly in love with my every move, every inch of my body—and me.

  He’s in love with me. He said so. And I didn’t say it back. I’m not sure if I can. Because I can’t describe what I feel for him—it feels like more than love. Until I can formulate it into words, without rambling, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I haven’t said it to a single soul since Nash. Now I’m not even sure love is what I felt for him.

  “You ride me so good, babe,” Maverick growls. His neck is strained and every damned, huge, sculptured muscle that exists inside his body is popping out to tell me hello. The sight of him under me is burned into my mind for eternity. Maverick changes the pace by controlling my hips with his hands. “Feels so good. Feels so fucking tight,” he hisses. It is almost too tight. The timbre of his voice combined with the perfect pressure he’s rocking me with is all it takes. A jolt shoots straight to my core and I close my eyes.

  Fireworks and rockets red glare? Yeah, that’s what having an orgasm around Maverick feels like. There is no controlling my screams, or the stream of obscenities that leak from my mouth. I feel his hands on my nipples, twisting, pulling, making my orgasm last that much longer. When I come back down from that thigh tingling, lusty place, I make a breathy plea, staring directly into his fierce eyes.

  “Come, Mav. Come.” He must have been holding back because the second the words escape my mouth, he bucks his hips a few more times and, with a roar befitting a beast, he comes. My gaze lands on his new “love” tattoo and a shiver laced with excitement and possessiveness rocks me to my core.

  I slump down, leaving him inside me, and put my head on his chest so I can continue staring at my claim on his body.

  “You’re everything, Mav,” I say, praying he knows exactly what I mean by it. I mean what he meant by it before he could say the actual word. I feel him nod against the top of my head. Finally, our breathing evens out the same time he pulls out of my body. It’s this wordless comfort I have lying in his arms, all sated and my stomach full of butterflies. I have nothing to compare this to, because I was never in this deep with another person. I’ve never felt so proprietary about anything else. Maverick rolls the condom off and then retrieves the other used one off the floor with a grimace. I can’t help but laugh. “It’s yours. You can’t really be that grossed out by it, can you?”

  “I prefer it in the condom and not on the floor,” he explains, eyebrows scrunched together. I jump out of bed, feeling light on my feet. He watches me with a smile and says, “I’ll deal with it though. I’d deal with jizz dripping from my fucking ceiling if it means I get to do that, with you, every day of my life.” Now he’s laughing, because I’m grimacing. The jizz dripping image kind of gets to me. The dimples are out and paired with his exquisite naked body they war for my attention.

  “I’m on birth control—just a posted FYI. And I haven’t had sex,” I say, pausing to consider what I should confess to. “For a really long time.” I don’t say since Nash because then he would have a visual of me having sex with Nash in his head, and I don’t want that. I can tell he’s jealous of me merely talking on the phone. He needs no reminders. “So, as long as you’re comfortable and…” I stutter. How to ask properly?

  “Christ. Of course I’m clean, Windsor,” he says, turning around mid-step.

  I shrug my shoulders and raise my brow. “How am I supposed to know that? Remember all I have to go by are rumors at this point,” I say. He narrows his eyes.

  “Even if I wasn’t tested every other month for shit like that I’d be clean. I always use a condom. Always. Except for,” he admits, cutting off the end.

  “Except for what?” I ask, walking toward him.

  He swallows, turns away, and heads for the bathroom. “Except for when I was in a relationship,” he says, after what feels like an eternity. Well, that’s surely new information. I fight back the sting of unwanted jealousy. It’s in the past Windsor, I remind myself.

  “When were you in a relationship?” Okay, that came out super catty. Shit.

  “A long time ago. The point is I’m clean. You’re on birth control and we’re in a relationship now,” he explains. He tosses the condoms into the trashcan and stalks back toward me. “You want to use your CPA skills,” he says with a half one-dimpled smile.

  I tilt my head to the side in question. “I use a calculator for work things,” I say. “Or a program that does computing for me.” I think my accounting skills are the furthest thi
ng from his mind. His eyes heat, and my stomach jumps to my throat.

  His white smile assaults me. “Cock Polishing Assistant. That’s the title that comes to mind whenever I hear your job title,” Maverick says, pulling me to him. He kisses the top of my head and inhales. I love when he does it. It’s like he can’t get enough of me. He wants me inside him. I let a small chuckle slip. I’ll never think of CPA the same way again and it’s my freaking job.

  “Isn’t that what my mouth does? That so counts as polishing,” I fire back.

  “Sort of. This,” he growls, stroking in between my legs, “will do a much better job though.” A small moan slips. His hand disappears after he strokes me a few more blissful seconds. He pulls my face up to look at him.

  Then he kisses me senseless. Like that type of whole body kiss that shocks you from your head to your toes. It starts simply with his tongue in my mouth, and then it greets my heart, causing it to pound out a new, more frantic rhythm. Next it goes down to my tummy waving hi to the flip-flop sensation. And lastly it shivers all the way down to my toes. It’s melty-electric and passionate at the same time. His hands stroke my face in the same spots where his stubble will turn me red later. He scoops me up and places me in the bed again. He scoots in next to me as I pull up the soft sheets to hide us from the world.

  “I just want to kiss you like this,” he whispers into my mouth.

  “You know exactly what I want…sexual manners,” I say back. All we do is kiss, entwined legs and hands on faces and necks. He uses those manners for a long time, not taking it any further even though my body is on fire for him.

  Eventually we fall asleep. His body wrapped around mine, my hand over his heart.

  *****

  “I don’t know how I feel about this. Won’t everyone wonder what I’m doing there? I only know Morganna. It will be weird,” I explain, a little wildly, one hip propped against his desk in his home office.

  It’s late afternoon on Saturday and he wants me to go to dinner; a-farewell-we’re-headed-out-on-deployment dinner, with the guys and their significant others. I. Am. Terrified. I imagine Morganna times fifteen and my heart races like a freaking jockey in the Kentucky Derby. Logically, I know there won’t be anyone quite like Morganna, I just fear the judgment that comes from dating a guy like Maverick. Will his friends think I’m a Frog Hog? Will the girls think I’m just easy convenience sex before he leaves for six months? I know I shouldn’t give a shit and I could tell myself that a million times, but I still would. Mommy issues. It’s like Daddy issues except worse. Mav sits at the huge desk, papers and non-fiction books stacked in organized piles, shirtless.

  He shakes his head while he speaks. “You’re mine now. You have nothing to be afraid of—the fact that your Morg’s friend only solidifies that. No one will say anything rude to you. I mean, I’ve never been to one of these things as half of a couple, but I can’t imagine it’s that painful. You might even make some new friends. It will be good for you to have people who are in the same situation as you.” Sell it, Mav. Sell it. “Go get dressed, please. I need you to be there with me,” he says.

  And I can’t say no to that. He needs me. He wants me wrapped up in his world. I huff a little, which makes him laugh. I turn and stalk out of the room before I catch sight of his dimples and attack him for round four.

  I’m dressed in jeans, a dressy top, and heels at Maverick’s request and out the door two hours later. We had sex one more time before we left because he saw me naked after I got out of the shower. My core clenches when I think of the way he looked at me before even touching me. It was the hottest gaze in the entire universe.

  Dressed in tailored jeans and a black button up shirt, Maverick looks divine. He opens the door for me, offering his arm to walk into the restaurant. I’m not nervous when he’s near, when his body heat drips into mine and I know I’m okay, fearless. But then I see the two tables near the back. Separated into sections like Thanksgiving at Aunt Velma’s. Girls at one table and boys at the other. He senses my freak-out and squeezes my elbow a bit.

  “It will be fine. Text me if you really want to leave. There’s Morganna,” he whispers, nodding toward her. I see an empty chair next to her and breathe a sigh of freaking relief. Her red lips part in an exquisite smile when she sees us. Subtly, Mav pats me on the ass, sending me to a table full of vultures, eyeing me down like I’m fresh road kill. Bottle blonde heads laden with more extensions than a Hollywood red carpet turn in my direction.

  I ignore them and head to my seat. “Windsor,” Morganna exclaims a little too loudly. “Come sit. Fashionably late was fifteen minutes ago.” By the gleam in her eye she knows exactly why I’m late. Friends always know a well-fucked look when they see one. I’m probably a step beyond well-fucked. I’m not sure what comes after, though. I’ve never been there until now.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, quickly sitting down. Morganna introduces me to the table full of women, most of their names ending in Y, and I know I won’t remember a single name because they all look the same and are dressed similarly. I smile wide and exchange fake pleasantries like I do at work.

  I glance over at Maverick as he greets his buddies with weird, contorted handshakes and back pats—lots of touching. He flicks a smile at me when he sees me staring. I smile back. Barely. The women chatter around me. It’s only now that I see physical details about them. Standard fake. They have lollipop heads on tiny bodies with enormous breasts that chant the song of their people when in a gathering such as this. Every other guy in the restaurant is staring at them, which seems a little stupid seeing as they obviously belong to the guys one table over. They do belong, too. They spare me a tiny glance and continue talking about their husbands and boyfriends like they are talking about their own lives instead. Morganna texts under the table, and I’m blessedly reassured that she finds these mundane, vapid creatures just as boring and senseless as I do.

  I sip my wine and smile when someone says something that’s supposed to be funny. I don’t offer anything, and it’s because I can’t. I have absolutely nothing in common with these women. They talk about their gym regimens and exercise classes like Christians speak of God. To be more specific, one of the Y’s just compared Lululemon workout pants to baby Jesus. Others chatter quietly about their own, real babies and how advanced they are because of their father’s obviously glorious sperm contribution. I cringe when a brunette with a huge mane of hair announces her plan for a weekly spouse/girlfriend meet-up while the men are deployed. She bats her huge, fake lashes a few times and says we should do lunch next time. What. The. Freak.

  I clear my throat and send Morganna a text message, keeping my phone hidden under the table. You’re going to gag me with a spoon when this is over, aren’t you?:) Wait! I know. It’s a joke…It has to be a joke.

  She responds quickly, liking the distraction. She smiles. No. Phillipe is going to do that to you. I won’t have time. I had to clear my schedule for this waste of fucking time. Welcome to the Rosy Team, Win. Where the only thing the women love more than themselves is their husband’s career.

  Rosy? I text her back. I gathered the rest just by listening to them talk.

  Everything always looks “rosy” to the rest of the world.

  That makes sense. Shit that doesn’t stink and all that jazz?

  Morganna grins and responds quickly. Yes. Obviously they are more disturbed than Fifty…

  A reference to Mr. Grey—I’m impressed. Whips and chains? :-O

  Worse. Straps on Pilates boards, a mascara wand, and charity events. I laugh out loud.

  You’re part of it, Morg. You’re making fun of yourself.

  Her response is immediate. Bullshit. They don’t mess with me. They’re too scared. Don’t let them see you sweat. Rule #4.

  Another rule. Fabulous. I’m still laughing to myself trying to come up with a witty quip when a female voice hisses from across the table. “Do we bore you?” I know it’s directed at me because of the tone. It’s not the bogus friendly
voice you use with fake friends. It’s the mean, petty one you use on the rest of the world who resides beneath you. My mom has the tone perfected.

  I shock them with something they probably don’t hear often. “Of course not. It’s just work…you understand,” I reply, waving my phone in the air. Most of them have no freaking clue about work. I watch their faces shift in confusion. Maybe they think I’m being a bitch, but I can’t find it in myself to care. “I have a few deadlines to meet,” I add on, just to drive the point home. Morganna snorts. I shoot her the side-eye, smirking a little. I text Maverick.

  They hate me. I watch him check his phone. He meets my eyes, and gives me this perfectly planned wink paired with both dimples. Narrowing my eyes at him, I sigh and try my best to focus of the task at hand. I catch the eye of one Y and I notice she’s looking back and forth between Maverick and me.

  She raises her perfectly arched eyebrows and says, “Maverick doesn’t date. What do you have that I don’t?”

  I pause, because I have to let that question roll around in my head before I can answer. She’s implying she’s been with Maverick…and he didn’t date her. So he must have had hotel sex with her. “Excuse me?” I ask perfectly, politely.

  “Do you habla English? Maverick. Girlfriend. How?” she snips. Giggles buzz around the table and unfortunately I can’t help the shade of red I feel my cheeks turning.

  Morganna clears her throat, ostensibly to see if I plan on laying into these women before she does. I miss the simplicity of Gretchen’s friendship. I’d never be facing the wolf pack’s Rosy Team with her—I’d be facing a lingerie rack with my arms laden with bras and garters.

  “You should ask him that,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders. The high road is a lonely one. Especially when I feel like taking the dirty, low one. She rolls her eyes and scoffs. I have to purse my lips to keep from slinging insults her way. Not only am I jealous she’s had sex with Maverick, I’m angry I didn’t know I’d be running into his conquests at this thing. I guess just because they’re with other men now doesn’t mean anything about before. It’s a new fact to add to the weird ass list. They share. Everything. How polite of them.