Fast & Wet

by Kat Ransom

  “Cole,” I squirm and let his hair wind through my fingers.

  “Shh, let me,” he says against me, the warmth of his breath across my bare skin relaxing me. I can’t possibly come again, but this is somehow more intimate and affectionate, to be comforted and cherished like this.

  The way he goes from aggressive and dominant to gentle and sweet, I get the best of both worlds, and I feel like I’m cloaked in adoration, shrouded in safety.

  When I release a long, audible sigh and my legs fall limp to the bed, he kisses my outer lips softly and creeps back up my body, peppering soft kisses all along the way until he reaches my mouth.

  “That was perfect,” I reassure the worry he expressed earlier, and he rewards me with a smile that reaches his ears.

  “You’re perfect, gorgeous girl,” he kisses me again. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Mmm, only the good way.”

  He rolls over onto his back and stretches his long legs out. He pulls me into his chest. I throw one leg over his and snuggle into him while his arm holds me tight.

  “I’m not leaving, and you can’t make me,” I mutter against his skin and take in how good he smells. He’s insane if he thinks I am not spending the night tonight, and I’ll lie on top of him forever so that he has to stay put if I need to.

  He chuckles, his ribs visible as his breathing slows “Good, move in. Never leave.”

  His comment catches my attention for a second, but then he lets out a yawn, and I decide to let it go as a simple post-sex uttering.

  I trace my fingers along each groove of his six-pack marveling in how gorgeous his body is, like a sculpted statue that belongs in a museum. Except I don’t want to share it with anyone else.

  “My abs ab-by enough for you?” His eyes are closed behind his long, dark lashes, but he has a sarcastic smirk on his face. The abundance of abs on the covers of my romance novels has become a silly inside joke between us.

  “Ab-a-licious,” I kiss his nipple.

  Seventeen

  Cole

  My eyes aren’t even open yet, but I can smell her, the familiar clean linen and floral scent, in my bed. My face buried in a pillow, I smile, roll my shoulders, and stretch my limbs out.

  I don’t feel her pressed up against me anymore and reach my hands out in both directions—ice-cold bed.

  Flipping over and scanning around, she isn’t here. The light in the ensuite bathroom is out, and I don’t hear the water running.

  “Em?”

  Crickets.

  Seriously? She took off? After searching my house yesterday like the DEA looking for a stash, bitching me out for not staying the night, she’s the one who’s done the leaving this morning.

  Serves me right, but I thought we were done playing these games. The ones where she runs and I chase her.

  Throwing on a pair of boxers briefs, I take my frustration out on the dresser drawer by slamming the shit out of it when I see her panties from yesterday still lying on the top. I throw open the bedroom door and go in search of my phone to call her.

  We’re never going to get anywhere if we can’t move beyond the past.

  I apologized—not for everything, she doesn’t even know the half to it—I told her I’d do better. I meant it, whatever it takes, yet she wants to get even and leave m…

  Shit.

  Rounding the hallway corner, I see her in the kitchen. Her back is to me, and she’s in front of the stove mixing a bowl of god knows what. There are pots and pans everywhere. It smells like heaven.

  She’s in one of my tee shirts—and nothing else. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, and it’s bobbing violently, long brown hair swishing across her shoulders from side to side as she bends her knees and sways her hips back and forth to whatever is playing through the earbuds she has in.

  She starts singing along with her music and spikes a pinch of salt into her bowl, Emeril Lagasse style. “When you haven't been where I've been, understand where I'm coming from. While you're up on the hill in your big home, I'm out here risking my dome, just for a bucket or a faster ducket. Just to stay alive yo’ I got to say fuck it. Here is something you can't understand, how I could just kill a man. Here is something you can't understand, how I could just kill a man.”

  This is the funny thing about Emily. On the surface, she seems like the well-behaved, scholarly daughter of a military family. Just below, though, is someone with so much more depth, someone rocking out and singing Rage Against the Machine and begging me to do filthy things to her all night long.

  It’s an unbelievably hot combination.

  She is really getting into it, rolling her head from side to side, wiggling her shoulders up and down, that perfect ass of hers becoming more visible as her shirt hikes up every time she bounces around. I can hear the bass and beat through her earbuds and take a seat at the breakfast counter, perfectly content to watch this show all damn day.

  Finally, she spins around while singing and jumps at the sight of me. I love that instead of being embarrassed, she beams back at me, pulls her earbuds out, and slinks between my legs on the kitchen stool.

  “Good morning, handsome,” she wraps her hands around my neck and lays those sweet lips on me.

  “It’s better now,” I grab a handful of her ass and pull her between my knees.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, you were gone when I woke up,” I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “That’s terrible,” her long eyelashes flutter at me, her big brown eyes dancing with mischief. “What’s that like?”

  “I didn’t like it.” Her sass earns her a slap on the ass, and she squeaks, prancing back to the stove.

  “What is all this?” I ask as I grab a cup of coffee she has brewing and sit back down at the counter. I didn’t know I owned this many pans and utensils.

  “Breakfast. There are veggie egg muffins in the oven. Thought those would be good for you to grab before you work out in the morning. Flourless banana pancakes because Liam put the kibosh on regular pancakes, and then a southwest turkey and egg skillet thing.”

  “Where did you get all of this?” I don’t have this much food in the house, I don’t think. Also, she actually consulted Liam on what I eat?

  “Concierge offered to get it for me when I asked where the nearest grocery is.”

  “They do that?”

  “Apparently, and apparently you pay for it,” she waves a wooden spoon at me.

  “Huh,” never knew that. “Well, thank you, baby. This is… nice.”

  “I like to do it, and I’m in love with this kitchen,” she smiles and waves her arms around at all the stainless appliances I’ve never used. “There’s no food in this apartment, though. What do you eat?”

  “Liam brings meals in little containers once a week.”

  Her face wrinkles up. “You can’t live on that. When’s the last time someone made you a home-cooked meal?”

  I rub my neck and think about it. The sperm donor never cooked, and my memories of Mom, mostly her screaming that she hated me, and she never wanted me, were not exactly a scene out of Leave it to Beaver. “Never?”

  “What do you mean, never?”

  I shrug. Emily looks like someone has kicked her dog.

  “No one’s ever made you breakfast?”

  “No. I usually just make a protein shake.”

  “Dinner?”

  “I nuke one of the containers from Liam.”

  Something about this concept seems deeply offensive to her.

  Who the hell would I cook for, myself? I’m not home seventy-five percent of the time, and all this work for one person’s meal sounds like a miserable endeavor. No thanks.

  She slides the last banana pancake out of the pan, which, I have to say, looks like a pretty legit normal pancake. “Thanksgiving. Surely you had a turkey and stuffing and cranberr…”

  “Nope,” I interrupt her and sip my coffee.

  She turns the stove off and rounds the counter, putting her hands on my thighs. Sh
e’s actually upset about this.

  “It’s not a big deal, makes me appreciate you cooking all the more,” I try to kiss her but, she pulls back.

  “Cole,” her eyes are searching mine. “Christmas dinner?”

  “Em,” her eyes are growing glassy, and now she’s looking at me like I am the dog who’s been kicked. “It’s fine, let’s eat.” She lets me pull her in closer by the backs of her thighs, and I nuzzle her neck. “Or I could just eat you,” I try to lighten the mood, but also, fuck food, I could sustain life on Emily in my bed.

  “It’s not fine,” she pulls back. “I should have made you come to my house for the holidays.”

  “So the Major General could rip me to shit? Yeah, that would have gone over well.”

  Fuck. There’s a tear ready to spill out of Em’s eye at any moment. I didn’t mean to ruin this sweet thing she’s done this morning, and I wasn’t vying for sympathy. It’s really not a big deal.

  “He would have let you.”

  “He would have poisoned me.”

  I think she forgets how much her father hated me then, and his opinion of me has not improved any over the years. It’s gotten infinitely worse.

  But she doesn’t know that.

  “What have you done on all the holidays since you left?”

  Stalked your social media then drunkenly fucked nameless women until I passed out, mostly.

  “Nothing,” I answer, instead.

  Her hands circle my shoulders, and I feel her tears hit my skin. “Don’t cry. Come on, I want to eat whatever you made. It smells delicious.”

  “I should have made you come to my house. I should have called you. I should have been there for you.”

  You couldn’t have been, baby.

  She lifts her head and looks at me through her wet eyes, “Thanksgiving is in a few months. Can we spend it together?”

  “You’re not going home?”

  “No, I want to be with you.”

  “Your dad’s gonna be pissed.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” she snaps, and her fists ball up.

  I don’t want to talk about him either.

  Ever.

  Thanksgiving has never been anything but another day to remind me that I have no family, no one to really give a shit. Not even a phone call from old Stan. I understand why Mom doesn’t call, I’m just a walking, talking reminder of what Stan did to her.

  Same with Christmas, another day where everyone else is with their loved ones, and those with no one sit around feeling like lepers. Last several years I turned my phone off so a part of me couldn’t even wonder if it would ring. I knew it wouldn’t, but I’d find my subconscious waiting for it anyway.

  “Baby, if you want to spend Thanksgiving here, I’ll find you the biggest turkey in London. I’ll get one of those deep fryers, and we can burn the deck down. Whatever makes you stop crying.”

  That brings a smile back to her face, and my heart’s rhythm restores itself.

  “I could cook the shit out of Thanksgiving dinner in this kitchen,” she chuckles and wipes her tears away.

  I stand up and snatch her little body up against mine. “Fucking the shit out of you in this kitchen sounds much more fun,” I breathe into her neck and kiss the soft skin all down her nape and collarbone. This cooking in my tee-shirt thing she has going on is doing something for me.

  She pushes her ass back into me, sighs as my hands travel up the inside of her shirt along her smooth skin. I take one of her perfect tits in my hand and glide the other down to her naked, bare pussy.

  “Can we get a Christmas tree?”

  “Hop on the counter and spread your legs and I’ll kidnap Santa Claus for you.”

  “Breakfast,” she giggles, pulls away, and flits to the oven, leaving me standing here with a raging hard-on.

  Emily starts plating up a breakfast feast, but seeing her so emotional about being alone for the holidays sits in my stomach like a lead weight. They mean something to her. Being with me means no more family holidays, and I don’t think she understands that.

  She couldn’t.

  She wants to give them up now, this year, because it’s novel and she feels sorry for me, but I don’t think she realizes there would be no more Thanksgiving dinners with her family. No presents on Christmas morning with her mom and dad.

  No turkey, no Christmas stockings, no Santa Claus, and no goddamn eight reindeer.

  I’ve never had it, so I’m not giving anything up. You can’t lose what you never had.

  But Emily, she’s always had that normalcy, those happy memories, and traditions, and it’d be one more thing she’d sacrifice to be with me.

  “Do you like your job, Em?” I ask as I shovel mouthfuls of her cheesy egg goodness into my mouth and try to act casual.

  Or is that another thing I’ve taken from you, your chosen career?

  When she answers, I don’t think she’s faking. Her eyes light up. “I love it,” she grins around a forkful of pancake. She starts discussing the engineering marvels of the cars, the advancements F1 brings to other industries, and all of the things that get her motor turning. “Plus, I get to be with you.”

  That makes me feel better, like less of a selfish prick. Less of an abomination.

  “This was really good, thank you for doing all of this.” I’ve stuffed myself, and eating Liam’s meal prepped mystery containers is going to be more difficult going forward.

  “You’re welcome. I like doing it. It’s fun.” She starts gathering up plates and dishes and piling them in the sink.

  “Leave those, baby, I’ll do them later.”

  “Deal,” she saunters over to me and runs her palms up and down my chest. She’s so beautiful, so soft, so smart and sexy. She’s everything I fell in love with years ago, but even better now.

  “What do you want to do today?” She links her hands together behind my neck.

  “Make you happy.”

  She thinks I’m kidding when she kisses the tip of my nose and says, “You do make me happy.” But, then her eyebrows furrow as she notices my face doesn’t match her playful grin.

  “All I’ve done lately is make you cry.” Two days in a row now, that I’m aware of, and who knows how many more when I wasn’t there to watch it.

  “You’re being dramatic, that’s not all you do,” her palms cup my cheeks, and her thumbs run across my jaw, bristling through the stubble that’s a few days old.

  “I’m being dramatic?” I cock an eyebrow up and suggest that, possibly, maybe, ransacking my apartment looking for other women may have been a touch more dramatic than my statement.

  “You do make me happy,” her eyes watch mine, the black of her pupils moving back and forth between mine. “You make me laugh,” she plants a light kiss on my lips. “You make me feel special and safe and wanted,” her mouth moves to my neck, and she traces her tongue around the edge of my ear.

  “I want you more than anything in this world.” I run my hands from the side of her tits down her torso and to her hips. I fucking love these perfect hipbones and how my hands fit around them.

  “You know all of my secrets. You’re my best friend,” she continues the trail of her mouth over my skin, and I feel a pang of guilt that there are still plenty of secrets, but it would only hurt her to learn them.

  And it’s getting hard to concentrate with her mouth on me.

  “You fuck me to sleep every night and give me the best orgasms I’ve ever had,” her teeth latch onto my shoulder, and she pinches one of my nipples.

  “Jesus,’ I hitch and slide my hands under her shirt.

  “You and your magic dick make me let go. I feel like I’m someone else, or actually, like I’m finally myself.”

  “This magic dick?” I take her hand and put her palm over my cock, which is rock hard and throbbing for her.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she moans and cups me, her fingers dancing gently over my balls. “It’s different with you.”

  “How?” I push down the
thoughts of her being with other guys and concentrate on how good her hand feels on me and the handful of her ass in my palm.

  “I feel like I can completely let go, give myself to you. Like my walls come down, and I can just be because I trust you. I can relax and be naughty with you.”

  “You want to be naughty…” I rub my thumb over her nipple, already a stiff pink peak for me.

  “Filthy,” she whispers into my ear and squeezes the base of my cock, hard.

  “You’re killing me, baby.” The things I want to do to this woman, she has no idea.

  “Oh yeah?” She pushes off my chest and grabs my phone where it’s been charging on the kitchen counter, then comes back. She swipes up on the screen, pushes a button, and hands it back to me.

  She’s turned the camera on, and it’s set to record video, the red dot flashing at me. “What are you doing…” I eye her suspiciously.

  I like the new, naughtier Emily. I like her a lot.

  “I want you to be able to watch,” she pulls me off the stool and drags my boxers down my legs. She bites her bottom lip and adjusts the phone in my hand so that it’s pointing down at her as she sinks to her knees.

  “Jesus Christ, Em.”

  “Watch,” she whispers.

  Her palm wraps around the base of my cock. She runs her tongue along the ridge of my shaft from the root to tip, her eyes sweeping up and watching me.

  I suck in a deep breath and lean against the breakfast counter. Holy shit, my gorgeous girl has only gotten one thousand times hotter and bolder.

  Her tongue circles the tip, and she puckers her lips over the very top, teasing me.

  She’s going to be my undoing.

  I reach down and pull the shirt over her head so she’s naked and I can watch all of her tight little body below me. Her nipples are pink and pointed, and her tongue goes back to stroking my length up and down. My gaze travels back and forth between Emily and the camera as I imagine watching this over and over again.

  “Suck, baby,” I grip myself and move the head of my dick to her lips.

  Never taking her eyes off me, she opens her mouth, and I watch her lips go round and sink down my flesh as her hand wraps around the base.