Possess: An Alpha Anthology

by Anthology

  I open my mouth to reply that this effort was not for his benefit since I had no way to know I’d be taking my clothes off for him when I got dressed this morning.

  But then even I start to wonder.

  Did I?

  Bran unsnaps his jeans and drops them down to his knees in heartbeat. His voice is the sound of sex. “You were so ready it killed me. From the day I got my hands on you. The very first fucking day, Cricket. You know how hard it was for me to take my time?”

  He keeps talking but I’m not noticing because I’m busy. I’m busy staring at the mighty organ pointed my way like a searching rocket. Some things about Matthew Branson may have changed over time but the unholy size of his cock isn’t one of them, thank god. The longer I stare the more every nerve between my legs eagerly convulses. Long, hard, thick, everything a cock was put on this earth to be. I want it in my palm, tasted in my mouth, probing deep inside my pleading pussy where it was designed to fit.

  “You hear me, Cricket?”

  I sort of halfway heard him. While I stood there stupidly staring at his cock like a bitch in heat, he kept up the dirty talk. Something about using me until I break but I’m not sure. I’ve never been a multi-tasker. I can’t listen and worship the sight of his manhood simultaneously. The thing deserves a moment of silence anyway.

  “Huh?”

  Bran gives me a knowing little smile that warns he’s aware of what’s going on inside my head. It’s the kind of smile he gave me about two milliseconds before he pushed inside of my tight center on our wedding night. It’s the kind of smile that understands ravenous lust and arrogantly declares it knows the answer.

  Speaking of the answer, I’m still fixated on it. It’s right there in front of me, being idly stroked in its owner’s palm.

  “Did you ask me something, baby?”

  Ummm… I’m not sure now. I’m staring at the thick head of his dick and remembering how it felt against the back of my throat.

  “’Cause I was just letting you know that I’m about to erase the memory of every other bastard who’s dared to touched you. I’m gonna stretch that sweet pussy wide and reach in there so deep it’ll end you. You remember how it goes.”

  “Okay,” I answer automatically because that actually sounds pretty good to me. I even find myself slipping my thong over my ankles and getting my blouse open.

  “Good girl,” Bran says with approval and I’m tossed back in time to being an eighteen-year-old virgin with a thin ring on my finger and spreading my legs on a vibrating bed for the undoubted King of High School.

  Bran is hard at work getting a condom unwrapped and I’m happy to see it. I’m so out of my head right now I would have gone at it bareback six times before pausing to think about the consequences.

  And by the way, if you’re one of those scoffers who insist that smart, capable women simply do not ever lose their minds over the sight of a dick then I’ll have to argue that they’ve just never met a worthy dick. Because, current behavior aside, I am a smart woman (my summa cum laude GPA says so!) and I have lost my ever loving mind.

  Once Bran casually rolls the latex on he grabs me so suddenly I squeal and immediately find my hair in my face as he throws me over his shoulder. It’s purely a symbolic gesture; the bed is a lousy two steps away. Bran always needed to call the shots when it came to sex, something else about him that hasn’t changed.

  He tosses me down and looms over me. My skirt is still bunched way up around my waist. He takes a moment to run his palms over my breasts, cupping them in all their lace captivity before deftly reaching around and unhooking.

  A sly smile dances at the corners of his mouth and I know he’s congratulating himself on getting his Ice Queen Ex on her back. Even though feminists everywhere are shrieking over my idiocy, I can’t worry about them right now. I can’t worry about anything else until I get past this next orgasm.

  Bran runs his hands over my belly, then gets underneath my gathered skirt. He holds my ass in his hands and spreads my legs into a full split.

  “Cricket.”

  His voice has changed. The way he says my name sounds almost sharp.

  But when I stop rolling my head in ecstasy and lock eyes with him, he only holds my gaze for a second before lifting my open body and thrusting straight inside.

  Seven years of near deprivation – a few limp screws and a five-month disaster with an engineering student who only believed in oral– catch up with me. My skin stretches and my mouth moans and I’m clenched around his dick in the throes of something magnificent less than thirty seconds after he starts pumping. He’s right about one thing; one no other guy has a chance at challenging him in this department. No one ever did.

  I’m not a noisemaker typically but a swarm of groans and curses fly around and probably make their way past the study lounge, out the west door and across the quad to the dining hall as music for the masses.

  Bran has more self-control than I do. He takes his time, flips me one way and then the other, getting me off twice more before he shudders and explodes in a steamy fury that covers us both in sweat.

  “Oh, wow,” I whisper and when I hear the words I realize it’s probably the dumbest thing anyone has uttered in the history of sex.

  He doesn’t withdraw right away. I feel the hot release just beyond the condom and I feel the way his body sighs with satisfaction as his heartbeat slows, returning to normal. My arms spread across his back while his face rests in the hollow between my neck and my shoulder.

  There’s a moment - just a moment - when we’re not just two hot bodies that just slammed together. It’s a moment of blissful connection and for an instant I’m seven years in the past, to a time of ‘I love you’s and other vanished things.

  Then Bran sits up and I close my legs. While he’s getting rid of the condom I rearrange things until my skirt looks like a skirt again. It takes a heaping dose of willpower to keep from staring at his body while I put myself back together.

  “Well,” I say when I’m hooking my bra. I don’t really have anything else to say after that. One mind-blowing fuck and I’ve lost access to the English language.

  Bran crosses to the window, cracks open the blinds and just stands there for a minute. I sit on the edge of the bed and wonder what it is that should happen right now between people with a history like ours.

  Then he turns around.

  Matthew Branson is all smiles.

  Not the ‘So happy I could dance’ kind of smile.

  More like a ‘Fuck yeah, I just breached the enemy gate’ wicked grin.

  “I’ve missed that,” he says mildly and start hunting around on the floor for his shirt.

  While he locates the green puddle of cotton and slips it over his head I stare at him. The call of my libido isn’t so loud anymore. In fact the only thing I can hear at all is the way Bran just said, “I’ve missed that,” like he was talking about his favorite fast food hamburger.

  In case anyone is wondering, there is a Grand Canyon of distance between “I’ve missed that” and “I’ve missed you”.

  In addition to twenty pounds of pure muscle, the last seven years have apparently also given Bran another layer of arrogance. He was always full of himself, even when he was whispering all kinds of sweet promises in my ear. Every word that ever came out of his mouth was designed with the conclusion that he was going to win. Whether it was knocking people over on the field, commanding the hallways or casually proposing marriage on the concrete bank of a reservoir, Bran has always been a guy who expects to get what he wants. Even though I know that was always the case, something about it kind of rubs me the wrong way at the moment.

  Bran might be a mind reader because he looks up and winks at me. Then he pointedly zips up his fly before he leans against the wall and starts whistling. To my surreal horror I recognize the opening bars of The Star Spangled Banner.

  Because right after you hump your ex like a wild animal, the thing to do, always, is to whistle the national anthem.


  I fold my hands primly in my lap and cross my legs at the ankles even though it’s a little late for ladylike gestures. “Well, that was fun, but you should leave now. I’ve got to get to class.” It’s an inane thing to say but at least it’s slightly more dignified than ‘Wow’.

  The Star Spangled Banner stops. His eyebrows rise. I’ve surprised him. The fact gives me a few ounces of satisfaction. He actually looks concerned.

  “I was thinking we could go grab a drink or something.”

  “A drink?” I snort. “As much as I appreciate your generosity, I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

  He scowls. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me the professor talk.”

  “If you’re so adverse to academia, Bran, you shouldn’t be at a university.”

  “Cricket, dammit. Cut it out. Talk to me straight.”

  “I’ll try and use smaller words then. For your sake. I’m not having a stupid drink with you. And I want you to leave.”

  His eyes narrow. For some reason this makes me feel triumphant. Then he takes a step forward, glowering and unhappy.

  “Why can’t you just let go and admit that after all this time I rocked your neurotic little world?”

  “I can’t believe you’re searching for fucking gratitude.”

  “I already got fucking out of you, sweetheart. Now I want honesty.”

  Honesty? He has some kind of egotistical nerve demanding honesty from me. I tip my chin up and stare him down. “If I congratulate you for doing what you came here to do would that make you leave?”

  He stares back. “Try it.”

  “Okay.” I stand up. I can be dignified. I can be dignified even with three buttons on my blouse missing and the rosy tip of a nipple peeking out from my bra.

  “I, Cricket Constance Monroe, am telling you, Matthew Robert Branson, that you made me come really really hard, over and over, and now I’ll think of you fondly for at least an hour, or maybe two.”

  He waits a minute then nods slowly, almost sadly. I was making a mockery of our old vows and he understands. He’s looking at the floor and then he hisses a curse and meets my eyes.

  “So you won’t give at all, not even after all this time. Seems like things were never meant to work between us.”

  Oh. OH! No. NO NO NO! I am NOT about to let that one slide.

  I cross my arms and glower without pity. He doesn’t deserve any. “Is that so, Bran? I thought it was because you couldn’t quite get the taste out of your mouth for hair-flipping, two-faced, cock-loving redheads.”

  He flinches and opens his mouth to say something. But then he seems to lose focus, as he should, because there’s no defense for sticking your dick in the mouth of your queen bee succubus of an ex-girlfriend when you’ve got a gold band on your left hand.

  “You’re right,” he says and my triumph turns to agitation.

  “Of course I’m right. Where are you going?”

  He pauses with his hand on the doorknob and gives me an annoyed look. “You told me to leave.”

  “Right. I did.”

  “You told me you had a class to go to.”

  “Right. I do.”

  “And even though I know you don’t have a class and that your typical Thursday evening involves the lobby vending machine and marathon Netflix viewing on your MacBook, I’m gonna leave anyway.”

  At first what he said doesn’t sink in. “How the hell do you know that? Bran, have you been stalking me?”

  It’s an alarming idea. It’s a thrilling idea. It’s an idea that makes me cross my legs even tighter because The Body is starting to get extremely interested in this idea.

  Bran doesn’t look at me. “Not anymore.”

  He gets the parting shot, such as it is. But I still got a few good digs in there.

  Instead of slamming the door he closes it quietly. I hear his footsteps marching double time down the hall.

  I should feel better now.

  The muscles between my legs still pop and flex in afterglow gratitude.

  And…I told off Matthew Branson.

  Sort of.

  This ought to be a victorious occasion. I should go visit the vending machine, buy out all the Cheetos and watch Pitch Perfect.

  Instead I stare out of the crack in the blinds and watch dusk settle. I wish I wasn’t thinking about anything at all, but a few unwanted ideas keep invading. Specifically, I’m thinking about the way Bran held me for a minute and we breathed together, reminding me of something that I barely remember; that it was possible to feel so close to someone that you breathed together like you had the same body.

  I haven’t been reminded of that in a long time. I don’t really want to be reminded of it now.

  Chapter Five

  It takes me four snack-sized bags of Cheetos and 1.5 screenings of Pitch Perfect before I start feeling vaguely ashamed of myself. Here I am, twenty- five years old and not a shred wiser than I’ve ever been. The hour long shower I’d taken once Bran was gone did little to erase the lingering sensations of our bedroom acrobatics. Between my legs I’m sore in the most decadent way and my skin still buzzes just about everywhere else.

  It isn’t the worst problem to have, except if I start thinking about who is responsible for it.

  Once I lick all the Cheetos powder from my fingers like a six-year-old I grab my phone and call the one person who would understand the chaos behind the statement, “I just screwed Bran.”

  It’s just too bad I forget to say hello first.

  There is a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “Uh, Cricket?”

  Shit. Shit. Triple shit in a bottle with a tight cork.

  “Oh, hi Emil. What’s up?”

  Hallie’s fiancé is apologetic. “Sorry, Hal is up to her elbows in quinoa so she asked me to grab her phone. Hold on, she’ right here.”

  I hear water running and then soft, behind-the-scenes murmuring with the distinct word ‘screw’ tossed around in the sound salad.

  “Crick?” It’s Hallie’s Voice of Concern.

  I picture my old friend standing there barefoot in her San Francisco studio apartment, wearing one of those loose, flappy Stevie Nicks dresses she loves. Besides my mother and brother, she’s the only one who still calls me by my real name anymore.

  Hearing the warmth in the voice of a tried and true friend makes me a little weepy so I snatch a tissue. It’s from the same blue box I’d offered to Maura the night of Bran’s Great Return. I start talking and don’t leave anything out, from the stunning moment of our initial encounter, the awkward conversations that followed, and wrap up the tale by summarizing the unholy fuck fest right on my bed.

  I don’t need to remind Hallie about any historical events. She already knows that part by heart.

  Hallie lets out a low whistle when I finish talking. I’m wiping my nose and trying to quiet the little gasps of hysteria that keep rising in my chest.

  “Yeah, I’d heard he was out of the Army,” she says slowly. “I didn’t say anything to you about it because, well, you know. My mom was startled when he stopped by the bakery one day, I guess about four or five months ago. She asked him if he was back in town for good and he said no. He moved some boxes for her and they chatted about Hickey nonsense. She said he told her to pass along a hello to me even though I didn’t realize he would even remember me. But of course he would, because of you.”

  “Did your mom tell him where I was?”

  She sighs. “I’m sure your name came up as some point. Really though, Crick, just because you change your first name and shun the social media world doesn’t mean no one will be able to find you if they want to.”

  “Oh, I know. I guess I just don’t know why he would want to.”

  “You kidding? He fucked up and lost the best thing that ever happened to him and he’s finally man enough to realize it. You underestimate yourself, hon. I don’t care what he says, with all the thousands of higher learning spots in the country, there’s no way he would
just happen to pick yours out of thin air. He’s there for a reason and you’re it. You just need to decide if you’re into him or not.”

  I don’t know if I believe Hallie’s conclusion. I don’t know anything right now, except that once I turned sharply in the wrong direction and have been trying to figure out how to walk straight ever since.

  I press my temples with my thumb and forefinger, trying to find the spot that will ease the rising pressure. “We should never have gotten married in the first place.”

  Hallie groans with what I can only assume is exasperation. “Of course you shouldn’t have gotten married, but that’s not the point, not after this much time has gone by. Cricket, I’ve seen a fair amount of evidence that people can change directions like a flock of birds.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means Matthew Branson was once a conceited prick but he was an eighteen-year-old conceited prick, an age bracket where conceit and prickishness are thick. I’m not excusing him at all but I’m not condemning him either. That’s up to you. I guess the question is, can you forgive him? Do you even want to?”

  I mull that question over without answering it and then change the subject. We talk about other things, like Hallie’s wedding plans and the fact that my little brother is a sophomore in college now. It’s a gift to be able to connect with someone who knows you well and always makes a place for you in her life.

  I don’t want to keep Hallie on the phone long. She’s got quinoa to eat and a fiancé to pay attention to. She asks me repeatedly if I’m all right and I do the best I can to sound cheerful. I promise to call her in a few days. Right before she hangs up she pauses and asks me what I’m going to do.

  “For now,” I answer airily, “I’m going to gather my loose change and go raid another vending machine. The ones in this building are all out of Cheetos.”

  That’s not what I end up doing though. I discard my plush robe in exchange for jeans and a college tee, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail. The first floor hallway is pretty quiet considering it’s barely ten o’clock and Thursday night is widely considered the kickoff to the weekend, like Friday’s business is just an inconvenient addendum.