Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  Nico swallows, causing a muscle in the side of his jaw to tick. His hands flex again. He’s dying to do it. Flip me over. Ram inside. Release his frustrations onto my body the same way I’m dying to let him.

  But still, he pauses.

  He thinks too much. At least, that’s what I always tell him. Even though we’ve been together for as long as we have, Nico still doesn’t always believe I completely understand what I’m asking for. Or maybe he still can’t believe I like it as much as he does. Nico understands that deep inside, there is always going to be a part of me that burns a little, an anger that needs to be let out, a need to hurt, just a little. He gets it because he feels it too. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling bad about it.

  Even though he spends most of his down time at the firehouse working out, he still has to take off for Frank’s a few times a week just to rid himself of the tension that builds up. Sometimes it’s just too much for my man to bear, and hitting something, whether it’s one of the heavy bags or Nate’s mitts, is one of the only ways to get rid of it.

  This is the other. I wish he didn’t feel guilty about it, but the reality is, we both get what we need when he takes control, gets a little aggressive. I need to feel just a little pinch of pain. And sometimes he needs to give it.

  I get up on my knees and shuffle to the edge of the bed, where I slip off my shirt and skirt so that I’m kneeling in front of him, almost naked. He watches me unbuckle his pants and pull them down so that, after he removes his shoes, he can shimmy out of them the rest of the way. I toy with the elastic of his boxer briefs, but only tug them a little lower than his hip bones. There is something so crazy sexy about the combination of muscle, bone, and tendon that converges right above that band. I lean in and lick the spot, then sit back up to kiss him properly.

  “Please,” I whisper against his lips. “I’m not going to break. We’re not going to break.”

  Then I clap his hand to my ass, which is still his favorite part of my body. Seriously, I could probably get this man to do anything I wanted if I kept his hand right here. It’s not a privilege I take advantage of a lot, but it’s nice to know it’s there.

  Nico moans into my mouth, and his hand automatically kneads the full flesh.

  “Fuck,” he breathes before sucking on my lip again with a slight bite. His other hand grabs the other cheek, and he massages them together, pulling me up against his hard length. “Jesus. Christ.”

  I reach behind and cover his hands with mine. Then I clamp down, grabbing with him, and make him do it hard. Hard enough to leave a bruise.

  “Ah!” he bites out.

  Suddenly, I’m flipped over so I’m on my knees, my face pressed into the bedding while my hands are held together behind my back. My underwear is dragged down my legs, and before I know it, he’s pressed against my entrance, sliding in slowly at first, and then thrusting deeply into that warm, slick place where he still fits so perfectly.

  There’s no wait. No gentle touch or kisses to get me ready. He doesn’t take the time to lick or play with his hand—but he doesn’t need to, not today. His little game on the patio had me ready and willing well before he picked me up, and he knows it too.

  And he knows I’m looking for something else anyway.

  The crack of his hand meeting my flesh echoes through the air, and I shudder, in the best possible way.

  “Again,” I call, low because my voice is muffled in the sheets. But he hears me.

  His hand smacks my ass again and again, alternating between a light, brushing swat, and a full-on smack as he pounds harder, filling me completely with every push, every grunt. I press my elbows down, pushing back against each blow, groaning into the sheets every time his palm lands on my skin. I’ll be bright red by the time he’s done, and I’m absolutely loving it.

  With the last, particularly rough slap, I scream into the sheets, and Nico pauses.

  “Layla,” he barks. “Up. Now.”

  I push up awkwardly, and he helps me the rest of the way so that I’m resting against his chest, both of us on our knees together while he remains buried inside. He twists us toward the shelves mounted over the bed, the ones that are doubly reinforced for moments like these, and sets my hands on the edge of the lowest one so that I’m bent at a slight angle, It’s one of our favorite positions, one that allows me to take him deeply, yet gives him full access to the front of my body.

  He lifts one knee and sets his foot down on the bed, almost in a parody of a proposal, except he’s buried seven inches deep and giving me one of the hardest fucks of my life instead of an engagement ring.

  “Is that how you want it, baby?” he asks as his hand slams down again. “You want it hard like this?”

  “Ummmmmmm, yesssssss!” I shout, holding onto the shelf for dear life. When he takes me this way, I can barely think, much less speak in full sentences.

  Nico’s hands float up my sides, resting briefly over my ribs, where my half of our matching tattoos stretches over my skin: in his handwriting, saudade para tí. His fingers trace the lines as he continues to thrust, harder and harder, while his fingers curl and his nails scrape my skin just a bit as he drops that hand down between my legs.

  The effect is instantaneous. He pinches my clit, and it’s that tricky combination of pleasure and pain, the one that Nico always manages to find exactly right, that sets me off.

  I begin to shake. He pulls the hand away.

  “Nico!” I cry out hoarsely as my muscles tense. “Oh…fuck! Baby, I’m so close, sooooooo close.”

  He slams in again, and again, but his words are no longer intelligible. I can feel him expand within me, growing bigger, longer, harder. It only brings me even closer to that critical edge, the place where I can’t hold myself back any more.

  “Hold on, baby,” he grunts. Thrust. Smack. He winds a hand into my hair and yanks me back up against him. The hand at my clit works a little harder, then pinches a bit and pulls.

  “Now, Layla,” Nico croaks. “Come with me, baby. Now!”

  His teeth find my neck, and he bites. Hard.

  “FUCK!” I shout as my orgasm launches through me.

  My entire body shakes, seizing up against his strong, solid warmth, kept from toppling over by the arm around my hips and the other hand clasping my hair. I don’t know how he doesn’t come apart too, but it’s Nico’s strength that keeps us from falling over together. He’s shattered too. I can tell by the way every part of him wound around me is flexed, muscle, vein, and tendon all in high relief. His teeth still clamp down hard enough that I swear he’s going to draw blood, and he emits a long, almost pained groan against my skin as his release floods me.

  Our life together has never been easy. We’ve had our battles to fight to be together, both coming from inside and outside of ourselves. Money. Family. This city and all the memories it holds.

  We both have our outlets, our ways of coping, so that when we come together, we can give each other the best we have to offer. Most days they work, but sometimes they aren’t enough.

  But this. This connection. This outlet. This heat. This love. This is always enough.

  The End…for now.

  (Click here for the Extended Epilogue)

  Need more Nico and Layla? You can catch sneak peeks of these two in my upcoming forbidden romance, The Other Man. www.nicolefrenchromance.com/theotherman

  Need more Nico? You can read about his early life in the Bad Idea prequel novella, Broken Arrow, free only to newsletter subscribers: https://BookHip.com/BBXWVX

  After Party

  A Bad Idea Story

  Chapter One

  Shama

  The walls are shaking.

  No, not those kinds, you dirty bird. I mean the actual walls of my hotel room are shaking. The windows rattle in their frames, the big platform bed shuffles on the carpet, and the big brass mirror over the vanity claps against the plaster.

  “Don’t drop, don’t drop, you fucker,” I mutter without opening my eyes. How
many earthquakes have I experienced in five years of living in L.A.? Ten? Twelve? Twenty?

  I don’t even know. This thing is barely a tremor, hardly audible over the noise bubbling up from Santa Monica Boulevard. The only reason I can feel the damn thing is because I’m flat on my back. And, no, not in that way either. Jeez, you guys really are perverts.

  Three. Two. One. The shaking stops. The mirror is crooked but has the good sense not to fall. No seven years of bad luck. I exhale. I need coffee. But to do that, I need to get up.

  Seven years I’ve lived in L.A. Five since I took the job with National Records as a video production assistant. I did the job, and I did it well. Worked steadily up the ladder until I was eventually producing music videos on my own.

  And now, two days since I left my apartment and officially began my ten-years-coming vacation here at the Santa Monica Marriott, not four blocks from my old studio.

  You think you know how hard the music business is? No one tells you about behind the scenes. No one tells you about the boys’ clubs. The way they treat women like playthings. No one tells you just how hard you have to fight to make any of them listen to you. They hear a name like Shama Sandhu and assume I’m there to provide the “catering,” not to be the damn boss.

  But now I’m finished. No more producing. No more music industry. No more of these assholes who, starting with my old DJ boyfriend, can’t seem to keep their dicks in their pants for more than five minutes.

  You want to know something crazy? I originally wanted to be a video journalist. I started at NYU thinking I’d travel the world making docu-shorts and video essays for publications like The New Yorker or The Atlantic. Instead, it’s been seven years of telling people how best to “back that ass up.”

  But I’m done. I paid off my bills. I saved my money. And now I have enough to take a full year off with my camera and return to the dream. I just have to tie up loose ends.

  My cell phone blares its sickly sweet tinkle on the nightstand. The bed frame squeals as I grab the phone.

  “What up, bitch?”

  “Hey, girl. Just wanted to make sure you’re still alive before your trip. Are you ready to go?”

  I smiled. My best friend, Layla Soltero, is seriously one of the sweetest people on the planet. Maybe too sweet. We lived together for three years in college, and she’s been a rock ever since. Unlike most, she’s never put off by my, ah, “harsher” moments. She’s one of the few people who love me for exactly who I am.

  “Dude. I am more than ready. We just had an earthquake. I think this city is literally trying to throw me out.”

  “An earthquake? Oh my God, Shams, are you okay?!”

  A clamor sounds on the other side of the phone, like dishes jumbling on a table, followed by the squirrely voices of two small children. I smile.

  “Mami, is Auntie Shama okay?”

  I grin, shoving my hair back from my face. Mateo, Layla and Nico’s son, is the cutest damn kid in the world. Their three-year-old daughter, Camila, better known as Coco, is a close second.

  “Tell Mattie I’m fine,” I say as I haul myself out of bed.

  “He wants to know when you’re coming for a visit.”

  I study myself in the mirror, drawing a finger over the dark circles under my eyes. “Lay, I was just out there at Christmas.”

  “That was six months ago. You’re really not going to come back before your year-long travel extravaganza? What if you die over there, Shams? What if you get eaten by a crocodile?”

  I smile into the mirror. “She perished by way of crocodile” isn’t a bad thing to have in your obituary.

  “This is the beauty of video chats, my friend,” I say. “God bless smartphones. And the fact that there are no crocodiles in New Delhi. At least, I don’t think.”

  There’s a long sigh. I don’t tease her more, because I know it’s partly jealousy that’s motivating these comments. Well, I’m jealous of her too. Layla might not get to travel, but she’s got the rest of her life buttoned up. Two adorable kids. A job she loves as a social worker. And a sexy-as-sin, fire-fighting husband. Yeah, I don’t feel so sorry for Little Miss Domestic.

  “So, what’s your plan before you leave?”

  “I give the keys to the landlord at eleven, and then I get to check into the hotel. Two days as a tourist in L.A. I never thought I’d see the day, but I don’t want to leave the City of Angels on bad terms, you know?”

  “Stupid city. I’m glad you’re leaving. They don’t deserve you.”

  I have to grin. Layla has a personal vendetta against L.A. after Nico moved here for a year when they first met, and then when I moved here too.

  “Eh, it’s not that bad. I’ll miss Huckleberry for one. Oh my God, those lemon croissants…I should go there today for breakfast.” I smack my lips, imagining the butter-soaked pastry that only me and about two other women in this stupid city are willing to enjoy. Only the people behind the cameras in L.A. ever eat. Whatever. More for me.

  “Yum. Have one for me.”

  “And me!” Mateo’s voice chirps behind her, and soon after that, Coco’s lisped drawl follows. Damn. I will miss seeing those kids for a whole year.

  “One year, babe. And then it’s back to New York. Or London. Or wherever else I happen to land.”

  She tuts at the idea, but inside, I’m thrilling. I love the idea of not knowing the future for the first time in my life.

  “Maybe I should come visit you…” Layla daydreams just as another call rings through.

  I frown at the number. Why is the head of A&R at National calling? The guy has spoken to me maybe once in seven years.

  “Hold on, Lay. I’ll call you back, okay?” She agrees, and I switch answer the new call. “Hello?”

  “Shama, this is Gary Clayburn. How are you?”

  I sit down on the edge of the mattress. “Ah, fine, thanks.”

  “I hear we’re losing you to...a private project. Is that right?”

  My frown intensifies as I look in the mirror. Damn, I really should have cut my hair before leaving. Maybe a trip to the salon is in order…

  “Yes,” I say as I hold my hair up, trying out a mock bob. Yeah, no. I need my long hair. “I’m leaving on Monday, actually. Right now I’m taking a little downtime before my flight to Delhi.” I meander over to the closet and shrug on the maxi dress I’m planning to wear for the next two days when I’m not on the beach.

  “Good, good, so we haven’t lost you yet. Any chance you’re available this weekend for an emergency? We lost the producer on the DJ Cairo video. Apparently Cairo didn’t like the final mix and refuses to appear in the video until it’s fixed.”

  “He’s back in the studio?”

  “He’s an EP, and his agent got him final cut.”

  The irritation in his voice is palpable. I don’t blame him. Final cut makes for tyrants. I’ve heard of DJ Cairo, of course—everyone has. He’s one of the most talented music producers in the business, the next Dr. Luke. He was the most recent get for National, and they bought his entire album, which, rumor has it, he recorded in his own apartment over several years. They say it’s a damn masterpiece. I haven’t heard this single, but I do know he’s stepping out as a performer for the first time, and National is putting everything they have behind it.

  So sure, maybe the guy has first-time jitters, but that’s no reason to hijack an entire production and cost the studio thousands of dollars a day just to redo some auto tuning.

  “We need someone to step in, Shama. Take the reins. Make sure everything gets done. We need you.”

  Now my frown is an all-out scowl. I quit this job precisely because I was done babysitting all the narcissists in the industry. The last thing I want to do on my mini-vacation is to chase some prima donna beat boy into performing like a trained monkey. No. I want the beach. I want sunshine. I want margaritas.

  Then Gary offers exactly five times what I’ve ever gotten paid for one of these projects. It’s more than I usually make in six mon
ths. More than I made in my first two years as an assistant producer. It’s enough to fund my entire year-long project on top of the money I’ve saved.

  I cough profusely.

  “Everything okay, there?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t quite hear what you said.”

  So he says it again. And this time, I’m sure.

  “Wow.” The word pops out before I can stop it.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Um, well. I only have three days before I leave L.A. How involved is the project?” I’m not staying past Sunday. Absolutely not.

  “Not too bad. They’ve already started filming,” Gary replies. “The director has a pretty clear vision for the video too. Beach party. They’re doing it mostly on location in Redondo Beach. You know Jeff de Soto?”

  I nod, though he can’t see me. “Oh, sure. Jeff and I have worked together a few times.” I glance at my maxi. So much for vacation. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “First things first,” Gary says. “We need to get Cairo out of the studio and back on set.”

  Chapter Two

  K.C.

  “It’s still not right.”

  I flip off the track and sit back in my chair, tapping my lips for a second while the studio stops shaking. The motion makes the big watch on my wrist slide forward, a gift from my agent after she signed me to National. Funny thing…we were so excited at the time. I could never have guessed how the transition from producer to performer would have turned out.

  “I think it sounds dope,” says Joaquin, my personal assistant. “The bass is poppin’.”