by Warren, Rie
“I never said that.” I’d tried to beat off to it several hundred interrupted times already.
“The guy-girl thing?”
I shrugged. “Read some more. Changed my mind. It’s hot as hell. Anyway, my ma reads that stuff, and she has a book club of horny old women. She asked if I could get you to autograph a copy for her. I’ll pay for it, ’course.”
Hell, I’d buy a dozen of her books if she’d keep talking to me. I threw in the puppy dog look—not like Viper the rabid bitch. And man, I’d never worked this hard for a woman, especially one who almost certainly wasn’t gonna wind up on her back in a bed with me on top of her.
She huffed, fluffed her gorgeous strawberry blond hair out, and turned away on—Oh, I’d missed those earlier—peep-toed, toe-cleavage stilettos. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Click clack went the heels, swish sway went her hips. I salivated behind her all the way to the elevators.
Friends, yeah, this is gonna be good.
There was a coy curve to her lips when she faced me. “Fancy meetin’ you here.”
An empty car arrived, and I bowed low. “After you, Madame.”
Leelee entered, pressing the button to my floor and hers. “I’ll just run to my room and sign up there. Doing that stuff in front of others makes me clam up. What’s your mom’s name?”
I was too busy staring at the new, life-sized decorations in the elevator to respond.
“Stone?”
“What the hell is this?” I gestured to the floor-to-ceiling posters of various book covers plastered all around the car. We were surrounded by half-clothed men and women in various stages of hot and heavy action.
Leelee sucked in her lip and let it pop loose. Not helping. “They only put them up once the Con gets rolling. Second-wave marketing.”
Clever.
“Are any of these guys your type?” she asked.
“Heeeelll, no.” She frowned and I hurried on. “Ya know, none of them are Nicky, so . . .”
“Mm hmm. I’ll let you off the hook. Tell me your mom’s name so I can get it right.”
After I rattled off the details, Leelee smiled. “You, me, and the elevator again, Stone?”
I zeroed in on a hairy-chested, ruffle-shirted pirate who had a big-breasted bombshell fainting over his arm, presumably from his virile manliness. “And Captain Jack Sparrow does high seas porn?”
Her light laughter spun through me until I thought I’d swoon too, from lack of blood to my brain as it sped up the root of my cock. In an enclosed space with flirtatious Leelee, my friend, was not a good place to be right now.
So I asked the first thing that came to mind, of course. “You get into swashbucklin’ sex?”
Her voice lowered to that luscious honey tone, and her gaze raked up my body. “If the sword fits.”
Holy fuck. Heart attack, death by cock contusion, an aneurism from arousal . . . some motherfucking thing—named Leelee Songchild—was gonna do me in this trip.
I already knew she could write sex on the page. I was well aware she could move like a sex goddess and kiss as if her lips had been designed for sin. Add in her sweet personality, sharp wit, quick temper? She was one hot ticket.
I rasped, “A tight sheath is all that’s needed, darlin’.”
Her gasp was overridden by the ding of the elevator announcing my floor. Okay. Yep. And I was done. I put my hand in my pocket as I turned and strode out, this time to cover the large bulge in my pants. Rounding the corner, I hit the hall at a run, skidding to a stop at my door. Let me in, let me in. The goddamn light hit red, red—motherfucker!—green. Yes!
I tripped over my feet, glared at my shoes. Fuck it. They could stay on, it wasn’t a first. Hitting the chair, I practically chewed through my belt, unzipped lickety-split and ripped those bastards open. Shirt buttons torn aside, I glanced at the desk. Tissues, golden. Two hard tugs at my nipples and my hand brushed down my belly, onto the thick cock rearing straight up in the air.
Leelee was due back soonish, but I was so keyed up, I couldn’t wait. And it sure as hell wouldn’t take long since I’d been holding back a massive blowout for forty-eight plus hours. The moment my hand curled around my cock, my back arched and a loud groan rumbled from my chest.
Then it was all about the pump action. I worked my shaft like a piston, all chambers firing. A twist at the plum-colored head on every upswing and I growled. Come boiled in my nuts, prominent veins teased my fingers. Air barely scraped into my lungs as my brain backfired.
“Fuck, yes.”
Then it wasn’t my hand jacking me off, it was Leelee’s. I could see her, on her knees, free from her dress. Ample tits swinging, hips undulating back and forth, wanting my cock to fill her pussy.
“Oh, God, yessss.”
I spat into my palm, added it to the precome slickness, and everything went smooth as silk, hard as stone. Gripping my shaft, I planted my feet and raised my hips in and out of the loose hold of my fist. Oh yeah, so much better.
One hand on the back of the chair, I drew in a deep breath that punched out of my nose. I lifted my eyes and barked out, “Leelee!”
Oh Jesus. Oh yeah.
She was there, just inside the room. A book in her hands and a rapt look in her eyes.
Oh fuck. Numbnuts here—literally—must have left the door propped open against the bar guard. Now things had gotten way out of hand. Or in hand.
Masturbating felt a million times better with her eyes glued to me. I spread my legs wider, lifted my balls out and fingered them good. Moisture rolled out of the broad head of my cock, and I used it to slick up and slide down the surface of my shaft. And just because Leelee didn’t scream, shout, or run away, I slowed it all down. Rolling my hips, stroking my stomach, I leaned my head back with my eyes on her.
Her stare met mine. “You look so beautiful.”
That did it. Tight fast strokes scraping over the flared tip, I went almost airborne as come triggered from my cock. Long, hot ropes of it hit my chest, my abs. “Leelee, ah fuck.” It covered my hand, the chair, my pants. My dick pulsed as more come spooled out.
Recovery seemed impossible. My hips jerked, my breath rasped, my heavy hooded eyes sought her.
Leelee looked tense as fuck and fucking ready for a ride at the same time. Her words came out low and tight. “Life imitating art, Stone? Or smut . . . I guess.”
It definitely wasn’t Avery I thought about when I swirled two fingers through the come on my chest. “I read that chapter.”
“Everyone does.” A heated rash flashed up her neck to her face as she slipped the book onto the bed. She walked to the door to let herself out.
“Leelee,” I groaned a second time. I started to rise, but my thighs were quaking with massive orgasm aftershocks.
There wasn’t a slam of wood against metal. There wasn’t even an audible snick as the door closed behind her. Come cooled on my crotch and just about everywhere else within spraying distance, and I still couldn’t get Leelee off my mind—or in my pants.
Seven
Thursday: Hung Up and Strung Up
CAUGHT RED-HANDED, WET-HANDED, WHAT did I do? I cleaned up, changed clothes, and glanced at Jacqueline’s mm mmm novel. I am not ready for more tongue-to-pucker probing. Of course, Leelee’s was right beside it. I had all of lunchtime to lurk in my room, pretending I hadn’t just jerked my jock out loud over her, in front of her. I sprawled on the bed to catch up on Ride, because I was a schmuck looking for more punishment anywhere I could find it. As long as Missy Peachtree wasn’t involved.
Jase thought his head was going to explode. The one hugged by a cranium and the one on the top of his cock. Every day with Ave it was the same: same sensible shoes, same baggy clothes. Same frumpy, old maid, bought from the Goodwill bargain bins shit covering up the hot-as-hell, sexy bombshell he just knew was hiding under that serviceable crap-colored sweater-blouse combo she wore.
From her bright blue eyes to the long chestnut colored hair untouched by highlights or
hairspray, she was unexplored territory. Fresh, good, clean, wholesome, and hot. She just needed to be uncovered . . . unclothed. And on his cock.
He got a bad rap all around. Rich boy prince who lived off his daddy’s AmEx, drove a motorcycle, had a tat or two, and liked to run around. It wasn’t totally like that. Cut off from the trust fund tray at the age of eighteen because Daddy Everly was nothing if not a hard ass, Jase had put his other head to good use. Everly was raising an heir to the Texan oil field fortune, not a spoon-fed pussy with no business sense. Luckily Jase had the brains to match his brawn, as well as a few side projects that kept him flush enough to more than scrounge his way through college at A&M.
Bad boy this, bad boy that, gossip about his ’hit the tail and run’ rep followed him like the exhaust fumes from his motorcycle. He didn’t really give a bunny’s cunt, unless it came to Ave. Until it had come to Ave . . . Avery.
Jase had a sweet side to him, too. At least he’d been told his come tasted sweet by a chick or three. Whatever. He smirked into the mirror on his closet door, drawing on jeans that had been rumpled on his floor the night before when he kicked them off. Adding a T-shirt, his leather, a Marlboro Red dangling from his mouth, he made a clean sweep of the apartment on his way out.
In the bathroom, Ave’s towel flopped over his. He shook them both out and hung them over the towel bar. Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes. Her natural fragrance was jasmine or honeysuckle or some summer-sweet perfume. The same flowers his mama let free-range in the back forty, the smell swilled to his nose and percolated his prick.
He wasn’t making a full-on chef fucking breakfast every morning for Ave because he was a nice guy. Hell no. He expected some payback in return.
And he’d definitely expected a nice hard slap from across the breakfast table when he’d laid out his little dare. It would’ve been excellent to goad her out of her unaffected, smooth as ice shell, to see a spark of hot temper flare in her eyes. Instead, what he’d gotten was so much better he’d almost busted a nut in the breakfast nook. The lowering of her lashes, the tight hard peaks of her nipples—through another tent-like blouse, for crissakes.
Ave could deny it all she wanted but she was game. And it was on.
Striding outside, he smiled when he saw her standing beside his ride. She didn’t have a car or a bike, and barely held down her job at Starfucks because she was so intent on getting the grades. She rarely made rent and he always let it slide.
The chinstrap of her helmet was so tight it cut into her neck. He loosened it, desperate to drag it off, push his fingers through her hair, make out with her right then and there.
“Loosen up, babe.” He climbed on and patted the seat behind him.
The aged leather groaned, and Jase did too as her thighs wrapped around his. Timid arms trapped his stomach.
“I ain’t gonna bite ya.” He snapped his teeth in her direction, laughing when she swore beneath the helmet in garbled words. “Hang on tight.”
Ave did. Her inner thighs gripping his legs through every corner made him hornier and hornier.
Maybe he was a fuckup. Maybe he had millions at his fingertips. Maybe he’d let that all slip through his hands, but as he put the bike into full throttle and held Ave’s fingers at his waist, he knew he wasn’t gonna let her slip away.
I recognized myself in Jase right down to the bad boy, fuck-that, take-this attitude. Not to mention the kid was as frustrated as me with his woman of choice. Life imitatin’ art? Leelee couldn’t have nailed me harder.
Placing Ride aside, I unearthed the Con planner-brochure-whatever from beneath a pyramid of pick-me-up junk food. I checked the afternoon’s workshops and whatnots, circling one with my finger. Writers’ Widows: 2pm, Ballroom B. Maybe that was for me, with Nicky working the circus all the time. At the very least, I could use a change of scenery and more hiding out from Leelee after my latest debacle.
* * *
Ballroom B. Second floor. I navigated my way there, following the road map in the Con folder. A piece of paper taped to a door with Writers’ Widows in blocky black ink let me know I’d reached my destination. Pushing through the double doors, I was faced with a mixed bag of bros and babes mingling around a Mr. Coffee burping out java-scented steam. Incomprehensible words streamed out of their mouths while they slurped coffee and munched from party trays.
“I flounced that one.” A middle-aged woman with a frosted-blond blowout announced.
“I know. Total DNF.” Her friend of similar age agreed, with whatever they were talking about. This one sported short black hair, impeccable legs, and horn-rimmed glasses.
A tall, athletic-looking African-American man nodded. “I remember that book. Porn without plot plus no HEA?”
“Fuck my life. What you need to read is Ride,” horn-rimmed glasses said.
“Floved the UST in that book!”
I grinned because they were talking about Leelee’s novel, even if I had no idea what they were saying.
“So fawesome.”
Huh? What the hell with the codespeak? It wasn’t enough I had to listen to Nicky banging on about hashtags and Facebook scandals? My retreat with a pack of people supposedly in the same boat as me, and I didn’t even understand the lingo.
“You look a little lost. Are you new?”
Ah, normal words. Thank Christ. A big guy with the corduroy pants, an elbow-patched blazer, and a whole lotta clashing plaid strolled up to me, followed by the rest.
“First timer, yeah.”
Corduroy slapped my shoulder in welcome. “I’m Fred, or as everyone else calls me, ‘The Hubs’. That’s Fawn, Felicity, and this here’s Devon.” He pointed at frosted hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and athletic dude in turn.
The rest of them, about a dozen or so more, introduced themselves. We all made our way to a ring of chairs.
Fred gave a jolly laugh, “So, does your partner refer to you as Mr. Pen Name online too?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “God, I hope not. That’d make me Mr. Love.”
That got a laugh out of everyone, and I eased back in my seat.
Fawn flicked her immoveable hair. “Tell us a little about yourself.”
I had this part down pat. “Stone. Foreign auto imports.” I looked around expectantly and they all looked back unblinkingly—like Stepford Wives for writers or something.
Big Devon smiled at me. “Not what you do but who you are.”
“Uh, is this a therapy session?” Wiping my palms on my jeans, I eyed the fastest escape route to the door.
A deep chuckled rumbled from Devon. “Nah, man, not at all. We just like to know who we’re getting in bed with.”
From Writers’ Widows to Stepford Wives to Swingers?
Felicity lifted her glasses to the top of her head. “Figuratively only, Stone.” She reached over to slap at Devon. “Why do you always have to frighten the newbies?”
“Because it’s fun to scare ’em.”
I decided I liked the Widows-Swingers group. “A little bit about me, huh? Well, my partner and I have a three-year-old son. The sun sets on his shoulders, we love that kid.” Everyone smiled encouragingly. “And a dog”—bitch—“but Viper is Nicky’s technically. I’m not too fond of the mutt.” Silence. “But we make it work!”
Claps and nodding ensued.
Phew.
“What about your SO?” Fawn asked.
My what?
It was my turn to blank stare until Fred saved me. “Your significant other.”
“Right, ’course. Nicky Love. We’ve been together since high school, and he started writing about six years ago. We really connect when we restore cars together though, it’s something we can do as a couple that doesn’t have anything to do with his work, ya know?” I decided I wasn’t half bad at this semi-made-up bullshit because everyone was eating it out of my hand.
“O-em-gee, I know how that is. John and I spend every Saturday antiquing up and down the Maine coast, a new stretch each time. It helps
him get ideas for settings for his cozy mysteries, but really, it gives us a chance to just be together that doesn’t involve him being on his laptop at all hours of the night.” Felicity slipped her glasses back onto her slim nose.
Murmurs of agreement and more mentions of what these writers’ wives, husbands, lovers did to make their relationships work on and off the page followed. There was hugging, high-fiving, and a lot of bitching.
Fawn had just finished a story about her girlfriend’s recent all-week, all-nighter final deadline bender. She capped it off by saying that during the course of writing her latest western novel, her lover had filled their spare room with chaps, cowboy hats, spurs, and lassoes.
“I’m not kidding, those spurs work almost as well as a Wartenberg wheel. And I won’t even tell you how much those ropes came in handy, if you know what I mean.” She winked.
Devon got up and proceeded to spank his ass while he went bull-rider with a lasso like he was John Travolta in Urban Cowboy.
Felicity snorted. “You dirty bitch, Fawn.”
“You know it.”
I couldn’t stop chuckling, even when I said, “I got one, y’all. Last October, we’d just started potty training JJ, and he was hoppin’ around on one foot like he was about to piss his pants. Now, Nicky writes paranormal, right? So sometimes he tries on goth makeup, fangs, the whole Bela Lugosi shit. Imagine that at Halloween time. So I’ve got the kid in the john, standing on his stool, and I’m waitin’, and waitin’, and he says, ‘The peepees won’t come out, Daddy.’”
“Isn’t that adorbs?” Felicity piped up.
“I’m watching paint dry by this time, but the kid needs to piss in the pot. Bribery with Skittles, M&Ms, the whole nine yards, and still nothin’. All of a sudden, Nicky the Vampire jumps through the bathroom door with red contacts and whiteface and bloody fangs. JJ screams, whirls around, and pees all over my boots. ’Course Nicky falls all over laughing, JJ gives him a pout that earns him a soup bowl fulla ice cream, and I get clean up duty, again.”