Love: In the Fast Lane

by Rie Warren

  Between her thighs, her soft wet flesh caressed my chin and mouth. “No hood piercing?”

  Two of her fingers journeyed down her tummy and she pressed the swell above her clit up and open. The hot little peak was right in front of my mouth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  I lashed her once with my tongue. Twice. Cat writhed and her hips pumped up.

  “Like you just like this, darlin’. Wet, open, and ready. But I’m not going to suck your sexy little clit just yet. This time I’m in control.”

  “If you think I’m gonna beg and call you Sir—”

  I wrapped my mouth around her cunt and sucked hard, breaking her thoughts, shattering her control. “I don’t expect you to call me anything but Nick or Nicky or Oh God.” I winked before resuming my hot feast.

  Slick, slippery, and swollen, she flowered open for my tongue. I held her thighs apart, strumming her legs with the barest brush of my fingertips. I made her wait, my breath washing over her.

  Cat’s back bowed off the bed and the sexy tit jewelry tinkled. She balled the sheets in her fists. “Please, please.”

  Damn right.

  She was so goddamn tight and wet I took my time between her legs. I ate Cat’s cunt at my leisure with mouth and lips and tongue. Sweet sex saturated my taste buds. Her clit depressed beneath my finger before I let it pop up.

  “I want to suck you, Nick.” It was a breathy plea and no way would I say no to that.

  I swung my legs over her shoulders as she lay below me. I stopped with the sucking long enough to look down her body. The engorged head of my cock and its whole length was flat against my stomach. As I watched, Cat lifted her head and engulfed my shaft, running her lips up and down the throbbing erection in her hand. Her hungry moan hit me with a blinding rush of blood that made my cock leap. Her throaty laugh thickened me even more, and she held her mouth open, her tongue out to capture the drop of pre-ejaculate rolling from the slit.

  I pushed a finger inside of her pussy. She moaned and pulled my cock between her plump lips. Bobbing up and pulling me down with her hands on my ass, Cat took more and more. My thighs shook, and my arms and chest and ass tensed. As I plunged inside of her mouth, I dipped back to her cherry-ripe clit, working it softly until every frill and intimate fold and fuck-hot pink part of her was wet from my mouth and her slickness.

  When Cat grasped my balls in her palm, her thumb riding the seam between, I hauled back.

  Her fingers dug into my thighs. “I want you to come in my mouth.”

  I whipped around. “You can blow me later. Right now I want to fuck you.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  “At least let me do the honors.”

  I groaned and nodded. I handed Cat the rubber. She hooked two fingers around my base, blew into the tip of the condom to expand it, and eased the sheath down my dick. Her fingertips trailed the latex and her tongue led the way.

  When she snapped the ring against my shaft, I pulsed out liquid heat.

  “On your back,” I hissed.

  “Like this?” Cat held her thighs up and open, spreading her labia for me.

  “Just like that.” I punctuated by pushing inside the snug surrounds.

  Even better than the first time. Her legs wound around my hips, her heels kicking in. Her pussy massaged my cock from tip to base with rippling, milking motions because she was already climaxing.

  A hot chill rode up my back in the wake of her nails drawing scratches.

  I didn’t pound. I didn’t plunge. I curled over Cat and kissed her lips. I rode her body with shallow thrusts of my hips, hitting her just right. The fast and furious had been flaming hot, but this time . . . shit. No strings attached, fuck that. There was a string. The string of emotion running from my gaze to hers to my heart when I popped up onto my fists.

  She moved with me like she was made for me. Destined for me. The second time she came, I scooped Cat against my chest, and her silent shudders spilled down my flesh, stealing into my cock. The squeeze-clench-cry coming from her ripped a shout from my throat.

  Tore me apart.

  Split me open.

  I locked into her, my hips kicking in, my cock shooting out, my balls burning up.

  Cat was well fucked when I finally slipped off her. I gathered her in my arms.

  “We’re not getting together.” Her words ghosted across my chest.

  “’Course not.” I cupped her closer. I was under no illusions. Cat would run. I’d chase her down. And everything she said was utter bullshit because we’d opened the floodgates. Sure as fuck we were getting together.

  “I told you I don’t date.”

  “But booty calls are fine?”

  “They’re preferable, yes.” She didn’t make a move to leave my bed even though her words were all I’m-outta-here.

  “Okay.” Whatever. She was spooning me. I wasn’t dumb enough to start an argument now. And I knew exactly where she was coming from. Truth was, it wasn’t someplace I wanted to go with her either, but I was already in too deep.

  She cuddled closer. “I think this is a mistake.”

  “Me too.” I squeezed her tighter.

  “Then why won’t you let me go?”

  “Because I didn’t say you could.” I smiled against the skin of her neck.

  “Arrogant pig.” She settled against me.

  “Gorgeous Wildcat.”

  Chapter Eight

  A Fair To Remember

  I WOKE UP WITH my face buried against the nape of Cat’s neck instead of my usual under-the-pillow burrowing position. The sunny scent of her hair was far preferable to Downy fabric softener. I might’ve been tempted to cop a feel because—Jesus—naked Cat, tits and ass, sleep-warm and snuggled-up to me was almost too much of an invite to pass up. Instead I eased out of bed after a kiss to her cheek. She murmured, stretched slightly, and settled back in. I slid on a pair of jeans, tugged the zipper over my boner and sort of swagger-limped downstairs.

  Booty call. Ha! She could have her so-called booty call, and I’d make her breakfast to boot. Then I was going to have her for breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner if I had my way. And since she hadn’t snuck off in the middle of the night, I figured I’d get my way.

  I put the coffee on to percolate, sniffing the heady aroma as it filled the kitchen. I started preparing bacon, eggs, toast—a fry up. Last night’s Olympic-worthy fuckfest had given me an appetite.

  At the stove, I shivered when sleek arms covered in colorful tats snaked around my waist from behind. Cat’s hips pressed in, her breasts, too, and then her tongue took a little stroll along my bare shoulders.

  My legs almost gave out. I clamped my hands on the edge of the stove and held on for the hot ride that was Wildcat.

  “Trying to impress me?” she murmured.

  Hell yeah. “Is it working?”

  Her hands trailed up my chest to hook around my shoulders. Her breasts moved across my back. “Probably.”

  I swung around and dipped down to her lips. Her startled gasp-moan-sigh did all kinds of screw the food things to me, but I let her free with a light tug on her hair.

  “Unless you want breakfast burned, you better sit down.”

  “And if I said ‘Oh yes, sir’ right now?” One sharp black eyebrow rose and her lips curved.

  “Woman,” I growled, brandishing the spatula for a nice loud smack on her ass. I instantly regretted swatting her, but one look at her suddenly dilated pupils and I knew her sexual appetites ran as hot and intense as mine.

  I’d never let myself be as demanding and aggressive as I wanted to be with a woman. But I was fast figuring out Cat’s chrome-plated heart could handle the heat.

  Swinging her hips in the natural way of a woman who’d been ridden well all night long, she meandered to the table. She wore one of my shirts. One of the Nicky Love gay writer flowing, white, open-down-the-center shirts. With little else underneath as far as I could tell because I caught a crescent of perfect ass-ch
eek when she pulled out a chair and sat down. I also saw the winking of nipple piercings from beneath the fine weave of cloth. And cleavage. A lot of that, too.

  I decided then and there Cat could have all my shirts. She could have part ownership of my dog, a key to my house, probably a joint bank account and . . . This is not just a booty call no matter how much she flashes that fine, sumptuous booty around. I turned back to the stove.

  I’d had about a snowball’s chance in hell of melting Cat’s frigid shield, but here she was prancing around practically naked. And here I was, panting for it. If I dug deep enough into my psyche, I’d probably realize all the headshrinker shit laid on me in my twenties was one hundred percent correct. I went for free and easy all those years because commitment made me queasy.

  But now the Ice Queen had melted.

  And I wanted to make sure she stayed that way, with me.

  I liked watching Cat eat. No girly no-can-do about carbs or cholesterol or crispy-fried bacon for her. No lack of creamer in her coffee either. She went at breakfast with gusto, the same way she fucked me. And sucked me.

  My cock got hard and my voice became rough. “Do you have to be anywhere today?”

  It was Friday. She was head-accounts-honcho at Chrome and Steele. She probably had to ride around to a lot of the tri-county’s auto shops and chat with every Tom, dickhead, and hairy mechanic with grabby hands.

  “I called in for a personal day to Brodie.”

  “The hit man—”

  “He’s a much softer touch than Boomer. And if you’re trying to keep me sweet, hon, making jabs at my family isn’t the way to go about it.”

  “Yeah, sorry. They seem like stand-up guys, looking out for their little sister.” Little. Right. “What about the rest of your family?”

  She laid her napkin down and pushed back her chair. “I don’t want to talk about them.”

  Good. I didn’t want to talk about mine either. Let’s leave all that history where it belongs. In the closet, off the table, ignored forever. I’d lock my shit away, she’d do the same with hers, and we could do what we did best.

  Cat stood up.

  I braced myself.

  She had me on the chair. I fucked her on the table. Against-the-wall-sex, in-the-shower-sex, and later we did some midday fucking on the deck because the weather was unseasonably warm and no one lived anywhere near me.

  Thank Christ Viper was still at Josh’s, probably eating Mews for lunch, otherwise she’d have been barking up a storm at the sound of Cat’s cries, my shouts, and the thumping of furniture.

  Hours later, Cat stood on the front porch at dusk. She was disheveled. Her eyes glowed as soft as rain, and she still wore my shirt beneath her leather jacket. Tucking my hands around her neck, I pulled her close. Her lips parted, her tongue swirling against mine before our mouths made contact. I withdrew just to feel her warm tongue catch mine again in a slippery chase before I dragged her fully against me. Fuck me. Cat could move. Her hands worked into the seat of my jeans where she squeezed my ass.

  She slid her hands up and out of my pants. Her palms moved to my back and her head tilted up.

  “I want to take you out, Cat.”

  “On a date?”

  “Out.” I was not going to use the d-word with her, given her do-not-pass-go parameters.

  “Are you asking me?” On a date . . .

  “Yeah. Come out with me, please?” I twined her fingers with mine and lifted them to my lips.

  She cupped my chin, caressing the shadow of stubble.

  “So you’ll come with me?” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  Her head swooped beneath my chin but not before I saw the smile and dimple.

  When she stepped back, she kept her hand in mine, drawing out the goodnights.

  “I’ll call you.”

  Her fingertips broke contact with mine. “Will you now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll probably answer, for you.” Looking impossibly young for the first time, like the twenty-six-year-old woman she was—not the headstrong, armored-up businesswoman—Cat came back to kiss me one more time. And then she lingered.

  I felt relaxed and at ease with her. And on edge and needy. All opposites rolled into a tight ball rattling around my chest and within my groin.

  “I should probably go . . . paperwork and . . . sleep . . .” She dawdled on the steps.

  I thrust my hands into my pockets. “I need to pick up Viper before she makes kibble out of Leelee’s cat. Or Josh makes kibble out of Viper.”

  Her laugh hit me and she charged down the steps. With her helmet on, climbed onto her Harley. A leather-gloved hand raised in the air, she rode that iron stallion down the drive and out of sight.

  And I didn’t move a single goddamn muscle until she was gone

  ****

  Instead of getting back on top of Cat the following week, I got on board with the best man gig. In t-minus one month Josh was getting hitched. First I had to figure out what the hell a best man was supposed to do. Naturally I went to the women in my life, the Hens. And instead of giving me any real advice about how I should be there for Josh during this Major Life Moment, they started henpecking me about when I was getting hitched. On Twitter. Apparently they’d heard about the Halloween party from Leelee and the Cat—literally—was out of the bag. The tweets flew faster than I could keep up.

  @Jaque_line: Nicky Lurve got him some lovin’.

  @MizzMistress: Guess u don’t need self-bondage knots anymore.

  @WryterGoddess/Janice: Lucky Wildcat. Bet she left claw marks on ur ass too.

  @Jaque_line: Oh, snap! Pictures, Nicky?

  I could practically hear their cackling coming through the screen of my laptop.

  Missy: I only want photos if she pegged him . . .

  Then my worst nightmare happened. @PanDora came online. Who is Wildcat? I have *sadz*

  I shut that shit right down with immediate radio silence on the subject. The Hens followed my lead. I wished they hadn’t brought up Cat in the public domain, and I damn sure didn’t want crazy-girl on the scent of my almost-romance.

  With absolutely no useful advice from Missy, Jacqueline, or Janice about my best man duties, I focused on the one detail I knew I was in charge of—besides getting Josh to the church on time—the bachelor party. I put some plans in motion to make it a bang-up night to remember. I just hoped none of us landed behind bars. I sent out evites to the garage crew, the old duffers who sat out front, too, and included Boomer and Brodie. Why the hell not? I considered it a goodwill gesture, and maybe they wouldn’t try to cap me in the ass when they found out I’d been all over their little sister’s.

  I went back to work on plotting Bitches, the second novel in my trilogy, and Cat stayed busy enough to avoid coming face-to-face with me before our date Saturday night. Which meant she stuck to her recent schedule change at Stone’s so I didn’t catch a single glimpse of her all week.

  The bike was taking shape, one that didn’t resemble a junkyard hunk of metal anymore. I took new pride in the restoration project. Putting the Chief back together reminded me of the last good times with Daniel. I gave the Beast time and care and attention—just like I wanted to give Cat—no matter how much Josh’s mechanics razzed me. Everything was running smoothly until Wednesday morning when I rolled her out of the garage and into the lot, intent on going for a test run.

  Everyone gathered around—customers, my favorite knuckle draggers, Josh and Leelee. On an early November day, I turned the ignition, did the kickstart action . . . and shook my head, laughing when the Beast spluttered, choked, farted, and failed. A look of commiseration was on everyone’s face around me. I was met by back slaps, knuckle bumps, knowing nods.

  “She just needs some fine tunin’, Nicky.” Mick wiped a greasy rag across his forehead.

  “Just like a lady,” Ray muttered behind his big, blond beard. He rubbed his head after Leelee knocked him on the skull for his crack at the fairer gender.
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br />   Josh tugged on my neck. “Just keep going. Never seen you back down from a challenge yet, bro.”

  “He din’t even back away from Senorita Steele.” Javier shoved his toothpick behind his ear like it was a pencil, ambling after his crewmates.

  The parking lot emptied, leaving my ’46 Indian Chief and me. I patted her tank and shined up her handlebars for a moment. I rolled her back into the garage, determined to get inside her guts and worry about the cosmetic carnage after she was up and gunning down the highway.

  ****

  After the slowest motherfucking week on record, I pulled up at Cat’s house for a date. Our date. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d attempted one of those. Maybe never. I wiped my palms on my jeans and straightened the leather jacket I’d had since college.

  I rang the doorbell and worked my fingers through my hair, the dark brown waves clinging to my neck. While I waited, I looked around. Cat lived about ten miles away from me in McClellanville off of 17 North out of Mt. Pleasant. Her house was one of those lowcountry, stilted affairs with two tiers of stairs leading to a big porch. The creek probably meandered up to her backyard—I could smell the salt and marsh and seabreeze from where I stood.

  The yard was tidy with neatly trimmed palm trees and plant pots overflowing with chrysanthemums in rust red and pumpkin orange and sunset yellow. Wild ivy tangled up the side of the house, the green leaves verdant against the white clapboard siding.

  The door opened and Cat stepped outside. She shut and locked up before I had a chance to nosey or mosey inside. I had no choice but to stare at her instead. I took in the sight of her in tight jeans, tall boots, her padded leather jacket and down-to-her-ass hair. She turned around and caught me staring.

  “What was that you said about me and the boonies, Cat?”

  She twined her arms around my neck. “Yes, but I don’t keep my key on the porch for anyone to find.”

  “I missed you.” I grabbed her at the waist and slipped my mouth over hers. She was hot, sleek, and, goddamn, she had a soft tongue that tasted me everywhere.