by Susan Stoker
“Jameson…I’m…” was all I could manage.
“Come, baby,” he murmured soft and sweet like the moment of bliss that whirled between us, “come with me.”
Our kisses were unhurried as we lost control, savoring the orgasmic ride that left us breathless.
“I’m in love with you, Chloe.”
His revelation made my heart spin, dizzy and giddy from it all.
I was in love with him too.
The next morning, after a long shower, breakfast, and a tour of his penthouse, Jameson and I lay nestled in bed, my head resting on the plane of his chest, the sound of his heartbeat as tranquil as the hours that ticked by.
“So”—his lips brushed my forehead—“what do you plan to call your Hot Shot story about Luv Bytes?”
I glanced up at him, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “When Jameson Met Chloe.”
The End
* * *
Learn more about Joslyn Westbrook by visiting her website www.joslynwestbrook.com
Gasping in His Grasp
Kailee Reese Samuels
1
STORMY
“Do you want to fuck?”
Six steps safeguard my position from the man standing across from me. He’s older, incredibly handsome, and apparently, quite assertive. I pause, hiccuping on the dialogue and the answer he is waiting on. The slight grin upturns on his lips, shielded by a full beard. His deep-set blue eyes focus on me like I’m the only girl that ever mattered.
Of course, given his age, that can’t be true.
Many women have been where I am and undoubtedly taken him up on his offer. There is no good reason not to, aside from the fact my heart remains in shambles.
It’s just pieces in parts.
One hard cock in a silken sheath.
It’s not like I haven’t done this a time or two myself, but I’ve never been cornered quite like this, in the back of the storage room, by a man I barely know, soliciting me for sex. Soliciting isn’t the right word. He’s kind-hearted and proper, asking me if I would like to engage in the act of sexual intercourse with him.
To be honest, I’m curious.
“What are you thinking about, beautiful?” he asks, keeping his distance. The sincerity in his voice captures my heart like I can trust this man. Like I am a fool if I do not trust this man. “Talk to me.”
I release my teeth from my bottom lip and open my mouth to speak, but nothing, not even a whisper, comes out. My eyes scan up, caught in the whirlwind of the past six hours that he and I have spent together.
Six hours.
Six steps.
His fingers stroke along his strict jawline, and he mutters, “If there is anything you need to know about me…anything at all, just ask. I’m an open book.”
I don’t want an open book, though. I don’t want to read anymore. I want someone else to tell me their story—willfully giving themselves to me. I don’t want to pry another clamshell of a man open, only to discover that he isn’t the tale I long to hear. I need a fearless soul, ready to burn through my pages and rewrite the chorus of my heart with all the love he has to give.
I reach down and grip the edge of the porcelain sink my ass is propped against. The basin is for rinsing the residue left by broken shipments, and the irony is—this man wants to baptize me. He’ll free me from my sins with every thrust and moan. I drift my gaze to the door and the glowing red exit sign. Boxes of booze and crates of wine fill the darkened space, so different from the empty cavern of my heart.
I know only he and I remain in the building. But I do not fear for my safety. This man will not hurt nor harm me. Sometimes, a girl just knows. And if I say no, I have no doubts that he will respect my wishes. Hell, he’ll probably stay with me while I close up and then escort me out to the car.
He’s a nice guy.
A good guy.
I consider the question between us. I want to say yes, but that may not be the right answer. No matter what the tingling between my thighs says. I take a deep breath, wishing I had a cheat sheet or a crystal ball of what the future held.
It would make this so much easier.
If I don’t do this, will I then regret it? If I do this, will I then have a walk of shame I never forget by morning?
Life needs an instruction book.
For moments like these.
I demand one.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I shouldn’t have assumed you were interested.”
Oh. God. No! Not that!
Don’t retreat just because I can’t form a coherent thought with your steely gaze narrowing in on me.
Fuck.
What if he leaves? How will I feel then?
Very unhappy.
He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t interested. After the night we’ve had, I’m more than interested, but my drought has lasted over a year. His inquiry is like the first drink of water after being parched in the desert for weeks. I want to gulp it down, but a deeper need exists—to enjoy the journey from one point to the next and never take anything for granted again.
I’ve been hurt like everyone else. My walls are up and guarded with razor wire that he somehow managed to scale over bravely. I’ve been like a beautiful pit viper for eighteen months.
Look. Admire. Don’t touch.
I bite.
But this stranger doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him, which makes this idea all the more inviting. He doesn’t see the girl who spent four months on the floor, crying her eyes out. He doesn’t know that my sister took care of everything, including feeding and bathing me. He doesn’t know that I came back to my childhood home because I lost a round but was forced to continue playing in this game called life. I didn’t get to forfeit and check out.
Not like he did.
Not like he broke me.
He died, and I blamed myself. I assumed since I had to suffer through the loss that meant I had lost, but the truth was far more profound, winding into the deep recesses of my soul. I didn’t lose, but he certainly didn’t win. I was still on the board. Still breathing. Still living. Even in my grief. It took months to master the concept of life after him.
And the question from a stranger— “Do you want to fuck?”—represents the culmination of my hard work. I have earned this moment, this man, and this time to live my life after heartache.
We have spent six hours together, and now we are six steps apart.
And I answer with the most important six words I’ve ever said. “I want you to fuck me.”
SEVEN HOURS EARLIER
RANDY
“Where are you headed?” my best friend, Tank, asks, wiping his greasy hands on a towel. We’ve been in his shop all afternoon giving my motorcycle a tune-up.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably just going to cruise around town.”
“We’re having a potluck if you want to stay,” he offers, lighting a smoke. “Plenty of availability.”
I smile and glance out the open garage door. The summer sun is starting to set, relieving some of the unforgiving Texas heat.
Tank’s version of availability is hot chicks looking for one-night stands with their fingers crossed for a lifetime. I’m not against the idea of a relationship or even marriage if it evolved naturally, but the girls tonight only have one thing on their mind—the rock and the altar.
I know because, in the last few years, I attended plenty of his potluck dinners with his MC club. They’re a good time and great people, but I’ve been looking forward to riding this chrome and steel baby in front of me for months.
I left her in Florida.
We had a long-distance relationship until I shipped and crated her ass back to me.
Meaning—I longed to be back on the open road. I thought about buying another bike. It’s not like I can’t afford it. I’ve got one grown son, and a house I paid for with cash. I’m not a billionaire, but I’m doing alright. There is something about Samantha, my Harley, that I love.
What can
I say? I’m a loyal follower. She and I have been together for almost two decades, and I don’t foresee that ever changing. Any availability will have to accept my love for another woman.
“You know, I’d love to stay, but…”
“Twenty-somethings only bring heart palpitations and render your wallet empty?” Tank laughs. He isn’t far off. They’re a scary bunch, mainly because I’m almost fifty. Good to look at, but not much else. My consensus is they’re wild and never listen. I tried a couple for shits and gigs, but damn that was a lot of work. “Just know, you’re always welcome.”
“Thanks, man.” We bump hands as I start my girl up and grin wide. “Beautiful!”
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too!”
I traverse the gravel driveway for several miles. His property is scenic, set back deep in the woods. I cross over the last of four bridges and spot the two-lane Farm-to-Market road. I stop, securing everything down, and open her up to fly.
I have no idea where I’m going. It’s just me, the bike, and the road. I pass by farms owned by people who like the slower pace of life in the country. It’s good. I hate riding in the city with all the traffic. Stop and go, and no time to think because I’m too busy trying to survive. Out here, I thrive in the wide-open spaces.
I consider his offer of floozies for the night. The truth is, I can’t remember the last time I got laid. It hasn’t been a real high priority on my list, but now that my son, Joe, and his wife, Natalie, and their family are settled up in town, I might think about finding a companion.
She’d be older, in her early forties, and have a good grasp of who she was and what she liked, just like me. I want a nice meal, time to ride, and football on Sundays. I have a great job as a security strategist after spending years in the military.
Joe’s mother was the great love of my life. She was twenty years my senior and married when I knocked her up. I was the hot, young lawn boy. And I loved her lawn—frequently. Unfortunately, she died a few years back, still married to the husband. It broke my heart to lose her, but life goes on because what else can you do?
I had a continuous string of involvements over the years, but they never lasted more than a few months. I don’t know why I never found the one. I understand most guys my age have had at least one, maybe two divorces by now. I’ve not been married one time. Hell, I’ve never even proposed. I tend to gravitate toward one-night stands because they’re easy and convenient.
So I need to find a woman who enjoys fishing, ski trips, and time spent together. I realize as I’m riding that I’m putting together some self-selling spiel to put up on a dating site. What is it? Swipe left or right? I don’t know, nor do I care to know, but if I put up something about me, I could find a match made in heaven or heartache made in hell.
I spot the crowded dive bar and pull in. I’ll have a medium-rare steak and an ice-cold beer while I compose my life in two hundred words or less.
What the hell do I have to lose?
Parking in the back, I cut the engine and pull off my helmet as I glance around the lot. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find some middle-aged hottie line dancing, so learning which way to swipe won’t be a necessity because she’ll be looking for me. It’s a lofty goal, but a man’s got to dream.
I stretch and take a few hits off my vape. I gave up smoking cigarettes a year ago. I miss that shit every fucking day, but I miss being in the middle of a war zone too. I’m a solutions type, wanting to repair or help those around me. It’s why I enjoy my current line of work. I always feel like I’m doing good by protecting those around me.
Ignore the fact that I spend ninety-nine percent of my time guarding a guy involved in criminal activity. He needs me. And that shit is gold.
I stroll up to the honky-tonk and hold open the door for a couple of twenty-something availabilities. They grin and giggle, making eyes at me, before heading inside.
The crowd is loud on a Saturday night and perfect for people watching. I wait as the hostess escorts the gigglers off to a table, and I spot a young blonde tending the bar. She’s putting on quite the performance, tossing bottles and entertaining the crowd.
She’s cute, smiling, and laughing without a care in the world. The hostess returns to the podium. “Welcome to Clint Ray’s Bar & Grill! Would you like a table or a booth?”
I shift my gaze away from the bar to the girl standing before me. “I would like to be a safe distance from the pair you just seated and in a prime viewing spot of the bar.”
“Sure thing.”
And this is the start of a perfect night.
STORMY
A man walks into the bar catching my attention with his penetrating gaze. He smiles. I try to keep an eye on the restaurant patrons because they’re putting out serious cash to have a slab of meat and drinks. And the longer they stay, the more they spend.
I’ve been a bartender for a little over a year. My teacher said I was good at it because I was a genuine empath—a natural-born listener. Four nights out of the week, I’m nothing more than a glorified therapist serving up cocktails and consolation. The other two nights, I’m an artist, striving to impress while serving up the best cocktails that the Middle-of-Nowhere has to offer.
The hostess parks Mr. Sexy guy on the second-tier of booths. I’ll know if he is here for my show or not by whether he faces the restaurant with his back to me. If he sits to stare at me, it’s game on.
I’m in it for the money. And if I humor him, he’ll leave a bigger tip.
It’s just that simple.
Some people only want to eat and be left alone. Others seek companionship from the rowdy weekend crowd. I get it because I feed off their energy. I toss the vodka bottle in the air and note how he is eyeing me. I smile his direction and deliver the order I’m working on. I’ve got about twenty sitting at the bar. Clint doesn’t usually allow customers to eat at the bar on the weekends. It’s all in and out with drinks and dancing, and food consumption slows that process down.
Our hostess, Meg, sits the couples and big parties at the tables, keeping the booths for those she thinks will want to sit and stay. It’s a calculated play; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
I spot Misty over at Mr. Sexy, and soon she will place his drink order. I’ll remember it for the rest of the night, or forever if he keeps grinning at me. My guess is craft beer off the tap, but I could be wrong. His short, cropped dark hair contrasts against a white beard—a captivating combination. My guess is he’s not local but from Austin or San Antonio. He probably works at a dull desk job.
Misty is carrying on, no doubt flirting, but he keeps staring at me. Her tips depend on her ability to communicate; mine is strictly about body language with the booth patrons. And his eyes are giving me far more than just a tip. He’s peeling away the layers of fabric and kissing my soft skin with his rough mouth.
Calm down, Stormy.
I’m making a round of margaritas when Misty finally arrives with his order. I rush to set the drinks on the tray and hope I get to her before Tracy does. She’s not a bartender, but Clint Ray’s wife. She helps control the bar on the weekends with me.
“What can I get you?” I ask Misty.
“Table fourteen needs another bottle of house red and table three would like a beer, your choice.”
I blink over to him, and he smirks. I uncork the bottle and pour it into a carafe. “I’ll deliver table three.”
“Thanks!” she yells, hastily walking off.
I bite my lip as I eye the craft line-up. I keep an eye on Tracy and the bar to make sure things are running smooth. If we let it get out of hand one time, at the wrong time, we’ll be chasing our asses all night long.
Fortunately, most of this crowd is heading over to the arena for our annual midsummer festival. Clint gave us a heads up that the bar would likely calm down by about ten, so the customers could cheer for the car races, enjoy the carnival rides, and watch the late-night double feature on the lawn. These folks were steeped in
generations of rituals. And petting that pig and eating fresh caramel corn was damn religion.
I know because I grew up here in a little speck of a town called Godland, where the festival had been held annually since 1910. Up until the mid-sixties, the fairgrounds were open year-round. The original family eventually shut it down to only have the midsummer festival and the winter carnival. My mother recently told me that the current owners put in the drag track and the giant screen, but I wouldn’t know because I’m always working.
Taking the Miller Genuine Draft bottle out of the ice, I walk over and march up the two steps to his table. The bottle is soaked, and I pull the bar mop from my apron to wipe away the dampness before opening it.
I’ll need a towel for my own soon.
His eyes never leave my face. “What’s your name?”
“Stormy.”
He extends his hand, and we shake. “Well, Stormy, I’m enthralled. Interesting choice of beer.”
“You look like a real man.”
“I am a real man, Darlin’,” he cockily informs, and I blush. “Are you going to the festival?”
“I have to close.”
“Pity,” he mutters, taking a long swig of the beer. “You’d look simply gorgeous under the fireworks. I guess you should keep these coming.”
“You got it.”
“What do you recommend I eat?”
I desperately want to say to me.
But I’m not that bold.
“I like the filet mignon, but you look like a New York strip kind of a guy.”
He smiles wide. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” I say, pausing to check on the bar. “I should get back to work. Have the rice though. Potatoes are overrated.”
“I will,” he replies. “Talk to you soon, Stormy.”
“You sure will.”
With my heart racing, I head back to the bar. He didn’t have on a wedding band. While that doesn’t matter to some, I respect that line. My parents have been married for over thirty years, raised four kids, and still managed to be madly in love. I know it can happen. But I’m never going to be the cause of that perfect life not happening for another woman.