Whore

by Elise Faber

  “Now you,” I whispered.

  One flash of movement, one flex of those powerful arms, and his shirt was yanked up and over his head, disappearing somewhere over the edge of the bed.

  “I—”

  My chance for giving orders was over.

  Damon’s mouth dropped to mine for a long, hot kiss, then moved, over my cheek, down my throat, dancing over both collarbones, nudging my bra straps out of the way. His warm hand slipped beneath my back, flicked open the clasp and peeled the lace and cotton garment away, tossing it in the direction of his shirt.

  “God, you have the most beautiful set of tits I’ve ever seen,” he said, dropping his head and rubbing the bristles on his jaw lightly on the other side.

  Normally, I hated the word tits, but there was something about the gruff way he said it or maybe it was the roughness of his stubble raising goose bumps not on my arms, my nipples pebbling into tight, aching buds that made me not mind the word so much.

  He sucked one of my nipples into his mouth, pinching the other lightly between his thumb and forefinger, making my back arch, my hips cant up in need.

  And slow disappeared.

  He switched sides and pleasure snaked down my spine, my thighs clenching together, moisture pooling between them. I gripped his head, torn between keeping his mouth there and dragging it back up to meet mine again.

  In the end I did neither.

  Because Damon was moving down my body, tongue leaving heated trails of moisture, teeth punctuating with little bites that made me jump and groan and grip his hair tighter.

  Until my hands were extracted from his locks, and his went to work on the button of my slacks, sliding my zipper down, coaxing me to lift my hips so he could tug them down and off my legs.

  They went the wayside, trailed quickly by my underwear and then I was naked, Damon shirtless as he crouched between my thighs.

  “You, too,” I repeated.

  He grinned, that wicked one again that seemed to melt my bones from the inside out, but then he stood, fingers working at the button of his jeans for a heartbeat before they, too, hit the floor.

  His boxer briefs stayed on for the moment, though he did reach for the pocket of his pants and pull out his wallet, along with the condom inside it, setting both on the bedside table.

  Then he seemed to realize what he was doing and froze. “I’m—”

  I reached for his hand. “Don’t ever apologize for protecting me,” I said. “Plus, the responsible thing is to use protection, even if I can’t have a baby.” I tugged him until he came back onto the bed. “I’ve never not used it. Or well, before you corrupted me.”

  He brushed a kiss to my lips. “I think you’re the one doing the corrupting.”

  I batted my lashes innocently, totally ignoring the fact that I’d slid my hand down his front and was cupping him through the material of his boxers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I squeezed.

  He groaned, his hips jerking forward.

  “So,” I murmured, still cupping him. “Put it on. Or don’t. But either way, just get inside me.”

  “Not quite yet.” He slanted his mouth across mine, kissing me until my heart pounded, my lungs screamed for oxygen, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on my body. “Dam—” I began when he released my lips, but he only allowed me to suck in one short gasp of air before he was kissing me again, one hand coming to rest by my head, the other sliding down and slipping between my thighs.

  He groaned again, the sound vibrating along my tongue, making me shudder and gasp . . . or maybe that was because his fingers had slid through the liquid dampening my pussy and then pushed inside.

  A blunt invasion that definitely had me gasping, my lips tearing away from his, my head pressing back against the pillows, a long moan erupting.

  “Mmm, baby,” he murmured, shifting down, shoulder nudging my legs apart, mouth descending . . . to my belly button, to my hip, to the other . . . and then to my clit. “Oh fuck!” I gasped, pleasure exploding out from my center, filling me with fire. My hands somehow found their way to his hair again, tilting his head, grinding myself against his mouth and tongue, feeling the stubble abrade my sensitive skin, in a good way, in the best way.

  No. That was his tongue. Or perhaps, the suction of his mouth. Or his fingers. Or—

  All of it. It was all of it.

  Because he played my body like he was born to do it, every touch and stroke winding me tighter, every brush of his tongue pushing me closer to the edge.

  “Oh God, Damon,” I groaned. “Like that. Please just . . . oh God!”

  I exploded, a shower of sparks bursting behind my eyelids, pleasure surging through my limbs, my pussy clenching around his fingers as firmly as my hands clenched in his hair.

  It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of liquid heat coating my skin, flooding through my nerves, making my head spin.

  The moment I regained the tiniest bit of use of my body, I was tugging at his head, pulling him up my body. “Now,” I whispered. “Please.”

  His underwear disappeared, the condom was grabbed off the nightstand and rolled on, and he was back between my thighs, pushing in, filling me, stretching me . . . expanding me.

  And not just my body.

  But my heart was expanding right alongside it.

  Then he moved, and I stopped thinking about feelings. Instead, I just felt.

  Him pulling out and pressing in, his thumb drifting down to my clit, his lips on mine, tongue delving into my mouth, encouraging mine to tangle with his. It was . . . everything and also just the smallest sliver of a moment, our movements crystallized down to a single shared heartbeat, a sharp exhale, a burst of pleasure.

  “Come on, baby,” he panted, thumb working my clit, sweat on his forehead. “Come for me.”

  I wasn’t far off, sprinting up and up, spinning higher, winding tighter until I fell over the edge with a cry.

  He groaned. “That’s it, baby.”

  One stroke. Two. Three.

  And Damon joined me in plummeting over the other side.

  The best part?

  Him holding me close as our heartbeats began to slow, his fingers running through my hair, him whispering, “I love you.”

  Me whispering back, “I love you, too.”

  Fifteen

  Damon

  Okay, so perhaps bringing Eden to my parents’ house when we were still new, just beginning to figure out our future together wasn’t the best idea.

  My mom stood on the front porch, hair tugged into a ponytail, jeans and bright purple sweater encasing her—as she liked to call them—kiddy curves. My father always said she was beautiful, no matter that she complained about the extra weight gained during three pregnancies she’d never been able to fully shed.

  It was true, not the weight or the change in size, but that my mom was beautiful.

  She had a light inside her that only seemed to grow brighter through the years. Charisma or charm, or maybe it was simply that she seemed to care about everyone she met, no matter if they were the checkout clerk at the grocery store or her hairdresser.

  “She’s beautiful,” Eden murmured, head turning so she could smile up at me.

  My heart squeezed, and I knew she got it, knew she could see, even from a distance that the beauty of my mom came not from the outward appearance—though my mom was an attractive woman—but because of what was inside.

  Cliché.

  But sometimes clichés were true.

  Eden understood that. She knew what it was like to be judged on her outside appearance, but she also knew what it was to deal with a monster lurking beneath the veneer of innocence. What was inside was critically important, cliché or not.

  “Yes, she is,” I agreed, maneuvering my car into my spot, or what had been my spot during high school. With three teenagers in the house and multiple sports and extra-curriculars and five cars between us, parking had been undertaken with military precision.

>   Though my car was a lot nicer now.

  “What are you smiling about?” Eden asked as I turned off the engine.

  “I was thinking about the old beater that somehow managed to get me from school and sports and back when I was in high school.”

  Her lips curved. “At least you had a car?”

  “There is that, though my friends always teased it was more rust than metal.” I popped my door and started to get out, pausing to glance back at her. “Didn’t stop them from bumming a ride, though.”

  Her laughter trailed me around to the trunk of my car, but before I could open it, my mom was there, and I was wrapped in the quintessential Mom Hug. Warm, soft yet firm, and filled with her scent. Roses and vanilla, which I knew was her favorite because I always shipped her a big box of lotion, soap, and other womanly things every year for her birthday.

  “You’ve been gone too long,” she said.

  Of course, she always said that, but this time she was right. I hadn’t been home in months, and I hadn’t quite realized how much I’d missed it until I was here, surrounded by redwoods, moisture in the air, the mountains in the distance.

  Same state, different world.

  “I’m glad I’m here now.”

  One more squeeze and she jumped back. “Oh dear, I’m being terribly rude in ignoring your friend.”

  “Hi,” Eden said with a wave. She’d come out of the car and was standing a few feet away, smile on her lips. “I’m Eden. It’s nice to meet you. Damon has told me so much about you. I hope you don’t mind me crashing his visit.”

  My mom glanced at me, eyes wide and warm, before crossing over to Eden and pulling her into a hug. “Mind? Dear, it’s so lovely to meet you. Carrot was one of my favorite films ever.”

  Eden blushed.

  “Now, now,” my mom tutted. “No blushing. You’re a fabulous actress, and I can’t wait to see what else you’ve made.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Garcia.”

  “Anabelle, please.” My mom wound her arm through Eden’s. “Or Belle. Or hey you, I’m hungry and need food.”

  Eden glanced up at her. “I’m sorry?”

  My mom chuckled. “Sorry, I always joke that was my name when my house was filled with teenagers. Here, now, come on into the house.”

  Eden hesitated, turned back to me. “I should get my bag.”

  “Pish. Damon’s got them.”

  I blew her a kiss when her bright emerald eyes met mine. “I wouldn’t dream of making a big movie star carry her own things.”

  Those pretty eyes narrowed.

  My mom tutted. “He’s just teasing you.”

  Eden laughed. “Oh, I know all about Damon and his teasing.”

  A beat, a shared grin. Then, my mom continued tugging her toward the house and I heard Eden say, “So was he also teasing when he said you’d share your world-famous French toast recipe with me?”

  My mom mock-gasped. “How dare he promise I give away my spoils?” A beat. “But seriously, I’d be happy to share it. I can only cook a few things really well, but that’s one of them—”

  “She’s lying!” I called, tugging our bags from the trunk. “Everything she cooks is delicious.”

  “I paid him to say that,” my mom stage-whispered.

  “Well, let’s hope I can pay him to say the same,” Eden said. “Because I can make one thing and that thing is blueberry pancakes.”

  “Well”—my mom patted Eden’s arm—“I’ll share my French toast if you share your pancakes.”

  “Hey!” I accused, coming up behind them. “I’ve begged you for that recipe for years!”

  “You’re not worthy,” my mom tossed over her shoulder as they headed up the porch steps. “It’s girls only.”

  “Ouch!” I mimed getting stabbed in the chest. “Five minutes and I’m already tossed to the side. Your only son, betrayed and left wanting.”

  Eden grinned. “There are those acting skills again.” She glanced down at my mom. “I keep telling him that he should put them to use, Belle. In fact, there’s this perfect role in a script I was just sent.”

  “Oh!” My mom dropped her arms, or rather put them up to her face. “I’ve said the same! He’s so talented and—”

  I dropped the bags and darted forward to scoop Eden up and toss her over my shoulder. “You’re going to pay for that, baby.” I clamped one hand over her legs to hold her in place and the other I brought up to her waist, tickling in the spot I’d discovered just the night before.

  “Damon!” she shrieked, but she was laughing and squirming . . . and so was my mom—well, laughing, that was. She’d scooped up the bags and gone ahead of us, holding the door so I could carry Eden through.

  “Quick! Into the closet, Damon,” my mom said over the sound of Eden’s protesting. “That’s where we keep all of our captives.”

  I snorted so hard I almost lost my grip on Eden.

  My fingers faltered, but Eden lost it.

  My mom lost it.

  And I followed suit.

  I knew that this weekend was going to be absolutely perfect.

  I just didn’t realize it was going to decimate me when it was over.

  Sixteen

  Eden

  I did get the French toast recipe and Damon was right, it was delicious. I also tried my hand at making tortillas and quickly discovered that they were well outside of my limited cooking skills.

  Damon snagged the lopsided lump of dough I’d mangled away from me. “Um, nice job?”

  I took it back with glarey eyes, trying to smooth it out with my hands. “Not all round foods are created equal.”

  Belle tutted, reshaped the mound in a perfectly round ball. “Try again, dear.”

  “Pancakes, I can do,” I muttered, placing it in the tortilla maker, closing the top, and then pulling down firmly on the handle, exactly like she’d shown me.

  Except, it wasn’t exactly, was it?

  Otherwise, when I opened the round plate, I would have revealed a perfect tortilla instead of . . . whatever it was that I’d just made.

  Not even. Not smooth. Not . . . good.

  “Ugh,” I muttered.

  “Why don’t you crumble the cheese, Eden?”

  Sighing, I nodded then moved over to the block of white cheese Belle indicated. “Is this the stupid-proof job?”

  “No, of course not,” Belle protested.

  But Damon was nodding and smirking.

  “So, I’m not good at shredding pork, I can’t make tortillas, I burned the beans, and . . . now you dare put me in charge of the cheese?”

  “Um . . .” Belle bit her lip. “Okay, it’s pretty much stupid-proof.” A beat. “Unless you drop the block on the floor.”

  “Like this?” I mimed dropping it.

  Belle gasped then lightly smacked me on the arm. “Don’t even pretend to joke about my cheese.”

  “It’s her favorite,” Damon stage-whispered. “Plus, you’ll redeem yourself by making us guacamole later.”

  Belle lifted a brow.

  “It might even be better than yours,” Damon teased.

  A gasp, but Belle was smiling.

  “I can make guac later. I’m sure it wouldn’t stand up against yours though,” I said and began breaking off chunks of the cheese, mimicking what I’d seen in the multitude of Mexican restaurants I’d eaten at. Hopefully, I was doing at least that right.

  But I supposed if I wasn’t, it was still cheese, so there were worse problems in the world than the wrong sized cheese crumbles.

  “You know,” I said. “I just signed on to do a film where I’ll be playing a chef.”

  Silence, Damon’s and Belle’s eyes shooting toward mine, wide in surprise.

  Then Belle’s lips twitched. Mine followed suit. Damon held it together for another beat . . . but then we all burst into laughter.

  “Now, that’s a happy sound,” a male voice said.

  I turned, saw an older man who was the very picture of Damon, though a little softer a
round the jaw and waistline and with a little more gray in his hair.

  Despite that, it was absolutely clear that he was Damon’s father, Diego.

  DNA, man, it was a bitch.

  Whipping toward Damon, I jabbed my finger in his direction. “That is what you’re going to look like as you get older?” I dropped the block of cheese to the plate and plunked my hands to my hips. “Why is it that men always get more handsome with age and woman just get . . . lumpy and wrinkled?”

  Bella snorted.

  Diego’s lips curved. “I think she’s saying I’m handsome.”

  Horror washed over me. Had I really just said that? In front of a man I didn’t know? In front of Damon’s father? I mean, I felt like I knew him, based on this afternoon and all the stories Damon and Belle had told me. “I’m sorry, that was incredibly rude.”

  His brows pulled down, face falling. “Are you saying I’m not handsome?”

  “Oh, no.” I wrung my hands together. “You’re absolutely handsome. You—” His lips twitched, just barely, but I’d seen that same look on Damon’s face enough to recognize mischief.

  And so I put my acting skills to work.

  I let tears well in my eyes then covered my mouth with my hand, choking back a sob and turning toward the plate, head hanging. “I’m sorry,” I said weekly. “I’m so s-sorry—”

  More silence in the kitchen, though this time it wasn’t trailed by laughter.

  A hand on my shoulder.

  Not Damon’s, but Belle’s.

  “It’s okay—”

  I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, and she took one glance at my face before a wide smile broke out on her lips. Then she burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said between giggles. “I didn’t mean— To ruin— Your joke—”

  “Joke?” Diego asked.

  Belle nodded. “It seems that Eden fits right in with us and our pranks.”

  Damon tugged me away from the counter and into his arms. “That’s because Eden is perfect”—he dropped his voice—“and perfect for me.”

  I scoffed. “Hardly.”

  He rested his chin on my shoulder. “Perfect.”

  “She’ll be perfect if she can finish crumbling that cheese,” Belle said, patting my arm. “And you’ll”—she tugged Damon back to the tortilla maker—“be perfect if you get going on the dough.”