by Meghan March
I don’t dare move a muscle, even though a part of me is sort of warming up to the idea of Creighton turning my ass red. Where the hell are these thoughts coming from? Oh yeah, my lady parts.
Creighton doesn’t make me wait long. I don’t even lift my head when I hear his footsteps crossing the living room. I might twitch a bit when he lays his big hand on the small of my back, but it’s only because every contact with his skin lights up nerve endings I never knew I had.
“Good girl.” His hand lifts and I relax, just in time for me to jump when a swat catches me just under the curve of my ass.
“What was that for?” My voice comes out in a hoarse squeak, and I’m not willing to even admit that sound can come from my body.
“Because I can.”
I melt back into the couch. Jesus. This man.
Melting takes a back seat when I feel something cool and sticky coat the area that was previously designated as a no-go zone.
“Um, what are you doing?”
“Whatever I want. And it’s just lube, sweet girl.”
Uh . . . just lube? What the hell do we need lube for if we’re not going there just yet? I don’t voice my question because something is pressing against me there.
“What—”
“Hush,” he says. “It’s just a small plug. Not much bigger than my finger. I want to fuck you with your ass filled.”
I suck in a breath. Holy. Shit.
But I don’t protest. I don’t think I have two functioning brain cells left to rub together at this point, because I’m a mess of nerves and physical reactions. Like the arousal coating my thighs and surely leaving slick spots on the back of the leather couch. But any concern over that leaves the building when the plug breaches the muscle and slips inside.
The breath I just sucked in heaves out of my lungs. He might claim that plug isn’t much bigger than his finger, but he clearly doesn’t get that in my ass, it feels huge.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
The slight burn subsides and it slips the rest of the way inside, anchored by the flared base. Creighton presses against it, and I shoot up onto my tiptoes.
A sharp smack lands on my ass, and Creighton’s hand on my shoulder guides me back over the couch.
“Now we’re ready.”
I don’t bother to agree, because his other hand is slipping between my legs to experience exactly how drenched his detour into deflowering the back-door virgin territory has gotten me.
He must have removed his clothes, because I feel nothing but hot skin and hard man pressing against me from behind. The hand on my shoulder slides up the nape of my neck and grips a handful of my hair.
The head of his cock slides along my entrance and I shift back, trying to help it slide inside. His smooth lips skimming along my earlobe are a counterpoint to his gruff words.
“You’re never going to forget what I feel like inside you. I’m going to fuck you until you feel me with every step.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” I whisper. I can’t even believe I’m saying it, but I’m nearly mindless with need for him. I don’t want to be teased, I just want him. Now.
“You naughty fucking girl,” he says, dragging his teeth down the tendons of my neck.
I expect him to slam into me, but instead he presses in slowly, and I savor every inch as he gives it to me. I offhandedly realize that he’s being thoughtful because of the . . . um . . . accessory he’s introduced into this situation, which makes him feel even bigger than I remember.
Holy wow. Why don’t guys with small packages insist their girls wear these? Or maybe it’s only Creighton’s generous equipment that feels impossibly large.
His careful handling of me doesn’t last beyond the first few thrusts. It could be the moans that I can’t keep from spilling from my lips. It could be the word harder that somehow finds its way into those moans. Regardless, Creighton’s grip on my hair tightens, and he does exactly what he’s promised—he ensures that I will never forget what he feels like inside me.
Thrust after thrust, he presses me into the couch, and his hand slides around my front and down to cover my clit. With every jolt forward, I feel his cock bottom out, and I buck against his hand.
“Holy fuck,” I scream as my entire body begins to convulse with pleasure.
Holly’s pussy clamps down on my cock, and I swear to God, lightning is shooting down my spine. My balls spasm and I let loose, filling her with everything I’ve got, yelling the word mine when I come.
Fuck yell. I roar.
She’s slumped over the couch, limbs unmoving. If it wasn’t for the whimpering moans of pleasure, I might think I fucked her unconscious. Which I have no aversion to doing.
If her cunt strangling my cock is any measure, I think she came at least three times. Maybe more. It was everything I could do to not shoot my load after a half dozen strokes. Even without the butt plug, her pussy is tight, probably the tightest I’ve ever had.
And with that wicked addition, I succeeded in ruining myself for any other woman. No other pussy will do. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. This woman’s cunt owns me.
Fuck that. This woman owns me.
I grab my boxer briefs off the floor, using them to catch the mess as I force myself to slide my dick out of her. I could happily stay inside her forever. Get me a phone with a never-ending battery life and I could do my business right here, while I give her the business.
God, I’m a fucking pervert.
I lift Holly off the couch and into my arms. Her head lolls against my chest, and her arms hang limp.
“Baby, you okay?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Let’s get you in the bath and clean you up.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I chuckle at her languid response, and love that I’m the reason for it.
Settling her on the side of the tub, I flip on both faucets. Given that it’s the size of a small pool, it’ll take a while for it to fill. Without the insane water pressure I have, it would take an hour.
Crouching in front of her, I lift her chin and meet her still-dilated eyes. “You okay, babe? That was pretty intense.” She nods silently. “Give me the words.”
“I’m okay. I’m really, really . . . okay.”
I smile at her response and rest a hand on her thigh, not far from the pussy that has me by the balls.
“You want me to take the plug out?”
A pretty pink blush covers her face, and her gaze drops away from mine as she shakes her head.
“Is that a no?” Another silent nod. “Words, Holly.”
“No. I don’t want you to take it out yet,” she whispers to the floor.
My cock goes rock hard. Moments ago, I would have bet my jet that couldn’t happen this fast. I would have been wrong—and flying commercial.
“And why’s that?”
Her blush deepens when she replies, “Because I like it. And if I like that this much, I want to know what else I might . . . you know . . . like more. Which I’m assuming requires a little, um, prep? So yeah. That’s why.”
I feel her words in my dick and somewhere deep in my gut.
“Jesus Christ, Holly. You’re fucking amazing.”
I stand, scoop her back up, and settle us both in the partially filled tub. I keep her cradled in my arms, not wanting to let go of her yet. It’s like I’m worried that somehow she’ll slip away and I’ll lose her—and that’s not something I want to contemplate.
She leans her head against my chest, and I brush her hair away from her face so I can see her eyes. I don’t know what I’m hoping to see in them, but I know I need this connection as much as I think she does.
This is a novel feeling for me. Even with the few longer-term relationships I’ve had, I’ve never felt like this. I knew she was something special; I wouldn’t have done what I did and married her if I didn’t think so. But it was a crazy-ass stunt I cooked up on the spur of the moment, and I would have never guessed I’d start to fe
el like . . . this.
Whatever the hell this is.
I refuse to eat naked, and Creighton’s narrowed gaze doesn’t change my mind.
And so instead, I’m wearing his T-shirt and sitting in the middle of his dining room table. It’s a very Sixteen Candles moment. I could swear I’m in the last scene, and I should be sitting on Jake Ryan’s table with Samantha’s birthday cake between us.
Except we don’t have a birthday cake between us—we have enough sushi for a party of five—and I’ve just lost another kind of virginity tonight, because I’ve never eaten raw fish before. I figured, what the hell, I’ve already done something way more off the wall, so why not? And I’m glad I did, because it was a-maz-ing.
I’m a total klutz with chopsticks, so I give up and pick up the piece of something Creighton called a rainbow roll and dip it into soy sauce mixed with a small bump of wasabi. I hold my hand under it to catch the drips as I lift it to my mouth, already anticipating the symphony of flavors I’m about to unleash.
Creighton’s smile is downright amused, but I don’t care. He might as well see how completely unsophisticated I still am in so many ways. At least he won’t expect to take me out to some fancy restaurant until I’ve had time to master chopsticks. It’s not like we used them to eat hot wings at the bowling alley.
I moan in delight as I savor the taste of the sushi I’ve just popped into my mouth. It’s so damn good, and I say so to Creighton as soon as my mouth isn’t stuffed full.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“I can’t believe I never wanted to try it before. If I’d only known what I was missing . . .”
“I’m glad you’re open to trying new things, Holly.” His lips twitch into a less amused smile. “I can’t wait to see what we can conquer next.”
I lift my sweet tea, procured by Creighton at my request, to take a sip. “It’ll have to wait until after the tour.” I note Creighton’s frown and add, “You didn’t forget that, right?”
“No, but I forgot to tell the pilot.”
Oh, that’s not a good sign. “Maybe you should do that?”
He shoves a hand through his hair and slides off the table. I’m hoping he’s taking care of the situation, and in the meantime I watch the play of the muscles in his back, all the way down the waistband of his gym shorts, as he crosses the dining room and disappears into the kitchen. His voice carries, and I’m pleased to hear he’s making the call.
I pick up his half of the conversation.
“This is Karas. I’ll need the jet the day after tomorrow. Make sure it’s ready by four.”
“Good. Text me if anything comes up in preflight.”
“Thanks.”
I’m feeling the warm glow of contentment that he’s making sure I’m going to get back to Nashville early when he heads back into the dining room and climbs back onto the table. But not on his side. He settles himself behind me, lifting me so I sit on his lap.
“We’re going to teach you to eat with chopsticks.”
“This is going to get messier than it already is, then.”
“So be it.” He grabs the chopsticks with his left hand and places them in my right hand, positioning my fingers awkwardly around them. “Like this.”
He guides my chopstick-holding hand to the sushi and manipulates my fingers until we’ve picked up a piece and dipped it in soy sauce. Ever so carefully, we lift it toward my mouth. Which is right about when I realize what we’re doing is almost more intimate than when he bent me over the back of the couch.
My hand shakes, and the chopsticks lose their light grip right before it reaches my lips . . . and the cold rice and fish slips right down the neck of the T-shirt I’m wearing.
“Damn it,” I say. “I knew this was going to be a disaster.”
Sushi might be delicious, but it feels kinda gross now that the rice is stuck to my boobs and the fish is somewhere farther south, near my own tuna.
Creighton chuckles before reaching his hand down the neck of the shirt and scooping up the remains. I twist and watch as he pops it into his mouth.
“Tastes even better.”
I slip my hand under the shirt and grab the errant piece of fish, holding it between a thumb and forefinger. He nips my fingers before snatching it up.
“How about we skip the chopsticks? I’m lucky if I can figure out which fork to use. Adding in completely new utensils isn’t really fair for this Kentucky girl.” I lean back against him, the novelty of this position not yet wearing off.
“Tell me about it.”
His question confuses me. “Tell you about what?”
“Being a Kentucky girl.”
I twist again to take in his expression. He looks genuinely curious, but that doesn’t really make me want to share. My upbringing was light years away from anything Creighton can imagine.
“Nothing much to tell.”
“Now, that I don’t believe.”
I think about what I can tell him.
I was born in a tiny town with one red blinking light. I’m not even sure that qualifies as a one-stoplight town. I never knew my father, probably because my mama wasn’t so sure who he was either. My earliest memory was stuffing all my toys and clothes in a garbage bag and dragging it behind me as we moved from trailer to trailer through the park as she hooked up with loser after loser. Paper-thin walls didn’t muffle the sound of her “earning” our keep.
I took refuge in music—putting my headphones on and turning up the volume to drown it all out. One of the least loser-ish of the losers gave me a hand-me-down iPod loaded with tons of country music. Living in Kentucky, that’s about all I heard anyway, but he had the classics too. Loretta Lynn, old Reba, the Man in Black—I soaked up their words and eventually started writing my own.
When I was fourteen, my mama hooked up with a man who had enough money to buy her a Cadillac Eldorado, but didn’t want to have anything to do with a kid. She clutched the keys to her new Eldo in her hand as she told me to pack my bags, because I was moving in with my gran.
Doing what I’ve done so many times before, I loaded everything I owned into a garbage bag and stuffed it in the trunk of the Eldo. My one and only ride in that car was across the river, where she dropped me off like a litter of unwanted kittens. I suppose I should be lucky she didn’t stop at the bridge and attempt to drown me. Gran lived a half mile from the happening hot spot in town: Pints and Pins, affectionately known as Brews and Balls by the locals.
But I couldn’t tell him most any of that. I decide on the streamlined version.
“I’m from a one-stoplight town. My gran raised me after my mama decided to do some exploring. It was better that way, because Mama bounced us around a lot, depending on what guy she was . . . dating at the time. I worked at a bowling alley to help make extra money.”
My gran and Brews and Balls were both my salvation in different ways. Gran because she welcomed me with open arms and gave me the unconditional love and stability I lacked for the first fourteen years of my life. Birthday cakes, Christmas presents—those things became expected instead of the hit-or-miss mess they were with my mama.
When he doesn’t speak, I continue to fill the silence. “Gran lived on Social Security, so every extra dollar helped.”
To myself I add, Because my mama sure didn’t send any home. Nope, after she packed up her Eldo and hooked it to the back of the rich man’s motorhome and rode out of town, we didn’t hear from her for years.
Shaking off the bitterness, I kept going. “Brews and Balls was the first stage I ever stood on to sing in front of people. One karaoke night, the crowd wasn’t getting into it, so Benny, the owner, decided to take matters into his own hands. He’d heard me singing to myself in the kitchen while I was frying up onion rings and hot wings and chicken fingers, and decided that I’d do just fine. He pushed me out of the kitchen and into the bar, not even giving me time to drop my apron. The song was ‘Born to Fly’ by Sara Evans. When I finished, there was dead silence .
. . and then the crowd went crazy.”
I close my eyes, the memory still vivid in my head. When I stepped off the stage, Benny had tears in his eyes. “You surely were born to fly, Holly.” He was the first and only man ever to believe in me.
And wouldn’t he just be proud of me now? Mostly naked with a butt plug up my ass, sitting on this man’s lap who I married after spending a single night with him.
I push the thought away. I’m going back to Tennessee in less than forty-eight hours. Back to normal. Which was a crazy thought all by itself—that my normal is life on a tour bus, heading out to sing in front of crowds of thousands in stadiums across the country. That’s what I need to focus on, not the man whose chest I’m pressed against and the awkward silence I’m just now realizing has overtaken the room.
“How’d you go from karaoke in a bar to touring?”
“Benny pushed me to try out for Country Dreams, and when I got past the initial audition, I decided I couldn’t go because Gran’s health was getting rocky. I couldn’t leave her, and we couldn’t afford in-home care. But somehow, through the grapevine, my mama heard about the show and that I was going to turn it down, and she showed up on Gran’s doorstep the day before I needed to report to Nashville for filming. She promised she’d take care of Gran if I’d only just take this shot.”
I swallow, the lump in my throat growing. The last part of this story is the hardest, and the reason for the guilt that tugs at my soul on a regular basis.
“When the finals came around and I made the cut, my mama decided Gran could take care of herself, so she left her. She just wanted to be on TV when they showed my family in the audience, and meet some famous people.” I pause, my heart clenching at the memory. “But Gran fell and hit her head, and never woke up again. She died before I could make it home to even sit by her bedside.”
“I’m so sorry,” he starts, but all the emotions and memories are bursting through my walls, and I can’t stop.
“You want to know what it’s like to wish I’d never taken a shot at my dream because my selfishness—and my idiot move to trust my mama—was responsible for the death of the only person who ever really cared about me?”