"Rough week, babe?" Sam asks.
"Like you wouldn't believe."
"I've had some tough patients this week myself."
I try not to roll my eyes. I mean, he's a dentist. That's hardly a comparison to the week I've had.
"My father has a new lover!" I blurt out, needing to get the conversation back where it belongs: on me.
Sam pauses at my outburst, his hand stilling on the back of my neck before he drops it and picks up his drink.
"You must be so excited for him," Sam suggests, eyeing me over his glass.
"I want to be happy for him. I do, but…" I pause to think for a moment. "I'm worried he's being taken advantage of." There. That sounds better than saying I'm annoyed my father is fucking someone I don't approve of, right?
Sam stares at me a moment longer before averting his eyes to the view of the Pacific Ocean from his living room.
"Your dad has a very strong personality, Jenny. I highly doubt he's being taken advantage of."
"I don't think you understand how serious this is." I mean, how could he? His parents are schoolteachers from the Valley. He has no idea what it's like to be me. "He's taking his new lover to Italy—on MY birthday! He's obviously being manipulated."
"You're turning twenty-six."
I don't care for his tone or the insinuation that at twenty-six my father's priorities should not revolve around me.
"Excuse me?" I raise a perfectly manicured brow meant to convey my displeasure. I know it's a perfectly manicured brow because I pay a specialist from Brazil three hundred dollars a week to keep them flawless. No one wants to buy a luxury handbag from an unkempt hobo.
Sam looks like he's about to say something, then pauses. "I'm sorry this has you so upset, babe," he finally says as he goes back to rubbing the back of my neck in reassuring circles. "How can I help?"
See? That's why I keep Sam around. He understands that I'm always right. I went out with an actor once who suggested I was selfish. I dumped him immediately, because how dare he? Everyone knows actors are narcissists. I only bothered dating him in the first place because he was an Oscar winner and I thought being associated with him would help build my brand. It did, because when I broke up with him, my PR team made sure to let everyone know how wronged I was, and my position as the “sweetheart of celebrity children” was locked in place.
I put my drink down and slip my hand into Sam's pants. He's earned a hand job. Also, he just unknowingly opened the door to the conversation I really want to have.
"I want you in my ass tonight," I purr into his ear as I grip his dick hard enough to make a lesser man uneasy. Then I rake my fingernails lightly over his length as he hisses in pleasure.
Sam palms the back of my head and pulls me in for a kiss while I continue to masturbate his cock until he's thick and hard and ready to serve me. Then I stand and drop the scrap of pricey lace I wear as panties before kneeling over him on the couch.
"Get it wet," I instruct. He knows exactly what I mean and slides two fingers into my cunt. I’m already soaked, and he uses it to lube his dick, never taking his eyes off me.
"I love you, Jenny."
Of course he does.
I bend my knees until my asshole is aligned with the tip of his cock. Once it's in place, I sink down farther. The head forcing its way past the first ring of muscle burns, but I like the pain. I drop lower and lower still, until my ass cheeks rest on his thighs and his cock is buried to the hilt. We both groan in pleasure, not moving, just enjoying the moment. After a beat, I raise up, slowly letting his cock drag free from my ass until just the tip is still inside, then drop back down in one solid motion.
"Fuck, Jenny."
"It's so tight, isn't it?" I pant into his ear.
"God yes. You feel so good, baby." Sam wraps his hands around my hips, assisting my rise and fall onto his cock, his hips moving below to meet each thrust.
"You're so big and hard, filling me up like this."
"Yes, yes." Sam's head falls back against the couch, the word fuck falling from his mouth in little whispers.
"You know what would make it even tighter?"
"Hmmm?" he replies in a non-committal hum.
"What if I had a cock in my pussy too? Can you imagine how much tighter my ass would feel then?"
Sam raises his head, paying attention now. "You want me to fuck your pussy with a dildo while I'm buried in your ass?"
"Maybe." I nip his earlobe. Not quite what I had in mind, but he's headed in the right direction, so I'll encourage it. "Maybe that could be a thing we do," I offer. "But the first time I'm filled like that should be special, don't you agree?"
"Special how?"
I tighten my asshole around his cock until he grunts. "Two dicks," I whisper. "One of you in each hole."
"With who? Greg?" His voice is strained, and I know he's close to blowing his load straight into my colon.
"It'd really help make my birthday special," I murmur. And then he unloads.
Epilogue
I got dumped on my birthday. Twice.
Greg said he was tired of being treated like he isn't smart. When I pointed out he isn't smart, he said I was only proving his point.
Sam said I'm a narcissist with a borderline personality disorder. He said he tried to love me despite it, but there was no fixing crazy.
I told him there was no fixing being a dentist either.
Then I fucked my plastic surgeon, which everyone knows is the highest level of doctor on the dating chain.
Last I heard, Sam and Greg are living together—with some girl named Sierra. After I put in all the work to set that up, that bitch rode my coattails onto two perfect dicks. I wish them nothing but light and love because everyone knows that’s the kind of person I am.
Besides, I’ve already moved on to better, more important cock. Cock I’ve worked hard to get and cock I deserve to have.
Light, love and cock. That’s my motto.
My newest release is Good Girl! Check it out!
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About the Author
Jana Aston likes cats, big coffee cups and books about billionaires who deflower virgins. She wrote her debut novel while fielding customer service calls about electrical bills, and she's ever grateful for the fictional gynecologist in Wrong that readers embraced so much she was able to make working in her pajamas a reality. Jana’s novels have appeared on the NYT, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestseller lists, some multiple times. She likes multiples.
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Cocksure Grin
Whitney Barbetti
Millie thinks all she needs are her chicken pajama pants and sad microwaved nachos until she meets Ben, a man with a grin who is more than just the stranger she thinks he is.
Copyright © 2018 by Whitney Barbetti
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cocksure Grin
“You are going to become a crazy cat lady if you never leave your house, Millie.”
I groaned and shoveled another microwaved nacho into my face. “I can’t. I’m allergic to cats.”
“Well, I already know that’s a lie.”
“I’m allergic to fun then,” I said. Which wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Come onnnn,” my best friend Elizabeth said, the whine in her voice like nails on a chalkboard. “All you do is sit at home and watch mysteries on the Investigation Discovery channel, in your fleece pajamas, with a sad plate of microwaved food in your hands.”
Mid-chew, I glanced down at my ‘lounge pants’—because that’s what they
were called when you were *lounging*. Just because they had dancing chickens on them did not make them pajama pants. Though, I supposed the same couldn’t be said for my bunny slippers.
But I couldn’t deny she was right about the damned nachos, which were more chewy than crispy so, as far as nachos went, they were pretty damn sad. “But going out means pants, and I don’t want to wear pants that aren’t made of elastic.”
“Going out means skirts,” she told me. “Or, at the very least, a really tight pair of solid-colored leggings. Preferably ones not made from pajama material, if you even have ones that aren’t. Come on, Millie. Your life is sooo boring.”
“I think you’re trying to insult me,” I said, shoving another miserable chip in my mouth. I picked a sharp corner from between my teeth and looked down at my paper plate and the hole in my pants that stretched one chicken’s face wide enough to show my pale white leg. I sighed. “And it’s working, just a little.”
“Good.” I could practically hear her beaming. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” I said, pulling my phone away and catching my unkempt reflection on my phone’s screen as I checked the time. “Might want to push it to twenty.”
“One-five. Fifteen. That’s it. Be ready, or I’m dragging you out of your cave, clothes or not.”
Luckily, because I often slept past my alarm clock, I was pro at getting ready in such a short amount of time. Not like, NFL pro level. But like Wednesday night bowling league—at the sketchy bowling alley behind the abandoned motel—pro.
By the time Elizabeth had shown up, I’d transformed from my baggy chicken lounge pants to black leggings that I practically had to grease my limbs just to fit into and a top that covered my microwaved nacho bloat. I gave myself one last look in the mirror as I shoved in the hoops I found under my nightstand in my earlobes. I cleaned up okay, for a Wednesday night after a shit show day at my job.
Elizabeth, though a bit harsh, wasn’t wrong. My life was boring. I guess I kind of owed it to her to try to liven things up. She was one of the few friends I had that actually cared that I subsisted off of terrible instant food and no fun.
“From Amelia to Millie, in fifteen minutes,” she said, giving me a high five when I got into the car. “Proud of you, kiddo.”
I rolled my eyes at her use of my full name and flipped the visor down. While I’d managed to slide my body into constrictive clothing and pull my shoulder-length bob into a messy half up-do, my face still needed a bit of work.
“Don’t put too much on; you don’t need it.”
“I don’t need it?” I asked, lipstick coating my bottom lip. “I thought we were going out?”
“Well…” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel at the stoplight. “Technically, you are going out, because you left your house.” She gave me one of those bared teeth nervous emoji smiles, and I just knew that she’d conned me right out of my poultry pajama pants.
“Where are we going, Elizabeth?” My tone was less than amused, but a grin curled her lips.
“Just a small get-together. At Finn’s house.” Finn, her boyfriend of the month, who put together dinner parties like he was Martha Fucking Stewart.
“Greaaat,” I said, not feeling great at all about the prospect of subjecting myself to Finn’s antics. “Don’t tell me he invited the guy who spent the last dinner party, begging everyone to fund his start-up.”
“No, not this time.”
Small mercies. “How many other people will be there?”
“You…me…Finn, of course.” She gave me a wide grin. “And Finn’s friend from college.”
I winced. “Oh god. Is this like a double date or something?”
“No, no.”
Her tone was less than convincing and at my give-it-to-me-straight face, she winced and continued.
“But Finn figured Ben could use some new friends.” At my answering groan, she hurried on. “He just got a new job here.”
“Greaaat,” I said again. I applied the littlest bit of mascara, planning on getting toasted, since Elizabeth was driving me. She always did this—setting me up with her boyfriend’s friends. Just because she was actively dating didn’t mean I needed to be too. I had a busy and terribly boring job and relished my time watching murder mysteries with shitty-tasting nachos. I didn’t need anyone coming into my life, interrupting the flow. Least of all, one of Finn’s likely weird friends. He, like Finn, probably tucked his sweaters into his pants and bragged at least three times every hour about how many miles he could get on a tank of gas in his hybrid.
But I would eat my words, because the moment we pulled into Finn’s driveway, the Columbine Blue convertible parked there made my jaw drop. “Did Finn get a new car?” I asked, even though I knew sensible Finn would’ve never shelled out the kind of dough this car had to have cost.
I hopped out of the car faster than if my ass had been on fire. I couldn’t resist touching it, running my fingers over the glossy paint. Even the inside had been lovingly restored to its original factory state. I had to resist pressing my face to it to see if it was real.
“I normally charge for that kind of touching,” a warm, low voice said from the open garage.
I shielded a hand over my eyes to block out the setting sun, watching the figure approaching me. He was tall and, to my surprise, the light gray sweater he wore wasn't tucked into his pants. My eyes climbed higher, up to his face. The panty-dropping smile made my stomach do a little somersault, but it was the killer baby blue eyes that did me in. “Whatever you charge, I'll pay.”
He raised one eyebrow—Jesus, why was even *that* so fucking hot? It was just a stupid eyebrow. But coupled with the raise of his eyebrow and the hand he ran through his lush dark hair, I was a goner. I wondered, could an eyebrow be fuckable?
"Really?" he asked, stepping closer still. "Whatever I charge, you'll pay?"
"Yes," I said, and leaned up against the baby blue car of my dreams. "Anything."
My anything probably meant I could badly microwave some nachos for him, while his anything very likely meant something sexy and out of my element. But elements and inhibitions be damned—this guy was something else.
“Ben?” I asked, grazing my hand lovingly over the shiny rearview mirror.
“The one and only. Amelia?”
I couldn’t help the gut reaction to scowl at the name my mother had given me. “Millie.”
“Millie,” he repeated, the double L sounding absolutely delectable rolling off his tongue. Could a word sound delicious, I wondered? Maybe only words that came from those full lips, coupled with that ridiculously gorgeous eye-fuck he was giving me.
Listen. I was no prude. Maybe I was just … deprived. My sex life was in desperate need of ending its unintentional year-long sabbatical. After a string of one long term relationship after another, I could use a good romp to dust off the cobwebs, maybe get me back out there in the dating world—so I could enjoy real nachos and not the crusty shit I’d been subjecting my mouth too.
As Ben and I exchanged looks hot enough to melt the paint off his car, Elizabeth trilled, “Who’s ready for a margarita?”
“I am. Don’t be stingy with the booze on mine,” I called out, never taking my eyes off Ben and his fuckable eyebrow and his cocksure grin. On any other man, that kind of arrogant, self-assurance would be a huge turnoff. But on him? It was like tossing gasoline onto an already well-lit fire. It just set his appeal ablaze in a way that made me want to rub my palms all over his chest.
An itch I hadn’t felt in a long, long time crawled up my spine. It was that sex itch, the one that I hadn’t given into for so long that I was mildly concerned I couldn’t remember how to do it. I mean, I knew the mechanics of basic straight sex: one peen plus one vageen. But the rest of it? Did I even have sexy moves in my arsenal still?
Or even more pressing: why was I even worried about it when all he’d done was look at me? There wasn’t an offer of sex on the table or anything.
/>
But maybe I could get one.
“So, you love mustangs, huh?” he asked, coming closer to me when Finn and Elizabeth had made themselves scarce.
“Who doesn’t? But this one.” I let out a low whistle, moving to the front of the car and practically laying my whole body on the warm hood. “1966 High Country Special Mustang, right? In Columbine Blue?” What were the odds that this guy would have the car of my dreams? And what were the odds further still, that he’d be this attractive? It was as rare as an alignment of all the planets in our solar system.
Unlike the start-up obsessed Finn Friend of the last dinner party, this was one I couldn’t slip through my fingers.
He raised that eyebrow again. Damn, he really had to stop doing that. “You know your cars.”
“Correction: I know this car. This beautiful, shiny, rare little gem.” When I turned my head, he was close. So close that our breath mixed, and his eyes held mine. For just a moment, my toes curled and my stomach flipped. With his dark eyebrows, bright blue eyes, and that wide, beautiful smile, he looked like the actor from the Star Trek reboot, but with his own kind of intense masculinity.
Why was I thinking about planetary alignment and Star Trek when a beautiful man was looking at me like he wanted to spread my legs and explore me?
I wasn’t the kind of girl who fell face first into deep lust. Maybe the car was affecting my inhibitions. Maybe my starved sex drive was driving my movements.
Or maybe it was him, and the way his tongue snaked out of his mouth to lick his lower lip for just a second before his lips spread in that grin—like he knew exactly what I was thinking about. He leaned in closer still, and smelled like sandalwood and cinnamon, spicy and earthy and I had the thought to just kiss him—to get the tension over with once and for all.
“Want to go for a ride?” he asked, breaking my focus on his mouth. When I looked up at him, I was so dazed by those blue eyes that I wasn’t sure if he meant the car or himself.
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