by Knight, Jodi
Tits or pussy?
I don’t know which gift to rip open first.
Ella pushes her hands through my hair. I pick her up and carry her to my kitchen counter.
Strap on your wetsuit Slade, you’re going deep-V diving.
If this doesn’t get me to the top of her bachelor list then I quit life.
We’re still breathing heavily as I gently guide Ella until she’s lying supine on the countertop. Her legs surrender and instinctively fall open, ready to let me in. Magical. I take her right leg and rest it over my shoulder.
“Mmm … Alex …”
I pepper her ankle with kisses, working my way over her calves and down to her creamy thighs. I think I already told you that I’m a leg man? Well, these legs, in those shoes? Fucking sublime.
And then her whimpers stop and she lays waiting in silent expectation. She knows what’s coming.
Did you know that the tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body?
It’s true.
Watch.
I lower my face between her thighs and pull aside her panties.
“Alex …”
I lightly skim my fingers around the periphery of her swell. Those pink lips are swollen moist.
Delicious.
“The zombie is one of my favorite positions, Ella,” I reassure her tenderly. “Now—just lie back and enjoy getting eaten.”
Wrapping my arms around her thighs, I lick the length of her slit with slow, deliberate strokes. She moans again—louder now—as I go at her again, attacking her clit with my tongue. I dart in and out of her goodness, sucking and pulling at her fleshy lips with an insatiable hunger. I swear to God, these are the best goddamn lips I’ve ever tasted. Creamy and sweet.
Flicking my tongue over her clitoris, I push my tongue deeper inside her pussy, alternating my pace and rhythm.
“Oh, God … oh, God … stop … don’t stop …”
Her words crack as she grips hold of the counter top for dear life.
Stop? Baby, we’re just getting started.
I persist with my pursuit of her pleasure—sucking, nibbling, biting, licking, and nuzzling, over and over, again and again. In and out, around and along, fast and slow, until she screams, “Oh, my God!”
Her back arches, forcing her knees to tighten around my head.
Shit, not the clamp of terror.
We’re ragged, both out of breath now. “Jesus Christ, Alex!”
I remember a nugget of wisdom from my old pal Jonas; if a girl doesn’t look like a demon’s being exorcised from her body, you’re doing it wrong.
Take a look at her face—looks like I’m doing it right, don’t you think?
Her breathing is heavy again—almost gasping. She playfully kicks me away and beats a hasty retreat along the counter top, unseating a bowl of fruit. Grapes roll aimlessly from my kitchen island and drop to the floor. My kitchen is beginning to resemble the backdrop to a Roman orgy.
I’m panting, but I’m not done here. I roll up my sleeves and growl, “Coitus more ferarum … come to me, Miss Bryant.”
Ella edges further away. I lean forward and grab her by the ankles, sliding her toward me. Picking up a stray grape, I pop it into her mouth. My goddess accepts it with grace and crushes it between her teeth.
Fucking hot.
My arms disappear around the back of her dress and I pull at her zipper. “This dress is clearly screaming for freedom, Miss Bryant. Glad I can be of assistance.”
I slowly peel it away from her shoulders, and allow it to fall around her waist.
Just, wow.
I stare, dumbfounded, at the fullness of the two symmetrical beauties in front of me. I skim my palms over the surface of Ella’s white lace bra. Her nipples are pert, begging for my mouth. “Jesus …” I exhale. I can’t fucking help myself. I kiss and suck at the bare flesh of her shoulder.
“You know, as pretty as this bra is, Miss Bryant, it must come off.”
In one deft move, I slip a hand behind her back and unhook the catch of her bra. It unbuckles on the first attempt.
See—what did I tell you?
I’m a goddamn pro.
I peel away her bra and hold my breath. They’re fucking beautiful; like two perfectly formed teardrops. I cup each breast in either hand and squeeze them together.
Fuck me. Taking her supple flesh into my hungry mouth, I bite, suck, and pull at her pink nipples like a starving animal.
She pulls my head up and kisses me. “Just take me,” she whispers. “I want you now.”
Fuck, yeah.
I don’t mess around. I scoop her off the counter and carry her fire-man style to my bed.
I lay Ella down on my bed. I take a moment to admire her beauty in the thin slither of moonlight that’s illuminating my room.
She lunges forward and grasps at the front of my shirt. She’s as hungry as I am, and tears the last button away with such conviction that it breaks away.
I kiss her angrily while she unzips my pants. My dick springs forth, demanding immediate attention.
Look at her eyes.
Ella Bryant is stunned. “Wow.”
Her eyes roam over all eight and a half inches of my phallic glory. I grin and slide my hand over her stomach, trailing kisses down to her happy place.
I tug at her panties. “You won’t need these …” I slide them over her ankles and toss them over my shoulder like a cowboy with a lasso. Ella’s head rolls from side to side and my bedroom fills with the sound of her soft moans.
I take one last lick of her wet slit, savoring the hot juice from her pussy.
Yum.
It’s so goddamn delicious that I think I’ll mail the recipe to Martha Stewart.
“Hurry, Alex …”
I tease my cock around the rim of her wet, juicy, aperture, and grab a condom from my bedside drawer. While I roll the rubber on, I take a deep breath.
“Take me now,” she pants, arching her back in the air. Her eyes sparkle in the moonlight. I take my dick in my hand and dip him just inside her welcoming lips.
Thing are heating up right?
And then….
“Suck it and see!”
A high-pitched screech reverberates around the room. Ella’s body tenses and she kicks me away.
Startled, she sits up. “What the hell was that?”
Christ Almighty. That bird has the vocabulary of a well-educated sailor. I swear to God, he must have sailed the seven seas in a previous life.
Talk about passion-killer.
And now she’s up off the bed and looking for her clothes.
No, no, no.
Not the dress.
Don’t put on the dress.
Drop the dress, goddammit.
She’s putting on the dress.
Shit.
“Ella, it’s just my cockatoo, Petie. Relax, baby. Come back.”
And the dress is on.
She skirts past me and drops down onto her hands and knees. Nice. There’s still a chance.
“I’m all for the floor, baby. Carpet burns are just wounds of love, anyway,” I tell her as I flick on the bedside lamp.
“Alex, I can’t find my—”
She gasps.
Why? Because my cockatoo is sitting in his cage; his beady eyes aflame with malcontent. Did I mention that he’s chewing on her panties? They must have landed in his cage when I tossed them over my shoulder.
Her lips push together and form a tight line.
Fuck. Say something, Slade.
“Meh. Panties are overrated anyway.”
Ella Bryant gives me the stink-eye and flees from my bedroom. Each click of her stiletto is a punch in the gut. I’d run after her, but have you ever tried to run while you’re wearing the T-1000 of boners?
It’s damn near impossible.
I call out in semi-desperation. “Ella, come back! I can still take you over the kitchen counter!”
Click … click … click … click … click.
S
lam.
What the hell just happened?
I fall back onto my back and roll my head toward Petie’s cage. Just look at him. He’s having the time of his life as he gnaws on those panties.
I look down at my throbbing dick. I’m a wrecking ball of unfulfilled need.
Oh, well. There’s only one thing for it.
Hand, I’d like you to meet my dick.
It’s been a while.
Chapter Eight
Well, last night was an evening of firsts.
The first time I’ve had a woman abscond before sex.
The first time I’ve had to jerk myself off after a date.
And the first time I’ve been cock-blocked by my own goddamn cock.
After Ella left, I felt like I’d been unhooked from an opium drip, and my dick has been up and down like a fiddler’s elbow ever since. Some people count sheep when they have insomnia. Not me. I had to jerk myself off three frigging times before I got any sleep.
Humiliating.
You ever heard of the saying ‘a key that can open many locks is called a master, but a lock that can be opened by many keys is shit’?
It’s sexist, I know, but it rings true for most guys. If a guy is looking for love and a woman puts out on a first date, she can kiss goodbye to her second date with Prince Charming.
I’m neither looking for love, nor am I that kind of asshole. No woman pulls a dine-and-dash on Alexander Slade without experiencing the full euphoria of my oral capabilities, first date or not.
It’s unthinkable. The abrupt end to our grand finale has only strengthened my resolve to see her again and finish the job.
It would be rude not to.
I called her up to apologize already. I got voicemail. She hasn’t replied, but I’m not calling again.
So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give her three days—max.
Then I’ll look her up and make my next move.
I just hope she doesn’t go falling in love with me like the others; I’ve already filled my quota of first-date stalkers this year.
***
A couple of days later, and the House of Aubrey is signed, sealed, and delivered.
Team Slade Jnr. 1 - 1 Team Slade Snr.
I’m back in the game.
When my old man steps off the plane and I break the news, he’s going to be higher that a giraffe’s ass. This deal is my dick’s get-out-of-jail-free card, so I’ve taken my team to Ward 8 to celebrate.
Have you ever wondered what goes down on a guy’s night out?
If so, then congratulations. It’s your lucky day. You’re about to find out.
Cougar insists that we entertain her model of choice for our campaign—some NFL quarterback hotshot.
Our guest of honor is running late, so I’m giving the guys the low down on last night’s drama. The blindfold. The king shrimp. BattleShots. Ella’s glorious snatch. The kitchen counter. Petie. Those goddamn panties.
I’m not going to get any sympathy here—they’re laughing their asses off.
“I’m calling the avian rescue association in the morning—the bird has to go.”
Parker jokes. “How the hell have you not died of exhaustion yet?”
That’s a good question. I guess I’m blessed with a sociopathic stamina.
I twist my empty glass on the counter and sigh.
It’s been two days since Cockgate, and there’s still no word from Ella. No e-mail. No messages. No missed calls. She has until noon tomorrow to make contact or else I’m going in.
Time for another drink. I wave my hand in the air. “Hey, which of you lucky ladies do I need to sleep with to get some service around here?”
A blonde bartender ignores me. Some jerk in a blue suit is nibbling at her neck. And would you look at that? His hand is exploring her friend’s ass.
Classy.
Karl spins around on his stool and hisses. “Hey, that’s him—that’s our guy.”
I stride over to our guest with confidence and extend my arm. “Tyler Strickland?”
He manages to drag himself away from the girls’ neck to accept my handshake.
“Slade? My apologies. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He pops his collar and winks. “Look at these two, though. Can you blame me?”
Christ, this guy’s smoother than a snake oil salesman. The hairs on the back of my neck rise like the hackles on a dog.
Tyler Strickland is the jock version of Steve McQueen. His sandy blonde hair is thick, and he has a square jaw that showcases two rows of shiny, white teeth. It only takes a few minutes of small talk for me to form the impression that he spent more time beating up geeks and pounding cheerleaders behind the bleachers than he did in the classroom.
We’re downing whiskey sours like they’re going out of fashion when the conversation turns to football. I hate football. I’d rather French kiss a barracuda than get within a hundred meters of a grid iron. As I’m on paternal probation, I’ll make nice and lay along.
Tyler turns an inquisitive eye toward me. “Which NFL team you support, Slade?”
I adjust my collar. “Oh … umm … Minnesota Stars.”
He sneers at me.
Stand back and form a circle, ladies and gents, the peacocking has commenced. Don’t be fooled by his friendly attempts at conversation. He’s trying to out-alpha me.
“I’m more of a golfer,” I add hastily.
He thrusts his hands on his hips. “Yeah? What’s your handicap?”
I smirk. “Women.”
Beat that, Jockass.
***
Two hours and seven rounds of whiskey sours later …
Our clique has attracted the attention of several stunning members of the opposite sex. None are as hot as Ella—not even close—which is why I’m struggling to muster up any interest in the hottie next to me. She keeps grabbing my junk, but he’s unresponsive, like one of those accident victims on ER.
My latest admirer takes my jaw in her hands and pulls me in closer. “Let’s get out of here and head back to your place.”
I don’t think so.
I untangle myself from her advances and go over to the guys. They’re downing shots. Except Raj—he’s reading Harvard Business Review and guzzling orange juice. I told you he wasn’t diligent, didn’t I?
I rip the magazine away from his face and a book falls to the floor.
I pick it up.
Spanked by the Secretary by P.L. Underlust.
I flick through. Whole passages have been annotated and tabbed with pink sticky notes.
I clear my throat and read aloud. “‘Bend over and let me show you, baby,’ he growls and throws me a wink. I catch it with a smile, bend over his desk and await my punishment. My Adonis raises a hand and I pool myself …”
“Enough!” Karl spits out his drink. “Pool myself? Is she incontinent?”
I shrug. “It’s up for discussion, Karl. Raj, I thought that we’d successfully steered you out of this phase. No more trashy romance novels, you hear me?”
Raj shrugs. “I just want to know what women want.”
I laugh and put my hand on his shoulder. “That’s easy. Read my lips—multiple orgasms.”
Karl shakes his head. “Ignore him, Raj. There’s more to it than that.”
I interject. “It’s all sales—you just need training. Then Bangalore you shall, Raj. Bangalore you shall.”
I’m feeling impatient. “Let’s start with first lesson: the successful procurement of alcohol.”
Raj smiles nervously as we drag him to the bar. “What does an alpha drink, Boss?”
I hook an arm over his shoulder. “An alpha drinks what the hell he likes and doesn’t give a shit what other people think.”
Raj stares in wonder at the rows of brightly colored bottles on the shelves before finally announcing. “I’ll take a virgin mojito.”
I facepalm. “Two whiskey sours please, Delphine. Easy on the lemon.”
He’ll learn.
A short while l
ater …
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
Karl jabs a green cocktail stirrer into Raj’s ear. “How long has he been drinking?”
I check my Rolex. “Half an hour. Let him sleep it off.”
We count the empty glasses on the bar. Six shots of rum and three whiskey sours. Not bad for a beginner, but there’s still hard work to be done. Speaking of hard work, Jockass joins us at the bar. He’s fucking wasted. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.
“Did you see that? That twink winked at me!” He turns around and grabs his crotch. “You want some of this!”
I let out a controlled sigh. If ignorance ever hits five dollars a barrel, I want drilling rights to Tyler Strickland’s head. “Live and let live. Take it as a compliment. Watch your back or you’ll wind up on the front cover of the National Enquirer.”
And if Tyler Strickland winds up on the front cover of any rag for anything other than match-winning touchdowns, it would be a fucking disaster for our ad campaign. Call me a hypocrite, but I think I’m finally beginning to understand how my father feels.
I wave at the bartender. “Cancel those whiskey sours, Delphine. We’ll take a dozen Pink Sladies. Give one to the gentleman over there—it’s on the house.”
Tyler takes a step back. “What the hell? Pink Sladies? You have a drink named after you?”
From the look of incredulity on Tyler’s face, I’d say he conjectured that scoring the winning touchdown in a Super Bowl final would be the ultimate achievement for an alpha male.
I don’t think so.
I got a goddamn cocktail named after me.
Beat that, Jockass.
Undeterred by my superiority in the field of alcoholic beverages, Tyler makes his next move. He shows us a home video of him receiving a blowie from two cheerleaders. Make no mistake about it; this isn’t about male camaraderie.
This is about his dick.
For guys, penis equals power. The bigger the cock, the more power you’ve got. Nowhere is safe from our phallic hijinks. The boardroom. The bedroom. The playing field. There isn’t a man alive who hasn’t sized up his penis against another guy’s crown jewels in the locker room.
I know you’re wondering how I size up against a brute like Strickland. Let’s just say, I’m not left with feelings of inadequacy.