Well Hung

by Lauren Blakely

  “Good.” She grabs the neckline of my black T-shirt as we stop in front of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, where patrons stuff foot-longs and cheesesteaks in their mouths. “Because I love rollercoasters,” she says, grinding against me in the bright light of the casino hallway, the plink-plink-plink of nearby slot machine payoffs and the spinning of roulette wheels gliding through the air.

  I grasp her hips in my hands so she can feel the hard length of me against her. She gasps as she comes in contact with my hard-on, then a sweet, sexy moan slips from her lips. Her reaction is priceless and perfect. “How much do you love rollercoasters?” I ask.

  “Just you wait ’til you hear me scream on the drop. Then you’ll know how much.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I’m going to take you for a helluva ride.”

  Somehow, we pull apart.

  We walk and we kiss. We follow the signs for the ride, and stop to make out on the way. I press her to the wall and kiss her neck, my stubble dragging against her soft skin. She moans when I do that, and her sounds drive me crazy. I want to hear all her murmurs and sexy cries, be the reason she makes them, and then make her groan and moan again.

  We manage to traverse another hundred feet or so, then up the escalator where the entrance to the joint arcade and rollercoaster looms near.

  But I need to touch her again, so I spin her around, back her up to the wall, and pin her wrists at her sides, pressing my body to hers and crushing her lips once more with mine. When I manage to pull away, I drag my mouth to her earlobe, and bite. She lets out a soft yelp. “Want you so much,” I tell her.

  “God, you have no idea. Being near you is torture. I’ve been dying to touch you. I told my sister when I got on that plane there was no way I could come here with you and not want you.” She says it in a breathless rush, her admission perhaps fueled by liquor, and that’s fine with me because I’m buzzed, too. Not so buzzed, though, that the sliver of text messages I’ve spotted locks into place.

  It hits me—she’s been texting her sister about me. Telling Charlotte that being near me is torture. Then Charlotte replying that she knew Natalie would want to do this with me in Vegas. And fuck if that doesn’t turn me on more.

  All my reasons to resist her have vanished. All my rules separating work and pleasure have crumbled to dust. This is temporary, a one-night-only kind of tryst as we make the most of this evening.

  I hope things won’t be awkward in the morning, but hell, I can only think about now. Tomorrow is for tomorrow.

  We thread through the bright lights and flashing screens in the arcade and find our way to the line for the rollercoaster. There are only a few people ahead of us. We won’t have long, but I want the wait to be foreplay for her. I yank her against me, her back to my front, tugging her ass right against the outline of my hard cock.

  She leans her head against my shoulder, turns her mouth to my neck, and says my name in a purr.

  I whisper hers in her ear, and the way I say those three syllables seems to set her off. She pushes back into me, her sexy little ass rubbing up and down along my length. We are the fucking definition of PDA right now. We are the get-a-room people, but amazingly, no one says a thing.

  Vegas, baby. I love this town.

  My fingers play at the top of her skirt. “Tell me how much you want this. I want to hear you say it.”

  “How much I want to ride the rollercoaster?”

  My hands dig into her hips. “No. How much you want me to fuck you tonight.”

  She spins around, her blue eyes meeting mine. She says nothing at first, just studies me. Her eyes darken with desire, and she never lets go of the stare. The air whooshes out of my lungs from the intensity of her gaze. “Wyatt Hammer, don’t you know?”

  “Don’t I know what?” I say, my voice a dry husk.

  Each word comes out of her mouth dripping with desire. “I ache for you.”

  Never have four words sounded so hot when strung together. Even though we’re not alone, we might as well be. I drop my lips to hers, and for the first time all night, I kiss her softly. It lasts for a second or two, then I whisper, “You’re killing me here, Nat.”

  Then it’s our turn, and we untangle from each other as our group heads to the station with the string of yellow cars designed to look like taxi cabs.

  I take no chances. I grab her hand and guide her purposefully to the last car. She slides in first, her skirt riding an inch or two up her thighs, revealing more of her smooth skin.

  I join her, and as soon as we’re in place, my hand is on a mission. As the cars in front of us fill up, my fingers travel to the edge of her skirt and under, then up her thighs, between her legs to the damp panel of her panties.

  Then inside.

  “Oh God,” she gasps.

  And I have two minutes and forty-five seconds to get her to say that again. And louder.

  9

  She spreads her legs for me, as far as she can, which isn’t much, given the tight quarters of the car and the lap bar that has us locked securely in place.

  But as far as I need.

  She is slick and soft and so damn silky. My mouth waters because I bet she tastes amazing. The car groans its way out of the station, and I glide my fingers across all that fantastic fucking wetness. We’re facing forward, and there’s not much room to move, but all I need are hands and words. Even with the shoulder harness I can turn my face to her, my mouth near her ear as we begin the climb. “You weren’t lying, sweetheart,” I say as I slide my finger over the delicious rise of her clit.

  “Lying,” she says on a broken pant, “about what?”

  “About the sweet torture of being near each other. This is sweet torture, indeed.”

  She shakes her head, and a harsh breath falls from her lips. “Not lying. Just really turned on.”

  “I can tell. My fingers are fucking coated in the evidence,” I say as I move faster over her clit. It practically throbs under the pad of my finger.

  Brisk night air greets us as the angle shifts, and we begin the ascent. Gears grind, and metal screeches against metal as the long car climbs slowly. It feels like we’re at a forty-five-degree angle. Hell, maybe we are. Somehow, it works for us. Natalie squirms and pushes against my fingers as we rise.

  I move faster while we chug slowly higher. I’m stroking her pussy, sliding firmly up and down her clit, following her cues. My gaze drifts to the padded lap bar. She grips it fiercely, like her life depends on it, or maybe just her pleasure. Even in this confined space, her hips rise to meet my fingers with urgency. I drag them up and down her, and she grows hotter, slicker with each stroke.

  Somewhere in front of us, voices rip through the air. The wild words of anticipation. The expectation of the first big drop.

  But here, my only words are for her alone as I rasp in her ear, “I want to make you come so fucking hard.”

  “Oh God, please. Yes. I want that,” she moans as she pushes into my fingers.

  We close in on the crest, and I thrust two fingers inside her. She’s tight and hot, and she clenches against me. Her head drops—to hide her moans, I guess, but it’s hardly necessary. We are two hundred feet in the air, and her groans are part of a chorus of sounds—whoops, hollers, and the loudest sound of all, the crank of the wheels against the tracks.

  We hover at the top, all of Vegas spread out before us. Then the earth falls from us, and we plummet.

  She screams. A loud, wild, thrilling yell. “Oh my God, yes,” she cries out. “Like that!”

  “Holy fuck!” My voice joins hers as the car hurls through the night at the speed of light, and Natalie fucks my fingers. She’s a livewire, and I know she’s almost there, and that nothing in the entire world is going to stop me from getting her off right now.

  Desire and determination clutch me in equal measures as I work my fingers inside her while stroking her needy clit with another. Wild thing that she is, she manages to rock her hips into me, grinding and thrusting in the small space.
She’s just as fucking determined as I am. The urgent need to come is written in her face, in her eyelids squeezed shut. Rabid concentration is etched in her features.

  I center my strokes on her clit as she begs me with whimpers and groans to keep going. Like I’d even consider stopping now.

  The hollers of the other riders fill the air as we race along a corkscrew section of the tracks then blast into the loop. I’m such a horny bastard, but a lucky one, too, and I’m going to send her soaring in seconds, judging from the way her mouth is a perfect O as she grinds her pelvis into my hand. Then she’s shrieking, and it’s not just an encouraging you’re almost there, keep doing it. It’s a full-blown climax as we tip upside-down. “Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God!” Her pussy grips me tight as she comes on my fingers.

  She screams wildly as we fly through the rest of the ride. Soon her cries morph from orgasmic to joyful at the thrill of the rollercoaster. As the ride slows, she dips her head and blazes a trail of kisses up my neck as we rattle into the station, finishing them off with a nip of my earlobe, and a whisper just for me: “I can’t believe we did that. That was crazy. But crazy good.”

  “So fucking good,” I say.

  Yeah, being bad is so much better.

  When the car stops and the bars rise, I offer her a hand and help her out. The couple in front of us turns around, and it’s the man and woman in matching Hawaiian shirts. The woman gives Natalie a wink, then me a thumbs-up.

  Natalie buries her face in my shoulder, but I go with it, giving them a quick wave. “They don’t call it a joy ride for nothing,” I call out.

  “That’s for damn sure,” the man says, with a proud note in his voice, like he’s christened the back car of an amusement-park ride at some point or other.

  Once we’re inside, Natalie pulls me close and wraps her arms around my neck. She doesn’t say anything. She just smiles goofily at me. “Hi.”

  “Hey there.”

  “That was . . .” Her voice trails off. Maybe she can’t find the words, but the rosy glow in her cheeks and the satisfied glint in her blue eyes is enough for me.

  “Interesting?” I suggest.

  “It was so very interesting.”

  “I bet it gets even more interesting.”

  We resume our path, then she stops in her tracks, and points. “Look!”

  I follow her finger, and a smile spreads as I spot our picture on the screen behind the counter. “So that’s what we would call your O face.”

  She swats my shoulder. I grab my wallet from my back pocket, fish out a twenty, and point past the woman at the counter to the screen. “Number sixteen, please,” I say, then wink at Natalie. Her forehead is in her palm. “Sixteen is the sweetest number.”

  The cheerful brunette with pigtails and red glasses smiles from the photo counter. “It sure is. And your sweet sixteen will be ready in a jiff. The print takes only forty-five seconds and comes with a lovely cardboard frame. Would you like it laminated too?”

  I pretend to consider this. “Hmm. What do you think, Nat? Should we laminate the moment—”

  She raises her face. Her eyes are fiery. “No, thank you,” she says to the cheery girl. “A cardboard frame is just fine.”

  The girl hands me a bag and two five-by-seven close-ups of Natalie and me screaming as we flew down the tracks. As we wander out, I study them. “I suppose technically we can’t be certain this is the exact moment when you came,” I muse as I show her the picture.

  She shoots me a stare. “It’s close enough.”

  “Close is only good in horseshoes. Not orgasms. I mean, do we know for certain this is the moment of triumph? Should we do it again to be safe?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Did you really need to buy that to mock me?”

  I stop her, grabbing her arm. “I never mock orgasms. I take your pleasure seriously.”

  “I know,” she whispers.

  “Do you want me to throw them out? I will.”

  She softens. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

  “Uh, yeah. I’d say so.” My eyes swing downward, in the direction of my crotch. “You’ve been giving me a hard time for a long while, sweetheart.”

  “You are the king of puns.”

  “And you are the queen of the rollercoaster O face. But seriously, I won’t show this to anyone if you don’t want me to.”

  “Even if I wasn’t about to blast off into the stratosphere of toe-curling bliss, would you honestly show that photo around? We both look like screaming idiots.” She grabs it and holds it up for me, then imitates our expressions—eyes wide, mouths open, shrieking as the coaster flew along the tracks.

  I shrug. “Call me crazy, but I like it. I’m going to keep them.”

  Then I grab the waistband of her skirt, and tug her back to me as we pass a shoot-’em-up arcade game. “Speaking of toe-curling bliss, I need to tell you that you look hot when you’re coming and you look hot when you’re not coming. So you’re pretty much hot all the time, okay?”

  She beams, and the look on her face—utter delight—does funny things to my chest. So does her voice when she answers with a simple, “Thank you.” Then she adds. “I guess this would be a good time to let you know I brought along a gift for you. Only I purchased it before we even left Manhattan.”

  Color me intrigued.

  She dips her hand into her purse, fishes around, and grabs something that she presses into my hand. The foil wrapper and the rubber ring send a bolt of heat through me.

  “You’re presumptuous.”

  She shrugs a shoulder. “But am I wrong?”

  10

  I’m a man with a one-track mind right now.

  Since we aren’t staying at this hotel, and since I need this woman like I need my next breath . . . I hunt.

  With her hand in mine, I walk purposefully through the arcade, scanning, searching. Maybe there’s a bathroom nearby. Or a quiet nook. Possibly a photo booth. I’ve always thought those are underrated hidden gems perfect for a little public action. And you’d get a souvenir photo strip too.

  Then I spot a black velvet curtain near the exit of the arcade that gives me an idea. You never know what lurks behind a curtain.

  Possibly, enough privacy.

  I lift it, and—luck be a curtain tonight—there’s some kind of storage area behind it. It’s filled with out-of-commission arcade games and pinball machines.

  I let the heavy material fall behind us. “You’re not wrong,” I say, and I kiss her again. The vodka tonic is fainter now on her lips, but the aftertaste is there, reminding me that her boldness is fueled by Bacardi and Belvedere.

  But that’s okay. If it weren’t for the liquid courage, I wouldn’t be here, either, lifting my sexy-as-fuck assistant onto a broken Metallica pinball machine.

  Her hands are up my shirt in seconds. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, inviting more, because her words are the biggest fucking turn-on of my life.

  Her fingers play with the grooves in my abs. I shudder as she touches me.

  “Sometimes when you come into the office, I check you out,” she says in a low, sexy voice.

  “Like my hair?” I joke. “You check out my hair, you mean?”

  She moves in close and bites my jaw. “Your dick, Wyatt.”

  My skin sizzles as I spread her legs. “You pervert.”

  “I look at your arms and your waist, then I can’t help myself. I check out your dick. Do you know you get hard at work?”

  I laugh loudly. “Gee, I wonder why? Could it be the scenery? Maybe the stone-cold fox at the front desk?”

  She chuckles, too. “I knew you were looking at me like you wanted to fuck me. I looked at you the same way, and all I could think was how . . . well hung you are.” She wiggles her eyebrows then laughs louder. “That sounds so seventies porn, doesn’t it?”

  “Didn’t you know I used to star in seventies style porn?”

  She drags her index f
inger over my top lip. “Did you have a ’stache?”

  I nod. “A proper porn ’stache. I wore super-tight jeans that flared at the bottoms. Especially when I played the pool guy or the pizza delivery man.”

  She hums her approval. “Maybe you can bring your VHS collection over some night, and we’ll catch up on your greatest hits. Did they call you Well Hung?”

  “Not only did they call me Well Hung, I had a whole series under that name.” I drop my voice to an admonishing whisper. “But honestly, Natalie, don’t you know? They were all Beta tapes. Make sure you have a Betamax machine for our movie and popcorn bow-chicka-wow-wow night.”

  I tug her to the edge of the pinball machine and bring her hands to the waistband of my jeans. Now I’m serious. No more joking. “That’s what you were doing all those times? Wondering how it would feel to wrap your hands around my cock?”

  She nods, her eyes shining with desire. “Sometimes I’d go home and just think about what it would be like to unbutton your jeans, slide my hands into your boxers, and feel you in my hand.”

  Jesus Christ. Wildfire sparks in my veins, spreads through my blood and just fucking ignites me with more desire than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  “Then find out,” I say, dragging her hands along the button, popping it open, and guiding her fingers down the zipper. “Do it. Touch my dick.”

  Her eyes are hungry, as if she’s about to have her biggest fantasy come true. Same for me. I’m about to fuck my Natalie.

  I push my briefs down, and when my cock springs free, Natalie’s eyes widen. Her mouth falls open. “I was right,” she whispers, and then opens her legs wider as she wraps a soft hand around my cock.

  I hiss from the delicious fire of her touch. She rubs me up and down, her hand sliding along the long, hard, thick length of me. I nudge her legs wider as she plays. The look in her eyes is good enough to photograph. I want to remember it for a long time. Her irises are hazy with lust, and she gazes at my cock as she strokes.

  She touches me like she’s measuring it, weighing my dick in her hand, and I know she’s satisfied. Maybe that sounds cocky, but I don’t mean it that way. If she’s pleased, it’s because we’ve just admitted that we want each other with the same wild abandon, that we’ve both been longing for the other in the same dirty way. And that’s what’s so goddamn rewarding about finally touching the person you crave—it’s in knowing you’re both in the game, equal stakes.