I swirl around her clit until her hips circle too, chasing me and the pleasure I’m layering on her with my tongue, my hands, my words.
Finally, I give in and stay where she wants, flicking my tongue over her clit in rapid flutters and pressing two fingers along the front velvety wall of her pussy. Her cries tell me she’s close, and I take her right to line and then . . .
Stop.
She whines, bucking her hips and begging me to finish her off. “Gabe,” she says, turning the single syllable into at least three.
“I’m going to edge you, take you to the point where you’re about to come over and over, but you’re not going to come until you’re impaled on my cock and I’m filling you with cum.” I let every dark and dirty thing I want to do to her color the promise.
She nods, looking back at me over her shoulder with fire in her eyes.
I keep my fingers deep inside her and kiss my way back up the round globe of her ass, enjoying the way she wiggles in need, fucking herself on my hand. Flattening my tongue, I give her a long, slow lick along the crease of her ass before diving in and teasing the tight pucker.
She jumps in surprise, but the noise quickly turns to a moan. “Oh, my God, I’ve never . . . I didn’t know." And then she spreads her knees a bit more, giving me greater access as she arches.
I lick her, then spread her slick juices up to her asshole, tracing the edges with both my fingers and tongue as I give her a chance to relax into it. I slowly start to push my finger inside her ass, lazily licking her clit to keep her climbing toward that peak I won’t let her fall off of, at least not yet.
“That’s it, Princess. Let me inside this sweet ass. One day soon, I’ll fuck you here and claim you completely.”
Her whole body clenches tight, and I retreat, smacking her ass. “I think you like that idea, don’t you? Remember, you don’t come until we’re coming together.”
Her breath is coming in harsh pants. “I can’t, I need—”
“What? What do you need?” I’ll give her anything she asks for, but I’m hoping I know her answer because all this teasing her has me on the edge too.
“You,” she moans. “Please.”
Thank fuck, I think, lining up behind her. I rub the head of my cock along her lips, covering myself in her cream and bumping her clit before I notch myself at her opening and slide in, one agonizing inch at a time. Any faster and I’d come instantly from her slick pussy taking me in, but the slow pace is driving us both mad.
I force myself to give it to her slow, but I succumb to the need for roughness, slamming into her so hard and deep, I bottom out with each individual stroke.
She cries out with each thrust, bouncing and rebounding off my hips, so I grip her waist, holding her in place. “I can’t wait anymore, Princess. You ready?”
Her eyes meet mine, pupils wide with lust, but I can see the deeper meaning there. “Ready for anything with you,” she says quietly, and her devotion to me is blessedly obvious.
How a soul as pure and sweet as hers can accept one as stained and sullied as mine, I’ll never know. But I am so fucking grateful for it.
I can’t promise her I’ll never do anything wrong, anything violent ever again, but I can promise her that I will always act with her love and her future in mind.
So I slam into her faster, giving us both what we want.
“Now, Bella. Fucking come with me right now.”
And we detonate, the two of us creating something beautiful, something neither of us thought we’d ever truly have.
Love.
Her, because she didn’t trust the permanence of life.
Me, because I felt I didn’t deserve it after letting my brother down.
But both of us were wrong. We deserve love. We have love. From and for each other.
Epilogue
Isabella
I don’t know if I have ever been this nervous. I look in the mirror on the back of the door, even though I’ve already checked my outfit three times. It’s not like it matters. No one is really going to see me, but it does matter. It’s a sign of how important I’m taking this meeting.
So I look at my dark-wash jeans, low-heeled boots, and lightweight cotton shirt. The neckline is wide, showing my collarbones and framing the necklace Gabe gave me for passing my finals. I’d told him it wasn’t necessary. I mean, I’ve passed every test I’ve ever taken without some promise of a material reward, but he’d insisted.
I swear, I half think it’s a tracker for the rare occasion he lets me go out without him escorting me. But I don’t mind. It’s a beautiful necklace, and I love having him with me as much as possible, especially when there’s still a question about what Blackwell’s next move will be.
Gabe’s head pops around the door frame. “You ready?”
I nod, biting my lip nervously.
“You look beautiful. He’s going to love you. No worries.”
I’m a bundle of nerves, and Gabe is as cool and calm as can be as we get into his SUV and he drives. I lose track of the turns, finally relaxing a little and singing along with his deep baritone to some old rock tune on the radio.
He turns through a metal archway covered in flowers, parking and coming around to help me out. We walk through the rows of stone, Gabe’s hand in mine leading me. He knows exactly where he’s going, like he’s been here many times before.
And then he stops, and I look down, following his eyes.
“Hey, brother, got someone I want you to meet. This is Isabella Turner, my Bella. I think you would have really liked her.” He speaks casually but switches in and out of both past and present tense. He probably doesn’t even realize he does it, both living with Jeremy in his past and carrying Jeremy with him in his heart in the present.
I smile softly. “It’s nice to meet you, Jeremy. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
And there, under the bright sun and swaying trees, I listen as Gabe tells our story to his brother. He apologizes for not following through with his promise of revenge but finishes with the belief that he’s doing the right thing, and Jeremy would’ve wanted that.
“Besides, as much as I love you, man, I love her too. And she’s got something you don’t have . . . a pussy that sucks me in like a damn vise.”
I gasp, shoving at Gabe’s shoulder. “What the hell! You were being all romantic and then you go and say something crude like that.”
Gabe gives me the grin I love, slowly growing until his dimples pop and he’s already halfway out of trouble. “That’s how brothers talk, Princess. It’s not like you thought I was some sweet Prince Charming.”
He leans in, whispering in my ear even though there’s no one around us in the cemetery. “And you wouldn’t like me if I was.”
“Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But you’re my not-so Prince Charming, so let’s keep the talk about my pussy to a minimum with other people.”
He narrows his eyes. “That mean you’re not talking about my cock with Mia and Charlotte either?”
I freeze, remembering how I’d just told them about our successful mission to christen the whole house. “That’s different,” I say, knowing it’s not at all.
“Innocent, sweet, good girl, my ass,” he says, but I giggle because he squeezes a handful of my ass as he says it.
I look to the rounded concrete engraved with Jeremy’s name. “You see what I put up with from this brother of yours? But as much of a danger to my good name as he may be, I love him too.”
A big wind blows through us, warm and swirling, and a white flower drops from a tree beside us. Gabe picks it up, moving to place it behind my ear, but I take it from his hand. Walking over to the tombstone, I lay it on top. “We’ll be back soon, Jeremy. It was nice to meet you.”
And then we go home.
Together.
Thank you for reading! There will be another book in this series, Happy Never After, and it will be Charlotte’s book!
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! I’ve never shared something like this before. Along with a 2 chapter preview, you also get the character bios and their role in how the plot will play out (no spoilers!). Enjoy!
Flip the page for a preview of Beauty and the Billionaire, the first book in the Dirty Fairy Tale series, with Mia & Thomas.
Preview: Beauty and the Billionaire
Prologue - Mia
The darkness is complete, wrapping around me like an ebony velvet blanket, cool and textural on my naked skin. I can feel it on my goosebumps, the air adding to my trembling.
My body, exhausted from the last ordeal, still quivers as I try to find the strength to move. It’s so difficult, the waters of sleep still tugging at me even as instinct tells me there’s something in the darkness.
A soft shuffle of feet on the carpet, and I can sense him. He’s here, watching me, invisible, but his aura reaches out, awakening my body like a warm featherlight touch on the pleasure centers of my brain.
Arousal ripples up my thighs, fresh heat shimmering with the memories of last time. I’ve never felt anything like him before, my body used and taken, battered and driven insane . . . and completely, thoroughly pleasured in a way that I didn’t think possible.
It was so much that I don’t even remember coming down, just an explosion of ecstasy that drove me into unconsciousness . . . but now my senses have returned and I know he’s still there, measuring me, hunting me, desiring me.
How can he have strength left? How, when every muscle from my neck to my toes has already been taken past the limit?
How can he still want more?
My nostrils flare, and I can smell him. Rich, masculine . . . feral. A man’s man who could tear me apart without a second’s effort. His breath, soft but shuddering, sipping at the air, savoring the conquest to come.
Another whisper in the darkness, and the fear melts away, replaced by a heightened sense of things.
The moonlight, dim now in the post-midnight morning, when the night’s as deep as it will ever be.
The sweat on my skin and the fresh moisture gathering at the juncture between my thighs.
He steps forward, still cloaked in shadow, a shape from the depths of night, ready for a new kind of embrace.
He reaches for my calf, and at his touch, I start to tremble. I should resist, I should say I can’t take any more. He’s already had his fill. What more can he want?
He inhales, his nose taking in my scent, and the knowledge comes to me, a revelation that I’ve chosen to ignore.
He wants me to be his. Not just his bedmate, not simply a conquest to have and to discard. He wants to possess me fully, to own me, body and soul.
But can I?
Can I give myself to such a man, a being whose very presence inspires fear and dread?
Can I risk the fury that I’ve seen directed at others turned back upon me?
His tongue flicks out, touching that spot he’s discovered behind my right knee that I wasn’t even aware of before him, my left leg falling aside on its own as my hunger betrays me.
My mind is troubled, my heart races . . . but my body knows what it wants.
He chuckles, a rumble that tickles my soft inner thighs as he pauses, his breath warm over my pussy. He scoops his hands under my buttocks, and I feel him adjust himself on the mattress, preparing for his feast.
“Delicious,” he growls, and then his tongue touches me . . . and I’m gone.
Mia
The electronic drumbeats thud through the air so hard that I can actually feel my chest vibrate as I look at my screen, my head bobbing as I let the pattern come to me.
I’ve had a lot of people ask me how I can work the way I do, but this is when the magic happens. I’ve got three computer screens, each of them split into halves with data flowing in each one. I’m finishing up my evaluations, I’ve done the grind, and now I’m bringing it all together.
For that, though, I need tunes, and nothing gets my brain working on the right frequency as well as good techno does.
I can hear the door to my office vibrate in its frame, and I’m glad I’ve got my own little paradise down here in the basement of the Goldstone Building.
Sure, my methods are weird, and I’m sort of isolated considering that I’m in a corner office with two file rooms on either side of me, but that’s because I need this to make the magic happen.
Frankly, I wasn’t too sure if I’d be able to keep this job, considering the number of complaints I got my first six months working here.
Part of it, of course, is my occasional outbursts—to myself, mind you, and more often than not in gutter Russian so no one can understand me.
That, with the random singing along with my tunes, meant I was labeled as ‘distracting’ and ‘difficult to work next to.’
But the powers that be saw the value that I bring with my data analysis.
So, as an experimental last gasp, I was sent down here, where the walls are thick, the neighbors are paper, and nobody minds that my singing voice is terrible.
It works for them, but more importantly, it works for me.
And here I’ve remained for almost six years, working metadata analysis and market trends, making people with money even more money.
Not that the company’s treated me poorly. I’ve gotten a bonus for seven quarters straight, and I’ve always managed my own investments.
For a girl who still has a few years until she hits thirty, I’m doing well on the ol’ nest egg.
But I’m pigeonholed. Other than dropping off files from time to time, I almost never see anyone in my day to day work, which I guess is okay with me. I’ve never been someone who likes the social scene of an office.
On the other hand, I can wear my pink and blue streaks in my hair and not have to see people’s judging glares. And I don’t have to explain what my lyrics mean when I decide to sing along.
“Another one for the Motherland!” I exclaim as I see what I’ve been looking for. This isn’t a hard assignment, merely an optimization analysis for some of Goldstone’s transport subsidiaries. But I prefer to celebrate each victory, no matter how small or large, with glee.
I swipe all the data to my side monitors and bring up a document in the center and start typing. I’ve already included most of the boilerplate that the executives and VPs want to see, the ‘check the box’ sort of things that my father would understand with his background.
After all, he is Russian. He knows about bureaucracy.
Finally, just as the Elf Clock above my door dings noon, I save my file and fire it off to my supervisor.
“In Russia . . . report finishes you.”
Okay, so it’s not my best one-liner, but it’s another quirk of mine. While I’m as American as apple pie, I pay homage to my roots, especially at work, for some reason. It seems to help, so I’m sticking to it.
Heading to the elevator, I go upstairs before punching out for lunch and jumping into my little Chevy to drive to my ‘spot’, a diner called The Gravy Train. An honest to goodness old-fashioned diner, it’s got some of the best food in town, including a fried chicken sandwich that’s to kill for.
As I drive, I look around my hometown, still surprised at how big it seems these days. The main reason, of course, is tied to the dark tower on the north side of town, Blackwell Industries.
Thirty years ago, Mr. Blackwell located his headquarters here in the sleepy town of Roseboro and proclaimed it to be the bridge between Portland and Seattle. A lot of people scoffed, but he was right, and Roseboro’s been the beneficiary of his foresight.
I’ve been lucky, watching a city literally grow with me. Roseboro is big enough now that some people even call this a Tri-Cities area, lumping us in with Portland and Seattle.
I get to The Gravy Train just in time to see the other reason that I come to this place so frequently for lunch wave from the window. Isabella “Izzy” Turner has been my best friend since first grade, and I love her like she’s my own flesh and blood.
As I e
nter, I see her untie the apron on her uniform and slump down into one of the booths. Her normally rich brown hair looks limp and stringy today, and the bags under her eyes are so big she could be carrying her after work clothes in them.
“Hey, babe, you look exhausted,” I say in greeting, giving her a hug from the side as I slide in next to her. “Please don’t tell me you’re still working double shifts?”
“Have to,” Izzy says as she leans into me and hugs back. “Gotta keep the bills paid, and doing double shifts gives me a chance to maybe get a little ahead. I’ll need it once classes start up again.”
“You know you don’t have to,” I tell her for the millionth time. “You can take out student loans like the rest of us.”
“I’d rather not if I don’t have to. I owe enough to other people as it is.”
She’s got a point. She’s had a tough life and has seen tragedy that left more and more debt on her tab, and student loans are tough enough without all the other stuff in her life.
And even though she always turns me down, I have to offer once again, just on the off-chance she’ll say yes this time. “Still, if you need anything . . . I mean, I’ve said it before, but you can always come live with me. I’ve got room at my place.”
Izzy snorts, finally cracking a smile. “You mean you want someone to stay up with you until two in the morning on weekends playing video games.”
Before I can elbow her in the side, the bell above the door rings and in walks the third member of our little party patrol, Charlotte Dunn. A stunning girl who turns heads everywhere she goes with her long, naturally bright and beautiful red hair, she slides into the booth opposite Izzy and me, looking exhausted herself.
She settles in, sighing heavily, and Izzy looks over at her. “Tough morning for you too?”
“I think walking in the back and sticking my head in a vat of hot oil might just be preferable to working reception on the ground floor of Satan’s Skyscraper,” she jokes. “It’s not like anything bad happened either.”
Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Page 31