by Lulu Wright
She laughs, but it quickly turns to moans as I get down to business. I work that sexy pussy like it’s my job. We’ve been together for months now, so I’ve committed what pleased her to memory and really know how to get on that sweet little clit.
“There’s nothing better than the taste of your pussy.”
As she moans in delight, her body rolls in a spasm, and I get harder than ever at the sight. I fucking love watching her like this, knowing I’m in control of her orgasm, that I can send her to heights of uncontrollable pleasure. I grab her around the waist and work that tongue into her until she’s about to get off, right at the peak. Then, teasing, I pull away. She gasps in protest at first, but only until she sees how hard I am.
Now it’s cock time, which is perfect because it really doesn’t get much harder than this. “Take off your sunglasses, baby. I want to see your face.” She smiles and her Armani shades drop to the sand. She’s watching my cock with pure delight and hunger.
Keeping her pussy lips spread with my fingers, I watch her face as I slide my dick inside her tight little box. There’s nothing quite like that first penetration face she makes. Oh, that sweet naughty smile. She moans and wraps her arms around my neck as I move inside her. “You like that, baby?”
Her answer is a delicious gasp. “Harder.”
Before now, I had never fucked on a beach chair. It took a little practice to get used to the rickety thing. You have to know how to balance your body, where to put your feet so they don’t slip through the vinyl blades. But I got this. I know what I’m doing. I position my body on top of her and grind as I knead her breasts and kiss her mouth.
“I love you, baby,” I gasp as I thrust inside her.
She touches my face. “I love you too.”
We finish, both of us moaning our orgasms at the top of our lungs, but who cares when there’s no one around for miles to hear us. I collapse in a worn-out heap on top of her as we finish. She wraps her arms and her legs around me and we just breathe and hold each other.
Nah, I was wrong, completely wrong. The beach isn’t paradise. This is. Fucking her is all the paradise I need.
“Did you know,” she whispers in my ear. She’s dancing her fingers across my back and I just know my dick is going to grow hard again soon. “That was one of my fantasies?”
I raise my head. “What do you mean?”
She sighs and runs her fingers through my hair. “My go-to fantasy was always lying on a beach naked…”
I smile. “We got that covered.”
“And then this hot faceless guy would emerge from the waves and fuck me right there on the beach.”
I remove some loose strands of hair from her cheek. “Faceless?” I peer down at her. I think my tone sounds a little hurt and I wonder if I’m pouting like a chump. She spots this and touches my cheek with the back of her hand softly, then kisses me.
“Turns out it was you,” she whispers. “It was always you.”
“Funny,” I say, wrapping my arms around her tight. “I had a similar fantasy. And it was always you, too.”
THE END
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Friction by Emily Snow
Check out the first chapter of Friction by Emily Snow. Available on Amazon now and free on KU!
Chapter One
“I’m playing bingo with Cynthia and Dean this afternoon. Did you … do you want to come with us? Just so you won’t have to be alone. I hate the thought of you being alone, Lucy.”
My mother’s voice, rising over Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga’s version of “The Lady is a Tramp” blasting from the counter-top CD player, sends a wave of shame through me as I stumble into the kitchen. Early mornings are supposed to be simple. Pee, two or three cups of coffee, repeat. Instead, I’m already being reminded that, at twenty-seven, I am A) living with my mother and B) alone.
Crossing my arms over my chest so she won’t complain about my lack of a bra, I face her. She’s primly seated at the same glass kitchen table my dad assembled—cursing the entire time—during Thanksgiving break my freshman year of college. Gripping her coffee mug in one hand, she leafs through the newspaper with the other. I’m not surprised that, despite the absence of an actual sunrise, she’s already fully dressed for the day, her black bob neatly combed and her make-up subtle, immaculate.
I yawn into my upper arm. “Good morning to you, too.”
She takes in the sight of me, from my bare feet and oversized tee shirt to my tangled mop of jet-black hair, and her brown eyes narrow. I frown right back.
“So … bingo?” When I shake my head, she sags her shoulders and sighs. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“I know you are, and I appreciate that.” Turning, I open the cupboard and grab the first giant mug I find, the one I bought when we visited her family in Da Nang the summer after my father passed away. I take the chair across from her and draw my knees up to my chest, stretching my shirt over my legs. “But I promise I’m fine. And if I don’t seem fine … well, that’s because you start the morning playing Tony and Gaga.”
While Mom goes on about how amazing Gaga and Tony are, I pretend to be interested in my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table overnight. One glance at my new messages, though, and I regret checking. I have three new texts and they’re all from Tom. My blood pressure spikes a little more with each word I read.
11:19 PM: I won’t sue if you drop the stubborn act. Your career means EVERYTHING to you, and we need you here with us.
11:21 PM: You’re living in your mother’s house like a child, and I know you. This isn’t your idea of fun.
11:21 PM: Luce, I know you’re getting my messages.
God, I want to punch him in his perfect face for starting my day with this sort of bullshit. It takes an outrageous amount of effort not to slam the phone down on its screen, but it’s new. And I can’t afford another. I gently place it beside my coffee and force a smile at my mother.
She takes the change in my expression as a sign of encouragement, because she leans in tentatively and says, “Getting out might be good for you.”
I can think of a million and one things that might be good for me:
A cocktail with a double shot, maybe even a triple.
At least one night where I sleep a full eight hours because I’m not worried about what happens next or stressed because my former boss is an asshole who’s screwing me over.
Sex.
All three, and not in any special order. At this point, I’m not picky. I’ll take what I can get without much fuss.
“I actually have other plans this afternoon,” I inform Mom a little too cheerfully, trying my damnedest not to think about the messages I’ve yet to respond to. I don’t even know if I can respond—not without telling Tom to go screw himself. “I have an interview in Boston with a place called EXtreme Effects. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back, and I’d hate for you to hang around waiting for me.”
I’ve chanted the magic word, interview, because she scoots her chair closer to mine. Placing her elbows on the table, she cradles her chin in her hands. “Did that employment agency from last week make a match already?”
“No, I found them myself—through an ad on Craigslist.”
Her grin rapidly diminishes, and I feel heat creeping into my cheeks as she taps her fingertips against her temples and pinches her lips into a tight line. “Craigslist … okay.”
I should have known this was coming, the blatant disapproval. It’s why I wasn’t going to bring up the interview, especially since I haven’t been able to find anything about EXtreme Effects other than that the company specializes in welding and other metal works—and I had researched for hours. I had almost messaged Daisy, the woman who contacted me via email, to decline the interview request because the lack of information immediately sounded alarms in my head.
Of course, the moment I lo
oked at my bank balance, I reconsidered sending that message.
Beggars can’t be choosers and since this entire conversation started because my mother’s inviting me to play bingo with her friends…
Stiffening my posture, I give her a pointed look. “It’s a job, not a search for a casual encounter. Besides, didn’t that thing in the living room come from a Craigslist ad?” I point at the 70-inch monstrosity mounted on the wall just outside the kitchen. My mother loves her TV shows just as much as she hates paying exorbitant prices, so naturally, she sprung for a used flat screen.
“That’s different,” she argues. “It’s a television set. What you’re talking about is dangerous.”
“Firms aren’t lining up to hire me, Mom. The least I can do is go to the interview; it can’t hurt.”
What does hurt is saying those words out loud.
Despite everything, I moved home still sure of myself, sure that everything would be okay, sure that I would snag a new job in record time. Instead, I’ve heard the same thing repeatedly, meeting after meeting:
Overqualified.
Maybe I am, but I also know the real reason I haven’t been hired yet and it has nothing to do with too many credentials. I walked out on a two-year contract with my last employer. And the employer in question—whose newest text messages have already nudged beneath my skin before eight AM—is job-blocking me at every turn.
Mom’s chair scraping against the tile floor draws my focus from Tom and back across the table. She works to coax her frown into a reassuring smile as she stands and grabs her mug from the placemat. “If those firms have any brains, they’ll call you,” she says, walking over to the dishwasher.
“I’m not holding my breath.”
“Make sure you take your pepper spray to that interview.” When I start to argue, she holds up one finger, reminding me of the arguments we had when I was still a child. No matter what, Susie Williams is always right. “You found them on Craigslist, Lucinda. Take the damn pepper spray.”
Drawing in a breath, I promise her I will and leave the table to search moving boxes for my lucky nude pumps. I wore them the day I was promoted to Senior Marketing Director at WLC—a year before I let Tom talk me into working for him at Java-Org. Today, I need all the luck I can get because the bastard’s right about one thing:
It’s not fun having my life so far off-track.
It’s just over an hour drive from the bungalow I share with my mother in Worcester to EXtreme Effects in East Boston, so I leave two hours early. I’m still flustered by the texts Tom sent—and I’ll likely spend the rest of the day on edge because hearing from him has such a crushing effect on my psyche—but I concentrate on what I can control. Like I told Mom, the firms I’ve applied at so far haven’t been beating down my door, and I need this interview to go off without a hitch.
Desperately.
The GPS announces that I’ve arrived at my destination, and I pull my Jeep up to the curb, twisting around in my seat to get a better look at the building as I put my car into park. My lips drag into a deep frown. Compared to WLC’s ten-story building in downtown San Francisco or the chic South of Market office space Tom and his business partner leased for Java-Org, the tan structure before me looks more like an oversized garage. Knowing my luck, the person interviewing me will probably have a dip-chewing obsession and coveralls that haven’t been changed in the last week.
The moment that thought crosses my mind, my scalp prickles with shame. I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms before shoving my hair away from warm cheeks. “Don’t be an elitist bitch,” I tell myself harshly. “Don’t you dare be that way.”
As I approach the building with my purse and portfolio in hand, the first waves of nausea slam into the pit of my stomach. I’m good at what I do, but I’ve always struggled with getting my foot in the door. I had stressed about my college admission interviews so much my easy-going father confiscated my laptop and copy of Selling Your Skill Set for Dummies just to force me to relax. Dad’s advice before my appointment at Brown, and even when I called him freaking out over the WLC position the year before he died, is still fresh in my mind.
Kick some ass, Lucinda Jane.
Clutching my pepper spray keychain in one hand, I step out of the early January chill and into the warm confines of the company I found on Craigslist. The one I know absolutely nothing about because they have zero web presence, and I only applied to because the sixty thousand dollars a year salary was music to my broke ears.
The part of the building I’m standing in is small—a ten by ten space with filing cabinets lining one side of the wall and a few chairs against the other. A leggy brunette sits in the seat closest to the blue steel door on the far side of the room, flipping through her own portfolio and occasionally sneaking glances at the intricately designed metal clock on the receptionist’s desk.
I confidently approach the desk, and the heavily tattooed woman behind it lifts a pair of startling light green eyes from the screen of her tablet. “Let me guess, Client.” She rolls her chair backward a few inches, and I try not to stare at her t-shirt that says Fucking Classy. After a few seconds, I open my mouth to correct her, but then she shakes her head and muses, “Ahh, interview.”
God, I hope I wasn’t ogling her shirt too hard.
“Yes, I’m Lucy Williams-Duncan. I was contacted by Daisy about coming in at two for the marketing position.”
“I’m Daisy.” Her lips quirk, and she scratches a stylus through her platinum pixie cut as she skims her gaze over my golden yellow peplum dress. “And you, Sunshine, are early.”
“A bad habit.”
“One I should probably pick up before Mr. E has me sending out invites to fill my own job.” She points to the two empty chairs next to the brunette. “There’s a one-thirty before you, so it might be awhile.”
Before I leave her desk, I tap my fingertip against the face of the clock, shivering at the hard, cold texture. “This is beautiful.”
She beams. “We made that here.”
Slightly more at ease, I drop my keys into the side pocket of my purse before leaning down to examine the clock more closely. “Ahh, so you design clocks?” I’m already imagining all the aspects of selling pieces like this, and I’m an eighth of the way into a detailed marketing plan when Daisy clears her throat. She blinks up at me.
Several times.
“Yeah … clocks.” Her lips part, but then she crinkles her small nose and drums her stylus against the quote tattooed on the side of her neck. “Among other fun things. Go ahead and have a seat, I’ll let you know when he’s ready to speak with you.”
While I wait to meet the elusive Mr. E, I review my documents. I’m in the middle of rereading my recommendation letter from the internship I completed before I graduated with my MBA from Stanford, when Daisy sings out my name in a clear alto. I peer up from my portfolio to find her grinning broadly.
“The other chick’s interview ended early, so he’s ready to brighten your day with his … sunny awesomeness.”
I can’t tell if she’s being serious, so I simply nod. Holding my leather binder to my chest, I brush my other hand down the front of my yellow dress, smoothing the wrinkles out of the woven fabric. “Thanks, should I—”
She points over her shoulder, to the blue door behind her desk. “Go through there and take a left. He’s in the office at the end of the walkway. And watch out for metal on the floor. It’s a mess back there!”
Thankfully, the metal disaster seems to be contained in the workshop on the other side of the walkway, where two men in welding masks are working, the sound of The Weeknd’s “The Hills” booming from an overhead sound system as sparks fly around them. I reach E’s door and draw in a sharp breath to calm my nerves before I knock softly. Although it’s already half-open, Mom got on my case so many times about bursting into rooms unannounced when I was a child that knocking first is a habit now.
“Come in, Ms. Duncan.”
My toes curl
inside of my lucky pumps. That voice, with its long vowels and clipped consonants, is just a bit breathtaking. I’ve always been a big fan of accents. I grew up with a Vietnamese mother and a father from Mississippi, and the voice on the other side of that door deeply satisfies my auditory fixation. It’s Americanized, that’s for sure, but there’s a British undertone there.
I wonder if the face and body attached to a voice like that does it justice.
“Miss Duncan?” he repeats, sounding a touch irritated. “You’re wasting your time and mine just standing out there.”
I square my shoulders and press forward.
And my heart immediately slams into my throat.
The man behind the metal desk is looking at his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed and his lips worked into a concentrated frown. I can only see him from the waist up, but I quickly hate my body’s reaction to the blue flannel shirt shoved up to his elbows and the unruly chocolate brown hair and stubble.
“Give me just a second, I’m going to—” Lifting blue eyes from the screen, his deep voice catches. He stares at me for an awkward pause, stunned. Rubbing long fingers tattooed with Roman numerals over his chin, he inclines his head to one side. I hold my breath, praying and hoping and wishing for a miracle that’s clearly not going to happen because his scowl transforms into a grin.
He knows me.
He remembers me, and my heart sinks from my windpipe, inch by inch, as I realize another interview has just bit the dust.
Here’s the thing about most overachievers, even those who’ve fallen from their high perch: they all have that one person. The one who made their high school existence a little more stressful. That one person who was, despite his constant asshole-isms, the object of her secret fantasies. That one person who was the opposite of everything she aspired to become because he gave zero shits.
I was twelve the first time I laid eyes on my person.
It’s sad that I remember the moment clearly, but in my defense, he came to our class toward the end of the school year, and I’d just celebrated my birthday three days before his late May arrival. We had the same homeroom teacher, Mr. Collins who taught Social Science, and as they talked at the front of the classroom, I was entranced by his soft, chopped accent and the way he combed one hand through his dark hair.