Fall

by Callihan, Kristen

  Somehow, I know—I know he’s thinking about all those times he jacked off imagining this moment. My body clenches at the thought, and he feels it. His eyes snap open, brilliant green and intense. I spread my thighs wider. His eyes narrow with determination, and he pushes in.

  He makes me feel every inch, going slow and steady. He pushes until he bottoms out and holds himself there, moving his hips in a slow circle, just enough to make me moan.

  “I’m yours,” I say, a bit mindless. “Yours.”

  John grips tight to my hips. “I know.” Then he begins.

  And I lose my damn mind altogether.

  * * *

  John

  She’s laid out over me like a buffet. I want to eat every delicious inch. But right now, I can only fuck her—watch my dick move in and out of her slick, pink clasp with a sense of absolute wonder. She feels so damn good, my heart pounds so damn hard, I can’t catch my breath. All I can do is thrust and retreat and thrust, pound into her like a madman.

  Need is an animal clawing within me, demanding harder, deeper, more. Just fucking more.

  Sweat slicks my skin, runs down my spine. My ass clenches with each thrust. I feel the tightness in my muscles, the hot burn of exertion. My dick is so swollen, so hard, it’s taken over all thought.

  Stella moans, her head tilted to the side, her lips parted and her eyes closed like she needs to concentrate on each touch. But that won’t do. I need her eyes. Need those dark blue eyes looking into mine so I can see a little more of her soul.

  My hands slide up her sweaty back and grasp hold of her shoulders. Red-gold hair tumbles and swirls around her face as I haul her into my lap, have her straddle me as I fuck into her sweet little pussy. Her expression is hot and dazed, but she wraps her arms around my shoulders, pressing her tits into my chest, and moves with me, snapping her hips, meeting each thrust.

  She’s so damn sexy, completely carnal in the way she looks at me from under lowered lids, in the way she captures my lips and eats at my mouth as though all this fucking has her starving. I’ve never had sex like this before—the give and take. We’re communicating here. Earlier, every touch was tempered with tenderness. Now, it’s hard need. I want to get under her skin, push into her heart.

  She told me she was mine. She has to know I’m hers too. She fucking owns me now.

  Stella’s fingers tangle in my hair, the grip bringing a bite of pain that spurs me on.

  “So good,” she pants into my mouth. “So good.”

  I kiss the damp curve of her neck, suckle the soft skin where her scent is the strongest. With a grunt, I tumble her back onto the bed and come down on top of her. Stella wraps her legs around my waist. When I grip her thigh and lift it higher, she moans and wiggles closer.

  “Tell me,” I say, slowly fucking her into the bed. “Tell me what gets you off.”

  Her eyes lock onto me. I see the surprise in them, like she’s never been asked. Truth is, I’ve never bothered asking either. Selfish. Not with her. Never with her.

  I want to learn Stella, turn her world inside out and upside down.

  “My tits,” she blurts out, panting and flushed. “Suck my tits and … oh, God. Do that again. That move …” She groans deeply and pushes up into me. “Again.”

  “What?” My lips wobble on a smile, because I’m going to lose it soon. “This?” I thrust, tilting up at the last second.

  She mewls. Like a horny kitten. Damn, I like that sound. I love that sound.

  “Yes,” she says. “Yes. More.”

  Yes, ma’am.

  I’m taller than Stella. We don’t line up eye to eye. It isn’t easy keeping my rhythm, moving my ass the exact way she likes while finding a way to suck her swaying tit. But I am a man determined, and the sweet sounds she makes, the way she tenses and clutches me is so fucking worth it. Her pleasure increases mine.

  I live there, in her world of pleasure and need, in that hot, sweaty place of skin moving against skin, her body gripping mine. Every move feels like heaven, yet not quite enough. I never want to leave here.

  When she begins to come, her tight clasp milking my dick in rhythmic pulls, it’s the biggest high I’ve ever experienced. I work her through it, revel in the way she arches against me, digs her heels into the bed as her orgasm rolls over her. Flushed, sweaty, grunting, and totally uninhibited, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  “John,” she says, blinking up at me, wild-eyed.

  The first time anyone has ever said my real name during sex. And it’s Stella calling out to me. I don’t know why, but it slices me open on an emotional level I never knew I had. My throat closes up, the air pulling into my lungs burning.

  I don’t know if what I’m feeling can even be called pleasure; it hurts too much. I’m pulled too tight, my skin stretched too thin. But damn if I don’t want to plunge right into it. So I do, thrusting mindlessly, reaching, reaching. Stella is all around me, warm skin, rich curves, her hands on my ass, her pussy slick and so damn tight.

  I meet her blue eyes and call out—God knows what. Sound tears from my throat, but I don’t hear it past my pounding ears. I look at Stella and fall into the abyss.

  I.

  Am.

  Wrecked.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Stella

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Rye pops a piece of dragon roll into his mouth and gives John a smug grin as he chews. “Look at you, all calf-eyed and fawning.”

  John snorts. “Make up your mind. Am I a calf or a fawn?”

  “Both.”

  John shoots me a glance, makes a face at Rye. We’re snuggled up in a corner of a massive, private booth, eating dinner with his friends. A large, cream velvet curtain blocks us off from the rest of the restaurant, and I’m surprisingly grateful.

  When three-fourths of Kill John decides to go out on the town en masse, people follow. Cameras follow.

  I’ve attended red-carpet events. One year, I was even been lucky enough to go to the Met Gala; I wore a black, off-the-rack sheath and gratefully blended into the background to dress watch. But in all those instances, I was working as a hired companion. My attention had focused on soothing my nervous client, stepping in to engage in small talk when someone got tongue-tied, making a running commentary to entertain. I enjoyed myself, but it was still work.

  Going out with John as his date while cameras flash and people gawk is entirely different. I find myself feeling territorial, protective. I don’t like the idea of people watching and speculating over him.

  John getting shit from his friends, however, is another matter. They constantly tease each other, but there is a closeness I love to watch and want to be a part of. I don’t yet feel like I’m one of them—maybe I never truly will be. But I’m good at faking it until I’m actually there.

  I nudge him with my shoulder before reaching out to snag a slice of salmon sashimi with my chopsticks. “Feel free to defend yourself at will. Tell him about the awesome sex.”

  This isn’t an exaggeration. Sex with John is feasting after a famine. I’m insatiable.

  We’ve been together for three weeks now. Three weeks of being unable to keep our hands off each other for more than a few hours at a time. So much sex that, frankly, I am sore in places I’ve never thought about before. And yet, leaning up against the warmth of his arm, just touching the hard swell of his thigh, has me all twitchy and wanting to lure him into a storage closet to have my way with him.

  I’m faintly flushed and light-headed with lust as he grins wide and evilly. “You are the best girlfriend ever.”

  Girlfriend. The word, so easily uttered, lands like a dart on my tender heart. Which is just silly. It’s only a term, but it feels momentous—it feels like acceptance, safety.

  I don’t know what John sees in my expression, but he gives me a big, wet kiss on my cheek, teasing and bolstering me all at once. He steals the last piece of dragon roll out from under Rye. “The thing is, Stells,” he says over Rye’
s squawk of protest, “I know where all the bodies are buried. So Rye here really doesn’t want to mess with me.”

  Rye blows a raspberry. “I’m so scared. Besides, I know where your skeleton closet is too.”

  “You think I won’t show Stella?” John retorts with a smug grin. “Hell, I’m giving her a key.”

  This surprises me for all of two seconds; then I realize John has never truly tried to hide his flaws from me. He’s pushed them in my face, almost daring me to run away. I might find that insulting except, in my own bumbling way, I’ve been daring him to do the same. Except it’s not because I want him to go, but to stay.

  “Fair warning,” John says to me with mock seriousness. “It’s kind of dusty in there. I haven’t put anything in it for a while and I’m not one for cleaning.”

  “Ah, and me with my dust allergies.” I give a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for who you are.”

  John plants another sloppy, laughing kiss on my lips. Rye makes a gagging noise.

  “I think they’re adorable,” Sophie announces to the table. She’s sitting on my other side, a massive Mai Tai in front of her that she’s been drinking with the enthusiasm of a mom enjoying a rare baby-free night out.

  “Of course you do,” Rye says with a snort. “You think Scottie is adorable.”

  Scottie lifts a thick brow. “I am adorable.”

  No one can keep a straight face at that. Sophie’s nose wrinkles happily. “He really is,” she tells me. “You should see him when he’s watching Buffy. He wears the cutest Spike T-shirt—”

  “Darling,” Scottie cuts in. His thick brows are now lowered over narrowed, icy eyes. And I’m guessing that’s his zip your lips or suffer the consequences look. Sophie simply blows him a kiss.

  “I, for one, am an open book,” Whip states, leaning back to rest his arms along the sides of the booth.

  At his side is Scottie’s assistant, Jules, who rolls her hazel eyes. “More like a porno mag.”

  Like me, Jules has a scattering of freckles over her cheeks, but they seem contained to that spot. The rest of her skin appears to be a smooth, freckle-free expanse of sandy brown. I might have been envious of that before, but earlier, John made it his mission to lick all my freckles with slow, lingering strokes, and I’ve come to appreciate that I have them everywhere.

  Whip smirks at Jules. “Ah, now, we all know that’s not true anymore. I’m all about self-love these days.” He reaches out and tugs one of the tightly coiled, lavender-colored locks that spray around her pretty face.

  Jules swats his hand away and gives him a cool look. “Let me spell this out in simple terms so you’ll understand: do not touch my hair or you will lose a finger.” She sniffs in clear disgust. “Especially since you’ve gone and declared your hand-job habits.”

  “Hey! I wash.”

  “William,” Scottie deadpans, “Jules is the best assistant I have managed to keep. Do not drive her away by sharing your personal proclivities.”

  “She’s the only assistant you’ve managed to keep,” Whip grumps. “Everyone else runs off crying.”

  “This is true.” Brenna waves her chopsticks at Scottie. “If anyone is to blame for scaring employees, it’s Mr. Perfect Pants here.”

  “I don’t scare easily,” Jules adds, but I don’t think anyone else is listening.

  “I make no apologies for owning perfect pants. Or suits, for that matter.”

  “He had a baby-barf stain on his lapel the other day,” John stage-whispers in my ear. “Very unseemly.”

  Scottie’s eyes narrow on him. “Quiet, you.”

  Whip scowls at Scottie. “And what’s all this proclivities nonsense? Since when did beating the meat or rubbing the bean become a deviant activity?”

  “Beating the meat.” John snickers into his beer.

  “Got a better one,” Whip counters with a brow waggle.

  “Wanking the willy?”

  “Charming the snake,” Sophie offers.

  “Polishing the pearl,” Jules says.

  “Tickling my treat,” Brenna adds.

  “I’m becoming uncomfortably aroused,” Rye grumbles, which makes Brenna flush bright pink and hide her face behind the rim of her martini glass.

  Scottie throws up his hands. “You all are pigs. Might we, just once, have a conversation about something normal, such as the unchecked state of our city’s potholes or, I don’t know, perhaps the stock market?”

  The guys look at him as though he’s suggested they put on medieval garb and pillage local villages, but then Rye rubs the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I hear beans are down a quarter.”

  “Blue beans?” Whip asks solemnly.

  Rye grins wide. “You know it.”

  They high-five each other, and Scottie makes a noise of disgust.

  “Oh, step off your pedestal, Scottie,” Whip protests, laughing lightly. “Everyone does the five-knuckle chuckle.” He looks around the table, his vivid blue eyes imploring. “Anyone going to deny it?”

  It’s clear everyone here does indeed enjoy alone time, but no one says anything, leaving Whip to hang in the wind. And though I’m now completely on the Team John train, Whip’s exasperation is adorable.

  I lean toward him. “I do it. All the time. Canoodle my kitty, I mean.”

  There’s a beat of intense silence where the background noise of the restaurant swells to the fore, and all eyes are on me.

  Then John bursts out with a short, happy laugh. “Oh God, you are perfect.” He cups my cheek and gives me a swift but softly melting kiss, his lips smiling as he pulls away. “Don’t ever change.”

  I’m leaning into him, ready to climb onto his lap right here in front of his friends. My fingertips press into the firm muscle on his chest. “Keep kissing me like that and you have a deal.”

  The glint in John’s eyes tells me we’re about five minutes from calling for the check and heading out. Soreness be damned; he can ice my boo-boos.

  “Are you sure you’re settled on Jax?” Whip asks, breaking into our little bubble. “Clearly you and I are both fans of the one-hand band, not to mention I’m hotter and way more talented than this guy.”

  John flips him off. “In your dreams. And from now on, keep your hands where we can see them, dude.”

  “Amen to that,” Jules says.

  Laughing with them, a warm glow of pure happiness flows through me. Happiness and contentment. I’ve never experienced it this way. I almost don’t know what to do with it. Maybe that’s why fate chose this moment to topple me.

  A man slips into the space, somehow evading the guard outside. No one else seems to notice, but I do, and my entire world slows to a crawl. I know this man. I’ve dreamed about him, held conversations with him in my mind, waited for so long to have just one word of acknowledgment that my inner child fears he’s a mirage. Hardened and grown up me hopes he is.

  Aside from being older, with a full beard instead of clean-shaven, he appears just the same. Wiry, hardened, faded red hair and cold blue eyes. He looks right at me, without remorse or hesitation, like it’s been a few minutes instead of years. It’s that cocksure attitude that kicks me right in the chest and has me sucking in a sharp gasp.

  At my side, John turns to see what’s upset me. I feel him jerk.

  “Shit,” he utters under his breath.

  Across from us, Rye swivels and goes pale. “Ah, hell.”

  Their words slowly sink through my numbness. Do they think a fan has broken in?

  But then I’m rising, pushing past Brenna who sits at the end of the booth. My head throbs as I walk toward him.

  My dad grins and opens his arms wide. “Stella, my darling.”

  I’m one big pulse of pain, and I flinch away, wrapping my arms around myself. My back collides with something hard and warm. John. His hand settles on my shoulder and grips tight.

  Dad slows, his smile in a tight holding pattern.

  Vaguely, I’m aware of security hustling over,
everyone looking on, and of John holding up a hand to warn them off. They stand down but don’t leave. And the whole time, I stare at my dad, stuck in this nightmare. Because other thoughts start filtering in. He’s here—where the band is, which means he knows exactly who I am with.

  The truth falls like an anvil: he’s here for money, not me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Stella

  My dad is here. My dad. I can’t believe it. Years and years, I’ve tried to come up with the perfect thing to say to him, the exact way I’d react. The scenarios have varied; sometimes I scream at him, sometimes I cry. During a needy and emotional phase in my life, I’d imagined hugging him and begging him not to leave me again.

  Now that he’s actually here, all I can do is sit in numb silence in the back of John’s massive SUV. How we got here is a haze. I know John ushered me and my dad right out of the restaurant. I know I went along, my ears ringing so loudly, I couldn’t hear a thing anyone said.

  Now I’m in this car, John sitting in the middle, literally putting a physical block between me and my father. A nice thought, but it doesn’t work.

  Dad leans forward. “So—”

  “Not one word,” I cut in sharply. “Don’t you say one word to me until we get …” Fuck, where are we even going?

  “To my place,” John says for me. His voice is hard, tension riding along his thigh as tight as my own. It comforts me that he’s upset on my behalf, but I still feel disoriented and sick.

  “Fair enough,” Dad says with a shrug, like all of this is no big deal.

  A tremor works through me, and John leans into my shoulder. He doesn’t move to hold my hand, and I appreciate that he isn’t giving my dad anything to make note of. It’s a nice gesture, but Dear Old Dad will have already sniffed out my weaknesses, and John’s, within the first few seconds of seeing us together.