I start fucking her a little faster, keeping the same motion and she shudders and whimpers at the thrust of my cock. I speed up even more and she arches her back, poking her chest out, her whole body tensing as she cries to me.
“I’m coming!” she shouts. “Fuck, Liam! I’m coming! I’m squirting!”
Music to my fucking ears. I pound into her relentlessly until her cum is sprayed all over the entire lower half of my body and her side of the mattress has a pool of cum on it as well.
Her breathing is shallow and frequent as she tries to catch her breath, recovering from her intense climax. I feel myself getting close too.
My body grows warm and my cock is throbbing and aching, ready for release. I look down at those perky breasts with rock hard nipples, that glistening skin, and most importantly, that satisfied, sexy look on Claire’s face and I let myself go.
I pull out of her quickly and turn her leg back so I’m between her thighs, and as I come, it lands right in the center of her body.
I stroke my cock tight and hard, until every bit of cum shoots out of it. I look at Claire and see that my cum has reached a hell of a range in her body. There’s traces of it on her face, in her cleavage, on her belly button, and on her pretty little pussy.
She smiles as I come down from my high and starts scooping up the cum from each part of her body and licks it from her fingers. She doesn’t stop until she’s licked every drop.
I sigh heavily, a bit fatigued from all the fun. I climb into the bed and lay down next to Claire. I lay out my arm and she snuggles up to me, nestled in the crook of my arm and her head just resting against my chest.
“So, I get that the lingerie looks better on the floor, but I really like how it looks on me too,” she says to me.
“It looks spectacular on you. And you have virtually an endless supply of it, sweetheart,” I return. “Feel free to wear it all the time if you’d like!”
She nestles in further and brings her arm over my torso.
“I think I just might.”
Claire
Life couldn't be better.
All my dreams have been realized.
Epica's doing great. It's still my company but because of our expansion, we’re buying the building next door. It's equally as historic and has a lot of charm.
Being with Liam has changed my life in a lot of ways. For one thing, I consider him my mentor in business. Under his guidance, I've managed to grow my company, keep it financially solid, and yet still maintain the artistic flair that sets us apart.
Epica is and will always remain small. I consider my team the best of the best and by keeping things intimate, we can cater to only the best clients and there's an air of exclusivity around our services.
I'm in Liam's penthouse that I've all but moved into. My stuff is everywhere, and he says that he likes it that way.
We try to spend as much time together as possible while running our respective businesses. The difference with Liam now is that he's become a hands-on boss instead of the distant one he was before. He’s more freely expressing his creativity and he's more apt to give his opinions now.
It's an opinion I'm seeking to get at this time. I find Liam is an excellent sounding board for all my ideas. He has a really sharp eye for design and I value his opinion.
I'm working on my laptop, in his king-sized bed, when he comes in with freshly squeezed orange juice.
"Here you go baby, compliments of the chef."
"He's here?"
"Setting up brunch right now. Shall we eat on the terrace?"
I look out the window and see that it's a beautiful day. The snow has subsided, and the sun is shining.
"It's so gorgeous outside. I wish I could work out there."
"Then why don't you?" he comes into bed and kisses my forehead.
"Okay," I say. "But first, I need your opinion. Look at these new drawings I've prepared for Velvet Luxe. Do you think it looks too busy? Be honest."
He looks at my work and I appreciate the time he takes to go over the details.
"Do you really want to know what I think?" he asks.
"Of course."
"I think you're so good that you don't need my advice. I think you should trust yourself and that solid intuition you have."
I smile.
"Really? No advice?"
"Really. Now come with me to eat on the terrace."
I get out of bed wearing the latest Velvet Luxe design, a black slip with strips of lace cut across it.
"Am I dressed okay?" I ask, wondering if the private chef's still there.
"Don't worry, he's gone. You could come out nude and make me very happy."
I hold his hand and we go to the terrace. To my surprise and delight, it's littered with rose petals. A romantic table's set up with tall candles and flowers.
Liam holds out a plush robe for me to slip into that will block out the cold air. The sun is out and that helps too.
"What’s all this?" I ask. Liam is normally sweet, and he sweeps me off my feet with his grand gestures sometimes, but I don’t recall planning for anything special today. It’s too early for anything anyway.
And then, I see him get down on one knee and it becomes apparent what's happening. The moment I've been waiting for since I was a girl is before me.
"Claire," he says holding out a box containing a very large diamond ring. "Will you do me the great honor of never leaving my side, being mine forever, and marrying me?"
"Yes!" I say without hesitation. "A million times yes. I love you, Liam. I think some part of me always has, since the moment we met."
His eyes gleam with happiness and satisfaction. He gets up and places the ring on my finger. Then, instead of brunch, he grabs a bottle of champagne from the table and picks me up in his arms.
"I have to consummate this," he says, and I can sense the hunger in his voice.
Our connection is as deep as ever. It's something between us that no one could ever explain. We both feel it all the time as if we're soulmates or something.
I know it's meant to be. I know he's the one and I guess I've always known since the first moment I laid eyes on him. I guess it’s the undeniable connection I’ve felt with him ever since.
Tears stream down my face, and he smiles softly at me.
"Look at you, vulnerable as ever. You're mine, Claire. Let this ring prove that."
He takes me back to the bedroom and I know I can't escape. I’ll never want to escape this intimate connection that we have which defies all words.
I kiss him, and he throws me down on the bed. I can tell, this is just the beginning of our wild adventure together.
Double Feature
A MFM Ménage Romance
By Daphne Dawn
Copyright 2017 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Daphne Dawn
Kayla
I squeeze my stress ball in total frustration. What has happened to the day? About an hour ago, after my usual morning jog, I felt like I could take on the world.
I was ready to put fingers to keyboard and watch the words fly onto the screen, but now I’m sitting in my office, and nothing is happening.
My gaze travels, and I contemplate the elaborate certificate displaying my name and its various meanings, a present from my mother some years ago—one she bought during her travels to Cairo. It used to be at home, but when I took this job, with my own office and view, I decided to hang it up at work.
According to the elaborate gold-lettered writing, Kayla has several different meanings, depending on what country you look to. To some, it means “wise one.”
I have to say…
I don’t feel particularly wise this morning. Time’s ticking, and I’m not producing.
With a sigh, I randomly hit some keys on my keyboard so my screen no longer looks so white and empty.
As I bring my coffee to my lips, I cringe. Can the day get any worse? I hate cold coffee.
I bite my bottom lip.
I haven’t produced anything this morning, and I cannot justify a coffee break already. My eyes look at the little clock in the top right-hand corner of my computer. Maybe if I write for thirty minutes, I can reward myself with a break and get a fresh, strong, and hot coffee.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I don’t know how long they stay there without moving. With a sigh, I rummage around the top drawer of my desk, looking for a notepad.
Sometimes words seem to flow faster and better if I use the old-fashioned writing tools: pen and paper.
Slowly I unscrew the top of my gold nib fountain pen. I draw a few swirly lines to make sure there is still ink in it. Good, no further excuses.
Part of me had hoped that lack of ink would mean I’d have to duck out and buy some more. But alas, I really have run out of stalling tactics.
And so I let the pen do the work. Suddenly, a few scenes come to mind, and I make random notes.
“Good to see you working, baby cakes.”
I cringe and look up, my pen stopping midword. The last word now looks more like a drunken spider walked across my page, and I curse Ed quietly.
“Don’t call me that,” I say and look up.
“They still make pens, huh?” Ed ignores my comment and comes up to my desk, sitting on the edge of it. He takes the pen out of my hand and pretends to examine it.
“Or is this one a relic from the last century?”
Instead of a reply, I pull the pen out of his hand and screw the top back on.
“Only people who’ve been taught the craft of writing know how to use one of these,” I pause before I continue. “Oh, I forgot, you weren’t taught the craft of writing.”
Ed is the one reason my job is harder than it should be. Ed is the bane of my existence at the moment.
He ignores my comment and throws some papers onto my desk.
“Some notes for you for the second half of the season. I thought I better give you a hand, since you are new to this gig.”
If I could, I’d like to wipe that smug look off his milky face. Ed, as far as I’m concerned, is the opposite of sex appeal. His skin’s so pasty, I wonder if he ever goes outdoors.
The expensive designer suits do nothing for his short stature and thin body. Exercise isn’t high on Ed’s agenda as well. Even the mere thought of seeing Ed in shorts and a T-shirt makes me want to throw up.
Knowing Ed expects me to look at what he has given me, I randomly scan the pages.
I read a paragraph here and there, and then I feel the world turn upside down. Is he serious?
“You want me to do what?” I know my voice is no longer cool, calm, and collected; it probably rose an octave or two despite my best endeavor to sound perfectly in control.
“What’s the matter, baby cakes? Not up to the challenge?”
Ed has picked up my stress ball and looks at it.
“What do you do with this?”
“I told you not to call me that,” I hiss at him.
Lines have to be drawn. Ed’s taking way too many liberties with me. Producer or not, I’m still the head writer.
Slow down, my inner voice tries to warn me. Think before you speak. You are still new to this game. You are not quite there yet to throw your weight around.
“So you want me to kill one of the lead characters?” I ask, just to make sure I calm down a little.
Ed nods. “Sure, what’s wrong with that?”
I take a deep breath in before slowly exhaling. Deep breathing helps me to calm down.
“I think it’s too early in the show to kill one of the three brothers.” I pause and think. “The show is about three brothers. What’s the point of killing one of them already?”
Although, as I think about Ian’s performance the other day, I’m tempted to grab this golden opportunity and kill him. It would almost be a pleasure.
As I dwell on this, I start warming to the idea. Ian, if I am brutally honest, is hopeless.
“Don’t be silly,” Ed’s voice stops me midthought.
“What’d you mean?” I must have missed something.
“The killing thing. People love to see someone get killed off. It brings ratings. You’ll see.”
I’m still not convinced. Something doesn’t sound right about this. And why, as head writer, do I not get a say in this?
“But the show has only been going for one season. I can’t see the point in killing one of the key characters already.” I try and make my point. “I don’t want to kill one of them already. Maybe later, maybe when the time’s right.”
“You need to kill one of them.” Ed sounds firmer now as though no further discussion will be entered into. “The network expects it, and don’t forget who’s funding this project and with it, your job.”
His words feel like a threat. My heart beats a little faster. I don’t want to lose this job.
“Looks like I don’t have a choice then, do I?” I mutter and try to hide my disappointment. I had different views of how the story should progress, and it didn’t involve killing one of my characters.
“Of course you have a choice, baby cakes.” Ed is smiling his sleazy, slimy smile now. “You always have a choice.”
Puzzled, I look at him.
“You can choose which one to kill off.”
I prick my ears, and my mood lightens just a little.
Ian, I will kill Ian.
While his character is a great character, Ian as an actor is hopeless. I can’t understand how he has gotten as far in the acting world as he has.
“I–” I start, but it’s as if Ed has read my mind. He interrupts me.
“You can kill any of them…except Ian.”
Openmouthed, I stare at Ed. Did he really just say I can’t kill Ian? Where’s my choice then?
Before I can say anything else, Ed’s mobile interrupts the two of us. Without another word, he leaves my office, mouthing something like “got to take this.”
When the door shuts behind him, I feel like screaming, but I refrain myself. Swear words leave my mouth, and I pick up my stress ball. Instead of squeezing it, I throw it at the large window looking out over Venice Beach.
I push my chair back and go to retrieve my stress ball. I don’t go back to my desk straightaway. Instead, I lean my forehead on the glass and stare at the people lying on the beach, playing beach volleyball, jogging, and walking.
Do those people, some of whom no doubt watch my show The Kings , really want one of the brothers killed?
And if so, why can’t it be Ian? Ian’s the weakest out of the trio. He has nothing on Brad and Scott. Why is Ian “off-limits,” as Ed put it?
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s because Ed’s got a thing for Ian…but I know that’s not the case.
In the end, I walk back to my desk and try one more time to start writing. I put the whole “getting rid of one my lead characters” to one side.
Unfortunately, I cannot think of anything other than Ed’s words.
“Ian is off-limits.”
Brad
“The director’s wife apparently has an affair with—”
“I don’t care,” I say, my sneakers hitting the hard concrete at a fast clip. I can hear Shauna huffing and puffing behind me as she tries to keep the pace, but I try to keep the focus on my own breathing.
Having a personal assistant is fine, but I just hate it when she insists on following after me during my morning runs. Can’t a guy have a moment’s rest?
According to Shauna, no—an actor should always be kept in the loop. Of course, that means she’s always trying to tell me about the latest gossip in the industry.
Now I always know
who’s cheating on who.
“Oh, but this is important because—”
“Shauna, seriously,” I tell her, slowing down my pace and looking back at her over my shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed, long locks of hair are already plastered to her face, and heavy beads of sweat are trailing down her cheeks.
I always feel bad whenever she tries to keep up with me, but what can I do? She’s the one who insists on coming.
“What?” she asks me, and then she stops, bending over and placing her hands on her knees. She takes deep breaths, her cheeks becoming more flushed by the second, and I stop my run and walk back to her.
“You okay?”
“I’m…I’m fine,” she breathes out, standing up straight, her cellphone still in her hand. “I was just trying to keep you up-to-date.”
“Being up-to-date is fine,” I reply. “But that doesn’t mean you have to tell me every single piece of gossip you hear on the internet.”
“Oh, I know that. It’s just that you never know what might be important,” she tells me, distractedly scrolling through the newsfeed on her phone. I doubt she heard a word of what I just said.
“Shouldn’t you be acting as my filter? You’re supposed to tell me only the important things.” I place my hands on my hips, looking at her as she keeps her gaze fixed on her phone.
Fucking hell, I almost want to take the phone out of her hands and smash it to pieces.
I love Shauna to bits—she’s the best personal assistant I’ve ever had, and she’s always on top of every little thing—but she seems like a drug addict when it comes to the internet. I don’t think I can remember a single time where she didn’t have her phone in her hands.
“Oh god,” she suddenly whispers, raising her eyes from the phone for the first time in a minute. “This is big.”
“What’s big?” I ask her, cocking one eyebrow. Probably someone important having an affair.
Everyone in Hollywood seems to be having an affair. Maybe someone should write a column about that—Cheater of the Week or something.
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