Sin With Me (Bad Habit)

by J. T. Geissinger

  His mouth is hot on my skin, soft and wet. He kisses and licks me, nips me with just enough pressure to sting, all over my belly and across to my hip, taking his time, making a meal of it. He adjusts his weight so he’s balanced on his knees, and then inches the waistband of my sweats down, agonizingly slowly, pulling it past my hips until he stops with a low chuckle that sends a tingle right through me.

  “No panties, hmm?”

  Sue me.

  That thought is tossed out the window when Brody blows a breath of air over my exposed flesh.

  I catch myself before the groan leaves my lips, and lie there with my hands clenched to fists, bunched in his T-shirt over my head, every nerve in my body singing.

  “Look at this beautiful pussy. Look at you. Fuck.”

  His words are whispered and reverent, like a prayer.

  With infinite gentleness, almost chastely, lips closed like you would kiss someone’s cheek, Brody kisses me between my legs.

  I’m going to burst into flames. I’m going to be one of those bizarre cases of spontaneous human combustion and explode in a giant ball of fire, all from the touch of this man’s lips on my skin.

  Inhaling, he nuzzles the fold between my thigh and pussy. He softly groans. The sound is so carnal, so purely sexual and masculine, my clit throbs in response.

  His tongue—oh God his tongue. Hot and soft. Seeking. There.

  The shudder that runs through me is involuntary. I couldn’t stop it if I tried.

  “Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good.”

  I swallow a whimper.

  He cups my ass and squeezes. He drags my sweats farther down, his fingers digging into my flesh like he loves the feel of it, like he wants to bruise me, leave his mark. He bites my hip, then my upper thigh, and I begin to shake.

  Not tremble. Shake.

  “Oh, she likes it,” he breathes. “She likes my love bites. Will she like it when I do this?”

  His teeth scrape over my clit.

  I almost pass out.

  His groan vibrates through me. “Your pussy is throbbing, Grace.” More softly, to himself, “Fucking throbbing.”

  With a soft moan, he lifts me to his face with both hands under my ass and shoves his tongue deep inside me.

  I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

  He feasts on me, licking and sucking and fucking me with his tongue. I try desperately to stay still, to stay silent, to do nothing that would make him stop, until I open my eyes and see him reaching into his sweats.

  His face buried between my thighs, making animal noises low in his throat, Brody pulls out his beautiful stiff cock and starts to stroke it.

  I’ve done everything. I’ve seen everything. I’ve had so much sex in my life I could write the preeminent instruction manual on the subject. Yet I’ve never seen anything as downright sexy as this.

  As him, worshipping me with his mouth, helpless not to touch himself as he does it.

  His eyes drift open. Our gazes lock. Time slips away, reason follows, and then there’s only my heartbeat like thunder in my ears and the smell of lemon furniture polish and sex in my nose and a hot wave of pleasure cresting over me, rising and rising and rising, burning my skin, expanding inside me until I’m sure I’ll shatter into a million tiny pieces and disappear.

  My back bows from the bed.

  “Wait!” he commands hoarsely, breathing hard. “With me.”

  A sound—fractured and incoherent—escapes me.

  “With me, Grace, not before,” he growls, his erection jutting from his fist.

  He sees the “yes” in my eyes, because he drops his head again. He sucks my clit into his mouth. He strokes his cock from base to tip, squeezing the head, thumbing over the slit to spread the bead of moisture around, and then back down to the base. He watches me the whole time, his dark green eyes aflame with possession.

  The rhythm of his hand increases. He starts to rock into the pumps of his fist, his ass flexing, all the veins standing out on his arm.

  His eyes close. The stubble on his jaw scrapes my flesh, enflaming my already exquisitely sensitive pussy. I inhale a sharp breath through my nose, biting my tongue to keep from crying out.

  Then, shuddering and jerking, he moans into me, a deep, guttural sound that I recognize at once.

  He’s there.

  I close my eyes, spread my legs wider, and let go.

  My scream is long, loud, and wavering. I come and come and come, convulsing around his mouth, my thighs shaking, my neck arched, my fingernails digging into my palms, the world red and spinning under my eyelids.

  “Brody! God—Brody!”

  Pushing down, he flattens his hand over the center of my chest and keeps eating me as my orgasm rocks me, keeps licking me even as he’s bucking, his own orgasm tearing through him, his grunts of pleasure muffled in my sex.

  The best the best the best best best best best—

  One after another, wave after wave, pulses so violent I’m helpless to do anything but let them slam into me. Every muscle in my vagina contracts and releases, hard, again and again. My clitoris is the center of the galaxy. A supernova exploding into space. My entire body is flushed with heat. My nipples tingle, as does every inch of my skin. The intensity of it all makes me lose my breath.

  Finally I’m a noodle. A panting, sweating noodle, unsure whether I’m on the cusp of laughter or tears.

  I open my eyes. Brody is watching me, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth still buried in my flesh. His hand and cock are both glistening. So is his expensive silk duvet cover, and a good part of my abdomen and upper thighs.

  And he calls me Slick? The man is a human fire hose!

  I dissolve into laughter.

  In a husky voice, Brody says, “That is so not the reaction I was hoping for.”

  I laugh harder. Between gasps of air I manage to say, “You—you glazed me. And your hand. And the bed! Ba ha ha ha!”

  “Excuse me, comedian, but you glazed me.” He lifts his head and smiles at me.

  His cheeks and chin are wet.

  I groan. “Oh my God, this is the least sexy after-sex conversation I’ve ever had!”

  Brody turns his head and bites my thigh. Then he looks up at me, grinning. “But the best, right? Because it’s me, so . . . obviously.”

  I try really hard not to laugh, only I fail spectacularly.

  This feeling of euphoria is new. Normally after sex I’m jumping hurdles to get to the front door, but right now I’m floating somewhere way above cloud nine.

  “And not to correct you or anything, because it’s indelicate to correct a lady so soon after such an eardrum-shattering orgasm, but that wasn’t sex.”

  “Well it certainly wasn’t a turnip.”

  “I told you, Grace. That was just foreplay.”

  “Foreplay my ass. That was the sun and the stars and the entire known universe.”

  Brody’s chuckle is low and satisfied. “Now that’s a compliment. Much better, Slick.”

  I sigh. My entire body feels like Jell-O. “You deserve it, Kong. That was spectacular.”

  He crawls up to me, takes my face in his hands, and gives me a deep, heartfelt kiss. “You’re spectacular,” he whispers, gazing down at me. “And you taste even better. I’m already addicted.” He kisses me again.

  “Maybe you just have an addictive personality,” I tease, loving his intensity, his playfulness, the rough edge in his voice and the happy light in his eyes. Loving all of this. The way he sounds and feels and touches me. How it all just seems so right.

  “No,” he says seriously, looking into my eyes. “It’s because it’s like someone asked me for a list of all the things that would make up my ideal woman and then created you in a lab for me. It’s because you’re funny and smart and sexy and independent and strong and can have any man you want, but you look at me like I’m a Christmas present. Like I’m a kept promise. Like I’m your favorite song.”

  His voice drops. “It’s because yo
u’re perfect, but you make me feel like I am.”

  My throat closes. An invisible hand squeezes my chest. I stare into Brody’s beautiful green eyes and think, Oh.

  Oh.

  So this is what it’s like.

  Instead of admitting I’m feeling emotional, I make a joke. “I’m not perfect.”

  His brows lift.

  “My left foot is half a size bigger than my right.”

  A grin spreads over his face.

  “Also one of my ears is slightly higher than the other. You can only tell when I wear sunglasses, but still. My ears aren’t level.”

  Brody kisses the tip of my nose, my forehead, both my cheeks. “I’ve been telling you this, sweetheart. You’re hideous.”

  “I’m also covered in, uh . . .” I glance down at my stomach.

  Brody follows my gaze. “Oh. Right.” He pauses a moment, and then says, “Would it be gross to tell you that I have this really primal urge to smear it all over you and not let you take a shower for days?”

  I laugh. “Yes. That would be gross. Caveman.”

  He glances up at me and grins. “You bring out the Neanderthal in me, witch face.” He kisses me quickly, then pops up from the bed. “Stay there for a second. Help is on the way.”

  He disappears into the bathroom. After running a washcloth under the faucet and squeezing it out, he returns to me with it, and a hand towel.

  I start to sit up, but he barks, “No!” He waves his hand, indicating I should stay as I am.

  I settle back against the pillows. “You’re incredibly bossy, you know that?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t like it,” he murmurs, running the washcloth over my skin. He cleans me gently and diligently, smiling this hilariously smug smile the entire time. Then he dries me with the hand towel, pulls my sweats up to my waist, and unties the T-shirt from around my wrists.

  He helps me sit up, helps me put the shirt on, and then tackles me, taking us both back down to the mattress.

  “Hey!”

  “Hugs,” he says, his words muffled against my neck. “You need hugs, remember?”

  He squeezes his arms around me, curls his legs around me, and engulfs me.

  He’s hugging me with his entire body.

  I close my eyes and snuggle into him, as close as I can get. His heart thuds loud and strong beneath my cheek. He’s warm and heavy, gently kissing my neck and shoulder, sighing quietly as if he’s feeling the same things I am.

  Contented. Euphoric. Joyful.

  Home.

  God, I think, drifting off to sleep. Maybe I was wrong about you after all.

  I awaken in stages, first aware of birds chirping somewhere outside, and then the delicious scent of baking bread. My body feels light, as if it’s floating. So does my spirit when I see how the sun has changed direction, slanting low through the windows in the west.

  It’s late afternoon. I’ve been asleep for hours.

  I didn’t have bad dreams.

  When I lift my head and look around, I’m alone. I yawn, sit up, stretch my arms overhead, and catch sight of the folded note on lined yellow paper on the pillow next to me. Smiling, I unfold it and read.

  Most Hideous Female Who Ever Lived,

  Watching you sleep is like watching one of those foreign art-house movies that win all the awards for cinematography and production design because they’re so ravishingly beautiful and moving, even though no one has any idea what they’re actually about.

  If that makes me sound like I’ve ingested some incredibly potent drugs, it’s because I have: you.

  I’m high on you.

  (I know you know that’s the title of a Survivor song, but for the sake of romance, we’ll both pretend we don’t. I’m working on some better material. These things take a minute.)

  You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. Also my dick decided it was time to start throwing his weight around again so I had to leave before he could bully me into sneaking in a few rubs against your criminally sexy bottom. Because hello, gross creeper.

  You see, chivalry isn’t dead!

  On a more serious note, I REALLY, REALLY hope you don’t wake up feeling any kind of regret or ickiness about what happened because it was hands down the most incredible experience I’ve had as a human since I was born. Also because you feeling bad about it would make me want to kill myself.

  So, no pressure.

  Not liking your ugly mug at all,

  Brody

  PS – Dude, get a nose job. Do you even own a mirror?

  PPS – I think you said my name in your sleep. #giddy

  PPPS – I looked at your feet. You were totally lying. They’re like TWO sizes different, Sasquatch.

  When I set the note back on the nightstand, I’m smiling so widely it hurts. I can’t remember the last time I felt this . . . excited? No—giddy. Brody found the perfect word. I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl with her first crush.

  Even though my condo blew up this morning.

  Even though tomorrow morning I might have no idea who or where I am.

  Even though everything.

  Wow, this oxytocin is some powerful shit.

  Energized, I fling back the light blanket I’m covered with and leap from the bed. I use the bathroom, splash water on my face, comb my fingers through my tangled hair, and smile at myself in the mirror.

  “Well, hello, gorgeous,” I say to my reflection. “Don’t you look like a million bucks!”

  I definitely feel like I do. I’m a homeless millionaire.

  I’d better not repeat that to Brody or he’ll start calling me Slum Dog.

  I make my way from his room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, following that amazing smell of baking bread. Magda is at the big gourmet stove with pot holders, pulling a golden brown loaf from the oven.

  “Hi, Magda. Do you need help with that?”

  Her back to me, she cackles and replies in Spanish, “The day I need help with my cooking is the day I find a nice, high ledge to jump from.” She waves a hand toward the open patio doors. “Go on. He’s in the guest house, probably making a mess.”

  “Okay. Thanks!”

  She turns and peers at me. Then she nods, as if satisfied, and turns back to the stove.

  I don’t even want to ask.

  Barefoot, I cross the patio and then head across the huge lawn toward the structure behind the stand of giant palm trees. It’s about a five-minute walk. The sun is warm on my shoulders. The ocean breeze plays with my hair. I wonder if the house has a name, as many of these grand homes do. If not, I’m going to suggest to Brody that he christen it Shangri-La, because it’s truly an earthly paradise.

  When I round the thicket of palms, I come to an abrupt halt, staring. Then I start to laugh.

  The “guest house,” like the main house, is something straight out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It’s a sprawling Mediterranean with saffron-hued walls and a red tiled roof, surrounded with lush, landscaped gardens, mature trees, a koi pond with a waterfall, and a wraparound balcony that looks straight out to the sea.

  A kidney-shaped pool with a black rock bottom is shaded by palm trees. A fountain in the shape of a mermaid rising from a wave burbles in the middle of the lawn. A private driveway, lined with blooming jasmine bushes, winds out of sight over a low hill at the far end of the yard.

  It’s magical. It’s utterly charming.

  And, for tonight at least, it’s mine.

  Admiring the general splendor, I walk slowly toward the front door. It’s half wood, half beveled glass, and it’s open. I go inside and find myself standing in a cool, quiet entryway. Mirrors and polished marble glisten everywhere.

  “Hello? Brody?”

  His faint call of “In here!” comes from the back of the house.

  I move slowly through the rooms, touching a sculpture here, admiring an oil painting there, wondering what it must be like to have this kind of money. My parents were solidly middle class, by no means wealth
y. I know this not because I remember my upbringing, but because of the meeting I had with their attorney a week after their deaths, wherein he informed me I was lucky they both had life insurance policies.

  “Lucky.” That’s not the word I would have chosen to describe my situation.

  I find Brody in the master bedroom, arranging birds of paradise in a vase on the glass table by the open windows. He turns to me, smiling.

  “You’re up!”

  “I am. And you’re . . . arranging flowers?”

  He glances at the flowers and the clippers on the table like he’s just been caught doing something naughty. He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, shrugs, and looks bashfully at his feet. “Uh, yeah. I thought you might, you know, like some flowers in your room. I cut them from the yard.”

  My heart melts into a puddle.

  When I don’t say anything, Brody looks up at me. He misinterprets the expression on my face, because his brow crinkles. “Oh—are you allergic? Shit, I’m sorry, I never asked—”

  I cross to him and throw my arms around his neck.

  “I love flowers,” I say hoarsely, standing on my toes to hug him. “And that you thought I might want some in my room. That is so sweet. You’re so sweet, Brody. And silly. And romantic. And funny. And completely unexpected.”

  I have to stop because my voice is getting high. My throat is too tight to continue.

  Brody winds his arms around my back and pulls me against his body so there are no gaps between us. He nuzzles my neck, inhaling into my hair. “And manly. Don’t forget manly.”

  “Right. My bad. Manly should’ve been the first thing I said.”

  He chuckles. “I mean, I know it goes without saying since you’re already pregnant with octuplets—”

  “Octuplets!” I pull back and smile up at him.

  Pushing a strand of hair off my cheek, he grins. “Oh yeah, baby. I’ve got your bun factory workin’ overtime. I’ve got some powerful spooge in these loins.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Spooge? Ew.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, the word offends you but having it sprayed all over your body doesn’t?”

  “Fortunately for you, pal!”

  He beams at me. “True. How ’bout if I try another word? Like . . . jizz?”