Hard Fall

by Ney, Sara

  “Fuck me.” I need him inside me. Give his shoulders a push, scooting my ass across the mattress, hoping he’ll get the hint. I mean, what bigger hint can there be other than Fuck me? But still—some guys love oral and don’t want to quit until they finish the job.

  Buzz is no such man.

  He rips his clothes off in record time, shucking his pajama bottoms and shirt, climbing on top, climbing up my body, kissing my skin along the way.

  “Like satin,” he tells me. “So fucking beautiful.”

  His tip nudges my slit. I spread my legs.

  Sighs all around once he’s fully buried deep inside. Fuck it’s fantastic, fuck it’s good. Fuck, fuck, fuck me.

  And he does.

  Gentle then hard, then fast then slow.

  He pounds away at me.

  Rolls me over so I’m on top, letting me use his body any way I choose.

  Rolls me back so I’m beneath him, his hand gripping the headboard. Watching his bicep flex is like watching porn. Gets me hotter and wetter than I already am and I feel my pussy clench.

  “God, Hollis,” he pants. “I love you.”

  Say what now?

  “I love you.” Thrust. “I’m sorry but I do.” Thrust.

  He leans down to kiss me, one hand still on the headboard, pulling at it to push himself deeper. “Christ you feel good. God you’re beautiful.”

  Intoxicating words.

  Impossible to ignore.

  My lips part. “I…”

  His blue eyes look down at me, bright. Optimistic.

  “I love you, too.”

  Epilogue

  One week later

  Trace

  “My dad said you’re the best closer they’ve ever had.” Hollis reaches over to my side of the mattress, brushing an errant hair out of my eyes. We’re lying in bed, down for the night, about to turn off the lights. “It makes me so proud of you.”

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “Yesterday when I popped in at his penthouse—I had an early copy of a book that’s the perfect read for him. A biography about some baseball player from the thirties.” She yawns.

  Hollis knows nothing about baseball and it shows.

  Fucking adorable.

  “Did he say anything else?” I love compliments.

  “About you? Not really. He still seems to think you dating me is a distraction, so I tread lightly.”

  Dang.

  I really wanted to hear more about how wonderful I am.

  She kisses my temple and continues absentmindedly brushing her fingers through my hair. I love it.

  I love her.

  “Hollis?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Let’s get married.”

  Her fingers stop and she twists her body so she can sit up in bed, turning to face me. “That’s not funny.”

  “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

  The more I think about it, the more I want it to be true, the more I want it to happen. I don’t fucking care how long it’s been—I am in love with Hollis Westbrooke. Have been since I bumped into her at work and she basically told me to piss off.

  “You’re serious?” She studies my face.

  “Dead serious.” I study her stomach. “Don’t you want babies?”

  “Oh come on now, that’s not fair—you can’t bring sweet babies into this. That’s manipulation.”

  I’ll say whatever it takes to get her to say yes, short of bribery, that is.

  “I’m just saying…we could start trying for a family tonight.” I run a hand up her thigh and don’t stop until it’s spanning the flat plain of her belly.

  An eye roll. “I am not showing up at my wedding pregnant.”

  “So you’re saying we’re having a wedding.”

  “I’m saying…” She bites her bottom lip as the hand on her stomach begins doing slow circles. Moves up to cup her breast. “Stop that—I’m trying to think.”

  I lean over to kiss her nipple.

  “Shit…I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

  “Marry me,” I say.

  “I…” Her throat constricts when she swallows. “Want to.”

  “You want to marry me?”

  A nod. “Yes.”

  Holy fuck. I asked her to marry me and she said yes! Holy balls, my mother is going to lose her mind with excitement at the thought of a wedding to plan! And, I beat my brother Tripp to the altar, so he can suck my balls. Win-win.

  “Who the hell gets engaged after knowing someone three weeks?” she muses. “My father is going to be furious.”

  Since when do I give a shit what her old man thinks? He might be starting to come around, but he’s still a pompous prick.

  “When are you going to stop caring what your dad thinks?” I roll her onto her back and gaze down at her. My fiancée. “He is not in control of your future—you are.”

  She looks up at me, pretty eyes softening. “You really are…” She gulps. “An incredible man.”

  Not one single person has ever said that to me before. Not one.

  “I love you so much.”

  “I love you. You’re my fucking fiancée.”

  She kisses me then with a laugh as I climb on top of her.

  Hollis, my beautiful future wife.

  The future Mrs. Wallace.

  Hollis Walla—

  “Oh my god.” I clamp my lips shut.

  The delicate hands on my ass stop trailing up my spine. “What?”

  No way in hell am I bringing up that horrible name, not unless I want her changing her mind, and I absolutely do not. Nope. We are getting married and I don’t want her saying no.

  “We’re having a wedding,” I say, kissing the corner of her mouth—it’s her favorite spot to be kissed. “You’re marrying me.”

  “We’re getting married!”

  And now comes the fun part: the planning.

  The End

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Hard Love coming October 8th!

  Sneak Peek at Hard Love releasing October 8! *Unedited and subject to change*

  CHAPTER 1

  Tripp

  My brother is getting married.

  Married.

  A grown man who calls himself Buzz.

  Like seriously, what the fuck.

  Oh, and get this, he’d only known the girl for three weeks before they got engaged.

  Three.

  Yeah—I didn’t stutter.

  I can’t help the bitter taste rising from my throat; he hadn’t bothered to deliver the news in person—he sent me a text. Well. My mother sent the text after Buzz and his fiancé told our mom and dad in person, at a dinner I wasn’t invited to.

  Roast beef and potatoes with pecan pie.

  Beef is my favorite and I didn’t even get some.

  My fingers grip the steering wheel of my truck as I pull it into my garage, my gregarious bulldog, Sven, hopping on his back feet at he sight of my arrival, pudgy face pressed against the screen door in the laundry room.

  Sven.

  He’s the only buddy I can trust.

  Unlike my backstabbing engaged brother, the dick.

  I shove my truck into park, grabbing the ice coffee I stopped for on my way from work—and shove open the drivers side door. Hop out and tug at my jeans; they feel restrictive after having worn spandex compression shorts the past five hours. Should have gone with mesh, not denim.

  Sven continues hopping and I’m shocked the little bastard hasn’t put a hole in the screen door because he sure as shit has dented it in about forty spots.

  “Dude, chill,” I tell him and he chills.

  I’m not sure who wields more power in our relationship: myself or the dog. Probably Sven, since I hold the door open for his majesty, so he can prance out into the yard and do his business. Then I hold the door open for him, so he can prance back inside, where I’ll feed him and brush him and I am clearly his bitch.

  The bag clenched in my fist gets tossed on the counter; it�
�s already past six in the evening and I have to arrive at my brothers bachelor party by eight—which gives me two hours to eat, relax, shave and get my ass back out the door.

  I shoot Sven an apologetic look. “Sorry bud, I have to leave again. Uncle Buzz is having a party, but Molly will swing by to play with you.”

  Molly is a teenage neighbor girl I pay fifteen bucks an hour to hang with the dog; she scoops his poop and feeds him on days I’m running late or weekends I’m gone. Which lately, is a lot.

  Like my brother Buzz—who plays professional baseball when he’s not being a professional douche—I play professional sports too.

  Football.

  And right now it’s football season, so I’m gone a lot. Poor Sven spends so much time with Molly, I should just rehome him. I’m like the dog dad he never gets to see unless its summer break. Summer camps and spring training take far less of a toll than fall and winter.

  “Yeah,” I inform the dog. “Uncle Buzz has his bachelor party tonight, do you believe that shit?”

  Sven stares up at me, bottom jowls salivating.

  “Want to know what’s worse than a bachelor party on a Saturday night, when I could be laying on the couch? A themed bachelor party.” I eyeball the bag on the counter through narrowed eyes and yank open the fridge. The cleaning lady slash housekeeper has left me some chicken patties and a side of potato salad, so there’s nothing for me to prepare.

  I grab and go.

  Heat and eat.

  The chicken goes in the microwave, the potato salad goes in my mouth.

  “Get this.” I swallow. “We’re going axe throwing and he wants everyone to wear plaid.” That’s what’s in the bag—the plaid, flannel shirt I had our mom buy for me. Who has time to hunt that shit down? Not me.

  Yes, I could have ordered it online, but who knows what I like better than my own mother.

  I peer inside the bag. The shirt is lumberjack plaid—haha, funny Mom—a red and black checkered patter. Khaki cargo pants.

  I groan. Why must Buzz insist on making us look like complete imbeciles in public? As if axe throwing wasn’t bad enough. I’ve never done it, but how hard can it be? Obviously I’m going to dominate at it, but still, I’d rather be couch surfing tonight with the dog.

  My chicken comes out of the microwave, warm and steaming hot, loaded with cranberry stuffing (my favorite) and I prematurely cram a piece in my mouth.

  It scalds my taste buds. “Dammit!”

  Fuck I’m so hungry.

  I barely taste it as I pack it down my gullet, trying to finish my meal, so I can take another hot shower. And when I’m finally upstairs in my bathroom, I study my reflection in the mirror.

  Do I shave or leave it?

  If I don’t, I’m going to look even stupider and lumberjackier in that dumb plaid shirt—but it’s such a hassle getting out the razor and going through the motions and I’m not exactly in the mood anymore to put in an effort.

  I text my mom.

  Me: Do I seriously have to wear this outfit? I’m going to look like a douche.

  Mom: Yes. This is not about you.

  Me: This is about me not wanting to wear this outfit.

  Mom: This is your brother’s big night, be a team player.

  Me: This is NOT THE WEDDING MOM, could we not call this his “big night?” Everything is not always about him.

  Mom: Tripp Francis Wallace I’m not going to say this again. If I hear that you didn’t do your part, I’m going to be so disappointed in you. Your brother has finally met someone decent and you are not going to ruin his bachelor party.

  Me: Someone else will probably do that.

  I can’t help adding that little jab; let’s be real—Buzz has invited a bunch of freaking idiots who’ll probably get wasted and destroy property.

  Mom: Tripp, just wear the goddamn shit

  Whoa. She’s getting pissed—Mom almost never swears and she just did it twice.

  Mom: Shirt. Just wear the SHIRT, it’s not too much to ask. This is ONE night.

  I want to point out that it’s not one night. It’s one of three; bachelor party, rehearsal dinner, wedding and reception. Except there is no reasoning with Genevieve Wallace—nothing has given her a purpose to live more than her youngest son getting married. Nothing can dull her sparkle. Anyone getting in her way will be obliterated and I will feel her wrath if I do not wear this fucking stupid outfit.

  Buzz, Buzz, Buzz, it’s always about Buzz.

  Me: Fine. But I’m not shaving.

  Mom: Oh you’re going to look so handsome! Text me and tell me how it’s going, I want all the details!

  Um, yeah—that’s not happening. I’m not going to gossip about some dumb stag party with my mother. I’m lame, but I’m not that lame.

  Mom: You’re a good brother, Tripp. We’re so proud of you.

  No one lays on a guilt trip quite like my mother.

  “Proud of me for going axe throwing,” I mutter, grumbling as I climb into the shower. The water shoots out of seven heads—ceiling, three in front of me and three in back. It’s excessive and pampering, but after an entire day outside, battling the elements during the games, it was well worth installing the additional plumbing.

  Or rather, Buzz did.

  I bought this house from him after he flipped it and the shower was one of the selling points.

  He’s one smart son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. And sure, his fiancé is pretty fucking awesome. But that still doesn’t mean I want to hoof it to Axe to Grind, the throwing bar where the party begins.

  Ugh. An entire night of drinking, shooting the shit, and bar hopping.

  My worst nightmare.

  Most of the wedding party on the grooms side is professional athletes—baseball players from his team, the Chicago Steam, and myself. No big deal, not impressed?

  That doesn’t mean other bar go-ers won’t be. All night we’re sure to be inundated with fans, super fans, jersey chasers and gold diggers, interrupting us for autographs, photos, and forced chit chat.

  I’ll have to be polite when I’d rather be myself.

  Showering takes my mind off how my day went, at least. Drill after drill at the stadium, followed by an ice bath and a rub down by the teams massage therapist. My body aches. My head hurts.

  My dick is soft.

  Through the glass shower door Sven watches me, bored, no doubt wondering when I’ll be done showering, so we can play, his favorite ball lying at his paws full of slobber.

  A twinge of guilt forms in my stomach and I shut the water down. Grabbing the towel I’d tossed over the barrier, and dry off, tossing on a pair of sweat pants, so I can rough house with the dog. Tire him out a bit before the dog sitter comes.

  I hate leaving him alone.

  When it’s time to dress, I rip the tags off these godawful cargo pants; complete with side pockets and heavyweight fabric, these are truly fit for a mountain man.

  They fit perfect.

  The shirt fits too as I pull it on, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. Leave the top two buttons undone so I don’t choke myself, or maybe that’s the solution to get out of this hellish evening.

  Viewing at myself again in the mirror, I cringe. Dammit, I should have shaved this scruff off, I look ridiculous. Like an actual fucking lumberjack.

  I am going to kill my brother.

  Whose dumb idea was this?

  I have my answer as soon as I step into Axe to Grind and find my brother and his group of friends. They’re easy to spot—large, loud and not wearing plaid shirts.

  I stomp over, my sights set on one person: Buzz.

  He has his back turned, but I’d know him anywhere; broad shouldered and tall, he’s the spitting image of yours truly—the Irish twin I never wanted, born only a year apart.

  He’s clean shaved and freshly shorn, no doubt for his impending nuptials.

  Still.

  He ain’t wearing the plaid he said the bachelor party was wearing and now I feel like a horse’s ass.
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  I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns, delight on the face I now want to punch.

  “Why are you wearing regular shirts? Where is everyone’s dumb uniform?” Like a dope, I point to the red and black flannel I reluctantly dressed in, the ridiculously uncomfortable pants, the construction boots because only boots looked right with this outfit; all I’m missing is suspenders. “Why am I the only one dressed like this?”

  My brother—the merry bridegroom—throws his arms in the air as if I’m the most valuable player arriving to the game, loudly whooping, filling the echoing, cavernous space where the axe throwing cages are. Saw dust and peanut shells litter the floor. Everywhere, people are drinking beer and laughing, dressed like regular people—not morons.

  I could kill my brother.

  “Hey boys,” he hollers. “Look who’s arrived! Now the party can officially begin!”

  I don’t want the party to begin; I want to go home. I want to put on the sweaty gym clothes that are in the duffle bag in my backseat. There must be clothes somewhere in the backseat of my truck.

  I stalk over, the scowl across my brow pushing down the rest of my features. “What the fuck dude, why aren’t any of you wearing,” I point to my shirt, indicating the plaid get up I reluctantly donned. “Seriously. Not cool.”

  “I changed my mind.” Buzz sips from a bottleneck beer bottle, conveniently avoiding my death glare. “Did I forget to add you to the group text? Weird.” He inspects his nails, then the paper label on the amber bottle.

  Forget to add me to the group chat my ass, the lying piece of shit! “I hate you so much right now.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I have a gift for you.” His free hand disappears, reaching around his back, pulling out and producing a small, blue stuffed animal. A buffalo? A horse?

  A cow?

  No. It’s stuffed toy cattle and it’s bright blue.

  Babe the Blue Ox—just like the one Paul Bunyan has as his side-kick, from the old fable.

  Buzz shoves Babe in my arms. “Ladies, ladies can I have your attention please? Gather ‘round, Paul Bunyan has entered the building! He’s single and ready to delight you with his wood chopping and axe handling ways.”