by Pippa Grant
“Holy fuck,” she gasps.
I rise on shaky legs. My cock is so engorged I might’ve strained something vital in it. “Was that good for you?” I push at her entrance with my dick, watching my head slide along the seam of her bare pussy.
She shoves a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re still here?” she pants. “I barely noticed.”
I press deeper, her walls so fucking hot and wet and tight, I wonder if maybe she couldn’t crush a beer can with her vagina too.
“You can’t feel that?” I smirk. I know she can, and she knows I know she can.
“You mean your crinkly winky?” she fires back.
I thrust my crinkly winky deeper into her core.
She gasps and rides it, the sight of her sweet, milky pussy riding my dick making me impossibly harder.
“That little crooked pencil?” she moans. She grips my tight balls and rakes her nails over them, and oh baby, yes.
I sheath myself all the way up to the hilt. One thrust. Two. I have my dick buried so far inside her I might never get it all back out. I don’t want to come out. I want to let her ride my rocket until we’re both blind, but she’s so fucking hot, I can barely hold back.
Chase Jett is not a three-thrust wonder.
Just for the record.
With superhuman strength, I pull myself almost all the way out. “If you don’t appreciate my giant, oversized, novelty pencil, then maybe I’ll go put it in another pencil box.”
She sinks her nails into my ass and tries to tug me back in. I thrust at the edges of her pussy, teasing her with my head, but I don’t give her what she wants.
She’s jerking against me, inching closer, riding higher up on my dick, and it’s pissed at me too. Let’s just bang the hot pussy. I’m not fucking Superman.
I can still taste her, and I know she’s going to squeeze me dry when I finally let her. But once I let go, it’s over. She’ll kick my ass out of the room, pretend she doesn’t know me, and we’ll have to do this dance again before I get through her pearly gates once more.
She shuts her eyes, drops her head back, rubs her hands over her breasts, teasing her own nipples, which sets off fireworks in my gut and nearly overrides my self-control. She’s fucking touching herself, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
And then she does the one thing that I don’t and can’t anticipate.
“Please, Chase,” she whimpers.
How the fuck can I resist that?
I shove into her like I’m coming home. My cock is doing the driving, thrusting, grinding, pumping, into her hot, wet, silky pussy. She’s already pulsing around me, aftershocks from her first two trips up the mountain or precursors to the real show, I don’t know. All I know is I’m buried up to my balls in Bro’s slick pussy, she’s raking her nails over my back, thrusting her tongue in my mouth, biting my lip, and matching me thrust for thrust like I’m her salvation.
The metal desk bangs on the wall. A mug of pencils clatters to the ground. She clenches around my shaft and buries her claws in my ass, and I’m done. I come like a rocket, firing deep inside her while she spasms and screams and comes all over me again.
I ride wave after wave after wave of release, every pulse, every heartbeat, every explosion and aftershock making up for not having her in my bed every minute of the last three days. My legs give out as I spend my last, and I collapse on top of her on the desk.
Her fingers rest in my hair. Her heart pounds in my ear, and her breasts pillow my head.
She doesn’t push me away.
God in heaven, if she thinks we’re going again, I’m going to need an hour.
My joystick is still buried inside her. At the idea of another round, it twitches and lifts an interested ear.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Bro murmurs. “Some of us have to walk tomorrow.”
I smile against her skin.
She just said something nice to me. Not that I plan on letting her know I noticed.
The room slowly comes back into focus. Drums all over. A stool upended too. A sheaf of papers got scattered. There’s a bottle of bleach on its side in front of the shelves, Bro’s clothes scattered about. I’m somehow still wearing my shirt.
And my pants.
My dick was free, so that was enough.
Next time, we’re doing this in a bed. Or I might have to trick her into trying that top-of-the-Empire-State-Building thing with the pile of hundred dollar bills first.
She might need more public sex before she’s comfortable at my place. Or before she’d let me back into her place. I grew up in a two-bedroom shack. I’m not picky. Though her neighbors were oddly disturbing. Definitely my place first.
I suddenly freeze. “Are there fucking cameras in here?”
She laughs, and my cock swells inside her. She wiggles, and more blood channels back into my dick.
“Didn’t you read the warning on the bottle of those little blue pills?” she says.
I twist my head and bite her nipple.
She clenches around my dick. I’m sore and spent and wobbly, but I rock inside her anyway. Because she’s not kicking me out. She’s not leaving me.
“Seriously, do dick enhancements come with the fortune?” she says.
I’m at full-mast, and I’m already where I want to be. I suck her nipple all the way to the back of my throat, and she arches into me, grinding against my over stimulated woody. Once she’s worked up, panting and writhing and pulling my hair and humping me like a rabbit, I let her breast go, scraping my teeth along the hard little bud.
“Where do you think I got my fortune?” I murmur.
“Money laundering,” she grits out.
“I think you’d like to have a thick, long roll of my money right where my dick is,” I say.
Her hips jerk. “Oh my god,” she moans.
“I’d like to watch you ride a chilled bottle of thousand-dollar champagne.”
She’s picturing it. I can tell by the way her eyes go distant and her hips can’t keep a steady rhythm.
“And then I’ll drink it out of your pussy,” I add.
She explodes around me again, and my cock tries to match her volcanic release, but I don’t have anything left to give. I just ride on the aftershocks, letting her milk me with her core until she’s limp. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes have rolled back in her head, and for half a second, I wonder if we’ve actually killed her.
“You,” she rasps out, “are a dirty, dirty man.”
She likes it. For her, I’ll be the filthiest fucker to ever walk the planet. “You have no idea, princess.”
For the first time in my life, I’m wrapped in a comfortable silence with Bro.
So this is what it feels like to not hate her.
Or possibly to like her.
Or possibly more than like her.
I’m half-hunched on her, still sheathed in her warm center. She’s crooked on the desk, eyes still closed, with what looks like the makings of a good neck cramp with the way her head’s leaning against the wall.
But it’s the soft, quiet realness of her that gets to me.
I’ve never seen her not fighting.
I run a hand down her arm, and a smile teases her lips. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m risking my balls staying attached to my body now, and I know it, but I squeeze her in a gentle hug.
She squeezes back—lightly enough she could claim it was a twitch if she wanted to—and my heart melts.
I’m done, ladies and gentlemen. Bro Berger won a gold medal in the orgasm Olympics, and now she’s hugging me. On purpose.
I turn my head and press a kiss between her breasts. “How did you like Vassar?” I say.
She goes from chill to shrieking harpy in under a second. Her fist catches my shoulder, and she uses both her feet to shove me away. My dick flops cold and wet against my thigh. “Get out,” she screeches. She leaps upright, fully naked, a flush covering her entire body. “Get. The. Fuck. Out. Now.”
I hold up a hand.
“Whoa, hey, I—”
A drumstick flies at my head. Then a mug. She grabs a printer cartridge from the shelf, and I duck that too.
“Bro, calm down, I—”
“Don’t—” Where did that shoe come from? “—ever—” Oh, Christ, the jug of bleach too “—talk—” A stone Buddha head? Are you kidding? We’re in an Irish bar. “—to me—” Fuck, that’s a full bottle of Jameson “—again.”
Running away is not in my DNA. Despite what Bro might tell you about the night we screwed around in the giant bratwurst on wheels, I don’t run.
I make tactical decisions based on my circumstances.
And I know, without a doubt, that leaving this woman to wreck this office in peace is my smartest course of action.
I’ll leave a few big bills with management to cover the damages and call her tomorrow. But right now, I’m not letting the door hit me on my ass on the way out.
17
Ambrosia
I am the world’s biggest sucker. Is it possible to be completely and utterly satisfied down to your marrow and so freaking enraged you want to go all Incredible Hulk on every penis on the face of the planet? Just want to bend them all until they snap in two?
Ah, I’m asking for a friend.
Because of course I wasn’t stupid enough to think sex with Chase Jett and his magic peen could come without a price.
I hurl one last potato at the closed door and sink to my knees in the carnage of the supply-slash-prep room.
Afterglow gone. I’m achingly empty and hollow inside. I come from a good family. I’m moderately intelligent. Still young and pretty enough to attract normal, decent men, yet here I am, sexed-up and slapped down by the one man who has tortured me my entire life.
And I keep letting him in.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The door opens, and Zeus peeks in. “Hey, sis, what—whoa! DUDE. My eyeballs. Frozen Moses on a popsicle stick, my eyeballs.”
I fire a drumstick at him and miss.
He’s four freaking feet wide, almost seven feet tall, with his fists shoved into his eye sockets so he’s basically blind, and I freaking miss. I try again with a potato from the bag I found under the desk. The desk where Chase just made me come so hard I think I might’ve found some other woman’s orgasm at the same time. Is that a thing? Cosmic orgasm-borrowing?
Sign me up for a donation. I don’t need mine anymore. I’ll give back the one I borrowed and offer up all of mine to someone who’s missing hers.
The potato bounces off the wall beside Zeus, missing by a country mile.
I am such a freaking failure.
“Get out,” I say, but I can’t find the heat. It’s just gone.
Like me.
I’m gone. I don’t know me anymore. Who is this woman who has possessed my body, and when can I have my regularly scheduled life back?
“Get dressed or I’m sending Ares in,” Zeus huffs. “And clean up some of this shit. The manager’s going to have a shit fit.” The door slams, and it occurs to me that my brothers just stood guard while I had a booty call that, by the looks of this room, was pretty damn acrobatic.
I either have the best brothers in the world, or we’re all highly disturbed and need family counseling.
Or possibly both.
18
Ambrosia
I don’t remember getting home. After the last twenty-four hours, I’m lucky I can remember my name. I think it’s been twenty-four hours.
Life is a little hazy.
There’s fading light outside my apartment window. It must be dusk. I say that, but I’m not actually sure I saw light earlier either. I probably did, because none of the lamps are on in my apartment, and I don’t think we’ve been sitting in the dark for hours.
Willow, Parker, Eloise, and I are doing a real-life experiment testing hangover cures. Above me, Hogzilla is once again demonstrating that she’s better at relationships than I am.
She’s probably also better at avoiding getting arrested.
Fucking Chase Jett.
Yes, fucking Chase Jett is, once again, the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
I pour a round of organic, fair trade, responsibly-harvested mango orange guava juice from Whole Foods—take that, Dickhead—into mason jars and pass them around. We all lift our glasses. “To the Dick List,” we say in unison.
Hogzilla’s bedsprings give an ominously long, loud creak, and I say a prayer that whoever she’s humping tonight isn’t the size of a house. I don’t want Hogzilla and her boy toy—boy toys?—to come crashing through the ceiling.
Oh, hardy har. Come crashing. Interpret that as you may.
Speaking of men the size of houses, my brothers, annoying overgrown ape-men that they are, were my unlikely heroes last night. I don’t know what they told the manager or the cops after Zeus ordered me back into my clothes, and I frankly don’t care. I will never say another bad thing about them as long as I live. They got me out of another trip to the slammer and offered to pay for all the damages.
And because they’re my brothers and they can’t help themselves, they also bought every last bottle of alcohol in the bar, tipped the bartender some obscene amount of money, rented a limo, and got me and my friends shit-faced while we toured the city.
My memories of this weekend pretty much consist of Before The Question and The Aftermath.
Before he dropped his little gotcha question?
Four orgasms. Enough said. Maybe I would’ve said more had The Question not happened, but it did, and I’ll always have my four orgasms to remember.
The Aftermath is really hazy. And not because of the alcohol.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Let’s just say I’ve come to realize I did something even more stupid than letting him have free reign to my vagina without a condom again. This is what distance and perspective have given me.
“Where is the Dick List?” Eloise says. “I need to add someone.”
I grab my phone to open the list, only wincing a little at the name taunting me from the top.
Walking hasn’t exactly been a stroll in the park today, and I don’t regret that nearly as much as I want to.
He gave me four fucking orgasms, okay? It’s like being sorry my hoo-ha got high. Would I do it again? No. But knowledge is power, people. I now have the four-orgasm knowledge.
“Name?” I ask Eloise.
She blushes.
Eloise blushes.
“Just give me the fucking phone and don’t ask any questions,” she says.
I gasp. “You’re putting one of my brothers on the list.”
“I said no questions.” She swings her finger around the room. “Circle of trust. We don’t judge the Dick List.”
“Can anyone ever fall off the list?” Willow asks.
Parker hits her with my stuffed elephant that I won at Coney Island three years ago. “Not the time,” she hisses.
“I’m not talking about him,” she replies. “But sometimes good people make mistakes.”
“For the last time, we are not taking your landlord off the list.”
“He can stay. He told me I was taking a tone about my fridge being broken last week.” For a woman with royal relatives, Willow puts up with a lot of shit. “I’m planning a wedding. I have liberty to take as many tones as I want with as many people as I want. Plus, the fridge is broken.”
For Willow, this is the same as renting a horse and carriage solely to ride around standing up and flipping off all of Central Park.
Parker doesn’t care that she’s having a meltdown though. “Then who?”
Willow goes pink. “It was a hypothetical question.”
Eloise is taking entirely too long to put a single name on the list, and I need that list, because I want to know who else on the list Willow might be thinking about taking off it. We use first names only in case the list ever ends up in the wrong hands—a precaution I’m exceptionally grateful for after this last week—but we all kno
w who most of the guys are.
“Did one of my exes make a pass at you?” Parker demands.
“Never mind,” Willow says. “Once a dick, always a dick. My head hurts. Are we trying coffee yet?”
I steal the phone back from Eloise and find both of my brothers on the list. “Are you kidding me?” I squeak. “Both of them.
“Circle of trust.” Eloise scowls at me. “And for all you know, I met two other guys with the same names as your brothers last night.”
“She’s mad that Ares wouldn’t sleep with her, and Zeus wouldn’t be used to make Ares jealous,” Parker tells me.
“You can’t put my brothers on the Dick List for that,” I tell Eloise. “It’s my fault. I know too many stories that could ruin their reputations, and they know I’ll use them if I have to.”
“I heard Zeus telling Ares that Chase has a lot of work to do if he’s ever going to win you over,” Willow says.
For the innocent one in the group, she’s quite devious. “You did not,” I say.
She shrugs and heads for the coffee pot. “They love you. They love him. They think if you love each other, they get the best of everything.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she has a valid point.
The twins lost their best friend after the Bratwurst Wagon incident. I was sure they were better off without him, I never stopped to consider what it would mean to them if the two of us could get along.
I still let their names stay on the Dick List though.
Parker’s phone dings. She glances at it, and her mouth forms a perfect O. “Get out!” she says, thumbs flying over the screen.
“What? What?” We all circle around her.
“We made Page Six,” she gasps. “Our band made Page Six!”
Oh. My. God.
There we are, the four of us plus my brothers, right in the center of New York’s biggest gossip page.
“What does it say?” Willow squeals.
I groan and cover my eyes. “I don’t want to know what it says.”
“Amateur band, okay, we can take that,” Parker murmurs, “decent vocals—nice, Willow, and they don’t even mention your stepdad—crowd loved us! They say the crowd loved us!”