by Pippa Grant
“For the record, I am two seconds from texting Eloise and asking her to spread a picture of your diseased dick all over the internet,” she hisses as I drag her along.
“You don’t have any pictures of my dick,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t matter. Everyone knows I’m in your pants. Plausibility is all I need to ruin your sex life forever.”
“My sex life is with you. I don’t care what you tell the world about my penis.”
She’s getting the eyeball of disbelief from her mother, the chief, and the chief’s secretary. “Ambrosia, we do not talk about men’s penises,” her mother hisses.
“First of all, he’s talking about his penis too. And second of all, you wouldn’t blink if he talked about my vagina,” she hisses back.
All this hissing is getting annoying.
“I could talk about her vagina if you’d like,” I offer.
The chief clears his throat and gives me the don’t be a sexual predator look.
I remember this guy. Met him a time or two the last twenty years, mostly in my teenage years, usually accompanied by the Berger twins. He’s a thinner and grayer on top now, thicker around the middle, and more bow-legged in his gait. When he gestures us into his office, Bro’s trembling.
I squeeze her hand.
“Mr. Jett,” the chief says, “what can we do for you today?”
“Mr. Jett,” Bro mutters.
“You can call me dickhead,” I tell the chief. “All my best friends do.”
Bro snorts. She’s shaking still, but I suspect it’s turning into a good shake.
“My grandchildren are going to be brainless delinquents,” Dr. Berger sighs.
“Zeus might come through for you, ma’am,” I offer.
Bro snort-cackles, and I turn to the chief. “I’m here to turn myself in,” I announce.
Bro chokes on her snort-cackle. The chief gives me a bored quit wasting my time look. “For what?”
“Defacing and attempted robbery of an official visiting vehicle of Baloney Fest ten years ago.”
Bro sinks into a chair. She’s blinking almost as fast as her chest is rising and falling.
I hope my bank account can write me a check out of this, because I have plans for that woman. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every hour for the next month, year, decade.
The chief looks between me and Bro. “The statute of limitations has run out on any crimes that may have occurred ten years ago.”
I hold out my wrists. “I insist you arrest me. Now.”
“Mr. Jett—”
“Dickhead,” I correct. “I terrorized this town for almost twenty years, and I left it after doing heinously unspeakable things to an honored vehicular guest. We don’t need to stand on formality simply because I made a few bucks.”
He rubs his forehead. “Son, I can’t arrest you.”
“There are very few people in this town who would’ve claimed me as a son before I was a billionaire.”
Bro grabs my wrist and tugs my hand down. “Chase. Stop. This isn’t necessary.”
I fucking love it when she says my name. “Either you arrest me, or you clear Ambrosia’s record,” I say.
No one’s laughing now, and Dr. Berger has joined Bro, squishing into the same chair with her daughter like her sons used to squeeze into a single bus seat.
The chief glances between me and Bro. “It’s an honorable thing you’re doing, son, but the law’s the law.”
I hunch over the chief’s desk, resting on my knuckles. “The law fucked up, and one person took the fall for two people’s crimes. You’re going to tell me the quickest way to solve this, or I’ll be calling a press conference to discuss every case this office has mishandled in the last twenty years.”
Two-thirds of those cases involve officers letting me and the Berger boys off with warnings for shit we should’ve been jailed for. They put me in front of a camera, I’m spilling it all. And if you think the Twin Tanks won’t be tripping over themselves to make up even more shit than we actually did, you don’t know them very well.
Judging by the way the chief is turning green at the gills but purple everywhere else, he knows it too. “Let me make a few phone calls,” he grits out.
Bro gasps. She slugs me in the back, which I interpret to mean thank you, you ugly, rich bastard.
Inspiration strikes. “While you’re doing that, is your holding cell empty?”
“Joe Gus Johnson’s back there. Caught him terrorizing a hog last night.”
“Why is it always the hogs?” Bro mutters.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Berger interrupts, “but did you just say he was fornicating with a pig?”
“Don’t say sorry,” Bro hisses at her.
“That’s the charge, ma’am.”
“A man was caught with his peepee in a pig, and my daughter is the one they’re gossiping over?” She leaps to her feet, bends over the desk, and grabs the chief by the earlobe. “Why is no one talking about this man corrupting a sheep?”
“Hog,” I correct.
Bro snuffle-snorts like her upstairs neighbors back in the city, and I almost lose my shit.
“Ma’am, I don’t control the gossip,” the chief says. “Please unhand me before I do have to arrest someone in this room. Namely, you.”
“Give it a good tweak first, Mom,” Bro says.
She drops the chief and shoves herself to the door. “Excuse me. I have gossip to spread. And a subpoena to file for any pictures you might have.”
“I’m going to need you to release Joe Gus on bail,” I tell the chief. “And I need to use the holding pen. With the cameras turned off. And the doors locked.”
“Chase,” Bro whispers. “You are not putting yourself in jail.”
“Nope. I’m putting us in jail.”
27
Ambrosia
Chase Jett is certifiably insane and I’m going to kick his ass and gouge his eyeballs out and claw at that dimple in his chin until it’s the only thing left of his chin, because the fucker just got me thrown back in jail.
The door clinks shut, trapping us behind unbreakable steel bars. I’m doing my best not to hyperventilate, because I can’t destroy him if I can’t breathe, when he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
It’s a soft blue, and it makes his eyes extra bright. It also feels like a velvet silk, and concentrating on his long, capable fingers on the small buttons is the only thing keeping me from hitting the cold, hard concrete floor.
“What the ever-loving unholy fuck are you doing?” I shriek.
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Getting ready for my strip search.”
“This is so not funny,” I hiss, but not all of me is in complete agreement with my mouth’s assessment.
Parts of me are waking up and showing completely inappropriate interest.
His shirt flutters to the ground, leaving him in a sleeveless white undershirt tucked into his black jeans. His arms are sculpted beauty, his shoulders broad and bitable, his hips tight, his zipper bulging.
He makes quick work of pulling off the undershirt, and my mouth goes dry.
I’ve lost track of the number of orgasms this man has given me, but aside from that afternoon in my shower, I’ve never had a chance to fully appreciate his entire body in fully fluorescent lighting.
He kicks off his shoes, then shucks himself out of his pants and briefs in one swift motion. My legs suddenly can’t support me. I sink to the metal cot behind me and drink him in.
Shoulders of a god. Copper nipples nestled in a wavy matte of dark hair. His biceps need their own zip code, and his forearms are corded steel.
I want to lick his six-pack and sink my fingers into that beautiful man-vee perfectly showcasing his strong, curved shaft as it strains toward me. Hello, beautiful, I’ve missed you.
His thighs are powerful, and when I crook a finger at him, he bends and captures my mouth with his.
This kiss is everything. Licking, suckling, nipping, teasing, but not battling. His hands slide over my
body, soothing and arousing at the same time. I stroke his bare shoulders, flick my fingers at his nipples, trace his abs, and finally rake my fingers down his cock.
He groans in my mouth, and suddenly he’s lifting me off the cot and carrying me to the back of the cell.
I cling to his shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“Swear to god, baby, I’m thinking beautiful, filthy things right now, but I don’t want to know where that thing’s been.”
I start laughing, but then my back hits cold cinderblocks. He shifts me so my legs are wrapped around his hips, his rod rubbing my clit, and rational thought evaporates.
“I don’t hate fucking you,” I pant.
“I fucking love fucking you,” he rasps.
“Did they turn the cameras off?”
“If they didn’t, I’ll kill ‘em.”
We’re locked in a jail cell, Chase is naked as a jaybird, threatening law enforcement officers, and I’m so turned on that I’m one big pulsing ball of lust.
“Too many clothes,” I say. “Off. Now.”
He helps me rip off my shirt while I rub my pussy all over his dick. Breaking contact with him physically hurts, but he holds my gaze the whole time we’re yanking my pants off, and I know he’s going to make it better.
He’s going to fill me and stretch me and hit all those good places to make me fall apart, and then he’s going to kiss me silly and do it all over again. All night long. With his mouth. With his hands. With his amazing supercock.
My leg comes free from my pants, and I practically climb him to get back to where I want to be. Where I need to be.
I don’t give him a chance to touch me, to get me off with his fingers or his tongue. I don’t want foreplay. I want him. I need him. I need him inside me, one with me, filling me and joining me and completing me.
“Bro,” he gasps as I slide down his length, and oh my god I love the way he says my name. That he has his own nickname for me. That he’s mine.
I don’t care if we’re a little fucked up. I don’t care if I’ve hated him most of my life. I don’t care if I lose my job or if I never go back to New York.
I just care that I’m his and he’s mine.
My legs tighten around him as he pumps into me. He’s huge, long and thick, and I can feel every heavy, solid inch of him on every thrust, and it’s driving me mad. I feel thick too. I’m heavy inside, building, coiling, desperate. With every drive, he hits that magic spot deep inside me where I ache the most, driving me higher, faster, faster and higher and deeper and spiraling out of control.
I’m panting his name, biting his ear, squeezing his nipples, his solid ass, and I’m about to come, so close, almost there, holy Christ he’s so fucking big and perfect and twisted just right to—ooooh, yes yes yes YES.
I fall over the edge, all semblance of smooth moves gone as I jerk and writhe and squeeze, wave after wave of pleasure exploding from my core against his thick cock. I grab his face and tug his mouth to mine, licking and sucking on his tongue while he groans and pulses inside me, driving into me while we crash over the waves together until my body has no more to give.
My legs are jelly, and the frantic kisses have slowed to long, slow, languid licks. Our bodies are both slicked with sweat, and I’ve completely forgotten that we’re in a jail cell.
Until now.
I tense, and Chase wraps his arms around me. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he says against my cheek, his lips tickling and teasing my skin.
I squeeze his hips with my legs, or try anyway—jelly doesn’t squeeze well.
Still, his cock pulses deep inside me. It’s like his penis is a sex triathlete, though the only events it better be competing in are my mouth and my vagina. So…a sex biathlete?
No, wait. He can come in my hand too.
If he has to.
“Naughty minx,” he murmurs.
“You have no idea,” I reply.
“Bro?” he says.
“Mm?”
“Congratulations. We just made prison our bitch.”
He gives me the most adorable grin I’ve ever seen. My body is sated, my freak-out button has been completely deactivated, and this handsome, evil, brilliant, twisted man with his dick still twitching in my hoo-ha is smiling at me.
I tip my head back and laugh, because what else is a jailbird to do after she’s made prison her bitch?
28
Ambrosia
Six years ago, I arrived in New York with a criminal record, a bachelor’s degree from a second-rate college, and a chance from a small, local, organic grocery chain.
Today, I land back in my city with my record erased, a promise that I’ll be given a fair chance at promotion in the same grocery store, and a billionaire boyfriend whom I gave my virginity to on the floor of the Bratwurst Wagon one memorable night shortly after I graduated high school.
Oh, and I’ve officially joined the mile high club.
Twice.
My brothers are overjoyed. Not about the mile high club—there are some things they don’t need to know—but that Chase is back in their lives. My parents were bought with new golf clubs (Dad) and a shiny new website with full tech support and direct sales options (Mom). My all-girl boy band cover band bandmates are saving their judgment until we see if we can get through an entire two weeks without getting arrested for public indecency.
As my hoo-ha says, there are worse things to get arrested for than good orgasms.
We swing by my apartment to grab my goldfish and aloe plant—okay, yes, and to have a quickie—and don’t even make it in the door before the dust starts flaking down from the ceiling.
Squeaky-squeaky-squeaky-squeeeeeeeeak…
Chase and I look at each other, and we both crack up. Joe Gus Johnson is currently in hiding back in Wishberry Lake, riding high on the notoriety that kept me away for ten years, thanks to my mother’s righteous indignation fueling her dip into the gossip waters.
Also helping redirect the gossip? Chase announced that he was buying the baloney factory and converting it to Crunchy’s Midwestern regional headquarters, with on-the-job cross-training opportunities for employees who wanted to stay through the transition. No lay-offs, full paychecks without pause. Pending my criminal record being obliterated by local law enforcement, of course.
I think I might seriously feel something way stronger than not-hate for this man.
Have no fear—the Baloney Festival will still go on, though he’s threatening to set up a tofaloney booth. Either way, the Bratwurst Wagon has been permanently disinvited.
Hogzilla’s battle cry echoes through the ceiling of my apartment, accompanied by a wolf howl.
Chase peers curiously at the ceiling. “I honestly want to know what’s actually going on up there.”
“I don’t usually hate your sick sense of adventure,” I tell him.
“You were much more complimentary about my sense of adventure two hours ago when we were in the air,” he says with a smirk.
I don’t hate that smirk either. And I kind of love that there’s still a fleck of glitter next to his lip.
“Oh, please,” I say with a smile I couldn’t suppress even if I wanted to. “I was trying not to yawn the whole time. You know what altitude does to your wrinkled pickle.”
He catches me around the waist and hefts me over his shoulder. “I’ll show you a wrinkled pickle, woman.” He lugs me around the screen to my bed and stops short. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
I suddenly know what he’s seeing, and I feel my face go bright red. “I don’t hate when you fuck me on my couch,” I stutter.
“Oh, no,” he says. “If you’re still using a boy band blanket, I’m going to fuck you on your boy band blanket.”
Yes, yes, my bed is a shrine to the boy band Bro Code. I know I should quit them—they broke up like a decade ago—but of all the boy bands of my youth, they were the hottest. “It’s a comforter, not a blanket. And it’s my inspiration for my budding musical career
.”
He tosses me onto the boy band and quickly covers my body with his, his fingers finding my nipples. “I don’t hate your boy band cover band,” he says while he takes aim at my neck with his teeth.
I grip his hair, spread my legs, and tilt my head to give him better access. “I don’t hate your huge, swollen, wrinkled pickle.”
He thrusts said pickle at me through our clothes, and I attack him like a rabid bunny in need of a good fuck. Clothes go flying, his hands are all over my skin, his mouth headed to the promised land. “You make me crazy, Bro,” he tells my pussy.
He licks me with one long, languid stroke, and I buck my hips up into his mouth. “We’re fucking insane,” I gasp.
Except I know we’re not. Turns out, when we’re not fighting or fucking, we have a lot in common. We both want to make the world a better place through food. We both love music. And we both love doing filthy things to each other that would make even my brothers blush.
Wait. That’s still the fucking.
But it’s so good.
His magic fingers slide into me while his tongue flicks my clit, and just like that, I’m clenching and spasming and doing my own mating call. This man just knows me.
He kisses his way back up my body, teasing me with his thick, delicious cock. He’s holding me captive with his eyes, determined and dark and intense, and my heart squeezes.
This man has all of me.
“I don’t hate the way I love you,” he whispers.
I roll us so I’m on top, sliding down his length, taking all of him into me as deep as he’ll go. I stroke the stubble on his cheeks, play my fingers down his neck and across his collarbone. “I don’t hate the way I love you either.”
“Show me,” he says.
And I do.
For the rest of my life, I do.
Epilogue
Bro (But only to her lover—everyone else calls her Sia. Or Ambrosia if they’re family.)
There are three things I love: these organic chocolate chip cookies the lady in the snack bar got me addicted to, a good prank, and Chase Jett.