by Anthology
When I cupped his balls, I felt them tighten and I knew he was close. “Chase...” he huffed my name through his breathless need. “Fucking hell. I’m …oh God… I’m coming.”
Pulling away at the last second, I watched as his orgasm painted white hot ropes against his tanned skin. In a sexy-as-fuck move, he folded his arms under his head and peered down at me. “That was fucking amazing.”
Through my soft laughter, I said, “You weren’t so bad yourself.”
Mesmerized by his body, I watched as he pulled his undershirt out of the pile of clothes. His stomach muscles rippled as he cleaned himself up. Not wanting to be caught staring at him, I took the opportunity to sit up and take care of the condom.
My phone buzzed on the floor of the limo, breaking what would have definitely become an awkward silence. It was my brother, asking when I’d be home. Not about to tell Noah anything about my personal life, I simply said, “Listen, I need to go.”
What looked a lot like rejection washed over his face before it was quickly replaced by a hint of anger. “Yeah, sure.”
In silence, we dressed, bumping into each other a few times in the tight space. With my hand hovering above the door handle, I looked over at Noah, unsure of what to say. Stupidly, I went with, “Thank you.”
He laughed, a full, loud chuckle. “Sure thing, Chase.”
As I walked away from the limo, I was certain I would never see Noah ever again.
5
CHAPTER FIVE
Noah
Chelsea was a beautiful bride and her wedding went off without a hitch. I guess that’s what happened when you truly embraced the Bridezilla mentality. But now that the reception was in full swing, it was nice to see her relax and actually enjoy herself. Leaning up against the bar, I watched as the couples made their way to the dance floor. As they swayed to some old Frank Sinatra tune, my mind wandered back to Chase.
To be honest, the song had nothing to do with me thinking about him.
In the month since our night together, a day didn’t go by when I didn’t think of him. Fuck, there were even a few nights I parked outside of his club. I wanted to go inside as if my life depended on it, but something kept me back. My pride?
That was doubtful. I knew it had more to do with my need. I knew if I ever saw Chase again, I’d never be able to stay away from him. And that was exactly why I never went inside.
I knew what it was like to need someone and it only ended up in me being hurt. I had too much going on in my life to get caught up like that again.
And as if the world had its ultimate play of irony set up for me, just as my fists tightened thinking about him, Rob strutted up to me. I hated that he was here, but since he was the groom’s brother, there wasn’t much I could say about it. I’d been able to keep my distance from him at the other wedding-centered events. Even though I wanted to throat punch him, I even managed to survive the wedding party photos earlier.
“Rob,” I greeted through clenched teeth.
Like the asshole he was, he smiled at me. “So I see you’re still mad.” I considered kneeing him in the balls as he signaled the bartender, but I knew Chelsea would have a fit if I caused any kind of scene.
“Not in the least,” I seethed as I lifted my glass to my lips. “You fucking Whatshisname was the best thing ever to ever happen to me.”
Stunned, he stared at me. I was done dealing with Rob and his shit. In the months since I’d kicked him out, he’d called and texted, begging to get back together. I guess he’d had enough of me ignoring him and his current way of dealing with it was being as much of a dick as possible.
“Well, that’s good to hear.” Anger flared in his eyes and it made my heart happy to know I was causing him at least a sliver of the pain he’d caused me.
“Why’s that?” I asked, not really caring what he had to say.
He looked over my shoulder, waving at someone behind me. I didn’t care enough to play into his game and look. “I’d like you to meet my date.”
Oh fucking great. Of course he’d bring a date. And of course he’d make a point of rubbing it in my face.
And when I turned around, my glass slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor.
I never thought I’d see him again, and I certainly didn’t think I’d see him here. “Chase,” I choked on his name.
“Noah,” he muttered, a stunned look plastered to his face.
“You two know each other?” Rob asked, pointing between the two of us.
Chase ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it the perfect mixture of messy and styled. “You could say that.”
As I looked down at the shards of glass lying at my feet, I had a feeling they would be easier to piece back together than this conversation would be. “I need to go,” I lied.
I told myself I didn’t care how they met or what Chase meant to Rob. But it was all a lie. The truth was I wanted nothing more than to be in the back of that limo with Chase just once more. My battered pride and I made our way to the bridal suite, hoping to salvage some sense of humility while we still could.
I hated myself for letting Rob get to me. But I hated myself even more for still wanting Chase, especially when he was here with that asshole.
“Knock, knock,” Chelsea called out from the other side of the door. “What are you doing up here?”
“Nothing,” I recovered quickly. “Just needed a little space. That’s all.”
The smile on her beautiful face told me she knew it had to do with Rob. There was nothing to say and I was so thankful for her silent support. “Sure thing. But hurry up. They’re about to do the YMCA. You can’t miss that.”
“Of course not,” I answered sarcastically.
She stuck her tongue out at me and made a silly face. As she left the room, a waitress came in. “Are you Noah Carpenter?” she asked, holding out a piece of paper.
Without saying anything, I took the paper from her hands. My trembling hands unfolded the note.
I’ll be outside. Black limo.
Chase
Laughing at how he mirrored my words from our first encounter, I folded the paper up and slid it into my pocket. “Chase,” I said to myself as I exited the room. “I certainly will.”
ABOUT MELISSA COLLINS
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Melissa Collins has always been a book worm. Studying Literature in college ensured that her nose was always stuck in a book. She followed her passion for reading to the most logical career choice: English teacher. Her hope was to share her passion for reading and the escapism of books to her students. Having spent more than a decade in front of a classroom, she can easily say that it’s been a dream.
Her passion for writing didn’t start until more recently. When she was home on maternity leave in early 2012, she read her first romance novel and her head filled with the passion, angst and laughter of the characters who she read about it. It wasn’t long before characters of her own took shape in her mind. Their lives took over Melissa’s brain and The Love Series, among countless others, came alive on the pages.
CONNECT WITH MELISSA
Instagram
@mcollinsauthor
melissacollins.author
www.melissacollinsauthor.com
A KINKY KIND OF LOVE
MJ Fields
1
BOY, DO I HAVE A STORY FOR YOU…
Some men are ass men. They watch a woman walk down the road and their eyes are glued to her moneymaker, onion, booty, bum, fanny, rear, rump, pooter, back crack, keister, tushy. Whatever you call it, it’s an ass.
I’m not an ass-man, per say, but I love a nice, round badunkadunk. BB—Before Bekah—the thought of sticking my dick in a nice, tight little hole was more than a turn on. It was kind of a challenge.
I liked a butt diddle every now and again. Going to fifth base was better than simply hitting a homerun. And let’s face it, sex wasn’t much of a challenge for me. I had women seeking me out. Many made appointments. Fuck, I
can’t count the women on the Jersey Shore who wore my art. So, slipping through the back door without getting carded was fucking cool. Dancing the chocolate cha-cha, a good peanut butter stir, a poke in the brown eye, riding the Hershey highway, all good fun.
Until her.
Bekah fucking George.
Mmm … my kitten.
Three years ago, I saw Bekah George at my family’s tattoo shop, looking for a job. She had a creative mind and could draw very well, but she had never inked anyone in her life. Hell, she had none herself and had drawn on fake tattoos to make it look like she did. And no, she didn’t disclose that information.
I will admit that the day she walked into Forever Steel, I heard her sexy, little southern drawl, and then, like a vacuum cleaner—I loved me a good Hoover when I was younger—I looked up and my eyes glued to the nicest pair of tits with a little nipple poke-age I had ever seen.
Tits.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’m here to tell you, in my case, that’s not true. In fact, it’s a bunch of shit. The way to my heart is via the tits.
I love to touch them, suck them, bite them, and fuck them. I love clamping them, and I love releasing them. If they’re short, you can wrap them bitches, making them hard, long, and sensitive as fuck. I love to drip hot wax on them, and I love to peel that wax off, scraping my teeth over them. I love rubbing the tip of my cock across them, and I love to come all fucking over them.
I. Fucking. Love. Tits.
Her sweet, little southern twang and her tits got my attention and her the job. And it just so worked out that those tits won my heart, too.
Does that make me a total dick? Fuck no. It makes me a man who knows what he likes.
Tits.
I trained her to pierce and ink. Then I trained her hot, little ass how to submit and be dominated. Then, the best part happened. I trained her how to be loved in every way possible.
As I said, I have fucked a lot of women, but I have only loved one. And I have been loving her hard every day since that day in the shop.
Once I won her heart, we had the most intimate of weddings. She was all tied up in knots, and there was even a beautiful cross involved.
I still get her all tied up in love … often.
“Over my dead body will you ever tell our child a story like that,” she says.
“What? It’s true,” I defend, reaching for her deep red, little pebble.
She slaps my hand away, and I chub up.
My kitten is playing hard to get.
I like it, so I continue.
“On the night you were conceived, your beautiful mother was wrapped in deep red satin. Her pale skin shone from the moonlight coming in through the bedroom window, and she was all, oh Zandor—”
“You are such an ass, Zandor Steel,” she says, holding back a laugh.
“Stop interrupting.” I pull her closer and rub her belly. “She was all like, Oh, God, Zandor, you can’t come inside me, and I was balls deep in the sweetest, hottest little pussy I’d ever been in, and my mouth was sucking tit.
“She knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking happy cap. Why should I? We’re married. So, it was her tits or her mouth I’d be coming in. My dick was hers, her pussy was mine, and there was no worry about STDs.
“She was all tied up in our bed, telling me no. And in the bedroom, no means yes … Actually, it means more than that. No means fuck me harder.”
“Please just stop,” she sighs.
“It’s rude to interrupt, Kitten, so be quiet please. Where was I? Oh yes. I was pounding that pussy, she was crying no, then she came so fucking hard I just couldn’t stop. And that, my son, is how your mother brought the legend Zandor Steel to plant his love seed deep … very, very deep inside of her.”
“Ha, ha,” Bekah says, rolling her eyes.
“What? It’s true.” I flip her to her back, ready to fuck her, when she scowls.
“What if it’s a girl?”
“Don’t say shit like that.” My dick is no longer steel.
“It could happen,” she says smugly.
“God would not do that to me,” I argue.
“Is that so?”
“He and I have gotten closer. I mean, I even stopped dressing up like him on Christmas.”
“You cannot say things like that.” Covering her belly as if to protect our child, she looks around like Jesus is going to walk out of the wall and strike me dead.
“He has a sense of humor, kitten. Think about what your exes were packing compared to me.”
She covers her ears and tries not to laugh. “That’s enough. No more.”
I lean over and bite down on her nipple, making her sigh.
“You love me.” I smile then suck hard, causing her to moan and fist my hair.
And then … Then she fucks it all up.
2
HE DOESN’T PLAY FAIR, SO NEITHER WILL I.
Bekah
“Now let me tell you a story.” I sit up, pulling the sheet over my six month pregnant body. “When our daughter is born …” He shakes his head no, and I nod yes, continuing, “When our daughter is born.”
“Blasphemy,” he says, getting off the bed.
“She will no doubt have a loving and controlling father,” I sigh out.
“Not like yours,” he sneers.
“Of course not like mine.”
Zandor detests my father’s past treatment of me and is only tolerant of him because he loves me.
He not only loves me, but he adores me.
When he first talked about a D/s relationship, it completely freaked me out. Plastic penises were not alien to me. I had a vibrator. Hell, I was on a cock diet when I first met him. But Bondage? Paddles? Nipple clamps? Butt plugs? Crosses? Scenes?
He was building a sex club!
Totally freaking nuts.
I had been hurt way too many times by men. Made too many horrible choices in the name of love. I lived through a hellacious divorce, under the rule of a father who was in control of everything surrounding him, including people. If you crossed him, you would have hell to pay.
Trust was not given easily. I was insecure as hell, yet he was asking me to just let him have control of my body, and my heart?
Had we not spent time together already, had I not been in love with him already, I would have run for the hills.
I am so glad I didn’t.
What I have in him is a best friend, a man who adores me, a lover who doesn’t finish until I have, and most of the time, he demands multiples. A man who I love and trust irrevocably.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan when realization strikes.
“Bekah, language,” Zandor corrects. He doesn’t like when I curse if we aren’t actually fucking.
Right now, I don’t care.
I get out of bed, wrap the sheet around me, walk out of our room, down the hall, and then down the stairs.
“Playroom?” he asks, following me.
I don’t reply. Right now, I’m pissed at him. And myself. How the hell would we be normal parents?!
I walk to the bookshelf and skim past the dozens of books about pleasure, kink, and erotic poetry, grabbing the “wedding album.” Then I turn around and hold it up.
“This is what I have to show my little girl when she wants to see what her parents’ wedding day looked like.”
He stands perfectly still, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, expression deadpan, and says absolutely nothing. Not one damn thing.
So, I push. “I’m burning this.”
“Kitten, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I, Zandor?”
He doesn’t say a thing.
I open the album and show him the first page. “This. This is ridiculous.”
I’m tied to a Saint Andrew’s Cross.
“You look ravenous.”
“I look like a fucking whore.”
“Languag—”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. Fuck! S
hit! Bitch! Whore!” I yell out, shutting the book and walking toward the kitchen.
He follows me in and watches as I throw the damn thing in the garbage.
“And another thing,” I say as I look back at him. “The playroom needs to go. Because, in just a couple months, it will need to become an actual playroom.”
3
TO FUCK OR NOT TO FUCK
Zandor
There are very few times in my life where I think, hey, maybe you should learn to control your dick.
This is one of them.
I’m hard.
I’m hard because, right now, I want to tie her ass up, and then I want to fuck some sense into her.
She looks down and sees my chub, rolls her eyes, and growls as she stomps away.
I stick my foot out and catch the silk sheet. Three steps later, it’s on the floor and my wife is bare and fucking beautiful. Then she turns around and stomps once.
“You need to fix this mess and get a handle on yourself. We’re going to be parents soon!”
There are also a very few times when I have control, but don’t want it. This … This is one of them.
I grab my dick, stroke it, and smile at her.
“You are such a child!”
“You said to get a handle—”
“Grow up,” she mumbles. Then she turns around and stomps up the stairs.
I hear the bedroom door slam shut and decide I better go kiss it better.
When I reach the door, it’s locked.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I joke.
She doesn’t.