Suit (44 Chapters #4)

by B. B. Easton

  And, evidently, his friends.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Ken replied immediately, his voice cold, his face once again hard as stone.

  “I think he’s out,” I said, looking down at Jason’s slack-jawed face smooshed against my thigh.

  “Let’s get him inside.” Ken’s voice was all business as he stood and approached us. Leaning over so that we were almost eye-to-eye, he reached under Jason’s armpits and hoisted him to a standing position.

  Revealing a huge wet spot on the crotch of his khakis.

  Jesus Christ.

  I hustled across the balcony to a set of French doors. Trying the handles, I exhaled in relief when they swung open, revealing Jason’s large, sparsely decorated bedroom. Ken dragged his unconscious body over to the bed and laid him gently on his side. I hustled to lift his legs onto the mattress and remove his one remaining shoe. Once we got him tucked into his black satin sheets and placed a trash can next to the bed, Ken and I tiptoed out of the room and into the hall.

  “You saved his life.” The whispered words tumbled from my mouth the second the door clicked shut behind us.

  Ken shrugged, his features severe. “I’ve never seen him this fucked up.”

  He didn’t take credit for his heroism. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge it at all. I added that to the long list of things I was learning to appreciate about Ken Easton that night.

  “Me either.” The pulsing techno from the living room mimicked my heart as it pounded in my chest. “Maybe we should stay, just to keep an eye on him until he sobers up.”

  Ken’s eyes were shrouded in shadows as we stood a foot apart in Jason’s darkened hallway. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” I looked up at him as the warm buzzing hum of his bubble enveloped me. “So, what do we do now?”

  I didn’t even know which question I was asking. What do we do for the rest of the night? What do we do about Jason? What do we do about this weird thing between us that seems to be going nowhere?

  But it didn’t matter because Ken’s answer would be the same for all three.

  Lifting a noncommittal shoulder, he said, “Whatever you want to do.”

  Whatever you want to do.

  What if I want to kiss you?

  What if I want to go home with you and make love to you and spend the night with you and wander around museums with you tomorrow, looking at French art?

  What if I want more?

  There was only one way to find out. Pushing up onto my tiptoes, I leaned forward slowly, making my intentions clear. I was prepared for my lips to hit the unyielding marble that Ken sometimes turned into whenever I touched him. I readied myself for the emotional blow of yet another unreciprocated advance. I had not readied myself for the rush of adrenaline that shot through my bloodstream when Ken actually fucking kissed me back.

  Clutching the lapels of his wool coat in my fists, I backed Ken against Jason’s bedroom door. Electronic dance music rattled the thin walls all around us as I pressed my chest against his, but Ken’s hands barely skimmed my sides. I sucked on his bottom lip and swirled my tongue around his, but his kisses remained featherlight. I was desperate for him to make me feel better. To make me forget my fear for Jason, my breakup with Hans, my altercations with Knight, hell, my own name, but Ken wasn’t cooperating. He was infuriating.

  So, I bit him.

  I hadn’t meant to. It just kind of happened. But the second my teeth sank into his plump bottom lip, Ken moaned and pulled my hips forward against his impressive erection.

  Ughn.

  My pulse skyrocketed. My hands tore at his sleek coat, twisted around his silken tie. And when my teeth captured his tongue, Ken’s cock jerked against my lower belly.

  I was just about to rip the buttons off his oxford cloth shirt when the sound of someone puking on the other side of the door brought us both back into the present.

  Jason.

  Shit.

  While I had been busy taking care of Jason and Ken had been busy cleaning up after his shitty friends, Friday had turned into Saturday.

  And, on Saturdays, I had to work.

  I cursed every single pink and orange sunbeam streaking across the sky as I kissed Ken goodbye in the parking lot the next morning. As he kissed me back. As he opened my car door and told me to, “Drive safe.”

  I showed up at Macy’s ten minutes late, wearing the same makeup I’d applied the day before, and spent my lunch break napping on a bed of Rocawear jeans in the storage closet. I should have just called in sick, gone home, and gone to bed, but as exhausted as I was, my bed held no appeal.

  I wanted to sleep in someone else’s bed.

  Someone handsome and mysterious and sarcastic and quiet.

  Someone whose kisses tasted like artificially flavored sports drinks.

  Someone whose gentlemanly manners told me no while his manly body told me yes.

  I went home after work but only long enough to pack an overnight bag. Then, I headed straight to Kenneth Easton’s house where I invited myself upstairs.

  As I lay next to Ken on his queen-size bed—our backs propped up against pillows and our bodies, stiff as statues, illuminated by the menu on his bedroom TV—I thought, This was a terrible fucking idea.

  Ken and I might have been the only people in his house, but my GSU tote bag on his bedroom floor had a presence all its own. A big one. It might as well have been a yodeling, baton-twirling drag queen swinging on a disco ball in front of a flashing neon sign that read, BB WANTS TO BANG YOU.

  Look how tense he is. I think he’s gone through all the movie channels at least three times. He’s not even talking to me.

  “Have you seen 10 Things I Hate About You?” Ken asked, hopping off the bed and crossing the room. He pulled open his top dresser drawer and began rummaging through what sounded like a clearance bin at a Blockbuster Video.

  See? Not only is he super fucking uncomfortable, but the first movie that came to mind has the words I, Hate, and You in the title.

  “No, I haven’t. Is it good?”

  Why won’t you touch me?

  “It’s amazing.”

  Why are you stalling?

  “It must have Hugh Grant in it then.”

  Ken shoved a VHS tape into the VCR next to the glowing television on his dresser and turned toward me. “It’s good, even without Hugh Grant. That’s how good it is.”

  Ken walked back to the bed in absolutely no fucking hurry. He still had on the white button-up dress shirt and dark gray slacks he’d worn to work, his silvery-gray tie hanging loose around his neck.

  Oh my God. He hasn’t even taken off his fucking tie yet! Go home, BB. Just get your purse and your stupid bag of shit and go home. You’re tired, and this man obviously does not want to fuck you.

  “I, uh…like your room,” I said with a hopeful smile as Ken returned to his designated side of the bed. It was true.

  Because he rented the master bedroom to his sister, Ken was living in the bonus room above the garage. The walls and ceiling had all kinds of slanted angles, thanks to the pitch of the roof, and there was a huge arched window that took up most of the wall behind the bed.

  “Thanks.” Ken smiled. “This was attic space when I moved in. I had it finished to boost the resale value.”

  I snorted out a laugh. “Of course you did.”

  “Plus, it freed up more space for renters.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You gonna charge me if I spend the night?”

  Oh God! Did I just say that out loud?

  “Nah.” Ken smirked. “First night’s free.”

  Elation exploded through my veins, and hope bloomed in my belly as I scooted over and nuzzled my way under Ken’s heavy right arm. He let me rest my cheek on his fabric softener–scented chest as we both gazed at the TV, pretending to watch.

  He’s letting me spend the night!

  He’s letting me touch him!

  He has on so many clothes!

  Since Ken was in no r
ush to do anything about his clothing problem, I took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and grasped the knot on his loosened tie. With my heart thumping in my chest, I slid the binding toward me until the knot unraveled in my hand. Glancing up at Ken’s face, I expected to find him stoically staring at the television, either ignoring or oblivious to my advances, but he wasn’t. His guarded blue gaze was pinned on me.

  There was something about the warmth of his stare, the curled corner of his mouth, the sharp angle of his eyebrow that spurred me on. It wasn’t the look of a man who didn’t want me.

  It was the look of a man who didn’t want me to stop.

  Emboldened by his silent dare, I ran my hand up Ken’s chest and began to free the smooth white button at the hollow of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed against my fingertips as I opened his collar. His lungs expanded beneath my hand as I moved to the second and third buttons down. His taut stomach muscles flexed against my fist as I popped the fourth and fifth open. And when I yanked the bottom of his shirt and undershirt free from the waistband of his slacks, the bulge beneath his belt buckle betrayed his cool exterior.

  Ken shrugged off his button-up and peeled his classic white undershirt off over his head, revealing a full set of flexed abs and pectoral muscles dusted with short, well-groomed chest hair. After tossing the top half of his outfit onto the floor, Ken sat back against his pillows, shirtless and sentient.

  I couldn’t figure him out, but the smug expression on his face and fully hard cock protruding from his slacks suggested that he liked it that way.

  Does he just want me to do all the work? Is he that lazy?

  He doesn’t seem lazy. Look at those fucking abs.

  Maybe he just wants me to service him and be on my way?

  What an asshole. I should slap him.

  Do not slap him.

  He might like it. He lets me drag him around by his tie all the time.

  Do not slap him.

  What do I do now? I’m not just gonna strip him naked. I still have all my clothes on!

  So…maybe take your clothes off, too?

  Ugh!

  Instead of slapping or stripping him further, I leaned forward and assaulted him with a punishing kiss. Just like the night before, Ken was passively letting me have my way with him, and just like the night before, my desperation took over. I chomped down on his lip and felt that motherfucker smile against my mouth. I fisted his hair and heard a low chuckle rumble in his throat. And when I straddled his waist and ground against the swollen ridge in his slacks, Ken rested his hands lightly on my denim-covered thighs.

  “Why won’t you touch me?” I finally growled, my face flushed with both desire and mortification.

  Ken replied immediately, the husky timbre of his voice in stark contrast with his disinterested behavior, “I don’t want to pressure you…”

  “Ken”—I pulled back just far enough for him to see the condescending look on my face—“I didn’t show up here with an overnight bag because I just want to sleep.”

  “I know.” Ken narrowed his eyes. “You probably wanna have a pillow fight first.”

  A laugh tore out of me as I gripped his face with my right hand, smooshing his smart-ass mouth into a little heart, which I then attacked with a gnashing, exasperated kiss. Ken responded by palming my ass with both hands and guiding me to resume my previous dry-humping pace.

  He was infuriating me on purpose. That was the only explanation. The angrier and more aggressive I got, the bigger he smiled, and the more he participated.

  I told you this motherfucker wants to be slapped.

  Shut up! We’re not doing that!

  Every action I made was met by Ken with an equal and opposite reaction. As I clawed at his belt buckle and tore open his zipper, he deftly unfastened my jeans. While I ripped my own T-shirt off like a professional wrestler, Ken reached behind me and skillfully unhooked my bra. When I palmed his girth through the rough cotton of his boxer briefs, he massaged my tiny breasts and pierced nipples tenderly.

  He wasn’t just letting me lead; he was making me.

  And nobody makes me do shit.

  Once we were completely naked, I grabbed Ken by the shoulders and rolled us both over, pulling his tall, athletic body on top of mine. The weight of him felt delicious—the thump of his heart, the dewy warmth of his skin. I finally had him where I wanted him—right between my legs.

  Digging my heels into the mattress, I shifted my hips so that the head of his impressive cock was poised at the entrance of my impatient, thrumming body. Then, I kissed the shit out of him.

  There. I consent, motherfucker. Bring it.

  But Ken didn’t bring it. He tortured me further by dragging the entire length of his manhood back and forth across my slippery, pierced clit. Over and over, with each successive pass, Ken would graze my entrance, causing me to lift my hopeful hips in invitation, before denying me again.

  Confused and pissed and panting with need, I glared up at his face in search of an explanation.

  Is he afraid to fuck me without a condom?

  Should I tell him I’m clean and on the pill?

  Is he waiting for that slap? Because I’m about ready to give it to him.

  But Ken didn’t look worried; he looked like a smug son of a bitch. He’d won, and he knew it. Never in my life had I thought I’d meet someone more stubborn than me, but there he was, in all his handsome, hard-bodied glory.

  Surrendering to his impossibly strong will and my own raging hormones, I reached between us and stroked Ken’s slick girth. It was solid and ready and felt so right in my hand. As I guided him forward, I accepted my defeat, inch by glorious inch.

  I don’t know if it was because his dick had been custom built for me, because he’d made me work so damn hard for it, or because we were both sober—which was a first for me—but the moment we were joined, I felt a powerful, euphoric shift occur between us. With that one motion, we went from being rams tangled in each other’s horns to lovers tangled in each other’s arms.

  I just hoped he felt it, too.

  As we began to move, it became clear that Ken was definitely feeling—or not feeling—something. His body was even tenser than before, his movements slow and cautious, and an ocean of space separated our exposed torsos as he hovered over me. Whatever his hang-up was, Ken’s inhibition was driving me fucking insane. I’d lost my virginity in bondage. I’d had every erogenous zone pierced by the age of sixteen. I’d been drizzled with honey, doused with tequila, and painted with my own blood.

  And I’d loved every second of it.

  Ken had a freak inside of him, too; he just needed help letting it out.

  Trusting my instincts, I leaned forward and sank my teeth into the straining muscle between Ken’s neck and shoulder. Rather than yelping or flinching or warding me off with an outstretched crucifix, Ken melted into me, his taut tendons turning to putty between my teeth.

  Interesting.

  Next, I bit his earlobe, practically puncturing it with my sharp incisors. Ken responded by pulling my thighs up around his waist and filling me to my limit.

  Yes.

  I threaded my fingers into his hair and yanked. Hard. Ken thrust harder.

  The more I hurt him, the more his self-imposed restraint melted away. But it wasn’t until I sank my razor-sharp nails into his shoulder blades that Ken’s pace became unhinged. He pounded into me with abandon. His mouth crashed into mine. His hands gripped my hips, my ass, my breasts.

  And I finally got the high I’d been longing for.

  Caught up in the moment and craving nothing but more, I dragged my talons, still sunk to the quick in Ken’s upper back, down the entire length of his spine. It was brutal. Medieval. I probably drew blood. But Ken…fucking…loved it.

  As I sliced his back to ribbons, Ken buried his face in my neck, wrapped his arms around my torso, and came so hard that I saw stars.

  Holy shit.

  I panted and clenched around him, faking a physical orgas
m but having a very real one emotionally. Ken, the poster child for self-discipline, had just come inside me, no questions asked. He’d trusted me. He’d held me. He’d let me see his kink. And, above all, he’d finally given me the one thing he valued more than anything else—control.

  As well as his DNA, which I was pretty sure was permanently embedded under my fingernails.

  With his dick empty and his back carved up like a prized turkey, Ken was a new man.

  We spent the next few hours cuddling and talking, tickling and teasing, and when I climbed on top of him for round two, the orgasm wasn’t just real; it was revelatory.

  The revelation being that I was totally fucked.

  That night, I had a dream that I was back in the 1600s, being tried as a witch in some back-ass-ward little village. I’d been lashed to a stake in the center of town, and all of these old white men were carrying torches, shouting that I was a mistress of Satan.

  “Heretic!” they cried, shaking their fists. “Heathen!”

  I never did find out what I’d done wrong because, seconds before I woke up, they gathered around me, chanted a prayer, and held their flaming sticks to the brittle straw beneath my feet.

  I gasped and sat up with a start. Ken’s comforter was hot to the touch when I grabbed my toes through the puffy down, causing my half-conscious mind to assume that the bed was actually on fire. Looking around in a panic, I realized that I was not about to die. The bottom of the bed was simply hot because the sun was shining directly on that spot through the arched window above the bed.

  Ken didn’t seem to mind the whole ants-under-a-magnifying-glass effect because he was curled up in a ball on the top corner of the bed where the sunlight couldn’t reach him. His back was turned toward me. His arms were clutching a pillow. And there were at least two feet of open space between us.

  So much for cuddling all night.

  I glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was a little after eight thirty. Too shaken from my near-death experience to go back to sleep, I curled up behind Ken, molding myself to his warm body, and planted a kiss on his shoulder blade.