Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology

by Nikki Sloane, Elle Kennedy, KL Kreig, Leslie McAdam, Lynda Aicher, Mara White, Marni Mann, Rebecca Shea, Saffron Kent, Sierra Simone, Veronica Larsen, Xio Axelrod

  All I can manage is a short nod. I miss you, too, I want to say. I don’t, though. I let him walk out without a word because I know that while our relationship has suffered irreparable damage over the years, this is truly the beginning of the end for us.

  We both want the same woman. We’d both give anything to have her, and though Kael is probably better suited for her, I am the one who will get her. There is a bit of ego in that statement, but it’s also one hundred percent fact. There is and always has been something special between Mavs and me. Kael knows this, though he’s never quite accepted it.

  And from the second Maverick walked into DSC weeks ago, I’m not the only man whose rope has unraveled. Kael’s has too. I see it in the way he watches her when she’s not looking, or in the way he crowds her space so unintentionally she doesn’t even notice. And I know he’s reinstituted Thursday night darts, where he’s no doubt pulling out all the stops. So, I either walk away and let my brother take her by default or I claim the one woman I genuinely believe was meant for me from the day she was born.

  Some say no woman should come between brothers. Blood trumps all. Family first.

  Those people have not met Maverick DeSoto.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sitting in my car under the cover of darkness, I drum my thumbs against the steering wheel, waiting for the woman I’ve loved a lifetime to arrive. I have the game on in the background, though I couldn’t tell you the score.

  My mind spins with the wheels I set in motion earlier today. For a brief second, I thought about not showing up, not because I don’t want Mavs but because what we’re about to go through will challenge us both in ways we’ve not been challenged yet.

  It will be impossible to start our lives here in Dusty Falls. Her father is not supportive of a romance between us, and he will make my life a living hell. He may well even fire me, citing the fraternization policy he not so subtly threw in my face a few weeks ago. Though he’d welcome me into the DeSoto family, it would be as Jillian’s husband, not Maverick’s.

  But Richard isn’t our only obstacle. Not by a long shot. At the end of the day, I don’t give a shit about pissing off Richard DeSoto. That’s bound to happen. Kael, on the other hand . . .

  Seeing the woman he’s coveted with me day in and day out will be agonizing. And I despise causing him that pain. I can’t imagine how I would feel having to watch the two of them living happily ever after right under my nose. Well, I can. I have. It’s not pretty. And it’s simply not an option.

  I love my brother. I do. He’s the only sibling I have, and I would do anything for him. I’d lie, cheat, steal, kill, take a bullet, commit a crime, donate a kidney. All the things one brother would do for another. I’d do anything . . . except give up the woman I love to him.

  I’ll always remember the day our relationship shifted over the beauty we each ache to call ours.

  We were sitting on the front porch steps, each with a giant slice of our mother’s famous apple and potato cake. Kael was a mere fourteen years old. I was sixteen. He proceeded to tell me he was going to marry Maverick. At fourteen he already knew how he felt. But at sixteen, so did I. I knew it the second I pulled her frozen, nearly lifeless body from a remote, icy pond behind our two houses a few months before. When she was old enough, she would belong to me, not Kael.

  I tried to keep my voice even; my question “What if that’s not what she wants?” was meant to be thought-provoking, but upon reflection I realize I came across incredibly possessive.

  Yes, I was jealous of their relationship. Resentful. Still am. Kael and Mavs are best friends. They did everything together growing up, and they are still far too close for my liking. They share hobbies and memories and have secrets I am not privy to. He has parts of her I’ll never have and I hate it. I want her to be my best friend, my everything, not Kael’s. I’m tired of sharing my dreams with my brother. I want her for myself.

  And though I’ve told myself countless times since then that best friends become lovers and eventually husband and wife all the time, and that Kael and Maverick’s union would be accepted by all, the fact of the matter is her feelings toward Kael are platonic.

  The downstream effect of acting on us, however, will be more than a trickle. It will be a waterfall. I have thought through the repercussions of this decision ad nauseum. The fracturing of two families, of friendships, of career and home.

  We grew up next to the DeSotos. My father was best man at Richard and Vivian’s wedding. My parents are best friends with the DeSotos and godparents to Maverick and Jillian. We spend holidays together and frequently eat Sunday dinners at their home. And in addition to Kael and me, my father also works for Richard as the CFO.

  Our lives are intertwined in every way. For all intents and purposes, the DeSotos are family, though the feelings I have for Mavs are anything but brotherly. They are dirty. Raw. Visceral. Marrow deep and soundly resolute.

  No. There is no going backward. No second-guessing. No more delaying. There is only forward. I simply have to manage the fallout the best I can. Regrettably my options are limited: none of them good and time is not on my side.

  My gaze flits to the clock.

  9:41 p.m.

  She should have been here ten minutes ago.

  “It’s three to one, White Sox, in the bottom of the eighth,” Len Kasper’s distinct voice chimes through my Bose speakers. I turn the radio off, uninterested in the game or that my team is ahead. My only interest lies in the woman who is unusually late.

  I glance in my rearview mirror hoping to see her pulling in behind me. Instead, the black of night is my suitor. My right leg bounces up and down. I shove my hand on my knee to stop it, but anxiety builds everywhere else to the point of heart palpitations, so I acquiesce to a childhood penchant that I detest and have tried to conquer since college. Unsuccessfully.

  I let sixty long seconds pass before I dial her number.

  “I’m almost there,” she answers without a proper greeting. She sounds breathless. “I . . . I got hung up. I’m sorry.”

  Maverick loathes tardiness. Something’s off, but I don’t press.

  “Thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

  “As if I’d miss our mentoring session.” I hear her smile, the teasing in her lilt. I’m hard in a blink. “Pulling in now.”

  The line goes dead as two bright headlights blind me from behind. Gravel crunches under the weight of tires as her car slows and comes to a stop behind me. The engine cuts and the lights fade. The click of a door opening, then shutting, rides the cool breeze through my open window.

  I follow her silhouette until it disappears around the passenger side of my truck seconds before she’s sliding quietly inside the cab. The overhead light extinguishes all too quickly, but the rays of an almost-full moon illuminate her perfect perfection.

  “Hi.” Yeah, she’s breathless. Definitely breathless. And so goddamned beautiful, I am in awe.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, wondering what has her flustered.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  I can’t tell if she’s lying or not. I think maybe she is. I open my mouth to ask again, but that’s all forgotten when she sinks her top teeth into the flesh of her lower lip and pulls it through until it pops out, plumper than before.

  Sweet Jesus, Mavs. Stop.

  Talk, I remind myself. We’re here to talk. Then stop envisioning pulling down the straps of that clingy peach blouse until her breasts are freed, asshole.

  “I just . . .” She glances out the front windshield and twists her fingers together, musing. The rush of the Iowa River fifty yards away would soothe my nerves under any other circumstances. Not tonight. Not when I’m breathing her in with every breath. “I appreciate you taking time for me. Really. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but . . . why here?” she asks, swinging her puzzled gaze back to mine.

  I hate it has to be this way. Meeting undercover in the back of a park. It feels sleazy, as thou
gh we’re doing something wrong when we’re not. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  “Would you rather we do this at your house with your father’s ear to the wall?”

  “I, uh . . .” she stutters. I hear her swallow. Those jeweled irises widen until they’re big and round. Lips, the color of Bordeaux, part slightly. I want to kiss them. Suck them until she’s moaning my name and I hear the echo in my dreams later. She blinks fast, her breathing picking up with each passing second. “Do what . . . exactly?”

  I don’t respond.

  Time hangs. Innuendos are unspoken.

  Talk. You’re here to talk.

  I smirk. She squirms, and the more she squirms, the wider my grin gets. I let her off the hook, though I am highly amused.

  “Kidding,” I say with a wink, which makes her laugh. It’s genuine. Relaxed. I fall even further into her.

  For all that is holy, how is it even possible to love a woman this much?

  Bringing her here was a mistake. She deserves far more from me.

  My whispered, “We shouldn’t be here,” sounds disingenuous. And, as Maverick is her father’s daughter, she senses the opening . . . and she capitalizes.

  “This is exactly where we should be,” she sighs, closing the gap between us. The khaki shorts she’s worn ride up even higher in the process, showcasing her tanned, toned thighs, which are now wedged nicely against my denim-covered ones.

  Fuck. Me.

  I’m sliding fast into every fantasy I’ve had regarding her, consequences be damned.

  Fists clenched, I stare at the night blanketing us. “Someone could see us.”

  I’m grasping at strings invisible to the naked eye, fully aware that I put us in this situation. Any control I thought I would have was a fabled illusion.

  “There’s not another car in the whole park. And besides, it’s dark and we’re so far back from the road no one will see.”

  This night reminds me of the one so long ago where she somehow ended up in my lap, kissing me, virtually pulverizing my will. She took what she wanted then, boldly, without hesitation. She does the same now.

  “Maverick,” I hiss when she sets her hand firmly between my legs. Her name is a curse and a plea. A reverie.

  I should stop her. Stop this.

  I don’t.

  I can’t.

  The way she’s caressing me, root to tip . . . Jesus. I grip the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, jerking violently when her thumbnail scrapes the sensitive underside of my cock. The sensation is acute. It’s fucking amazing. She does it again. I hold back a moan.

  Heat licks every inch of me. My head feels heavy. My thoughts war.

  Stop.

  Don’t stop.

  Take her.

  Not like this.

  She reaches for my zipper. God forgive me, I let her. I almost do it for her. She pops the top button with zero effort. Metal teeth separate, one by one until my fly hangs open. My dick pulsates, jumping with every rapid heartbeat. She stalls for a second . . . two . . . three. It’s agonizing, the wait. I could come right now under the weight of her stare. I might when her fingertips lightly graze me through the thin fabric of my briefs, teasing.

  “Maverick,” I rasp. End this torture. I beg of you.

  Torture is relative, I suppose. The sting of denial. The agony of submission. Which is worse? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know as she complies with my silent appeal and slips my underwear down. I’m burning up, on fire. Those slim fingers wrap around me one by one, her movements slow and calculated. Precise.

  ““Fuuuuck,” I mumble, my eyes falling closed.

  We are skin to skin for the very first time and, reverent mother of all things merciful, nothing has ever felt so erotic. Everything about her, about this moment, is better than I thought possible. The warmth of her touch, the wisps of unadulterated need fanning my cheek, the surety in the way she strokes me. She fans kisses along my stubble. Her lips are as soft as feather pillows.

  It’s too much. It’s all too much.

  Don’t stop.

  Don’t ever fucking stop.

  Pre-cum coats my head, and when she swipes a thumb over the top, gently massaging the wetness around, it hurtles me over a beam I was poorly balancing on. Every good intention I had is carried away as if it was dust in the wind.

  “Maverick, Jesus Christ.”

  I’m done. Savage male instinct takes over. Next thing I know, I am taking and taking and taking.

  Her long hair twisted in my fist, my mouth plunders, owning hers. My tongue dominates, sweeping hers in long strokes until we’re both mindless and panting. I nip her jaw, kiss the hollow of her throat, tongue her collarbone. My head spins. She tastes like the sweet nectar of salvation wrapped in a delicate filament of spun fucking sugar. Exactly as I recall. I can’t get enough.

  I snag that bottom lip I love so much, sipping and sucking until she’s a writhing mess. My free hand skims between the valley of her breasts. I cup one, pinching a protruding bud. Hard. Her strangled moans melt sweetly in my mouth, unleashing the devil in me.

  I want her. All of her. In every way I’ve ever dreamed.

  “Put my cock in your mouth,” I find myself demanding hoarsely.

  Is she ready for this, I wonder? For me to thrash twenty-some years of repressed craving upon her body until she breaks and begs for mercy?

  I put enough distance between us so I can gauge her reaction. Will her eyes narrow in repulsion or glaze over in eagerness?

  What I find astounds me. She blinks up at me with an irresistible innocence I know is not faked. Definitely not repulsion. My earthy, humble, sweet girl. How I am going to enjoy being the man to corrupt you.

  “I want to feel you inside me,” she breathes on a hush.

  “And I will be inside you, Small Fry,” I promise, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. “But I need to sink inside that mouth first. I’ve fantasized a thousand times over the years of you sucking me off. Don’t make me beg.”

  The side of her lip twitches before she answers with that sass I so love. “I think I might like to hear you beg for once.”

  I don’t think she understands that I’d give her anything; sacrifice my very beating heart and then some. And that’s probably because in trying to keep the appropriate distance, I’ve not demonstrated her importance in my life over the years. She is my gravity, whether she realizes it or not. The promise of her has been the distant light I’ve walked toward for so long.

  Tonight that changes. Tonight she will know what she means to me.

  The timbre of my voice is barely noticeable to me when I utter words I’m happy to give her. “Please.”

  The droop of her eyelids is the quiet acquiescence I was hoping for. I gently guide her head to my lap, giving her time to change her mind or protest if need be. She doesn’t. She only grips me stronger, then wraps that feisty, hot mouth around the entirety of me, taking me almost all the way to the base. Fuck. I wind my fingers through her hair and grip her scalp. She presses her tongue to a protruding vein as she travels back up and circles my tip and . . .

  “Oh, Jesus, Mavs.”

  Nirvana.

  “So good.”

  Nothing has ever felt better.

  “Right there. Don’t stop.”

  I don’t know if I verbalize my scattered thoughts or if the words die somewhere between my brain and my mouth. I don’t know much of anything but the gluttony of pleasures being lavished on me with love and complete and total deference to my gratification. I’ve never had a woman care this much about pleasing me. And there is something about that feeling that makes my heart swell and my head swim.

  And suddenly I need to be inside of her more than I need to breathe.

  Using my hold on her dark tresses as leverage, I tug her off me and slam my lips to hers, eating the protest she was trying for. I tear at her blouse, ripping it over her head. Next, I attack her bra,
throwing it on the floorboard to join her shirt. I don’t allow myself time to ogle her. Right now, I am thirsty, ravenous, and I gorge.

  I pull a nipple into my mouth and clamp down until she gasps. I redden it before moving to the other, drinking in her flavor. I want to stay here forever, adrift in her sea, blissfully dragged under by her current, but if I’m not buried in her by the count of ten, our first time together will be a stark disappointment. Reluctantly, I move on, peppering kisses down her quivering belly, simultaneously working the mechanics on her shorts until they’re gone, along with her panties.

  I rise up and stare, stupefied.

  She is grace. She is a vision. Mesmerizing. She is buck naked and ready for me, and as if I’m a schoolboy I don’t know what to do first, one idea bleeding into the next.

  I want to skim every dip and curve with my tongue.

  I want my taste buds bursting with her muskiness.

  I want her sobbing as she comes undone by my hand.

  I want her breasts wrapped around my cock, my come coating her chest.

  Her back is flush with the seat, her knees have fallen open, and the smell of her essence drifts up, but that’s not what stops me cold. I realize that this—Maverick—is my homecoming. Peace and serenity begin and end with her. Every dream I have had is of her, for her. I pause, frozen, unable to rip my eyes away and I have what I can only describe as an out-of-body experience.

  The moon’s rays illuminate her, my angel living among mortals. Her skin glows. Her eyes sparkle. Her core is wet. She is brilliant. She is everything.

  I want to capture this.

  I want to freeze time.

  I want to hold her and never let go.

  I want it all in this moment and I want nothing, save her.

  I reach out and touch her. A soft smile turns her lips as I run the pad of my finger lightly from her temple, down the curve of her face, over her mouth. My name is but a puff of air from her lips as I circle the fullness of her breast before tracing the dusky pink of her areola, puckered and aroused. Ignoring the stirring of need in her body begging me to do something, anything, I continue my trek to the top of her mound, stalling just shy of her clit. I pause, fully comprehending the weight of this moment.