Goode To Be Bad

by Jasinda Wilder

  “That bad?” Myles asked.

  Jupiter’s eyes were wide. “You don’t fuckin’ know, man. He was a one-man wrecking machine. I wouldn’t want to put money on Crow in a fight between those two, is what I’m saying.”

  Myles whistled. “I’d back Crow against Satan himself.”

  “Me too,” Jupiter said. “Baxter Badd is just…on a different plane of existence.”

  “So if you met him again…?” Myles asked.

  Jupiter waved his hand. “Ah, it was a fight, a paid fight. I’ve got nothing but serious respect for the man. He’s out of the fighting world now too, I guess. Running a gym up there, nowadays.”

  The cockpit opened, then, and the pilots emerged, in matching captain’s uniforms. “We’re ready to go, Mr. North,” the male pilot said.

  “All right guys, I gotta go,” Myles said. A chorus of goodbyes from the band, and then Myles ended the call. He gestured to me. “Captain Alan Murphy, and Captain Rebecca Callahan, this is Lexie Goode. She’ll be flying with us a lot in the future.” He eyed me. “I hope.”

  We all politely ignored that, me especially—and I stood and shook hands with the pilots, finding myself impressed with the relative youth of the female pilot. “Pleased to meet you, Captains.”

  The male pilot, Captain Murphy, gave the spiel. “We’re going to be taking off in a few minutes, but I’d like to thank you for the opportunity to work with you, Mr. North, and to assure you that you are in the best hands there are. We’ll be touching down in Seattle for a quick refuel, and then on to Ketchikan. We should have you on the ferry to Ketchikan by…oh, eight or so this evening. We have great weather and good wind, so we should make good time. If anything comes up, which I don’t anticipate, I’ll pop on over the intercom. Your seats all have buckles, including the couch, so please buckle up until we’re at cruising altitude. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to unbuckle.”

  The takeoff was smooth, smoother than any commercial flight I’d ever been on, and we reached cruising altitude a few minutes later. I half expected Myles to make some sort of move to “break in” the plane, but he just hunted around for the iPad which controlled the lights and TV; he turned the lights down, turned the TV on, selected a movie—a late nineties rom-com—and kicked back beside me, feet extended. I found it so easy to lean against his chest and forget where I was, or anything else.

  Please don’t bring up our conversation from this morning, I found myself thinking. I knew damn well he’d seen right through my clumsy avoidance, but it had been instinctual. Defenses had kicked in before I knew what I was doing, and now it was done. Not that I’d do anything different. He’d hit upon not one, not two, but three different triggers: blowjobs and swallowing, being restrained, and cuddling. And the nature of our relationship. And my insecurity with how he felt about me.

  So more than three.

  Fuck.

  I’d ducked and dodged and picked a fight, and he’d seen through it all. But hadn’t called me on it. I gave him kudos for that.

  But right now he was a little distant.

  Instead of trying to bend me over the couch, he was cuddling up and watching a movie—a girly movie, too, not a guns-and-tits-and-explosions dude movie. Which, honestly, I would have preferred. Rom-coms are too saccharine and too touchy-feely and too much about love and happily ever after—all the things I hate and despise and don’t believe in.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to move out of his arms. It’s not that it didn’t feel good. It’s not that I didn’t feel at home, and safe and secure.

  I didn’t feel the things Myles had talked about.

  No way.

  I didn’t do cuddles. I didn’t do…this.

  But I just couldn’t move. I’d been awake last night, late. I’d passed out after we had sex, but then had woken up with Myles wrapped around me like an octopus, arms and legs coiling around every part of me, his cock nuzzled between my butt cheeks and his hand on my boob, nose against the back of my neck, hot breath on my spine. I’d been hot and uncomfortable with being held like that.

  Yet then, like now, something deeper even than my deeply rooted disgust at cuddling had prevented me from moving away, from disentangling his hands, from throwing off his legs.

  I was tired. It was all right, at best, being here on this jet, held and safe and comfortable. But just okay, though.

  A bed, alone, a bottle of wine, and my vibrator. That’s what I really wanted.

  For real. And I meant it.

  That’s definitely better than being safe and secure at forty thousand feet, in the arms of a sexy, talented, wealthy, famous country music star who was absolutely gaga for me, who would do anything for me, who looked at me like I was his sun, moon, and stars, who gave me more and better orgasms than all the other men combined in my past.

  Yeah.

  I didn’t believe it myself, but a girl can try, right?

  And it was totally logical and sane to be trying to convince myself of that in the first place.

  Right?

  Right.

  Myles

  She fell asleep halfway through the movie. It was only when she fell asleep that her tension receded at all—until then, she’d been stiff as a board, every muscle tensed, as if just relaxing on the couch with me was some awful punishment. It seemed to make her uncomfortable—as uncomfortable as when I brought up the status of our relationship. Or asked about her past. Or acted like I felt anything for her beyond sexual attraction.

  Granted, my sexual attraction to her was off the damned charts. Believe me when I say I’ve considered every position and angle I could have her on this jet, and that I’ve been sitting here, while she slept, imagining them all. As if I hadn’t fucked her stupid last night, and again this morning, and then less than an hour after fucking her this morning, she’d given me a handjob to end all handjobs which, until Lexie, I hadn’t thought was even a thing, apart from having been a typical teenage boy. Until Lexie, the last handjob I’d gotten was at sixteen with my first girlfriend, and that had been the first thing we’d done beyond kissing and over-the-clothes groping. Lexie made it…sensual. Erotic. Not just jerking me off, but…something else. Something way, way hotter.

  The Lexie Special.

  I considered her statement from earlier this morning that she didn’t do blowjobs. Meaning, that she didn’t swallow. I mean, sure, that’s her prerogative. Totally her choice, and no problem on my end with it. And I’m in no way slut shaming her, but it just seemed out of character. She was hypersexual. She wanted me as much as I wanted her—she instigated sex as much as I did if not more. She used her mouth on me, and to incredible effect. But it was always part of something else, and never to finish. I didn’t know what to make of it. I wouldn’t push it, because if that’s a line for her, I respect that utterly. But considering how much of a sexual creature she is, it just strikes me as…odd. There has to be a story behind it.

  But good luck getting that story out of her, though. I knew that all too well.

  She never talked about herself. I wasn’t even supposed to know about the affair and the abortion—I’d overheard the story as she delivered it as an outburst, spontaneously and angrily, to her sister Charlie. There’d been nothing else of her past related to me in the almost three months I’d known her. I’m not saying I’m gonna propose any time soon, but I’ve got real feelings for the girl, and fuck if I know what they are or how to deal with them, especially when she spooks if she gets so much as a whiff of anything smacking of feelings.

  She had some shit buried deep. I wondered if her family even knew, because she is cagey as shit about it, whatever it is.

  I mulled it over, wondering if I’d ever get anything real out of her. Was this “thing” we had doomed to be nothing but a run of mind-altering sex with a woman I was falling in love with real fucking fast? Was it fated to end before it became anything real because she was…shit, I didn’t even know what? Afraid? Afraid of commitment, of me, of my fame, of feelings? Had sh
e been hurt by a guy? That seemed likely, given her history of hookups and casual sex and dearth of information about any past boyfriends.

  I think I was the closest she’d ever gotten to a regular relationship. She had lived with me for two months; those months have been telling, and I know they were wearing on her. Making her antsy. Cagey. Anxious to move on before she can’t help but start having feelings for me.

  Or maybe she already did have feelings but was trying to stifle them and ignore them.

  Feelings. It was weird that I was the one angling to talk about shit, because I normally hated talking about shit. I liked to play music, perform, hang out with my band, and party. And have sex.

  With Lexie.

  Until I met her, my list of likes would have stopped at “and have sex.”

  But now, I just can’t fathom wanting sex with anyone else. It wouldn’t be…enough. No one could scream the way she does. No one could clench her pussy around my cock the way she does—with vise-grip power, squeezing me so hard even if I wanted to hold out, I couldn’t. When she came, when she started squeezing those tight-as-fuck pussy muscles around me, I just fucking lost it. Gone.

  That’s just sex, that’s not to mention the way she looks at me—her sense of humor, her sense of style. Her boldness, her vicious tongue. Her fierce independence. The way, every once in a while, I’d get a glimpse of something soft and sweet and tender inside her.

  My thoughts were disrupted as she flipped to one side and rested against my chest, snorting delicately. She pillowed her cheek on her hands, sucked in a deep breath, and let it out with an adorable, piggish little snurk. She would deny snoring, but she does. I’ll never tell her, though.

  I had to piss like crazy, but no way I was about to dislodge her—not when she’s finally snuggling.

  Shit, man. Me, snuggling, and happy about it? I barely recognize myself, sometimes.

  The intercom crackled as Captain Murphy came on: “We’ve been cleared to approach for landing, so please buckle up, Mr. North, Ms. Goode. We’ll be touching down in Seattle shortly. Thanks.”

  “Lex,” I murmured. “Gotta wake up. Landing soon.”

  “Mmm.”

  I jostled her gently. “Lexie. Babe.”

  “Mmm-mmm.”

  “Lex, we’re landing soon. You have to buckle up.”

  She shook her head, rubbed my chest. “Sleeping. You shushy.”

  I laughed. “Come on, silly girl. Don’t make me tickle you.”

  She tightened. “Don’t. Tickle me and I’ll punch you in the nads. I hate being tickled.”

  “You gotta buckle up, hon. We’re landing.”

  She struggled to a sitting position, rubbed her eyes. Scraped her hands through her hair, messing it up and somehow making it even sexier. Stretched, arching catlike, spine bowing inward, pressing her breasts out and up. Teasing. God, the woman’s tits were the most fantastic pair I’d ever seen in my life, and I absolutely never got tired of them, or used to them. Never would, either.

  She caught me staring, and smirked. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “What?”

  “You literally see, touch, and taste my boobs multiple times a day, every day. Yet you’re still staring at me like you’re dying to get me out of my top.”

  “Hey, what can I say? I’m a tits man, and you have the best tits in the world.”

  “In the world?” she said, sounding skeptical.

  “In the history of the world.”

  She shook her head, snorting derisively, but I caught a hint of a pleased and flattered smile as she turned away to buckle up. “You’re just biased.”

  “I am not. I’m a boobs expert, and it is my expert opinion that your boobs are the best ever.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know I’m plenty confident in my body, and that I’m not jealous. So just be real, okay? You’re honestly saying, of all the women you’ve seen and slept with, my body is your favorite? You’re not just saying that because you’re currently sleeping with me?”

  I debated calling out that phrase––currently sleeping with—but didn’t. “I do mean that.”

  “And you’ve mentally compared.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else is in the running?”

  “Well, everyone else is a distant second and third or whatever.”

  “No bullshit, no flattery.”

  “You really want details?”

  “I really do.”

  “Okay, well, I played at a festival with a bunch of other up-and-coming country music stars. And one of them was this new girl named Britt Aubrey. Gorgeous girl, and super talented. She’s probably second, in terms of best body and just overall most beautiful.”

  She blinked at me. “I know her. She’s amazing, good with a guitar and a crazy powerful voice. And sexy as hell, to boot. You’re saying I’m more beautiful––better body, face, hair, everything––than Britt Aubrey?”

  “I’m saying of all the women I’ve known and been with, Britt Aubrey is the only one who can even try to hold a candle to you,” I said as I looked out the window and saw the blue Pacific and the Seattle area below. We would be landing very soon.

  She waited until we’d touched down with a squeal and bark of the tires, and then the rushing roar as we slowed to a taxiing roll. “Are you curious where you stand on my roster?”

  I shot her an arrogant grin. “Since you’re asking, I’m gonna guess somewhere near the top. I mean, I am Myles North.”

  “Myles North and full of yourself.” She unbuckled as we taxied. “But yeah, top of the list would be understating things.”

  “So, answer the same question. Who’s on the list?”

  “Well, nobody famous for me, except you, obviously. When I was at U-Conn I went with some friends to a frat house kegger at Penn State, and banged the Penn State football team’s star running back. Until you, I’d have put him as the best by far. Tall, jacked, sweet, and hung like a damn horse.”

  “And I can compete with tall, jacked, and hung like a horse?”

  She snorted as if I’d asked a stupid question. “Yeah, Myles. Tall, shredded, and hung like…well, like an even bigger horse. He was, umm…like, a pony. You’re a draft horse. In the penis department, I mean. He’s got you beat in the big muscles department, but I don’t typically go for the super swole guys anyway. They tend to be obsessed with muscles to an unhealthy degree, in my experience.”

  “I tried for years to get bigger, under Jupe’s tutelage. But I’m what they call a hardgainer and eventually, after literally years of lifting wacky heavy and eating thousands and thousands of calories a day, Jupiter was like, you should just quit fighting your body and go for shredded. So that’s what I did. I just can’t get big, or if I did, it would have to be under the kind of insane dedication which, as a professional touring musician, I just don’t have the time for.”

  A few minutes later I felt the jet jerk to a stop “Well, let me just say that I really approve.” She eyed the shower, visible through the open door—a sliding pocket-door. “That looks like a fun shower.”

  “Maybe we can play in it, later. On the way out of Alaska.”

  She licked her lips, eyes going predatory and seductive. “Do we have time now?”

  I laughed, because the captain came on the intercom at that moment. “Welcome to Seattle, you guys.” It was Captain Callahan, this time. “We’re just refueling, and will be back in the air fairly quickly. If you’d like to take a longer break and stretch your legs or get some real food, just let us know.”

  I glanced at her. “Up to you.”

  She shook her head, sighing wistfully. “Seattle is on my list of places to explore, but under the circumstances I’d rather just get to Alaska and get this over with.”

  She sure was eager to be done with this, which was odd, considering how close she was with her family; I got it though—she had a difficult story to relate, and wasn’t looking forward to her mother’s reaction, especially.

  I keyed the interc
om. “We’d like to just get to Ketchikan as soon as possible, thanks.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Captain Callahan said. “We can be airborne in about forty-five minutes.”

  “So…about that shower,” Lexie said, after the connection to the cockpit was closed.

  I laughed. “Babe, for what I have in mind for you and that shower, forty-five minutes ain’t anywhere near enough.”

  Her gaze heated. “I like the way that sounds.”

  “You know what I can do in the next forty-five minutes?” I tugged her toward me, pushed her backward to lay on the couch. “Pay you back for the orgasm.”

  She hissed as I reached up under her skirt and yanked her thong off. “Myles, I…oh…oh.” I opted to dive right in, tongue going straight for her clit. “I don’t keep track. There’s no tab or record.”

  “I know—you don’t.” I made her gasp, already arching—she was a hair trigger when it came to the first orgasm, and slower to come every time after, but tended to come harder with each subsequent climax. “But I do. I’m a believer in a three-to-one ratio, so by my own personal reckoning I owe you at least three.”

  “I…oooh fuck, yeah, right there, just like that.” She clutched at my hair as I found the sweet spot, tongue circling and fingers curling inside her. “I like this ratio.”

  I murmured a laugh even as I continued to lick her closer and closer to climax. “I bet you do,” I muttered.

  “We’re—oh fuck, oh fuckfuckfuck—we’re almost to one. Right….right…oh god, oh god, oh fuck oh god…right now!” She arched up off the couch and I followed her through it, tasting her essence explode onto my tongue as she blossomed into a thrashing, hip-thrusting, hair-tossing, teeth-gritted orgasm. “Fuck, MYLES! God, what are you doing to me oh god god oh god so fucking good oh god—”

  “Making you come, that’s what I’m doing.”

  I let her fall back, kissing her hipbone, her thigh, across her sex, kissing all over her skin, licking and nipping and teasing as I allowed her a few moments to recover, and then as her breathing evened out, I started all over again; this time I went slow, building her up gradually, licking fast and then slow, all over and then targeted, shifting tactics every time she started to really get into it. Then, when she was gasping and groaning and her hips were pushing against my mouth, I went hard and fast with tongue and mouth to take her to the edge, only to back her away at the last second. Then back up, closer to the edge, and away. Edging, edging. When she was snarling at me and yanking at my hair and begging me to let her come, I finally let her topple, screaming and crying over the edge.