by Poppy Dunne
“Not yet,” I tell her, positioning myself over her on the bed. “Right now, you’re going to come with my cock buried deep inside you. I haven’t thought about much else for days.”
“That sounds incredible,” she whispers, catching at my bottom lip with her teeth. Fuck, how can I possibly get harder than I am right now? This woman’s a genius.
Even though it’s killing me to delay, I make it excruciating; I make her beg for it. I drag the tip of my cock along the hot, wet seam of her pussy, listening to her breath hitch as I just—just—start to slide into her, and then pull out. Moaning, Dahlia digs her fingernails into my back.
“Don’t tease me, you bastard,” she purrs. I circle the tip of my dick around and around her clit, causing her to seize beneath me. “So close. Fuck me, I’m so close.”
“You don’t come until I’m inside. That’s my rule, and you won’t be breaking it.” I take myself away just as she’s on the absolute verge, and she practically growls at me. I wait until she’s a bit calmer, then tap my thumb against her clit again. And again. And once more, for good measure. Fuck me, but she’s so wet. So ready.
“I need it now.” She wraps her arms around my neck, sliding her legs around me—drawing me inexorably closer, pulling me inside of her. “Don’t make me wait anymore, Jack.”
A gentleman never keeps a lady waiting.
I press the tip of my cock against her cunt once more, sliding lower, and begin to sink inside of her. Dahlia gasps, whispering that it’s good, it’s so good. She needs it now. She’ll go crazy without it. Dahlia runs her nails along my back, and I’m so sensitive it almost makes me come at once. I have to go very still and grit my teeth to stay aware. To stay ready.
I don’t want to come until I’m inside, riding her as hard as I can go.
Slowly, I enter her. She squeezes her thighs, making her cunt so tight. So ready. Fuck, it feels incredible as I fill her, sliding inside until I can’t go any deeper. I wait a second, until I can control my breath, and then I begin to thrust. It starts slow, rhythmic, letting her get a feel for what I’m doing. Letting her know that I’m inside of her, every inch of me, and watching her take my cock. Her lips part, and her eyelids flutter. She begins to grind back against me, in perfect time with my own thrusts.
Kissing her throat, I taste her arousal, her perfume, her sweat. She tastes like perfection. Dahlia moans, pressing her breasts against me. I lean down to kiss and lick the nipples as I fuck her, watching them bounce in perfect time to my movements. She whispers my name, then begins to call it out. It starts soft, gets louder, and I feel her stiffen beneath me. She’s on the verge of an orgasm.
“Jack, I’m almost there.” She whimpers it, her mouth widening, forming a perfect O. It’s good that she’s on the brink, because I’m about to lose myself completely. Already the world around me is growing hazy, leaving Dahlia as the only focal point—she’s the only thing that’s real.
Grabbing her hips, I adjust myself and slam into her as hard and as fast as I can go. Her pussy’s so wet that I glide in and out with ease, making the flow of motion as easy, as seamless as possible. The bedsprings creak and groan beneath us as we pick up the pace, thundering towards the climax.
Dahlia arches her spine, lifting a bit off the bed as she shouts her climax. I feel her pussy gripping me, tightening around me again and again as she spirals through the orgasm. She’s lost in it, and watching her face, the ever changing expressions and the way her eyes scrunch closed, that’s when I lose myself. The world vanishes in a haze of white-hot light, and I spill myself inside of her, collapsing on top of the bed. Her heartbeat is wild and erratic, matching mine.
I plant a kiss on her temple, brushing her hair out of the way. I can’t be parted from this woman ever again. From now on, I’ll do everything in my power to keep her with me.
That’s going to be a life long project. One I’m looking forward to.
When we’re breathing properly again and I’ve untangled myself from her, we lie on our backs and stare at the ceiling. She nestles close, laying her head across my chest. It’s just like our first night, only better. Because now, for the first time in my goddamn ridiculous, admittedly kind of awesome life, I’m in love.
“What are you thinking?” I murmur. She shifts, laying her cheek on my chest.
“How glad I am I took Edith on as a client.” She grins. “And how glad I am that you let the tarts speak to you.”
“Our entire relationship’s been based on the oddest things. Telepathic pastry is not the weirdest addition we’ve yet dealt with,” I say, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Dahlia looks up at me, her face flushed and her hair arousingly tousled.
“We should pay homage,” she says daintily. “Do you still have the box?”
“Good idea. I’m starved.”
And as we lie in bed eating pastries, naked and laughing, I realize this is a pretty damn good end to a story we can tell our grandchildren.
Except we’ll probably leave out the naked part.
Probably.
26
Dahlia
Six months later
Hard to believe I’m living in Manhattan now, harder still to believe I’m in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. When Jack first asked me to move in with him, I was hesitant—after all, his permanent place is in LA. I’m not ready to move so far away from my family, friends, and walkable twenty-four hour Chinese take out.
Fortunately, one of the perks of billionaire living is how fantastically easy it is to be bicoastal.
I just didn’t know he was going to splurge on the penthouse, but it’s all right. I insist on paying the utility bills.
“Are they here yet?” Jack walks out of the bedroom, pulling on a casual gray tee-shirt. I pause, halfway through chopping some apples at the kitchen island. Six months in, and every time he shows the slightest bit of skin I start panting like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Only those poor canines only got a kibble treat. “Stop undressing me with your eyes.” He winks, and I get back to chopping.
“Think the kids are going to want peanut butter with the apples?” I bought a whole jar, just in case. I’m the coolest not-aunt there is.
“So long as we don’t take them spelunking in the Hudson, I think Evelyn will be fine with whatever crap we feed them.” He swings into the kitchen, then comes up right behind me. His arms slide around my waist, and he nuzzles at my neck. A girl could get used to this.
“Careful, I have a knife.” I cock an eyebrow at him. “Never bring a penis to a knife fight.”
I can already feel him stirring, if you will. Damn, if the kids weren’t due to arrive soon with Pete, I’d pull him down onto this island and make raucous, passionate love amidst the apple slices and the sharp culinary objects.
Well, maybe we’d clear the table first.
“But penis fights are my favorite.” He kisses my shoulder…and then the doorbell buzzes. While Jack counts to ten and tries to get his mast down, I answer the door. It’s not Pete; it’s Rose!
“I thought you were coming later!” I give her a hug, then lug her bag inside. My baby sister stands in the foyer, whistling as she looks around.
“Damn. I thought my house with Mike was nice,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I’m early. Hope that’s okay?”
“Of course it is.” Jack and I decided to have a family weekend; tomorrow, we take the kids and Pete to hang out with my parents. “Do you want a beer?”
“You’re into beer? Woman after my own heart,” Jack says as he saunters out of the kitchen, conspicuously less hot and bothered. He gives Rose a hug, and she heads for the kitchen.
“I’m so glad to be getting a break from cooking, you have no idea,” she calls over her shoulder. She looks at the apple slices, rolls up her sleeves, takes a knife, and gets to chopping. “I’m so ready for a vacation. Do we have any peanut butter? I could crush some peanuts, dust it along the top for a garnish.”
“Uh, you sure you don’t want me to do that?”
I go up to her, but she swats my hand away. “So you can be on vacation?”
“I’ll stop after I make these perfect.” Rose focuses on her task, single-minded, just as the buzzer sounds again.
“I’ll get it.” Jack practically rushes to the door. It’s a celebration: the divorce is final, and Pete has joint custody. More than that, Evelyn agreed (with some prodding from Jack’s lawyers) to be content with living off of Dominic’s millions. Pete only has to pay child support, which he was going to do anyway. He doesn’t have to wreck himself financially, and rumor has it he met a pretty sweet girl on Match.com
Everything’s coming up Carraway.
I feel a buzzing in my pants pocket, and take out my phone. Amy Jacobs. Weird! Haven’t heard from her in a while; after she and Dan made it past their fifth date, she stopped needing my advice. She was perfectly happy to sort things out for herself. Make her own rules.
My business has had a rebranding of sorts. Now, I’m all about tailoring your personality, history, and expectations to how to approach dating. No more one-size-fits-all rule making.
It’s worked like a charm; I’ve had more clients than ever before, and even greater successes.
I hang up on the call as Pete and the kids come through. If it’s an emergency, I’ll call her back in a few minutes. Right now, an elated Gabby, still wearing her wizard hat, rushes up to me with her arms flung wide open.
“Old Hermione!” she squeals. Aw. She gets a big hug, and then goes rushing to the kitchen. “Wow! It smells good in here.”
“I’m whipping up some caramel apple cider. I hope that’s all right!” Rose calls. I think I hear both stoves going at full capacity.
“I didn’t know we had caramel,” Jack says, with Georgy on his shoulders. He looks surprised.
“I always come prepared,” Rose says. I hear the banging of pots and pans. No wonder her bag felt so heavy. Pete’s beside Jack, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. He looks like he’s had some sun, and has gained a little weight back. Jack throws his arm around his brother, beaming.
“We’ve got a wild weekend planned,” he says, squeezing Pete around the neck. I swear, they’re about to revert to a state of noogies.
“How wild?” Pete laughs, heading into the kitchen. Georgy gurgles and pulls at Jack’s hair.
“The dangers of Long Island should not be trod into lightly. I hear Dahlia’s father is a monster on the golf course,” Jack says. I’m about to follow them, when my phone buzzes once more. Voicemail. Hmm. I said I wouldn’t do work this weekend, but I need to check this.
“Hi Dahlia!” Amy sounds breathless, like she just ran five blocks carrying twenty-pound shopping bags on each arm. “I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I wanted to update you.” A beat, then, “Dan and I got engaged!”
“Yes!” I did not know I was capable of being that boomingly loud, though to be fair, the hardwood floors make the living/kitchen area an echo chamber. Everyone starts—I think I hear Rose drop something.
“My pastrami slices!” she cries as I rush into the kitchen.
“Another client got engaged!” I pump my fist in the air. “That’s five in the last six months! Worship me!”
And also, many happy and joyous years to Dan and Amy. Of course. Pete whoops and claps, Gabby is eating a cookie and is so high on sugar she doesn’t know what’s happening, Rose fumbles on the kitchen floor for whatever she dropped (though she cheers) and Jack sweeps me up into his arms, spinning me around a few times.
“You get a gold star,” he whispers in my ear. I giggle.
“What’s that?”
“Wait until we’re alone.” He kisses me, and I look into his eyes, my feet still dangling off the floor. “I love you. Anyone ever called you the Queen of Hearts?”
“Now I think of it, that might be a good way to rebrand myself.” I grin, kissing him lightly, just the once—we’re in public, after all. When we’re in private, well…
That’s different.
“That’d make you, what? The king?” I ask him.
“Think I’m more of a Jack,” he says. Oh, hilarious. I scrunch my nose up as he sets me down.
Normally, I’d argue the jack isn’t equal to the queen. But then again, this Jack and Queen are perfectly, equally matched.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The end!
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Extra Credit
Check out the first chapter of my other book, Extra Credit!
Chapter 1
Chelle
William Shakespeare once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Not bad for a man in the sixteenth century, but if he were around in today’s Los Angeles, he might have said “All Runyon Canyon’s a stage, and all the men and women who work out there are hot. Like say, anywhere from a seven to a nine point five. Please don’t interrupt me, my agent’s calling.”
Will wouldn’t have made it in LA, though. Too many out of left field plot twists.
Still, Runyon Canyon’s perfect for me in the here and now, right as dawn is lighting up the sky. It’s beautiful, cool, and I get the place to myself. No shirtless douchebros trying to hit on me, no veganites with penicillin dairy free milkshakes judging me because I once—once—ate a sandwich. Just me, the gorgeous trail, and my little dog Archie. Archie’s a mutt rescue. Not sure what the mix is, but probably a combination of dachshund and Gremlin. He’s got big, flappy ears, a waggly little butt, and if I feed him after midnight, he poops on everything.
As I run up the canyon trail, Archie skipping and yipping ahead of me, I focus my thoughts on the day ahead. Because it’s the Chelle Richardson show, ladies and gentlemen, pulling into another over-privileged, ritzy elementary school. The place is called Bay of Dreams, all the way up in Laurel Canyon. You know, one of those places the hippies found and infested back in the 70s. Well, now it’s a probiotic day school for the richest and crunchiest Angelenos and their kale in the lunchbox children. Considering the demographic I’m going to work for, I’m guessing there’ll be three kids in the class named Kale.
But you know what? As long as the kids are happy, bright-eyed, and passionate about putting on the best version of Jesus Christ Superstar a ten-year-old can create, I’m giddy to work with them. I love every aspect of theater, and nothing’s better than seeing a kid’s face light up when she takes her center stage moment as Candlestick #5 in Beauty and the Beast.
That’s what I do, what I’ve been doing the five years since I graduated Northwestern with a B.A in Communications in my eager, sweaty grip. I travel from town to town, school to school, setting up shop for a few months to put on a fabulous production with a bunch of adorable kids. Then the face paint gets wiped off, the auditorium doors shut, and I get a not-so-hefty paycheck and a friendly, “Thanks, we’ll call if we need you again.” Nothing permanent yet.
Which, to be honest, is kind of a pain. At twenty-eight, I’m hitting the age where being a redheaded lady who bounces around the country with a suitcase and teaching lessons Xeroxed the night before is no longer that attractive. I’d love to settle down, get put on the full time faculty of a nice elementary school, and spend my life happily showing kids the marvelous joys of community theater. I mean, it’s what I went to school for. It’s what I trained for.
As Archie does three zooms around a rock and then pees on it with crazy puppy excitement, I think about taking my little portable pooch and heading back out to my parents’. That’d be tough at the best of times, but considering what my folks do…well, let’s just say that putting on a prepubescent version of Hair looks downright conservative.
Archie puts his little nose in the air, smelling something frantically. Then he charges ahead, kicking up clouds of dust and yapping his flappy-eared head right off. I take off after him, and then stop. Because I hear something ahead—a man’s voice
shouting, and damn if it doesn’t sound like he’s in trouble.
“Shit! Shit! Hold on!” he yells. I take off, images of heroic rescue leaping into my mind as I go. I may be five foot nothing with Ronald McDonald hair, but this heart beats Gryffindor scarlet. I was on Pottermore. I know the drill.
I make a turn in the road, and find myself face to…well, not face, but face-to-back with a tall man, one hand to his ear. The shirt he’s wearing has a V of sweat down the back, and you’ll pardon me for noticing it’s a very nice back. I’m pretty sure I can pick out every definition of muscle. He’s like a sweaty Donatello carving.
“Are you okay?” I ask, running around to look at him. From the way he’s got a hand to his ear, the poor man might be suffering from a ruptured eardrum. That or, you know…he’s on a Bluetooth. Yelling at somebody.
“Ken, you can’t be serious. How can the Dow be that low at opening bell?” he asks, his brow furrowed. There’s a majorly incredulous look going down here. He’s tall, so tall he doesn’t seem to notice me. Then again, most normal-sized people don’t seem to notice me—I am but a ginger hobbit.
“Sorry. Thought you were in a crisis,” I say again, right down here at like his navel. My god, this man is tall. And as the sun begins to crest the canyon, I notice how tall is also translating to hot. In fact, he…
Then Archie gives a yelp. I wheel around and find him pinned down to the canyon floor, getting his maidenly virtue tarnished by a humping bullmastiff. This dog, this slobbery, beautiful, big-eyed dog has probably not been neutered and is claiming his territory like a canine John McClane rappelling down the Yakatomi Plaza. If the Yakatomi Plaza were my dog.
“Hey! Get off Archie! Shoo!” I cry, waving my hands at the big slobbery sweetheart. He looks up at me, jowls tumbling, drool drooling, and gives a big, happy bark. It’s a loud bark—it could probably make you as deaf as a four hour U2 concert. But as soon as he sees me, he bounds off my little mutt and makes straight for me.