by Amelia Stone
I shifted uncomfortably. This was not about me right now. “You know what I think?” I repeated.
“Hunh?” She arched her back, pushing her breasts into my hands like the greedy girl I knew she was.
“I think it’s time to lose the tee shirt.” I hiked it up, and she leaned forward to give me room to pull it over her head. “Much as I love Spongebob and Patrick riding a cat in space, it’s in my way.”
She laughed breathlessly, wiggling her ass against my hard-on. “I can tell you love it.”
I tweaked her nipple, and she made a needy little noise in the back of her throat. “Spongebob can go fuck that damn squirrel, for all I care. This is all for you.” I ground my hips into her ass.
“Sam,” she whimpered. “Need you inside me. Now.”
I nipped her earlobe. “Not tonight.”
She whined in protest. “Why not?”
I slid out from behind her, falling to my knees in front of the couch. “Because,” I replied, pulling her bra up and over her head. “Tonight is all about you.”
Her eyes roamed to my cock, which was pushing painfully against my zipper. “But what about that?”
I slid her sweats down her luscious hips and thighs, taking her panties with them. “You let me worry about that.”
She groaned, her head falling back against the couch. “I want to touch you,” she complained.
I shook my head firmly. “Nope.” I spread her legs, exposing her perfect pink pussy. God, I loved this. Her and me together, pleasing each other. I’d never get enough.
“Sam,” she pleaded.
“I’ve got you.” I rubbed my beard along the insides of her calves, and she sighed.
I’d trimmed the ‘soupcatcher’ a few days ago, until it was less ZZ Top wannabe and more Ben Affleck in his comeback stage. I’d been tempted to go shorter, or even shave it altogether, like my sister wanted. But Jamy loved the full beard. As long as she kept rubbing it when we kissed, kept tugging on it when I fucked her, kept writhing when it scraped her skin, then I’d keep it. Hanzilla – and her continued requests to nix the beard for the wedding – could bite me.
But the last thing I wanted to think about when I had my head between Jamy’s legs was my sister. So I concentrated on pleasuring my woman, running my tongue behind her knee. We’d both been surprised to discover a couple of weeks ago that stimulating the soft skin there drove her absolutely crazy.
As if on cue, her hips bucked, and she gasped. “Sam!” she cried, drawing out the vowel sound.
“Mmmm,” I hummed, moving up to her thighs and nibbling gently. I loved her thick thighs. I loved how thick she was everywhere, so plush and feminine. She was just perfect for me, and I took every opportunity to show her my appreciation.
Her hand sifted through my hair, digging her fingers into my scalp. “Please.”
I grinned, continuing to torture her by trailing wet, open mouthed kisses as I moved slowly toward her pussy. So fucking slowly. I wanted to draw out her pleasure, wanted her to be so blissed out by the time she finally came that she couldn’t remember her own name, let alone all the things on her to-do list.
But she tugged my hair impatiently. I grinned against her thigh for a second before schooling my features. I pulled my head back, scowling up at her, knowing she loved it when I was the stern, dominant one. “Play with your tits,” I commanded. “Both hands.”
She moaned, her eyelids dropping to half-mast. I stifled a chuckle as her hand left my hair, sliding up her tummy until she was cupping both breasts in her hands.
“That’s my girl,” I whispered as I bent my head.
And this time, I rewarded her by spreading her legs a little further and licking a line right up her center.
She called my name again, her knuckles going white against her own flesh as she gripped her breasts tightly.
I hummed as I bent again, spreading her labia with my tongue. Damn. I loved the way she tasted. Sweet but tangy, like salted caramel. I savored it as I plunged my tongue into her, lapping up the juices that were dripping out of her. I watched as she pinched and rolled her nipples, her sparkly purple nails flashing. I ran a hand up her thigh, rubbing softly, and she whimpered, her eyes closing and her head tipping back.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. Because she knew what was about to happen.
I slid my tongue up, flicking it against her clit, and she bucked, her hands squeezing her breasts hard enough to bruise.
I ran my index finger across her folds, spreading the wetness that was pooled there as I continued to tongue her nub. She pulled a hand away, plunging her fingers in my hair again. Her nails scraped my scalp, telling me she was close to the edge. So without any further teasing, I plunged my finger into her tight channel.
“Yes!” she cried, her fingers pulling my hair hard, just on the edge of pain. I groaned against her clit, fucking loving it. She had me about ready to make a mess in my underwear, in fact. I fumbled with my pants with my free hand, finally flicking the button free and yanking the zipper down. Then I reached into my boxers and pulled my dick free, wrapping my fist around it and squeezing tightly.
“Sam,” she whimpered. “I need…”
I hummed again, knowing what she needed. I ran my pinky through her juices, getting it nice and wet. Then I creeped it backward, rubbing at her backdoor.
“Ungh. Yes.” Her fingers dug into my scalp again, her other hand still working her breasts, rolling the soft flesh under her palm. Unable to hold off any longer, I began to jack myself roughly, scraping the heel of my hand over the head. It felt so good that I had to clench my ass cheeks to keep from coming. I wanted my orgasm to coincide with hers.
Her pussy pulsed around my index finger, telling me she was seconds from coming, too. So I flexed it, finding that soft, spongy patch of flesh that made her eyes roll back into her head. I rubbed it quickly, my tongue still flicking her clit.
“So. Dang. Close,” she bit out through gritted teeth. “Please, Sam.”
So I did the one thing that sent her over the edge every time – I pushed the tip of my pinky into her ass.
She screamed my name one more time as her pussy convulsed around my finger. I continued to pump in and out of her, gently licking her clit as her juices ran down my chin. She pulled my hair again as she writhed above me, and lightning raced up my spine, my balls tightening painfully.
As she floated down from her high, she lazily opened her eyes. They flicked to my hand, which was still furiously stroking my cock. She lifted her gaze, locking those pale green eyes with mine. “Come,” she urged. “Come for me, Sam. Now.”
And with a groan, I did, spilling all over my hand. I panted through it, my eyes never leaving hers.
Jesus. I felt like I’d gotten hit by a truck. She’d never ordered me around in bed before, never once taken control. She’d been happy to let me dominate, as was my natural tendency. But fuck, that was hot. I made a mental note to further explore the idea of her being the one in charge.
When I was finally done pulsing, I sat back on my heels, utterly spent. She pulled everything I had out of me, every damn time. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even though I could have fallen asleep on the spot, I wanted more. In fact, my dick was already twitching, just from looking at her all splayed out on the couch, her wet, well-loved pussy on display for me. I could taste her on my tongue and feel her in my beard, and I wanted more.
“I love it when you do… that.” She blushed as she gently rubbed my head, soothing the sting of all the hair pulling.
I raised an eyebrow. “That?” I thought I knew what she was trying to say, but I wanted her to say it. I loved to watch her cheeks flush as she worked through her shyness, struggling to talk dirty.
She stood, gathering her clothes and shimmying into her sweatpants. “You know,” she said cryptically. But she rubbed her ass almost subconsciously as she stepped into the hallway, peeking over at me through her lashes.
I pulled myself to my feet, too, grabbing a
tissue from the coffee table. “I love ‘that,’ too,” I told her as I cleaned myself up, then tucked my rapidly-softening dick back into my underwear.
I couldn’t help but smirk as I watched her cheeks grow even redder. My little neat freak had a secret fetish for the dirtiest, most taboo type of sex. The woman who couldn’t eat at a restaurant without scrubbing down the table first, who vacuumed twice a day, and who would never let clothes that had been worn outside the house anywhere near her bed, loved anal play. But she could never say it out loud, not in so many words. And she was still a little too skittish to let me actually fuck her ass. But I was working her up to it. Slowly. Slow enough that it was beginning to torture me, actually. I wanted to own every inch of her body.
But I wasn’t in a hurry. We had all the time in the world. Jamy was mine now, and I was never letting her go.
“So will you think about letting someone else help you with all the wedding stuff?” I asked as I turned the TV off and followed her to the bedroom.
Instantly, she tensed. “I don’t need help,” she insisted. “I can handle it.”
I frowned, biting back a curse. Goddamn it, this woman was so stubborn sometimes. Especially when it came to pleasing other people. She wouldn’t ask for help even if she were on fire, because admitting that she was burning alive might upset someone.
“Jamy, you’re stressed out. You’re taking on too much.” I took a deep breath. I was perilously close to yelling, and that wasn’t what I wanted. But how the fuck else was I supposed to get through to her? The persuasive method clearly wasn’t working.
“Look,” I continued, in a gentler tone. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just want you to be happy, babe.”
“I am happy,” she countered, but it came out stiffly, almost robotic. “I want my best friend to have her dream wedding. That would make me happy.” Her eyes met mine, a hint of challenge in them.
I shook my head. “She will have her dream wedding. But that doesn’t mean you have to make it happen all by yourself. You’re killing yourself just trying, for fuck’s sake.”
She pulled her tee shirt over her head, and her face when it popped through the neck hole was flushed with anger. “She didn’t hire a wedding planner,” she said, confirming my earlier suspicions. “What am I supposed to do, tell my best friend, ‘sorry, kid, you’re on your own?’”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I argued, descending into full-on shouting now. “It’s not your goddamn fault she didn’t do this the right way. It’s not like she can’t afford it! She’s just fucking inconsiderate.”
Her normally sweet green eyes were now shooting daggers at me. “And if I left her in the lurch, what then? What would that make me?”
“Someone who actually sticks up for herself!” I ran my hands though my hair, and the dull ache reminded me of the intimacy we’d just shared with each other. How the fuck did we get so far of course in just a matter of minutes?
“I do stick up for myself!” she cried, but she cringed, like she was hoping I wouldn’t call her on it.
But the switch on my temper had been flipped. My anger was almost a living thing by now, and I just couldn’t seem to shut my fucking mouth.
“Bullshit! You let everybody walk all over you, and you always have. Look at your arm.” I pointed to the long scratches going up her forearm. “That asshole cat terrorizes you, but have you ever said a word to Sabine about it?” I gestured to the other side of the apartment, where Harriet Jones, Prime Minister was shut up in my cousin’s room.
She scowled at me. “I’m not going to tell someone to get rid of their pet! That’s just not fair to her.”
“It’s not fair to you to have to put up with a feral animal, either. Sabine is supposed to be your friend. You should take priority over a fucking cat.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “You’ve obviously never had a pet.”
I clenched my fist, digging my nails into my palm. She knew that was a sore spot. My mother had never let us have a dog growing up, even though I’d begged her for years. She didn’t tolerate anything that required more than minimum effort, and caring for a pet far exceeded that threshold.
I took a deep breath. “No, but I will when I close on my house.”
She stiffened, her eyes going wide with shock. “What do you mean, close on your house?” She crossed her arms over her chest, taking a step away from me. “Sam Whitfield. Did you buy a fucking house and forget to tell me?”
I shook my head. No, for once, I’d deliberately kept something from her. I’d gotten a small inheritance from my grandfather back when I was in college. It wasn’t enough to make me filthy rich or anything. It was just enough to cushion my income, if I was very careful with it. But I’d decided instead to invest it in the one thing I knew, down to the depths of my soul, would make me happy.
I took a step toward her, trying to close the distance between us. But she just moved farther away, her ass bumping into the dresser, sending her lotion bottles and knickknacks clattering all over the top.
I held up my hands, trying to calm her. “I wanted to surprise you.”
Her nostrils flared. “I hate surprises.”
She looked hurt, probably because I kept this from her. And I couldn’t really blame her. I hadn’t meant for it to slip out. And right now, while we were at each other’s’ throats, was pretty much the worst time imaginable for me to spring something like this on her. But I could salvage this. I had to. I didn’t even want to think about her not being okay with this.
I tipped my head back, closing my eyes. Desperately reaching for my patience. “I know that. And I’m sorry. But this is a good surprise.”
“How is you buying a house for yourself a good surprise for me?” she spat, her tone uncharacteristically bitter.
Frustration bubbled to the surface again. “Because it’s not just a house for me! It’s a house for us!”
She froze, her mouth popping open, then closing, then opening again. She looked fucking horrified.
Goddamn it.
“Us who?” she asked in a whisper.
“You and me, Jamy. I bought it for you and me.” I took a deep breath. For fuck’s sake, Sam, sell her on it. “It’s in Old Town, so we’d be close to Hannah and Brian, and all the restaurants and stuff you like. There’s a couple of beauty stores and an art supply store, all within a couple of miles. And it’s only about fifteen minutes from the shelter, so your commute would be the same as it is now.” I smiled, though it felt forced.
She stared at me for a long moment. “No.” She shook her head, once, twice. Her face was frozen in fear. “No. You’re not serious.”
I took another step forward, but she backed up again, making a pained little sound when she bumped into the dresser again. I stopped, taking another deep, steadying breath. I was not trying to intimidate her. Persuade her, yes. But I did not want to scare her.
“I am completely serious, Jamy,” I assured her in a measured, even tone. “I bought us a house. It has a big kitchen, and a decent-sized yard for a dog. One of the bedrooms has windows that face south, so there’d be lots of light. I figured you could use that one for your studio.”
She stared at me like I was speaking Portuguese. “For my what?”
I frowned. “Your studio. For your art. Or your nails. Whatever you want to use it for. We can set it up just how you like it.”
She shook at her head, staring at me like she couldn’t understand me. Or like she didn’t believe me.
Fuck. She didn’t believe me.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. After months together, after the countless ways I’d shown her that I cared for her – after I’d nearly fucked her into oblivion on an almost daily basis, for Christ’s sake – she still didn’t believe that I wanted to be with her.
“Jamy, I love you.” I closed the distance between us, cupping her face in my hands before she could stop me. “I love you so much that I can’t think straight. I lose my train of thought i
n the middle of a lesson. I go to staff meetings and have to ask people to repeat themselves. I stand in line at the grocery store, and the cashier has to ask me three times if I want to pay with cash or credit.” I caressed the silky flesh behind her ears, staring into her eyes. “I love you, Jamy Rodgers.”
She shook her head hard enough to dislodge my hands. “No. You don’t love me.”
I glared at her. “I’m pretty sure I know my own heart,” I bit out.
But she continued to shake her head. “No. This is just lust talking.” She bit her lip, her confused and scared eyes meeting mine for a second before darting away again. “For some reason, you like having sex with me. That’s all this is.”
I huffed. For some reason? This. Fucking. Woman.
“Yes, I do like having sex with you.” I turned, pacing toward the bed, then facing her again. “I fucking love it, in fact. Because I love you.”
She frowned. “No,” she said, stubbornly. Always so fucking stubborn, this woman of mine. “No, Sam, I don’t believe it.”
“You know what I love about you?” I asked. She shook her head, but I wasn’t sure if it was an answer, or if she was still in denial. Probably both.
“I love that you’re ultra-competitive,” I continued, “whether you’re watching a game on TV or just playing rock, paper, scissors with me. I love that you love chocolate, but hate chocolate ice cream. I love that you draw the world the way you’d like to see it – like a fairy world, where everything is beautiful and everyone loves each other. I love that you never say mean things about people, and that you hate gossip.” I reached out, gently stroking the side of her cheek. “I love that you get up every morning and fight through your day, even when the effort almost kills you.”
She shook her head again. “Don’t believe it,” she repeated faintly.
“Believe me, Jamy,” I pleaded. “I love you. I always have.”