by Frankie Love
“I didn’t realize you were such a player, is all,” Cash tells me.
“I’m not a player. I just crush a lot.”
“Are you for reals, right now?” he asks, giving me a full-on grin.
“Oh, Cash, I’m too legit to quit.” I step away from him, and for a moment we watch one another. I’ve never hooked up like this, so I don’t know if the feelings surging through me are from the adrenaline rush of doing something so un-Evie, or if it’s because there’s something deeper going on between Cash and me.
I don’t want to be naive and think this is something that it isn’t. And Cash has player written all over him.
Reminding myself that I invited him here for fun, not for anything serious, I plaster a smile on my face, forcing myself to be as chill as ice. “How about you think about my request while I get you some food.” Feeling bold, I add, “I have a feeling you’ll need the sustenance.” I laugh, warmth spreading through my belly, because I can’t remember feeling so silly since before Mom died.
“Who are you?” he asks as I move toward the kitchen.
I feel his eyes on me, and I like it. “I don’t know, Cash. I honestly don’t know.” I open the freezer, for no reason besides needing the cold air to wash over me.
Cash has gotten me hot all over.
Chapter Seven
Cassius
I watch her pull containers out of the fridge, but I don’t offer to help because I’m too spun up. Too worked up. Way too revved up.
That kiss was fucking insanity.
Why, exactly, was I monogamous for two years straight?
I turn from her, adjusting my cock because, damn, this girl is making me insane.
Evie is so fucking precious, and she has no idea how appealing that is. She has a black dress on—but not like that, not how you’d think. It has a belt high on the waist and goes down almost to her knees, and there are tiny ponies printed all over the entire thing. She has flats on, and her hair is in waves around her shoulders, and everything about her screams innocent.
Everything about her screams Yes, please.
Will you have sex with me Cash?
It’s a fair question. Will I?
“So, I have chips and salsa,” she tells me as I turn back around. “And I can make us quesadillas. Oh, and beer. You want a Corona? Or are you a tequila guy? I can’t tell.”
“What are you?” I ask her, leaning against the kitchen island. She called this place a guest house, but most people would die for a place like this. “I’d guess sangria.”
She smirks, gives me a shrug, then pulls a bottle of tequila down from the cupboard. Grabbing a lime, she slices it, then pours us shots, finds a salt shaker.
“To you, Cash,” she toasts. “To your contract.”
We toss the shots back. The alcohol burns my throat, and I watch her grab the salt, the lime. I don’t want either. I just want her.
She’s wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and her gray eyes seem brighter. She lets another laugh escape.
“Do you lure lots of guys back to your guest house?” I ask, as she pours us another round.
“No. None. Ever.”
We take the second shot. This time I know what to expect. Her laugh still gets my cock hard, but at least I knew it was coming.
“I need to eat,” she says. “I’m a lightweight.”
“You don’t say?” I ask, coming up behind her, kissing her neck and running my hands around her narrow waist, letting them linger lower. As low as possible without literally pressing my hand against her pussy—though God knows I want to.
Her breath is heavy, and I hold onto her as she turns on the gas, sets a pan on the flame. Adds a tortilla and shredded cheese. When the fuck did making lunch become such a turn on?
The whole time, my arms are wrapped around her. I’m nibbling at her ear and the base of her neck, inhaling her soft hair. She’s wind-blown—salt water and saltier tears. And the thing is, she doesn’t swat my hand away or act coy. She’s all-in.
She leans her back into me, her little ass against my growing cock, and damn, it takes everything in me not to flip her around, rip off her dress, press my mouth against her tits.
I know if I start I won’t stop, and I don’t know if fucking this girl an hour after we met is in her best interest. She seems fragile today; she was crying when we met. I may come off as a bad boy but the truth is, I treat girls right.
“It’s ready,” she says, turning to me.
“Girl, you’re killing me.”
She tosses her head back. “Cash, I’m the one who put the offer on the table, so your death is on you. But I really hope it doesn’t come to that.” She pushes away from me, grabbing the tequila. “You wanna eat outside?”
I nod, grabbing the chips and salsa. She takes the plate of quesadillas and the booze, and we step back into the Los Angeles sunshine.
“So, Cash, I already know an embarrassing story about you,” she says, grabbing a cheesy tortilla. “So tell me something else.”
“There isn’t much to tell, honey.”
“No, you don’t get off that easy. You’re clearly driven. KMG doesn’t sign talent if they aren’t going to top the charts. So what’s your story?”
I need some more fucking tequila for that. I pour a shot, throw it back. “I’m from East Heights, about as far from the life you have as you can imagine. Think 8 Mile. I’m doing this to help my mom. She needs the money bad, and more help than I’ve been able to give her. Growing up, though, it was my dad who caused me problems.”
“We have that in common.”
I give a sharp laugh. “I don’t think our daddy issues are the same kind.”
She looks at me steadily, pouring herself a shot. “Probably not, but I’m thinking both our fathers probably shaped our world view a heck of a lot more than we like to admit.” She drinks the clear liquor. Licks her lips. “Thing is, those assholes who messed us up gave us a gift, unknowingly. I’m better for being my father’s daughter. I know what kind of man I don’t want. And I’m guessing you know what kind of man you don’t want to be.”
“Fuck,” I say, shaking my head. “I need a pad of paper when I’m with you, girl.”
“Why’s that?”
“Everything you say makes me feel like I should be writing it down. The way I feel when I’m just next to you belongs in a fucking song. You are lyrics personified, and you don’t even know it.”
“You have a nice vocabulary,” she says, a hint of a smile playing across her mouth. I know she likes my compliments. She could probably use a hell of a lot more.
“I practically memorized a thesaurus. When I write lyrics, it’s all about the words.”
“What kind of music do you make?”
“I rap, solo. I wasn’t messing when I referenced 8 Mile—though, fuck, I didn’t intend to do this, be a rapper or some shit.”
“What did you intend?”
“I wanted to make music. I used to play around with a guitar, thought I’d be a singer-songwriter or whatever.”
“Was this before or after the Slurpee phase?”
“Around the same time, I guess. I mean, I got a guitar when I was, like, thirteen.”
“What happened?” She dips a chip in the salsa, but keeps her eyes on me. I can’t avoid her. She makes that impossible, because even if she wasn’t looking I know she would see me.
“You know my stage name, Cash Flow?” She nods and I continue. “Well my older brother, Chad, he heard me playing, and knew I had chops. Everyone in the neighborhood knew I did. And then when I was nineteen I got in trouble with the law, and didn’t have a guitar for, like, a year. So I was writing a bunch, and started rapping, because what else was I gonna do?”
She leans forward, listening.
“Well, I got out and we needed money, badly. Dad was gone, Mom was drunk, and it was like, this is the one shot. My music was the only thing we had. Chad thought I could pull off the rap thing. He had a vision for me, and he knew the money—the real
money—wasn’t in some indie songwriter shit.”
“Well, you must be really talented. Chad must have known you had a gift or you’d never have gotten signed.” She bites her lip. “You don’t like taking about the past, do you?”
“It’s nothing good, Evangeline.”
“Understood,” she says, slowly enough that I know she means it. “So you became Cash Flow because you needed the money?”
“Well that, and my first name is Cassius. People always called me Cash.”
“Cassius? That’s cute.”
“Cute?” I shake my head, knowing I shouldn’t have told her. “Honey, I just told you—I fucking sold out before I even began.”
“Does Chad always tell you what to do?”
“No. He may be my manager, but I’m my own man.” I stand and pull Evie up, too, and kiss her again. This time I don’t wonder when or how I’ll stop. I’m not planning on it.
Her lips are soft and boozy, and melt into mine. She looks up at me with her hooded eyes begging me to take complete control. I like her eyes this way. They’re no longer rimmed in red; now they’re full of desire.
I hold her face in my hands, my palms covering her cheeks, and I kiss her deeply, sliding my tongue into her mouth. My body lights up with anticipation, because Evangeline brings emotions out in me that no one ever has before.
“I don’t need anyone to tell me what to do,” I whisper against her mouth. Her lips are parted and wanton. “I know exactly what I’m going to do right now.”
Chapter Eight
Evangeline
He pulls me into the guesthouse, and once we’re inside and I lock the door, I know there’s no turning back.
And, God, I don’t want to go anywhere but forward. With him, and my life, and just everything.
He follows me into my bedroom, where my bed is unmade and my clothes litter the floor. It looks like the maid hasn’t come in yet today.
I don’t care; the sheets will just get rumpled anyway.
He’s sliding off my belt, and then his fingers run across the neckline of my dress. His hands are big and capable, and maybe it was listening to him tell me about his life, but I want to do whatever I can to make him smile. To make him laugh.
It should be a day to celebrate. My dad only signs the best talent, and that is Cash. I can see it—how soulful he is. I imagine his lyrics penetrate something deep and raw and real. I bet he’s incredible on stage.
He’s making me feel incredible right here.
“You’re fucking gorgeous, Evie,” he tells me, wrapping his large hands around my waist, making me feel small in the biggest sort of way—a way that makes my heart bloom with petals soft and full.
When he tells me I’m gorgeous, I believe him.
He unbuttons my dress, and I step out of my flats. When he reaches for the hem of my dress and lifts it over my head, I let out a small sigh, because I can’t believe I’m doing this—can’t believe how badly I want to do this, how badly I want to do something I have never once done before.
I’m standing before Cassius, in a black bra and black panties and nothing more, and I want him to like what he sees. He’s the opposite of me in so many exterior ways, but is it crazy to think that inside, deep down, we aren’t that different?
That’s crazy, right? Cash is this gangster or something, in his Adidas and his gold chain and tattoos. And me in my what? My La Perla bra that cost three hundred dollars, and my trust fund and rich daddy. Me and my untouched skin and my innocent everything. Me, a girl who needs tequila to make good on what she craves, because God knows I’d chicken out if left to my own devices.
Cassius looks me up and down, and I want to look at his body the same way. I want him undressed; I want his skin against mine and I don’t want to wait.
I reach for his shirt, and he pulls it off. With his shirt gone, all that’s left is the chain around his neck, but now with his skin exposed, I see a body etched with a story that’s deeper than I can understand. He says he needs a notepad to write down words, but lyrics are engraved across his skin.
“Cassius,” I say, stepping closer. The window is open; the curtains flutter as a breeze washes through my room, and the sunlight casts a glow across us both. “You are a piece of art.”
He licks his lips, slowly shaking his head as he moves his hands over my chest, running across my belly and over my ass.
He pulls me to him. “No, you’re the masterpiece, Evangeline. You.”
I sink into him, wanting his chest pressed against my body, tight. The fact that he has a history I can’t comprehend draws me to him so quickly. My life is private camps and fancy schools and piano lessons.
So. Many. Lessons.
But what have I learned?
I learned that the first time I take chance on myself, I am nearly naked in the arms of the sexiest man I’ve ever met.
I should have taken a chance a long time ago.
His jeans are slung low on his hips, and a deep V leads down to something I know will be very good, but I don’t have the nerve to make that move. I don’t know how much tequila I’d need for that sort of bravery—the kind that would give me the resolve to unbutton his jeans and slide them off and reach for the hardness that I feel against me, that I want inside me.
He will need to make some of those moves on his own, because even now, with his fingers reaching for my bra clasp, with me sliding it off and my breasts falling from the cups, I can hardly breathe. I’ve forgotten again. But I don’t need to go outside for fresh air.
I just want his oxygen.
I kiss him, deeply, running my hand through his hair, over the shaved sides, and then the longer strands on top. I hold onto his hair, my mouth filled with his warm tongue, his soft lips, his breath. I pull him closer to me.
“Oh, girl,” he moans, his hands on my breasts, his fingers running over my hard nipples. My pussy tightens—because, oh, it feels so good when he caresses me with such devotion. I swear it’s like he only has eyes for me, like he sees me as more than a hook-up—which I know we aren’t. But, as he touches me, it almost feels holy.
“Do what you want with me, Cash. Please.” I’m begging him, because I know being with him is going to be a heck of a lot better than the rabbit vibrator in my dresser drawer.
He doesn’t hesitate; it’s like something has been unleashed when I give him complete control. He picks me up, his hands tight against my ass, and my legs wrap around him. He sets me down on the bed, my legs hanging off the edge, and he kneels down on the floor.
“Aren’t you coming up here?” I ask, patting the mattress.
“Not yet, honey. First I’m going down.”
Chapter Nine
Cassius
I tug down those panties, revealing a well-trimmed pussy dripping with desire. Spreading her knees apart, I dip my mouth between her thighs, my fingers running across her skin, so soft and smooth.
My tongue presses against her tender clit, rolling in circles over her throbbing bulb. Wanting to make her body tremble in pleasure, I run my tongue up and down the length of her gap, and she moans above me, her knees instinctively drawing together—because this amount of pleasure feels forbidden, feels too good to be true.
But it isn’t.
“Your cunt is perfection,” I tell her.
“Cash.” She laughs softly, and I feel her vibrations as I press my mouth back on her mound. “I can’t believe you used that word.”
That gets me up, moving above her body, and I grab her hands, pin them above her head. Her perfect tits press against my bare chest and I want to press my mouth against them, too, but first I have to clear the fucking air.
“Oh, girl, your cunt is perfection. I want to press my fingers in it until you soak these sheets.”
“Not the word perfection, the c-word.”
“You don’t like the word cunt?” I ask, smiling above her, watching her cheeks redden as she bites her bottom lip.
“I don’t know. I’ve never actually hear
d a guy say it.”
“What do you want me to call your pussy?” I ask, raising my eyebrows as I straddle her, my hands moving over her tits. They’re so perky and round and begging to be sucked. I lean my mouth over one, twirling her hard nipple in my mouth as she squirms in delight.
“Call my pussy anything you want, Cash. I like everything that comes out of your mouth.”
“You like it dirty?” I ask. “Because I don’t know if you can handle how dirty we could make this.” I smile down at her, teasing.
“Do I get to see your cock?” she asks.
I press my mouth against hers. Maybe it’s the way she surprised me with her shots of tequila, or the way the word cock comes out of her parted lips with such a sweet inflection, but I need to kiss her.
I swear I could fucking lose my load before I get my cock out of my pants, but I have to kiss her. Again. More. Now, forever. I want this girl. I need this girl.
I pull away and head back to her pussy, to make sure she’s ready to take me. I don’t want to hurt her.
I part her delicate pussy lips; her folds are so tender and soft and wet. Oh, so fucking wet. I press a finger against her opening, and hear her gasp slightly at the touch.
Fuck, this girl is tight. So very tight.
Too tight.
I pull away from her, lean back up, looking at her intently.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Are you a virgin, Evangeline?”
She swallows. Her smoky eyes widen. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Without missing a beat, I ask another very important question: “And how old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
A surge of relief washes over me, but I know my trouble has just begun.
“And you want me, a man you just met, to take your virginity?”
She props herself up on her elbows. “I don’t want you to take anything.”
My jaw tenses. Is this some massive dick tease?
She smiles, shaking her head, reaching for my hand. She laces her fingers through mine. “Cassius, I don’t want you take it; I’m giving it to you.”