by Daryl Banner
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell him, patting his back in some totally inadequate gesture of assurance. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“My parents … are like … really, really, really—”
“Relax, Brant. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
He takes another breath, then shuts off the pickup, stealing away the music from the radio and casting us into silence. “You ready?”
I lean over the gearshift and kiss his cheek. The gesture comes so naturally, it startles both of us. “Ready.”
The outside of his little one-story house is peach-colored from corner to corner. There is a porch that wraps from the front around to one side with a two-car garage comprising the other. A cat looks up lazily from the top step of the porch as we ascend and couldn’t be any less bothered by our interruption of his nap.
When Brant rings the doorbell, dogs bark and yap and howl from within. I can’t tell how many there are, but the sound is overwhelming. I’m only used to one growing up, not the six or seven I imagine are awaiting us on the other side of that door.
The moment there’s a sound at the door handle, Brant’s hand snaps to the small of my back and he pulls me against his side. The maneuver is so sudden that I gasp just before the door swings open.
Standing before me is a pretty, petite woman with a blonde ponytail and enormous blue eyes. For a split second, I wonder if this is his sister before I remind myself he’s an only child. This is his mom?? The woman regards me with surprise for two seconds before a polite, expectant smile crosses her face instead.
“Mom, this is Penelope.”
I jerk at hearing my full name, giving Brant a bit of confused side-eye before facing his mom and extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rudawski.”
“The same to you, Penelope!” she exclaims sweetly. “Come on in! I have some iced tea mixed up, raspberry and peach, your choice. I can show you the guestroom as well, if you’d like to bring your things. We’ll get you settled in.”
“Mom, we don’t need a guestroom,” blurts Brant, his grip on me tightening. “This is my girlfriend. She’s staying with me.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Rudawski says, giggling. Her face flushes.
Girlfriend. The word is still ringing in my ears when I say, “Thank you,” and offer a smile that I hope doesn’t betray my inner misgivings.
Inside the house, I’m relieved and impressed to discover it was only two dogs that made all the noise: two Labradors, both cream-colored and panting. Even their eyes look the same. How do they tell them apart?
“Juliet Montague,” says Brant into my ear, “and Bach Van Gogh.”
“Should I ask?”
“Bach and Van Gogh, my dad’s favorite composer and painter, respectively. And Juliet Montague because … well … my mom believes in happy endings.” He rolls his eyes.
“I do,” Mrs. Rudawski chimes in, having heard him despite his whispering. “Do you want raspberry or peach?”
“Peach,” blurts Brant.
“I was asking our guest, Brant. You can help yourself,” she teases with a smirk at her son. The smirk gives away her laugh lines, though I still couldn’t believe she’s a day over forty, even if she is. She must’ve had him young. “Peach or raspberry, Penelope?” she directs at me.
“Peach will be fine,” I answer, not wanting to be difficult even though I like raspberry more.
Mrs. Rudawski smiles and places a hand on my back just as the dogs race past us, knocking into her feet and nearly tripping her. “Jules! Bach! Crazy dogs. Please, Penelope, make yourself at home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rudawski.”
Brant leads me down a short hall and into his bedroom. I’m not sure what I expected—walls filled from one end to the other with posters of naked chicks and sports teams—but that’s not what greets my eyes. The bed is fluffed with several comforters and blankets in alternating orange and blue colors, the headboard utterly engulfed by a mountain of plush throw pillows. A giant mirror overlooks a dresser that has bumper stickers lined down its side, and the word “faithful” is etched into its face. The window on the other side of the room overlooks a little backyard hot tub, a deck, and a fire pit. It’s a very slapdash mix of suburban stereotypes with a country vibe.
“Wow,” I finally say after letting myself be struck by my environment. This is quite a departure from my loft, or from all the inner-city apartments I grew up in.
He flicks on a lamp at a desk I didn’t notice, then sets his bag down in the chair there. “Yeah, home sweet home.” He lifts a crooked smile at me, then nods at the bed while pulling out his phone to give it a glance. “You can put your stuff anywhere. Kick back and—”
“You called me your girlfriend.”
Brant freezes. He tilts his head innocently. “But … you are.”
I close the distance between us, pull the phone out of his hand, and gently set it on the desk. My face is inches from his. “I sure am.”
He clears his throat, swallowing hard. “I mean, we call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, don’t we? I thought that you …? Did … Did I just make it weird?”
“Weird as fuck,” I confirm. “Just how I like it.”
My lips latch onto his, and we breathe in one another as the kiss consumes us. The whole room seems to shrink as I taste Brant in his own bedroom, the room he supposedly grew up in, the room that holds all the secrets of what made Brant into who he is today.
He pulls away and stares at me longingly, his fingers linked at the small of my back as he holds me against his hips.
He’s hard. I announce my timely observation. “You’re hard.”
“Throbbingly so,” he agrees.
I hook a finger into the waistband of his jeans. “We better do something about that.”
His eyes flick toward the door, his confidence suddenly shaken. “Yeah … uh, maybe later. Y’know, when my, uh …”
“When your mommy and daddy go to bed?” I finish for him. “Wow, I feel sixteen again.”
“I’m pretty sure my parents know we’re boning,” he spits back flatly.
The heat between my thighs is unimaginable. I don’t know if it’s the excitement of sneaking around that has suddenly worked me up so much or if it’s just that I’m crazy as hell for Brant, but all I can think about is his cock slipping inside me as I plunge into his eyes.
“I wonder what you were like as a teen,” I ponder out loud, “and whether we would’ve gotten along, had we … grown up together.”
He licks his lips, touching his forehead to mine. “I was a bad boy back then.”
“Compared to now?”
“Bad, bad, bad boy.”
I smirk wickedly. “You know what a bad boy needs?”
The next instant, I throw him onto his stomach on the bed, folded over the edge. After giving his shirt a tug up and his loose jeans a tug down, his tight butt is exposed to me. Seriously, I’ve never been much of a “butt girl”, but damn. Brant’s is a fucking work of art.
He turns his face, craning his neck to see me with a mild look of concern. “Uh … N-Nell?”
I swat his bare ass. He jerks, his eyes stretching wide.
“Did I say you could speak?”
He blinks. “No.”
I smack his ass again, harder. He hisses in lieu of shouting out, then clamps his teeth down on his fist.
“A bad boy needs a spanking. You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?”
Still biting his knuckles, he only turns his face ever slightly, his hilariously alarmed eyes slowly meeting mine. He doesn’t say anything.
He’s a fast learner.
I suppress a laugh, biting my lip in the process. This is so much fun. I raise my hand, then bring it down quickly, but don’t spank him. He flinches, expecting the sting, then turns around when the spank doesn’t come, his face wrinkled in a mixture of confusion and alarm.
I allow my fingers to gently caress his ass, exploring it from cheek to cheek. There’s som
ething about Brant’s cocky demeanor that makes having any sort of power over him that much more sexy. There’s nothing quite like putting a hot man in his place.
Especially when that place is at the end of his own bed with his pants down.
“Did you get all your bags?” calls a voice in the hallway.
Brant is off the bed as fast as if the sheets just transformed into the Jabberwocky. His pants are pulled up the second his mother emerges at the doorway, a glass of tea in either hand.
“Thank you,” I say without missing a beat, crossing the room and taking the glass from her. After an innocent sip, I lift my eyebrows. “Tasty. Thank you.”
“It’s just the store brand,” mutters Mrs. Rudawski as she passes by me to hand the other glass to Brant, who takes it too quickly, nearly spilling it in the exchange, then proceeds to chug it. She spends precisely two seconds staring at him and pondering life’s intricacies before returning her attention to me. “Your bags are all in, Penelope?”
“I only brought the one,” I say with a shrug, clutching my glass with both hands.
“Elliot is making chicken primavera. Is that alright for dinner?”
“Sounds great.”
“Ooh, are those contacts? Your eyes are out of this world, girl.” Mrs. Rudawski chuckles, studying my face with the wonder of a child stargazing in an open country field for the first time. “As green as garnets.”
“Garnets aren’t green,” Brant interjects through half a mouthful of tea.
“Some are. Tsavorite garnets, like the one in your grandma’s ring,” his mother returns, her eyes not leaving mine, still curious. Then finally her gaze pulls away. “Take your time and relax, get settled in. I know you have your thing tomorrow night, but tonight you’re all ours. We aren’t doing much, but if you want to join us in the living room after dinner, Elliot and I were going to start a new series on Netflix.”
“Sounds great, Mrs. Rudawski.”
“Kristin,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never really been a fan of all those formalities.”
“Clayton is,” Brant throws in with a smirk. “The fucker still calls her Mrs. Rudawski.”
I jerk at the curse word, surprised by it. From the way that Mrs. Rudawski—er, Kristin—doesn’t even flinch, I take it his family has no qualms about language.
“Well, you know,” Kristin quips back, returning Brant’s same exact smirk. He has his mother’s mouth. “He practically grew up here, what with all the times he’d run out of that mess of a house he lived in. Forgive me, Penelope. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Clayton at all or think I sound like a total bitch, speaking of his family that way. They’re just good for nothing, and it’s a wonder that a boy as good as him came from a family like that. He’s basically my adopted son.”
“He’s a great guy,” I agree, not really knowing too much about him beyond what Brant’s told me or what little I’ve seen being around him.
“Mrs. Rudawski,” she murmurs thoughtfully, looking away with a chuckle. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.” She lifts her chin, breaking from her thoughts. “Are you close with your family?”
I open my mouth, but the automatic response of “Yes, totally!” finds itself utterly lodged in my throat. I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to tell the truth.
Kristin seems to sense that. “You know, my mom and I haven’t talked in six years. Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and bats at the air as if to fend off a mosquito. “I won’t drag you through the mud of that story. No family’s perfect, that’s for sure. Anyway. Enjoy your time here, Penelope. I need to feed the dogs before they feed on us.” She gives a wiggle of her fingers, then slips out of the room.
The moment she’s gone, Brant sets down his glass and comes up to me quicker than a dog to a bone. “I’m so fucking hard right now.”
“I’m thirsty,” I say back, taking a sip of my tea. Despite not being a fan of peaches, this tea is fucking amazing. Store brand …
“I want to come all over your tits,” he whispers, his mouth somewhere near my ear.
My whole body shivers with excitement, but I don’t let him see that. I coolly turn my face in his direction, briefly catching his lips with mine, then I pull back to stare into his eyes. “And I want you inside me. How are you going to come on my tits when you’re inside me?”
“I want inside you too. I want everything.”
“I want you to take off all your clothes right now and put yourself inside me.”
To that, Brant grins and moves to close the door and lock it.
“Why bother?” I catch his arm before he locks it, pulling him toward the bed. “Get naked.”
Brant blanches, his eyes wide. “But …”
“Is your ass too sore? I barely hit you.”
“Uh, no, like … uh …” He glances at the door, nervous.
“No one’s coming in,” I say with absolutely no certainty. I tug on his jeans, undoing the button as he stares down at it, wide-eyed and starting to breathe heavily. “And if someone does, you better not stop whatever it is you’ll be doing to me.”
“W-What?” he asks, distracted. “That’s … I can’t do it if—”
“Anyone could walk in,” I whisper, taunting him. “The fear of getting caught … It’s all so high school, isn’t it? Sneaking around?”
“Yes,” he rasps. “Yes, yes, yes. Fuck, I’m so hard.”
“We’re being bad. Both of us.” I grab his crotch with the jeans still on, squeezing a moan right out of him. “Maybe I need a spanking too.”
“Enough with s-s-s … s-spankings.”
I let him go and, with one yank, his pants drop to the carpet. I pull on his boxer briefs, which hug his thighs deliciously, until they slip down his knees, forgotten. What stands at full attention before me is all eight inches of Brant.
“I wonder if, like, maybe I …” Brant starts.
And then I push him, sending him on a backward plummet onto the bed. His cock bounces against his abs.
I crawl over him. “You wonder what?” I ask.
“Shit, Nell. I … I wonder if …”
My mouth lowers onto his cock, kissing the tip. He sighs with pleasure, staring at the ceiling and unable to finish his sentence. Responding to him, I smile, then let out my tongue, running it slowly from the base to the tip like a lollipop.
He lifts his head, staring at me with agony in his eyes. His cock flexes, likely just as much in agony.
“I wonder, too,” I say back, kiss his cock, then finish, “what you taste like.”
“Nell …”
Lowering my head, I take just an inch or two into my mouth. He gasps, his fingers digging into the sheets of the bed. Brant’s taste is clean and perfect.
So I take another inch.
I want more.
More, more, more.
My tongue flutters along the underside of his meat as I suck just the end of him in and out of my slippery, teasing mouth.
More …
“Fuuuuuck …”
Suddenly, he grips my hair.
Then he’s pulling me up and down the length of his cock, directing my head exactly where he wants it. As if by reflex, my hands cling to his sexy, dimpled hips and I let him have his way.
I’m not usually the one letting someone else take the wheel. But there is something about having him in my mouth that makes me feel so powerful, like I own him, like he’s at my mercy somehow.
Or maybe I’m at his mercy.
When he moans, I do too, casting vibrations from my mouth down the length of his pulsating dick. It only seems to inspire him to go faster. I can’t begin to describe how hot that makes me.
“I’m close,” he breathes, a warning.
“Inside me,” I pop off of his cock to demand.
Brant, my trained puppy whose horniness knows no end, slaps open a drawer by the bed, ripping out a long strip of condoms. He tears one off, rips it open, then casts the wrapper aside.
Before
he even slips it on, he rises to his knees on the bed and grabs me, throwing me onto it next to him. I respond with a gasp of surprise as he grips my pants and pulls them with animal hunger. I hear a seam tear. He pulls again. Another seam. Maybe it’s my panties. Neither of us care.
And then he’s between my legs and rolling the condom down his long, ready length.
“I’m so fucking wet,” I can’t help but breathe out.
He thrusts into me so fast and so easily, I roll my eyes back and squeeze on his cock, tightening up. Now it’s my turn to claw into the bed sheets, bracing for Brant and his horny rage.
Is it healthy to crave someone this badly?
He pulls my legs over his shoulders and plows into me so deeply, my ass comes off the bed. He doesn’t seem to notice as he practically bends me in half, curling me off the bed as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts.
“I’m close,” he hisses.
“Kiss me.”
He keeps fucking me, his eyes closing as he enters some alternate plane of orgasmic bliss.
Nope, none of that.
“Brant.”
He flips his eyes open, drunk on lust.
“Eyes,” I demand. “On me.”
“Fuuuuck …”
“And kiss me.”
He reaches under my back, continuing to pump my body. I lift up and cling to his shoulders as our lips crash together like waves against a beach, furious and reckless and loud. Then I feel the inevitable pulse of his cock when the kiss turns into hot, heavy breathing as he empties into me, shot after shot after shot.
After he recovers, we’re sitting in each other’s laps. I look into his eyes and his lock onto mine with intensity. He stays inside me, his cock staying hard even after his orgasm, throbbing as he calms down slowly. I feel so complete. I feel so connected.
“I should put on some clothes,” he whispers.
I nod. “But first, I have one more use for that pretty face of yours.”
“What?”
“My turn,” I say as I pull off his lap—his cock sliding out of me—and then I push him down, positioning myself over his face. I wonder if he’s got enough left in him to work me over the edge.
Brant’s hungry moan that casts an earthquake between my thighs is my answer.