Wet Dreams

by Emily Bishop

  But right now I feel like my life is a funhouse mirror, a sick joke belonging more to the tabloids than to me.

  Meditation is the only way I can get my bearings back.

  Breathe. In. Out.

  “Blake?” Her voice grows closer. Her footsteps ascend the stairs.

  Her shadow clouds the hallway light, and I swallow.

  The door slowly opens, and when I see her, it’s pleasure and pain in the same punch. Her bloodshot eyes zing straight to my core.

  “Hello,” I say, still holding the root. My thighs tremble, and my body pours sweat. My voice betrays what a difficult day this has been, though my voice is still nothing compared to those eyes of hers.

  “Blake,” Roxanne says. She sounds like a cartoon mouse. There’s a hesitation, and then she launches right into it. “Do you know?”

  I close my eyes and swallow.

  “Do I know?” I repeat to her. Unable to maintain, I fold out of the root and come to a stand, shaking and stretching my muscles loose again. I’m shirtless in a pair of flexible royal blue shorts. “The entire world knows.” The anger in my tone is as clear and flat as ice.

  Breathe in. Out.

  “How far along are you?”

  “We only had sex once, last month,” Roxanne answers with a defensive half-chuckle. “So, obviously—”

  My efforts at tranquility burst into flame. “It’s not funny, Roxanne!” I tell her. “I was left out of the most important moment of my life!”

  Roxanne splutters. “Are you serious?”

  I throw my hands up. “Are you?!”

  “I thought you said kids were fat, crying sacks of fat, or something like that,” Roxanne recounts, pulling that quote out of God knows where.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t?” Roxanne raises her eyebrows at me. “You don’t realize who you’ve been for your entire life?”

  “You don’t realize who I am right now.” I meet her eyes flatly. I still want her, but goddamn she has pissed me off. Still, those pajamas are kind of thin, and I know she never wears a bra. If I could slide my hands into her leather coat, my thumbs might skim her little peaked nipples. We could make out. We could make up. This is salvageable, isn’t it?

  You don’t realize who you’ve been for your entire life?

  I push the thought of Roxanne’s pebbled, chilly little nipples away from my mind’s eye.

  Roxanne sold her pregnancy to the thing I hate most: the media. I can’t let her just walk in here with her lips so juicy and vulnerable and forgive everything. She can’t be totally right about me and also win.

  “Why don’t you tell me who you think I am?” I suggest.

  Roxanne’s teeth sink into her lower lip and my resolve weakens. I swallow.

  She takes a step closer, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, holding it tightly shut. “I think you’re wild,” she answers finally. “You’ve always been wild. Nocturnal. A victim of wanderlust. How many debutantes have you dated, you know? How many starlets?”

  I exhale hard between my lips, trying to fathom the number. I get it. She has a point. My twenties and even early-thirties were a blur of late-night conversations about bulimia and trying to get blowjobs in elaborate, sometimes royal gardens.

  “Yes,” I agree. “But then I went to Japan.”

  “And that completely rewired your dick?” Roxanne wonders frankly.

  “Eh.” I grin at her, unable to help myself. “It rewired my desires. I could no longer stand all the spas. I was the recipient of so many grand gestures worth thousands of dollars but which required no investment of time or effort. No sense of adventure, of wilderness. Nothing… authentic.” I look at her, so different and yet the same. Strong and proud and powerful. Exhausted and tearful and pregnant. “I want more, Roxanne. I want you.” I take another step toward her. “I want you like this.”

  I’m close enough to touch her, and god, I want to. Fuck, I want to.

  I stretch out a hand, and Roxanne sighs, letting her neck go loose. Her eyelashes come together, and her cheek pools in my palm. I love her real face, the raw skin beneath that perfect mask of creams and shadows. My thumb, with a mind of its own, rolls across her naked lower lip. I love that thing. It’s so fleshy. My dick stirs, whispering that I should forget my girly emotions and just put my tongue all over her body. I should slide my palms over her torso and push her arms apart, force her jacket open. Scoop my hands over her breasts. Listen to the sounds she makes as I pull her apart.

  I close my eyes and throb for her, but I know that I can’t yet. Not until I know if this is love that I feel—or just very sexual disappointment and despair.

  “How could you not tell me?” I whisper.

  Roxanne’s eyes flutter open. “My roommate sold the test,” she answered. “It wasn’t me.”

  My brow furrows. “I mean,” I say, my already deep voice darkening, “why didn’t you tell me when I saw you the other night? You didn’t try to tell me that you were pregnant. You just tried to give me back the damn key.”

  She’s still not wearing it around her neck, and I find that mildly offensive, but I don’t mention it. This isn’t the right time.

  “You might not have been able to control the media getting that story; believe me, I understand that,” I say. “But you could have controlled where I first heard that I was going to be a dad. Because I wouldn’t have wanted it to be from some trashy three-minute news recap show on MTV. I would have wanted it to be from you.”

  Roxanne nods up at me, and I hold myself suspended over her deep gray eyes. I refuse to fall in. “I guess I thought you wouldn’t care,” she said. “Maybe you would even be upset.”

  My hands travel down Roxanne’s arms tenderly. “Roxanne, Roxanne, Roxanne,” I soothe her, sidling closer and swaying against her body in a rhythm. I swallow as my hardness brushes against her, and I know she feels it. I sense the mood of our embrace shift, even though neither of us says a thing. Neither of us move to advance. “I’m not the man you think I am,” I whisper against her ear. I see the gooseflesh prickle along the curve of her neck, and I thicken responsively. I know she’s getting wet. My eyes roll back slightly in my head. I want to be buried in her warm, sweet body. I want to hold her fragile frame together and give her more babies. All my babies. “I’m not the men you’ve had before.”

  “Oh, Blake,” she breathes, her neck loosening and falling open, highlighting the tops of her plump breasts. I push my hands up into the sleeves of her jacket and peel it off from the inside, my mouth taking hers. My disciplinary structure crumbles down around my head. Her skin is damp and clammy, tasting of the rain, and I love to feel warm against her. I relish the knowledge that I’m warming her now as the jacket puddles behind her, and one of my hands automatically scoops around and finds her breast. Even though the stress has made her lose a little weight, the pregnancy plumped her breasts up, and I’m as hard as iron in a matter of seconds.

  “Fuck yeah,” I groan, tearing her pajama top down and exposing her bare breasts. I’m shaking with the need to ravage her, to plant my oozing cock deep inside her, and I bow down on my knees in front of her.

  Her pale torso is immaculate. Her nipples are bright pink and hard, completely ready.

  I cover one of her nipples with my hot, wet mouth and tongue her vigorously. My other hand cups the other breast and moves over the nipple’s puckered ridges.

  Her hips buck forward, and my hand forgets her nipple, drifting down and shoving her pajamas completely to the floor, ripped and all. Now she stands almost totally naked before me, and I stay on her nipple, sliding over her slick sex with my fingers. I love her wetness against my dryness. The friction is perfect. I saw against her button with my rough index finger, and she shudders against my hand, knees buckling. Her fingers shovel into my hair and grip for balance.

  I’m going to get her naked and coming before we even get over to the bed. God, I love this. We’re animals. />
  I stoop and gnaw on her pussy, relishing the sweet, salty musk between her lips. It’s like salted fucking caramel.

  The tip of my tongue scoops against her clitoris again and again, and I spread her thighs up against my face. I hoist her into the air with my hands and eat her like she’s a juicy slice of watermelon.

  I think it’s safe to say that we’ve both completely forgotten about all the cameras and microphones hidden around the room by this point.

  Chapter 12

  Roxanne

  “Stay away from the set, stay away from Blake, and deny your pregnancy…”

  I tell myself I’m not going to do anything crazy gross like pour all over him, but I think I’m going to. The way he has my thighs spread in mid-air really engages my entire pelvic floor, and I know the oncoming orgasm is going to be intense. Like a strong tide, I find myself dragged forward by the hot rush coming to a head between my legs, no matter how self-conscious I feel. My clit feels too good, and it overrides all other emotions. I grind almost involuntarily against Blake’s face, and my pussy opens up for him, raining juices. I shudder and moan and pump against his chin hungrily, my eyeballs deep in my skull. I love how strong he is. His grip never wavers, even supporting me in mid-air.

  Blake twists me and heaves me onto the foot of his bed. I bounce on my back and giggle, gazing up at the ceiling, thinking of how surreal it is to be in the bachelor’s suite, getting eaten out enthusiastically by the star of the sixth season. Candace would die if she could see this right now.

  His lips slather me, and he eats me out with such soul that I feel like he fucking loves me. It’s slow and then manic. Gentle and then rough. I froth and settle. He’s kissing my labia while I pant and claw at the mattress, tortured, wordlessly begging him to let me snap.

  His tongue slithers gingerly into every single cranny, reaching deeper than any man ever cared to. He hits spots so precisely, he’s almost more machine than man, and I curl over his head, cradling him between my legs as I lose my mind. I’m definitely going to come. This is too good.

  I cry out Blake’s name for the entire empty property to hear. I hump his face and spasm, and find myself vividly remembering our first kiss. It was so tender and deep, cradled against his chest on the rim of that fountain, and I come hard, surrounded by the memory. I come so hard that even Blake lets out a muffled groan from between my legs.

  My neck seems to be stuck in a craned position.

  A loose, half-stupid smile is on my lips. I don’t want to let myself believe that this is real life. My entire body is filled with migrating warmth, like a cluster of fireflies got loose inside me. Blake Berringer, the gorgeous, mysterious stranger who saved my life that night five years ago, just wants to play with my body and bring me pleasure again and again. I have his baby inside my body right now. And he says that he wants to be with me. I want to be with him, too. Forever. Jared is nonexistent here.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Blake breathes, climbing out of his shorts and displaying a monstrously rigid erection for me.

  I brace the base and stare up at him meaningfully. I let my lips fall open slowly and take him into my mouth while I continue to cringe hungrily around his manhood, not breaking eye contact. It is a beautiful thing, and it tastes so sweet, just like all of Blake’s skin. I stroke his organ with my mouth easily because I love it and I want it so badly. I want his cum down my throat. I’ve never been like this before: sex-crazed.

  My eyes close, and I whimper, playing him soulfully. His thighs tremble and shudder, and he humps and cries out in a thick, low voice that barely sounds like his own. He sounds like an animal.

  Normally, a cock of this size would be too big for me, but I’m so aroused that the back of my throat is more open. It’s fucking amazing, and I even moan about that, too.

  “God, I’m so hot,” Blake breathes, pumping deeper down my throat. “Touch yourself,” he pants. “Touch yourself for me.”

  So nasty. What a great idea.

  My fingers obediently trail between my thighs and spread my slick pussy lips open. They pound with arousal, and my middle and index finger immediately go to my clit. My eyes roll as I toy with my own wet slit while Blake rides my mouth closer and closer to orgasm. I feel it in the hitch in his hips, and my own thighs tremble for him. I want him to come. If he comes, I think I’ll come. He’ll lose ribbon after ribbon down my throat, and I’ll pour all over my hand.

  I know he must be thinking the same thing because we loosen up and move with more speed together, becoming one. I know that he’s close. I can feel his closeness as if his orgasm is mine. It’s cosmic, and I’ve never before experienced such sensual awareness of another person’s body.

  At the very last second, my clit is so swollen and so desperate, I think the nub itself might pop, and his prick has never felt bigger than it does right now. He suddenly yanks out of my mouth and I whine, like candy was torn away from me. “What?” I say.

  “Not like that,” he gasps, like that decision took the same amount of effort as a 5k.

  He twists my voluptuous, upturned ass toward him and slaps it hard, making the whole thing bounce. “Mm,” he relishes. “That’s what I’m talking about. One of those American booties.”

  He hunkers down behind me, and I feel his teeth skim over the thickness of my ass, like he’s beating into a peach. I whimper and press into his mouth, wanting more. I want him. Stop teasing me.

  “Shh,” Blake soothes me, rising up onto his knees behind me. My body stiffens in eager anticipation as his bare cock knocks heavily between my thighs. His head slips over my swollen pussy lips, collecting their nectar, then shoves through them. I see stars and collapse face-first onto the bed. Oh, god, it’s perfect. He’s perfect. My toes curl inward, and my mouth opens to ingest some mattress.

  He rears back and thrusts into me fully. I don’t know how to describe the sweetness that shoots and spirals through my system every time he enters me to the hilt. I’m so wet and so perfectly contoured to him, Blake grips my elbows and pulls me into my center like a folding chair, almost bisecting me.

  And then he pumps into me again, mercilessly.

  I know he must be doing those breathing exercises and mind tricks, because right now, I’m losing my mind. I don’t know how he is just pumping into me like this. My eyes roll, and I drool; I want to ask him to marry me. I seriously want to ask him to marry me. I’m so in love with his cock.

  After driving deeply into me and sending me through a tumbling, helpless series of orgasms, Blake flips me onto my back and reenters from the front.

  “Sex like we’re an old married couple,” I tease breathlessly.

  “Yeah,” Blake replies. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners, and he ducks his head to come closer to me. Droplets of sweat trace down his neck. He whispers to me, “Yeah, just like we’re an old married couple.”

  He bows over me and kisses me, long and slow. His dick becomes long and slow, too. He enters me one fraction at a time, so I vividly feel every inch of him, and I have to tear my lips away from his so I can moan.

  “I can’t look at you without wanting to come,” Blake growls against my ear. I shudder responsively. “I want to come on you. Want to come inside you. Come with you. Come everywhere.”

  He gazes into my eyes, and we hold this moment together. Even the sex seems to fall into the background, and it’s really just him and me. He slides so slowly and fully. I cringe around his textured girth as his base comes flush with my entrance. The rhythm is a deep, slow ride, but it can’t last forever.

  The heat intensifies as his hips hitch harder. He pulls away from me, balancing on his knuckles to drive into me from a new angle, new leverage giving him a swifter thrust. My brains are rocked out.

  He twists my hips and slaps a palm down onto my ass cheek, which tingles, and I whinny. He grips me and pulls me back, slamming into me. The thrusts reach a fevered pitch, and he roars. I feel his cock pop and spasm, filling me with reams of his seed. My eyelashes flutt
er. I want to go again.

  I prop myself up on my elbows and realize I’m gazing into the LA Billionaire Bachelor Mansion master bedroom camera A.

  I completely forgot this wasn’t just a regular house. A real moment.

  “Fuck,” I gasp. Blake is softening but still inside me, and I’m still coated in sweat and lightly shuddering, but my mind is razor sharp now.

  “What?” Blake pants.

  “We forgot something.” I walk on my knees to the headboard, wedging my slick breasts against the camera lens as I disconnect it from behind. “There,” I breathe, rolling onto my back and beaming up at Blake. “Security got a free show.”

  ***

  I wish I could say that I awake slowly alongside the future father of my child, stretching lazily, legs flung over one another, beaming. I wish I could say that we stay melted in each other’s arms until we are covered in sunlight.

  But the bedroom door cracks open with force, and I jolt up, clutching the sheets to my chest instead. My heart is hammering. My hair is sideways, and my face is half-mushed into whatever shape the pillow indented into it.

  My first genuine, semi-solid thought—because it is early in the morning—is that this is some winged, fantastical dream version of Jared, here to kill us both.

  My nightmares steadily loosen their grip and I blink. No... no. It’s not Jared.

  It’s Candace.

  She stands in the bedroom doorway, proud and mildly judgmental, which doesn’t really mean anything. That’s kind of how she always looks. She’s dressed professionally, but that doesn’t mean that there will be filming today...I hope. Because I’m on the set totally nude with the bachelor.

  Brilliant, self. Turn off the camera in the headboard and then forget to sneak out before morning. Genius!

  Candace sighs. “I figured,” she mutters. “Come on, Roxy. You can’t be here.”

  I throw a leg out of bed but feel an iron grip clamp down on my hip. I glance over my shoulder to see Blake glaring at Candace with deadly dominance.