by London James
But two teenagers? That’s enough right now.
“Oh, yeah?” she grins, rubbing her foot down my leg and back up until it settles on my ass.
“Hell yeah, you’re so fucking hot, baby.” I grab her chin in my hand like I always do and plant a kiss on her. She always gets me so worked up. My cock is hard in my jeans as I settle between her legs.
She spreads them wider, diving her tongue in my mouth at the same time. She moans when I start flexing my hips. I’ve never gotten tired of how she feels beneath me. I cup her breasts with my hands, teasing her hardened nubs that are sticking out through her tank top. Our tongues curl together, and she whimpers beneath me.
I turn my baseball hat backwards, something she has recently liked, and when I pull back so she can get a good look at me, she bites her lips and groans as the tip of my jean-covered cock punches her clit.
“Fuck me with the hat on,” she whispers.
“You always want me to fuck you with the hat on.”
“I know. You look so damn good,” she purrs as she runs her hands down her body, her fingers disappearing under her flimsy shorts, and strokes herself.
“Yeah, you want to get yourself off looking at me, baby?” I grin, sliding down my jeans until my cock springs free.
She nods, or tries to, but she sinks her fingers into her tight channel and watches as I start to stroke myself.
“You see what you do to me? All these years later, and you still get me so fucking hard, I hurt. Do something about it,” I order, guiding my cock to her lips.
She keeps one hand between her legs and descends off the couch, her eyes never leaving mine. She opens her mouth and sucks me down to the root. My hand tangles through her honey brown hair, and I can’t take my eyes away from her as my cock slides in and out of her red lips.
“Just like that,” I encourage her and start to flex my hips a little, shoving a little more length down her throat. “Take that cock, baby. Take it.”
Over the years, I’ve found the dirtier I talk, the faster she comes. It’s gotten worse, or better, depending on how someone looks at it. I can get her off just by whispering sweet filthies into her ear while plucking her nipples.
She hums around my meat, sending tremors through me.
I want more. I forget where we are when the desire hits me ten-fold. I lift her back up to the couch and grab a blanket, tossing it over us as I lay her flat. In one quick motion, I drive home inside her succulent wet channel. I don’t bother taking off her shorts or panties. The drag of the material along the side of my shaft only makes my orgasm get closer. Her moans start to get loud, louder than the music blaring in Lila’s room.
I shove a hand over her mouth, and she latches onto it, trying to pull it off.
With a shake of my head, I pound my wife harder, causing her eyes to roll back in her head. I curl forward and press my lips against her ear. “Just wait until later; I’m going to fuck you again. And again. And again.” Just like I do every night. I grunt in her ear when she suddenly gets a lot wetter.
She usually does right before she comes.
I pull her legs from around my waist and straighten them. This position allows me to get her clit at the same time. Plus, we need to hurry. Having sex in the same house as the kids is never easy when we aren’t in our room.
“Your pussy gets better every day, baby.” Sweat drips down my temple right as her channel clenches down on me.
She lets out a cry, and it is a good thing I have my hand over her mouth, or she would have let the entire world know just how good I make her feel. The feel of her tight walls sucking me further inside has me coming, too. I grunt my release and collapse on top of her.
I push her hair back over her damp forehead and place a soft kiss on those swollen, abused lips. “I love you, Everly.” I keep my cock inside her, knowing that if I pull out now, my come will go everywhere, and I want to be able to grab my t-shirt on the floor to catch it before that happens.
I get lost in her kiss as her tongue strokes mine. Time stands still. My heart aches to be closer. Even right now, I’m not close enough. We don’t know how much time passes as we lay on the couch and just make out.
“Oh my god!” Lila screams, makeup half-on.
“Shit!” I curse, making sure the blanket is wrapped around us. “Don’t you know how to knock?”
“Knock? This is the living room.” She turns around and crosses her arms. This is so awkward with me being inside Everly. “And you know what? You guys act like you’re twenty. And you’re not. You just need to stop. You’re old. Old people don’t have sex.” She mumbles something about needing to bleach her eyes and slams her door again. “You guys are disgusting,” she yells through her closed door.
“We really need to start having sex in our bedroom, Rowan,” Everly laughs.
I groan with frustration and lay my head on her shoulder. “I know, but when the time is right, the time is right, you know?” I drag my hand up her torso and start playing with her nipples again.
She slaps my hand. “Rowan, seriously? Snap out of it. We are in the living room, covered up with a blanket, and our daughter just caught us having sex. Again. Poor girl knows everything about sex already.”
“I can’t help that her mom is hot, but I promise to only have sex with you in the bedroom from now on or when the kids are not here,” I mutter, knowing that it is a promise we will break. I’ve said that statement five hundred times, and nothing has changed.
“She is scarred for life.”
“It’s not like she saw anything,” I protest.
“Still, it’s always terrible to catch your parents having sex.”
“It’s human nature.” I shrug, looking behind me to make sure my moody teenage daughter is back in her room before I bend down and grab my t-shirt to clean up our mess.
“Yeah? You want to use that logic on her right now?”
“No.” I keep the shirt in my hand and pick Everly up wedding style, red−blanket and all, and carry her to our bedroom, shutting and locking the door. It’s moments like this that I can’t wait for the kids to go to college, then I can have Everly wherever I want again.
I really do have a problem. I’m addicted to her. It gets me in trouble with the kids all the time. When I wrap my arms around her while she is cooking, and I kiss her neck, or sometimes I slap her butt when I walk by. I really don’t think the kids see, but apparently, they have super-sonic eye-sight or something.
“I love this life with you, Rowan. I don’t want you to ever change.” Everly cups my face as I lay her down on the bed.
“I love you too, Everly.” I worship her body again, taking it slower, treating her better, loving her harder.
The past seventeen years haven’t been easy, but they have been worth it. I can’t imagine my life being any other way. It’s chaotic. It’s hectic. It’s full of love. I’m a lucky man, and I plan on taking advantage of the love she has to give.
The love that we will share. Until the end of time and space.
THE END
Book Four - Stay With Me
Description
To hate or not to hate?
Ashton King and I were total opposites.
I was a nerdy bookworm. He was the star of my high-school.
There was a secret no one knew and I dared not tell.
I didn’t want anyone but him.
But he only saw me as his best-friend’s little sister.
And one crushing moment turned love to hate.
It’s been years since I last saw him.
He’s now a retired Navy Seal, and looking right me.
We’re forced back into each other’s lives. I should’ve kept him away.
If only I didn’t let things get too far.
Fulfilling my fantasies came at a high price.
I don’t think I can just run away from this one.
Chapter One
Briony
Unexpected party invites are kind of like Murphy’s La
w—anytime you don’t want to be invited to a party, you’ll be dragged to one.
I’m rarely not in the mood to hang out with anyone, but today is one of my rare, introverted moments despite the 4th of July holiday. I got a bottle of white wine from the store down the block, made myself some cheesy pasta, and I’m in my cozy clothes for a night in. My roommate and best friend Zara is out of town for the long weekend, so I don’t anticipate being interrupted by anyone but my cat, Chunk, who’s too busy sleeping on the windowsill to bug me.
So, of course, my phone lights up with a call from my older brother Ben. He never calls, so I assume it’s serious.
“Ben?” I ask, sounding way too alarmed.
“Briony? Are you okay?” he asks.
“What? I’m fine. I’m at home. You called me, didn’t you? Why would I be the one who wasn’t okay?” I unscrew the top of my wine — because I’ve broken too many corks in my life— and pour myself a glass.
“I could have been calling to check on you. You sounded like you were alarmed.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, you’re coming tonight, right?”
I groan. How could I have forgotten about his 4th of July party? “Shoot, did you send an invite this year?”
“Yes, of course I did.” He doesn’t sound annoyed, thankfully. Not that he ever does. “But I figured the whole sibling thing meant that you were ride or die for the party, invite or not.”
“I don’t go to all of your parties,” I scoff, standing up and sipping my wine, wandering toward my bedroom.
“I know that, but it’s a rooftop party. You can’t not have fun at a rooftop party,” Ben continues. “You have to come tonight.”
He isn’t wrong, to some extent. If there was any 4th of July party I was ever going to hit up, it would have to be one of Ben’s. Where did this party-planning gene come from, and why don’t I have it? He always manages to make everyone have fun, even if all he has is a kiddie pool full of some unholy combination of alcohol, juice, and soda, and a phone in a bowl to amplify its sound.
Ok, maybe the kiddie pool full of liquor has more to do with the fun at that kind of party.
“I’m already in my robe with a glass of wine. Convince me why I should come out when I have the apartment to myself, plus a whole season of Great British Baking Show to indulge in.”
I flop backward onto my bed, staring at the splotch of water damage along the edge of the ceiling and holding my glass of wine on my stomach.
“Wait, are you ok? You’re never down like this,” he says, suddenly turning into Soft Ben. Our family jokes that he has two modes—Energy Ben, the extremely extroverted guy who throws parties and loves to go skydiving, and Soft Ben, the emotionally connected protector. Soft Ben comes out whenever I seem to be in the slightest bit of trouble. He can sniff it out like a bomb dog.
“Ehn,” I sigh. “Just another few bad dates.”
I say it as casually as I can, but the sting of being strung along by some guy yet again burns, badly. This time it was a guy who I’d thought was great—at first, he’d responded to texts in a reasonable amount of time, not waiting a long time just to not seem too interested. We’d had some nice conversations over a few dates and had just enough in common for things to not be boring. We slept together once. It was… fine. A solid B-minus in the sex department. But I’d figured it was something we could work on once we learned about each other’s bodies a bit more.
Apparently not, though, because he ghosted me. Why can’t anyone just come out and say when they aren’t interested anymore? It would save both of us so much trouble. I wouldn’t have spent as much time as I did staring at my phone, wondering what happened.
What had happened? Was it the sex? That would hurt the most. I’d been dumped at least twice in college for not putting out, and now a decade or so later, I’m getting dumped for putting out. Badly, apparently, though he got an orgasm out of it. I can’t say the same for myself.
“I’m sorry, Little B,” Ben says. “You deserve some guy who’s not a douchebag.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “Thanks, Big B.”
“But seriously, come to the party. It’ll make you feel better, and it would mean a lot to me if you came,” he says, in the rare state of Sort-of-Soft-but-Turning-into-Energy Ben.
“You have a 4th of July party every year. What’s so special about this one?” I ask, feeling slightly suspicious. He’s also the kind of person who thinks surprise parties are fun rather than heart attacks waiting to happen.
“Just trust me. It’s the first one in our new place, and the view will be great.” He pauses. “Please? Be the best younger sister ever?”
I sigh again, sitting up. “Fine. See you tonight.”
So I slap on the most patriotic outfit I can muster: a white spaghetti-strap sundress that hits me just below the knee, navy blue wedge espadrilles, and red lipstick. The subway ride from my apartment in Brooklyn to his in lower Manhattan is stuffed to the gills with people in red, white, and blue, holding coolers and arguing about leaving too late to get a good viewing spot for fireworks.
Ben is totally right about his awesome roof. It has a phenomenal view of the rest of Manhattan and even to the Bronx and beyond, glowing in the setting sun. I already see some fireworks going off way toward the horizon. It’s going to be amazing when it’s fully dark.
“Hey! You made it!” Ben’s girlfriend, Daisy, spots me first and gives me a hug. She always smells so welcoming, like flowers and sunshine, and hugs like she means it. Her long blonde waves tickle my bare shoulders as she gives me a squeeze.
“Yeah, I decided last minute,” I shrug.
“Want a drink?” She swirls around to gesture at the bar, the scent of jasmine wafting off of her.
“Want a drink? More like need a drink. Anything’s fine as long as it’s not whiskey or rye.” I follow her to the little bar they’d set up. There’s a big bowl of punch with hibiscus flowers floating in the middle.
“Rum punch it is, then. Rough week?” she asks, pouring me some of the punch and handing me a glass.
“Yeah.” If I go into the details with Daisy, I’ll probably end up spilling my guts and crying within fifteen minutes. Something about her gentle presence brings people’s walls down. So I take a sip of punch to occupy my mouth instead, and it goes down smooth and fruity.
“Careful, it’s potent,” she warns.
“Is this basically straight-up alcohol, masked by fruit?”
“Yep. I’d stick to one or two glasses for the whole night,” she winks. “Unless you really want to go hard for our nation’s independence.”
I laugh. “I’m not that patriotic. Where’s Ben?”
Daisy waves vaguely in the direction of the little secluded garden in the corner of the roof. Because of the building’s shape, there’s the main level of the roof, then a slightly lower one connected by some stairs, which has a garden under a terrace. “He’s been showing people the garden and pointing out the Statue of Liberty.”
“He’s Energy Ben?” I take another sip of my drink. God, this is delicious.
“Full Energy Ben.” Her perfectly full but tidy brows furrow. “He’s been a little weird today, though. Like hyper, almost.”
“Yeah, I noticed that too, over the phone.” I watch him, and two of his friends wander away from the garden.
“I think it’s work stress.” Daisy bites her bottom lip, absently twisting one of her many thin, gold rings around her fingers. The golden bangles on her wrists jingle. “He’s been working long hours lately.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I shrug. “He can be mysterious sometimes.”
Someone catches Daisy’s eye over my shoulder. “Talk to you later? Some more people arrived, and I’m on the welcome committee.”
“Yeah, definitely.” I watch her go, her walk fast and nervous.
I skim the crowd that’s arrived so far, gently swaying to the music. It’s mostly Ben’s friends, with some of Daisy’s mixed in there. I debate who to approach—there are B
en’s friends from Stanford, who are nice guys but only know how to talk about five subjects total, three of which require a master’s degree to appreciate. There are Ben’s city friends from work, who I like, but they seem to be in an insular conversation about sports, which I don’t really follow. Maybe I’ll talk to Ben eventually. I look around, doing a little more people-watching to pass the time and get tipsy enough to forget my bad mood.
I look for Ben again, finding him looking over the water with someone else. A very sexy someone else—he’s tall, about Ben’s height, but powerfully broad-shouldered, where Ben is more on the lean side. He has thick thighs and a nice ass too. I haven’t even seen his front, but my nipples are already tight. The guy who ghosted me basically gave me an appetizer and didn’t give me the meal when he fucked me and didn’t get me off. Sometimes I wish I did one-night stands, just because the orgasms from my vibrator can’t replace the warmth of a man’s hands and mouth all over me.
Maybe I can make an exception, I think to myself, eyeing Ben’s hot companion again as I walk up to them. Just to scratch that itch. Yes, I like steady relationships, but I’m also going to need a wrist brace if I keep masturbating so much.
“Ben!” I say, slapping him on the shoulder, bro-style.
“Hey, Little B.” Ben hugs me back, his body a little stiff. Then I turn to introduce myself to the hottie he’s hanging out with and involuntarily shrivel back like a raisin.
“Long time, no see, Briony,” Ashton King, my brother’s best friend, says, his voice smoother and deeper than I remember it being.
Even though it has been more than ten years since I’ve seen him, Ash’s presence still electrifies me all over. He still has the big, sturdy build he had in the past, but he’s filled out nicely, all muscle without him looking like he pumps himself up with steroids. Just standing next to him, even in my heels, makes me feel unusually petite. His face has lost the tiny bit of baby fat he had too, revealing his perfect cheekbones and strong jaw, lightly covered in dark stubble. He’s so damn masculine that my body is humming with pure lust.