by Olivia Chase
“Smith!” I cry out with a giggle. “Can the bar handle both of us being on here?”
His answering smile is so wicked it makes my pussy pulse in anticipation. “I guess we’ll find out. A little edge play for you, huh, sweetheart?”
I reach up to cup his firm ass, squeezing the globes through his jeans. My God, this man has the perfect body. He rests on one forearm to whip his shirt over his head, and I slide my hands along the lines of his tattoos. I’ve tasted each one intimately.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says as he stares at me in what looks like awe. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”
My cheeks turn a little warm from the compliment. “You make me feel beautiful,” I tell him.
“That’s because you are. And you deserve to feel it every damn day.” I can see the sincerity in his eyes. The heat radiating from him. His cock bobs between us, evident even though his jeans. I lift my legs and wrap them around his waist to get him as close as possible.
“I want to feel you every damn day,” I tell him hotly.
His eyes turn dark, and I can tell he’s thinking something naughty. I feel my body erupt in tingles. God, every time he gets that look, I end up coming like crazy. I swallow and feel my breasts swell, my nipples harden. My pussy throbs with my pulse now.
Smith sits up enough to unbutton my long-sleeved shirt and tug it off me. Then my jeans follow. Both are tossed to the floor without another thought. He slowly looks me over, his hands following his gaze, his rough fingers squeezing and kneading my flesh. “I want to fuck you so badly right now.”
I arch my breasts at him and cup them with my palms, offering them to him. “Then why don’t you?”
He growls, and my bra is almost ripped off and then thrown to the ground. Last are my panties. I’m lying on the cool bar surface, shivering, hungry, needing this man inside me so much I can’t breathe for wanting him.
I’m shaking now. He adjusts my legs until my feet are planted firmly on the bar. I’m exposed to him, naked.
When his tongue hits my clit, I jump. I feel his hot hand press my lower belly to keep me in place. “Don’t you fucking move,” he growls at me. “I want you right here, that sweet pussy open and dripping wet.” His mouth goes back to licking me, and I sigh and shudder from the expert movements of his tongue.
He sucks my labia into his mouth, which makes me cry out. God, that feels ridiculously good. I want to touch him but I do as he commanded and lie still. Smith rewards me when I obey him, makes me feel so good that I want to please him as much as I can.
He laps me and I’m dripping on the table; I can feel it sliding down my crack.
“Good girl,” he purrs.
“Yes,” I moan, as he continues fucking me with his amazing tongue.
“Does getting that wet pussy eaten on my bar make you feel dirty?”
I swallow. My pulse is skittering through my limbs now. My fingers and toes tingle and my breathing is shallow. “So dirty,” I admit.
He kisses my inner thighs and draws a small portion of flesh between his teeth. Bites down.
“Oh, God, Smith. Please…”
“Please what? What do you want, Aubrey? Tell me.”
“P-please…fuck me right now. I need it.”
“You’re so fucking sexy. I’m going to make you come all over my dick.” Smith takes out his cock and slides it in me, raw, and I feel every ridge and line on his perfectly bare dick, and oh God, it makes me start to thrust against it just to get it deeper. I can’t help it.
He pulls it out, pushes it inside me again, this time a little faster. He’s angled the tip so it rubs against my G-spot. “How hard do you want to be fucked?” His voice is so low I can barely hear him.
“As hard as you want to give it to me,” I find myself saying. It’s a challenge, a dare, me offering myself to him completely. Trusting him to give me what I want and need.
He groans. I feel him shift between my legs. “Oh, fuck yes.” Then he begins to pump into me, and I feel that familiar heat build in my belly. My clit is swollen and desperate to be touched. Like a mind reader, he says, “Stroke yourself as I fuck you, baby. I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”
I reach my right hand between my trembling thighs and brush my fingers on my clit. It pulses in my touch. I can’t stop moaning, arching, needing this, wanting to be his dirty girl. The waves ripping through me as he fucks me are impossible to stop. I’m bucking and stroking and squeezing my channel, and my pussy is so wet I can smell myself.
My orgasm starts to near. I pant, and Smith says, “Oh, fuck yes, give me that come. I want it. Come on my dick. Right. Now.”
My whole body is vibrating, moments from shattering apart and flying into pieces. My clit is pulsing beneath my frantic fingers, and he’s now slamming the full length of his cock inside me.
“God oh God oh God—” I arch and then as my orgasm hits me, I scream, scream, unable to bite back the enormity of sensations drowning me. It just keeps coming and coming, and I’m burning alive for Smith.
It seems to take a year for the orgasm to subside. My hands go limp, my legs sliding down the bar surface, and I gasp for air. Smith pulls the handle out of me and bursts, his cock shooting hot ropes of cum onto my lower belly.
“Oh fucking sweet Jesus, that felt so fucking good,” he says in a guttural tone. He moves to stretch out on top of me and takes my mouth in a hot, possessive kiss.
I give it to him, my body languid and sated, the stickiness of our body juices between us, my mind blissfully numb. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me, and I kiss him back, pouring all of my emotions into it. I’m overwhelmed by the love I’m feeling for him, my dirty, sweet boy.
After we kiss for a good minute, Smith pulls back.
He bends down to pick up his T-shirt from behind the bar and slides it over me. I love wearing his shirt—it’s like being wrapped in one of his hugs. At the sight of me in his big shirt, he smiles. Cups my cheek. “I fucking love you so much.”
I smile back. “I love you too. I can’t even tell you how much. It just grows bigger every day.”
“I miss feeling you in my bed every night.”
His admission stills me. After the shit storm with Roger was over, I went back to my apartment, though we spend at least three nights a week together. But on the nights I’m not with him, I lie in bed wishing I was. “I do too,” I tell him.
Suddenly, he licks his lips and seems to get an anxious look on his face. He seems lost in thought, his brow creasing, his eyes faraway.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, nervous suddenly.
He shakes his head. “Just…just hold on one second.”
Smith fishes in his pocket. Pulls out a small velvet box.
My heart slams against my ribcage so hard I’m sure it cracks a bone. Oh God, is it…
“I wasn’t going to do this like this.” He cracks the box open, and there’s a large, sparkling diamond sitting there nestled in black velvet. He looks up at me, and I see love shining in his eyes. “I wanted to do a fancy proposal. Really knock you off your feet. But in the end, we don’t need fancy. We just need us, you and me, together. What makes us work is how we satisfy each other’s needs, no matter how simple.”
My throat closes, and I feel a burn in the backs of my eyes. I nod.
“You’ve made me so happy, Aubrey. I know this is fast, but fuck it. I love you. I want to marry you. I need you to be mine, and I need to be yours. Will you marry me?”
I gasp and grab the back of his neck, tugging him to me. “Yes. Of course I will.”
I hear him exhale hard, and then his arms are around me and he’s hugging me so tight it’s like we fuse into one. “Oh, thank fucking God. Thank God.” His hands are stroking my hair and he’s almost overwhelming me with a surge of his love.
I begin to actually cry and I cover his face in kisses. My hands are shaking. He pulls back and puts the ring on my finger, and I swallow, then kiss him again.
My
beloved.
My fiancé.
The man who believed in me when I needed someone. Who opened my eyes to pleasures I couldn’t fathom. Who accepts me as I am, frees me, cherishes me, protects me. How could I possibly want anything more than Smith? There’s no way.
I hold my fiancé in my arms, and we sit there, me on the bar in his shirt, him wrapped around me. Our own little bubble of happiness.
“Michaela?” I say later that morning after Smith and I went to bed in his apartment, had sex, then fell asleep wrapped in each other. I’m whispering into my cell phone in the kitchen. “How do you feel about visiting me in Rock Bridge?” I ask her.
“Hell yeah. It’s not that far of a drive. When can I come?”
“I’m not sure yet.” My heart skips a beat. “I’ll need your help.”
“With what?”
“With planning my wedding.”
Michaela screams so loud into the phone that I’m sure Smith can hear her from the bedroom. “Are you fucking pulling my chain right now? Because if you’re fucking with me, I’m going to beat your ass, you bitch.”
“I’m not!” I squeal and look down at the ring on my finger. “He proposed to me early this morning after the bar closed!” I decline to tell her what our activities were before said proposal—that’s our dirty secret.
“Oh God, I’m so fucking happy for you I could cry. I can’t wait to meet him. I’m coming this weekend, okay? And don’t say no, because I’m, like, already packing a bag as we speak and I’m going to call in dead to work.”
“I love you so much.” I’m laughing and crying again, and I feel so happy I could explode.
“So have you told your parents yet?” Her words are gentle; she knows about the fight that happened. I haven’t spoken to them in months, too upset to return their calls. Surprisingly, she’s left me messages every couple of weeks, nothing big, just saying she wants to talk. I just haven’t been ready to.
“I guess I should,” I say, discomfort tightening my chest.
“They might want to know.” Michaela’s voice is soothing. “But you do what feels right, okay?”
A pair of warm, familiar hands slide across my waist and cup my breasts through the shirt I slipped on before padding down to the kitchen. I lean back against Smith’s chest and look up at him. Michaela, I mouth as I point to the phone. He nods and kisses my forehead.
“Okay, bitch, I should go then,” I say. “I have shit to do and a fiancé to have more sex with.”
“Hell yeah. I support this.”
We blow each other kisses over the phone and hang up.
Smith gets his coffee pot going and turns to me, leaning against his kitchen counter. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. I just…don’t know how I feel about calling my parents right now, to be honest.”
He looks at me without judgment, but his face is serious. “Call them. I’d give anything in the world to call my dad right now and tell him about you. He’d love you, you know.”
The words pinch my heart with guilt. Fuck. “That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”
He gives me a small smile and rubs the back of my neck. “I know you weren’t trying to be. But I think if you talk to them, you’ll feel better. Just something to think about.”
“Will you stay here while I call them?”
“There’s nowhere else on the fucking planet I’d rather be than by your side.”
The warmth in his voice helps me gather my strength. I can do this. I suck in a slow breath, exhale. Turn to rest once again against the solidness of his chest. My fiancé. Soon to be my husband.
The most amazing and complicated man I’ve ever met.
I dial my mom’s number, and she picks up after a couple of rings. “Hello?” I hear the tentativeness in her voice, tinged with hope. It’s been so long since I’ve heard her voice that I feel a bunch of emotions slam into me hard.
My stomach twists in a hard knot, and I steady myself. Smith squeezes my shoulders. “Mom? Hi. It’s me. And I have some news for you.”
And then I start telling her our story, and I’m smiling, because finally it’s not just “I” anymore—it’s “we.” Smith and Aubrey.
Forever.
THE END
JAX (The Beckett Boys, Book 2) by Olivia Chase
Brooklyn
What the hell am I doing here?
I let out a deep sigh and then check to make sure nobody noticed. This rehearsal dinner isn’t quite what I expected, even though my cousin Aubrey warned me that her fiancé and his brothers were…different.
Turns out that was the understatement of the year.
Nothing Aubrey told me could have prepared me for what I’m seeing, because the Beckett family and their friends are all wild.
Rowdy.
Even a little scary.
They drive motorcycles, pickup trucks, proudly sport tattoos and scars. And although this dinner is a happy occasion, as I sit here at the table, I can practically smell the testosterone in the air.
I know I don’t belong here, and so does anyone else who’s taken so much as a passing glance my way.
Even the women, the girlfriends and wives and friends of the Becketts, make you feel intimidated. They have big boobs and shiny hair, and they flaunt everything proudly.
I take a deep breath and try and remind myself that this is just one wedding. A couple of days to suck it up and then I can go back to my normal, slightly boring life, and forget that this other world even exists.
“You look like you could use a shot,” comes the smooth, masculine voice from just over my shoulder. Someone has approached me from behind. A large hand brushes through my field of vision and places a filled shot glass on the table in front of me.
I turn and find myself looking up at the most gorgeous pair of eyes I’ve ever seen, and a very arrogant smirk that says he knows it, too.
This is Jax Beckett, the dead-sexy middle brother. The guy who, three minutes into the rehearsal, was already working his charm on every bridesmaid in the lineup. In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw him stuffing a pair of black panties into his jeans pocket earlier.
Cousin Aubrey warned me that Jax was a handful, and now that he’s up close and personal with me, I can understand why. His charisma and self-confidence radiates from him like heat.
I can’t speak. I just sort of mumble something that sounds like “Thanks.”
“Are you gonna drink it?” he asks, chuckling. “Here, I’ll have one, too.” He holds his own shot out towards me.
Jax stands there, waiting for my response, showing off his lean and tight muscles, the dark jeans molded to him like a second skin, his goofy T-shirt bearing the image of a tux cummerbund and ruffles down the front but somehow looking absurdly good on his expansive chest. I don’t see any tattoos on him, but I’d bet anything he has something on his torso, maybe even his thigh. A little “surprise” for the ladies he beds, something that makes her feel like she’s sharing a secret with him. His dark blond hair is a little shaggy on top, his jaw clean-shaven.
Everything about this man screams sex.
“Fine,” I mutter, picking up the shot glass and sniffing it.
“To my big bro Smith, for getting lucky and finding his girl,” Jax says.
“Her name is Aubrey,” I remind him.
He grins wider. “I know her name, hon,” he winks, and then downs the shot.
I close my eyes and manage to get the burning liquid down my throat, and then when I open them again, Jax has already gone, vanished, back to his seat as if he was never even there.
The only proof I have is the empty shot glass on the table in front of me, and the tears streaming from my eyes, which I quickly wipe away.
This is crazy. I’m in a Quentin Tarantino movie, and my cousin is marrying into a family of bar owning bikers or something.
Sitting just down at the other end of the table from me, I have a good angle on Aubrey and her fiancé, Smith, and I can’t help staring at
them now, watching them, trying to understand how this all even happened.
Did Aubrey lose her mind?
But then I watch as Smith leans over toward my cousin and sweeps a lock of hair from her face. His touch is so gentle, his eyes locked on her and so filled with passion, that my heart clenches in jealousy and sudden understanding of how Aubrey could fall for a man like him. He brushes a soft kiss on her lips, and she sighs against his mouth, her whole body arching toward him. They murmur quiet words to each other that I can’t hear from my end of the table.
I tear my gaze away from their intimacy. I’ve never had anyone look at me that way. Touch me like that. Make me feel like I’m the center of his universe. What would that feel like?
Yeah, I can see by their interaction why Aubrey is crazy in love. Why my cousin has such a glow about her that she’s never had before.
There’s a light tinkling sound near the far end of the table, and I glance over to see Jax rising with his slender wine glass in his hand, clanking it with a fork.
My heart gives a strange kick at his crooked smile to our group, and I push the reaction back in self-disgust.
This guy has player written all over him. My sister had her heart broken by a guy like Jax—smooth talker, smoking hot in bed, always had an excuse for the shit he pulled, never took responsibility for any of his actions.
In the end, she was left devastated, pregnant, and living with my parents. However hot and sexy and exciting these kinds of men can appear at first—I know what they leave behind in their wake, and it isn’t pretty.
But Jax isn’t bothering to pretend to be anything other than what he clearly is—a hot, arrogant guy who can get laid simply by flashing a smile and buying some desperate girl a drink or two.
Jax’s eyes connect with mine once again as he keeps clanking his glass to get everyone to quiet down. He gives me little more than a passing glance, and then eyes the dipping cleavage of the bridesmaid across from him.