by S. E. Law
The front door opens.
“Fuck!” Donnie yells, and jerks back so violently that his dick pops out of my mouth. My face burns as I realize that I am kneeling naked on the floor, my bare ass facing the front door, which my own father inevitably just came through. I am going to be grounded for the rest of my life--if I’m not thrown out onto the streets...
“Oh, my God,” I squeal, and instinctively look over my shoulder.
But it isn’t my dad standing there.
It’s Christopher Maddox.
3
Chris
* * *
Twenty minutes earlier.
I’ve been waiting at the counter for all of two minutes, and my temper is already beginning to flare.
I’ll admit it--it’s not my most endearing quality. But I’m a man who knows exactly what he wants, which is more than most people can say. And what I want most is for my time not to be wasted.
“Hello?” I call, drumming my fingers on the counter. “Does anyone work here?”
My cell phone vibrates in my pocket; I deftly withdraw it and study it with a breath of satisfaction. Another construction project finished--a multimillion one, at that, down in Tampa. I had flown out there a few times to supervise, and to enjoy the beaches and cocktails (and cocktail waitresses). I’m not arrogant enough to admit that I’m fortunate to have such a successful company, but I’m not foolish enough to say it’s not at all due to my hard work, either. My father drilled a work ethic into me so thoroughly that it’s a marvel I ever rest. Thankfully, I developed my own ability to play just as hard as I work.
I’m not playing now.
“What the fuck is going on back there?” I growl, leaning my hands onto the counter to peer back into the kitchen. Rick, my oldest friend, is working late tonight, and asked me to pick up a hot meal for his daughter. I would never say no to him--and I certainly wouldn’t admit it, but I never balk at the chance to see Bailey, either. She certainly is all grown up now…
A gangly young man finally sprints to the counter, sweating visibly. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he pants.
“What were you doing back there?” I inquire. “Jerking off?”
The kid starts and blinks rapidly.
“No, sir,” he says, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “One of the ovens broke and I’ve been back there trying to fix--”
“Honestly, I don’t give a shit,” I say, because I don’t. “Just get me a large pepperoni pizza.” The kid looks so genuinely remorseful that I soften a bit. “If you do it quickly, I’ll still give you a good tip.”
“Yes, sir.” The kid’s arm moves as if he’s about to salute. I raise a single brow, and he interrupts the action, opens and closes his mouth once, and runs back into the kitchen.
Teenagers.
Was I that much of a little shit when I was a teenager? Yes, I answer myself almost immediately, and shake my head. Many years have passed since then; it’s difficult sometimes to remember those days, when I worked just as hard, but for pennies instead of millions. I’m the oldest of four, and my mom passed away when I was fifteen. Burdened with having to look after my siblings, I developed a smart mouth and a devil-may-care attitude that irritated my father and other authority figures to no end. Thank God I wised up around the age of eighteen.
As the kid hands me my pizza--I tip him generously--I remember that Bailey recently celebrated her own eighteenth birthday. Her dad threw a party for her and her friends, while he and I drank beer and grilled burgers. I’ve been present at plenty of Bailey’s birthday parties, but this one was very different. Before, the parties were for kids, but this time, the birthday girl had me gasping.
Bailey had worn a little white sundress that hugged her every curve and left little to the imagination. As she talked with her friends, it was impossible not to notice how her smile illuminated the room, and how her laughter seized her entire body. She was so full of joy, so carefree, so--young.
Too young, I remind myself as I get into my BMW, placing the pizza on the leather passenger seat. I run a hand through my thick black hair, eyeing myself in the rearview mirror. Just as hard as I work on my business, I work on maintaining my body and health. I’m fully aware that I look damn good for my age, and am reminded of it often by the looks and smiles I receive from women passing by. Still, I’m halfway into my forties, and certainly don’t have the time or energy to waste on innocent teenage girls.
Unless, apparently, I’m their personal pizza delivery man.
As I drive to Rick’s house, I tap the steering wheel to a classic rock song on the radio. Selfishly, I hope that Bailey is excited to see me. We’ve always gotten along, ever since she was a little girl and we played hide and seek in the backyard. Now that she’s older, I admire her spunk, her sass, and the fire that ignites behind her eyes whenever she’s issued a challenge. I’ve been burned by that fire before--she’s a sweet girl, but she has a smart mouth.
I realize as I pull into the driveway that I’ve been absently daydreaming about what else her mouth can do.
No fucking way, I tell myself as I get out of the car, pizza in tow. First of all, Rick’s my best friend, meaning that his daughter is definitely off-limits. If that wasn’t enough, I’m more than twice her age. I’ve been with plenty of younger women before, and tongues have always wagged, labeling me all manner of unsavory things. Being with someone that much younger than me would brand me as some sort of pariah or pervert. The last thing I need is to wear a scarlet P.
As I approach the front door, I fish the keys out of my pocket--I have a set to Rick’s place, just as he has a set to mine. The shades are drawn over the front bay window. I wonder what Bailey is up to? I wonder if she’ll embrace me, kiss me on the cheek, let me breathe in her scent of musk and wildflowers…
I open the door and nearly drop the pizza.
What the fuck is going on?
Bailey, the girl I’ve known since she was a toddler, is on her knees, lush and nude, with her big beautiful ass facing me. For half a second, I stare at it, transfixed by this sight, which is more incredible than I could have ever dreamed. Her orbs are white and enormous, with a swollen pink slit peeping from between them.
Then, I jerk myself out of my sudden trance, and lock eyes with the pimply teenage boy whose dick is in Bailey’s mouth.
“Fuck!” he yells.
“What the fuck?!” I hiss, sparks flying from my eyes.
Bailey yells something, too, but for the moment, she’s not my concern. Overcome with emotion — wrath? possessiveness? — I fling the pizza box to the floor, my entire body vibrating. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bailey rise to her feet and run out of the room. My attention is still on the boy, who is now attempting to cover his dick with a couch pillow. It’s small. Even a quick glance tells me that he’s not much bigger than a pencil.
“Out!” I bellow, running to the couch and nearly tackling the kid, who screams shrilly.
“Don’t hurt him!” Bailey, now wrapped in a blanket, shouts from the doorway. I ignore her. I’ll deal with her later. Right now, I’ll fatally injure this punk if I damn well please.
The kid squirms underneath me, still yelling, and I barely resist the urge to knock him out with a solid blow to the temple. Instead, I seize him by the shoulders, haul him bodily off the couch, and push him towards the front door. He’s built like a scarecrow and runs, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“I need my clothes!” he bawls.
I grab them off the floor and throw them at him.
“Out!” I rage, my fists and teeth clenched.
When he tries to take a moment to struggle into his pants and underwear, I fling open the door, clutch him by the shoulder, and shove him, still naked, outside. I can’t help but grin as I slam the door right in his ashen face.
I stop grinning as, agonizingly slowly, I turn around, and finally look directly at Bailey. She’s still wrapped in a blanket and is visibly shaking, one trembling hand pressed to her luscious mouth. S
ilence stretches between us, punctuated only by the rush of blood in my ears. The scent of pepperoni pizza hangs absurdly in the air.
“Miss Bailey,” I say after a long pause, and take a step towards her. “I think we need to have a little chat.”
4
Bailey
* * *
A single thought swirls in the whirlpool of my mind: I am in so much trouble.
Not just the trouble my dad is going to put me in when he finds out about this. Not just the trouble that this has inevitably caused for Donnie’s and my relationship. No. I’m in trouble because Christopher Maddox and I are alone in my living room, and I can’t stop thinking about how desperately I want him to fuck me.
The moment my eyes meet his, I’m flooded with a warmth that extends from my face to my feet. It’s a full-body blush the likes of which I’ve never experienced. This isn’t just mortification--this is need. I’m so overcome with desire that I need his hands, his mouth, his tongue on me, all over me. It takes all of my willpower not to drop the blanket I’m wrapped in right now, revealing my bare curves and heaving chest.
You are so ridiculous, I think to myself as Christopher shuts the door and locks it. I should be harboring more concern for my poor boyfriend, but instead I’m stifling laughter behind my palm. Donnie deserved to be put in his place a little. Still, I should be feeling something, anything besides excessive wantonness. Christopher has known me since I was a child; for all I know, he still views me as a little girl, and certainly not as a desirable woman.
Christopher turns to look at me.
“Miss Bailey,” he says, his voice low. “I think we need to have a little chat.”
Thank God my hand is still on my mouth because I barely restrain a whimper of want.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I say instead. Christopher’s piercing blue eyes hit me like an icicle through the heart, and I shiver. “I didn’t know you were going to deliver a pizza!”
“So you have sex with some punk-ass twerp in the living room?” he says, his hands on his hips.
His expression looks so much like my father’s at this moment that I swallow, hard. I wonder for how many decades I’ll be forbidden from leaving the house.
I can’t help it, and I get a little defensive.
“I’m eighteen,” I retort, crossing my arms over my chest. “Everyone my age is having sex. And it’s not like he’s some random guy — he’s my boyfriend.”
Christopher tilts his head, his blue eyes unreadable.
“Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
“Since three months ago,” I say.
“And you haven’t had sex until now?”
My jaw drops, and I’m shocked by the sound of Christopher’s rumbling laughter.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m just teasing you. You can wait as long as you want to have sex.”
“Thanks for the permission,” I grumble. Suddenly, it dawns on me that my father’s best friend--the one I’ve had an insatiable crush on for years--is talking to me about sex while I stand five feet away from him, wrapped only in a blanket. My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. I dare to meet his gaze, and he’s looking at me with an inscrutable expression, his lips pressed together. I wonder what he’s thinking.
I wonder if he feels the same electricity between us that I do.
“I can’t believe that out of anyone,” he says after a moment, “you’d pick that gangly nobody for your first time.”
Out of anyone, I think, I would choose you for my first time.
“Donnie is nice,” I say unconvincingly.
“Nice, my ass,” Christopher mutters.
It’s when I pull the blanket more tightly around me that I see it: his gaze flickers from mine, down the length of my body, and back again. It lasts no longer than a blink, but it’s unmistakable. My lips part in wonder, and, before I can even register it, he’s closing the distance between us and pressing his mouth to mine.
For half a second, I allow myself to enjoy this, the sudden culmination of all my secret dreams into a delicious reality. His mouth is firm, domineering, but his hands cup the sides of my face with a surprising tenderness. My knees go weak, and I allow myself to lean against his chiseled body, my arms wrapping around him.
Then, the logical part of my brain screams at me for an explanation.
“Wait, wait,” I say against his lips before pulling back from him. The blanket that was wrapped around me falls to the ground, and I stand before him fully nude. My breasts are enormous and the tips scrape across his chest. My vee is swollen and wet in his vicinity, and I think he knows.
Christopher’s eyes narrow, and I watch them unabashedly explore my every curve. I’m breathing heavily, and his eyes fixate on the rise and fall of my chest, before he finally meets my gaze.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, even as I’m letting him openly survey my nude body, even as I’m longing to throw myself into his arms once again.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs, and I think I might faint.
Me too, I think. Instead, I say, “But what if--what if my dad — ”
Christopher shakes his head, and, ever so slowly, so tenderly, runs his hand down the side of my face, my neck, and then to my breast. I shiver despite the warmth of his hands, and realize I’m nearly shaking with desire. “That little twerp you were going to fuck doesn’t deserve you,” he growls. “I’ll teach you what a real man does in bed.”
Then we’re kissing again, his fingers snaking through the curls of my hair, his other hand on my lower back, crushing me into him. He’s a full head taller than me, if not more, and I feel completely dwarfed by him--completely at his mercy. When he buries his head in the crook of my neck, nipping at the tender flesh of my throat, I moan so loudly that he hums a chuckle against my skin. I am already ready to be molded by him, like clay.
I know in this moment that I’ll do anything--anything--he wants.
As if reading my mind, Christopher suddenly removes his mouth from mine. I whine at the interruption, desperate for his kiss. But he only smirks, and then faster than I’m able to comprehend, sweeps me off my feet so that I’m being carried in his arms. I yelp and fling my arms around his neck.
“Don’t drop me!” I squeal, blushing. What if I’m too heavy for him?
He responds only by taking one, two, and then three long strides into my bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him, and laying me onto my bed.
I stare as he takes off his shirt, revealing rippling muscles beneath--his arms, his pecs, his abs, so perfectly defined, like he’s carved from marble. My breath comes hard and fast from my open mouth. How many times have I daydreamed about this moment, right here in this bed? How many times have I convinced myself that it would never become reality? And yet here he is, Christopher Maddox, in the flesh--increasingly in very little but the flesh.
The heat of his stare sets me on fire, and as he lies on top of me, I kiss him with escalating vigor. His full weight on mine feels almost comforting--far more so than Donnie’s gangly form. Everything about Christopher is a vast improvement over Donnie: his kiss, his touch, his tongue in my mouth, and--most exciting of all--the pressure of his erection against my thigh. When I notice it, I moan into Christopher’s mouth, growing dizzy with anticipated pleasure. Apparently, I have no trouble getting a real man hard.
“You feel that?” he mutters into my ear; I fling one arm over my head, and he grabs my wrist to keep it there, molding me further to his will. “You feel what you’re doing to me already?”
“Oh, my God, yes,” I gasp. I suddenly want nothing more than to see that cock--it feels huge, pressed against me. I want it inside--wherever he wants it.
With my free hand, I begin to fumble impatiently at his belt. I feel him smirk against my mouth.
“Not yet,” Christopher says, pressing a kiss at the corner of my mouth. “A real man pleases his woman first.”
As he peels himself away from me and slowly slides down t
he bed, it dawns on me exactly what he’s planning on doing. A million horrified objections instantly gather on my tongue. Donnie has never done that to me. No one ever has! I’ve read all about it, and Kara has certainly told me enough about it, but I have yet to experience it myself.
Christopher lies on his stomach at the end of the bed and looks up at me, one brow arced in amusement, no doubt at the look on my face. “Just relax, baby,” he says, pressing a warm kiss to my dimpled thigh. “I promise you’ll enjoy this.”
I raise myself onto my elbows and swallow hard. What if he thinks I’m gross down there? What if I taste bad? What if…
All thought dissipates like smoke when he lowers his head between my thighs and kisses me there. The combination of heat and moisture on my pussy sends a jolt of electricity all the way up my spine, and down again.
“Christopher…” I whisper, no longer afraid, no longer unsure. Instead, I twine my fingers into his black hair, and pray that he keeps his head between my legs forever.
His tongue swirls around and around my clit, and a low moan erupts from deep inside of me. In response, Christopher growls against my skin before lapping back at my slit, teasing it slowly. Nothing has ever felt so good, so sensual, or so primal. My skin buzzes with pleasure.
After a minute or so of leg-quivering rapture, I moan more and more loudly, more and more desperately. Suddenly, he pulls back to look at me, those blue eyes piercing me like an arrow.
“You’re only going to come,” he informs me, his voice gravelly, “on my cock.”
Kneeling on the bed, he finally removes his belt, and then his jeans, and then, as my eyes hungrily follow each article of clothing, his briefs.
I can’t restrain a gasp. His cock is a thing of beauty. Bigger even than I imagined, and so mouthwateringly enormous. It’s gently curved, rock hard and pulsing. I wonder, absentmindedly, if I’m drooling.