Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  I stare at him, my eyes are big and wide, my jaw wired shut. I’m frozen.

  “Want something from the mini bar?” he asks, walking past me, his hand trailing along my waist as he goes. He crouches down and opens it, pulling out a small bottle of champagne.

  “Are you paying for that or are the publishers?”

  “Someone is,” he says, eyeing the printed sticker on the mini fridge. “Apparently it’s one of those things where you’re charged the moment you lift it up.”

  “Sneaky devils,” I say, my voice sounding unnaturally high. Maybe it’s just me. As much as I want him to keep talking, to ease us back into the people we usually are to each other, on the other hand…

  I want him.

  I want him and I’m absolutely terrified.

  Laz gets back up, unscrews the cap of the champagne and grabs two glasses from the desk. Fills one up, hands it to me. Fills up his.

  But he doesn’t take a sip right away. He watches me, eyes steady. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He looks so different here in the room, in this foreign space I’m not used to. All his clothes are black, the bed and walls and furniture are white. The contrast is so stark, it’s almost surreal.

  “Marina,” he says softly. “We don’t have to do anything.”

  There is weight to his words. I know his heart. I know he means them.

  I nod. “I know. I want to.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. He nods at the glass. “You’ve had some drinks.”

  “I’ve never felt more sober.” I pause, my breath short and shallow. Anxious. “Do you still want to?”

  He smiles, gives his head a shake. “You have no idea, do you?”

  “About what?”

  “How I feel about you.”

  Okay. I didn’t think that would cause me to sway, but it does. I reach out, put my untouched glass on the desk and lean on the edge of it.

  “How do you feel about me?” I whisper.

  Do you love me?

  Please say you love me.

  “I’ll show you,” he says. “I’ll prove it. Just as you asked.”

  He finishes his champagne and comes over to me and just like that, the little distance between us closes up, the moment we had to retreat into our old roles, it’s all over.

  His mouth is on mine and his hands are on me and my heart is with his and I am drowning on my feet.

  “You’ll go slow?” I whisper against his lips.

  “I’ll go slow, I’ll go fast, I will do whatever you ask.”

  I smile against him. “That was almost a poem.”

  “Almost,” he says. He cups my face in his hands. “Marina, I’ve never wanted anything, anyone, in this whole bloody world as much as I want you.”

  I’m choking up.

  I’m turned on.

  I’m a mess.

  “How about I take the pressure off,” he says, his hands dropping away and leaving my skin feeling bare and cold where his warmth once was.

  He takes a few steps back until his legs hit the edge of the bed.

  With his eyes burning holes into mine, he starts unbuttoning his white dress shirt. Before I can process what’s happening – that he’s stripping in front of me – his shirt is undone, pulled off, being discarded on the floor.

  Holy bejeesus.

  Just with the way I ogled his legs before, I’m soaking every single inch of his upper body. I’ve seen it before, on the beach. I know where his tattoos are, but I’ve never had a good look at them. I know he’s ripped but I never allowed myself to drink it all in.

  Now I can. Now he wants me to look. And why not?

  Lazarus Scott looks like a sex god.

  I can say that without even having slept with him because honestly, this view of his body alone is worth the price of admission.

  It’s always been obvious that he has these amazing, wide, broad shoulders that lead to muscled arms and a trim torso. I’ve admired that since forever, especially when he wears tight, thin T-shirts.

  But now, shirtless, I can see how firm his chest is, a dusting of chest hair between his pecs, half camouflaged by the tattoos that work their way down and across his body. I wonder about their stories, their histories. The ink looks old, words and symbols and skulls and a map of England and the union jack. His body is a treasure map, something that goes beyond surface symbols.

  The ridges of his washboard abs, the slim Vs of his hips as they disappear into a grey waistband, the flat plane of his belly—I want to run my fingers all over him, just to see what that all feels like.

  I manage to drag my attention back up to his eyes. He has the cockiest smile on, tempered only by the heat in his gaze.

  He starts undoing his belt. Then the button of his pants. Then his zipper is pulled down with a sound that echoes throughout the room.

  His pants fall to his feet, he steps out of them, out of his shoes and socks and now he’s just in his briefs. The outline of his cock is completely visible, long and thick and curving up toward the band, barely contained. Through the thin fabric I can see everything, including the faint marks of his piercing.

  Probably not a Prince Albert, I think to myself and wonder if I’ll be telling Naomi later. Maybe.

  Then he pulls the briefs down, tosses them to the side and stands there with his cock out and I’m…I’m…

  Terrified.

  It’s so oddly alien, even after seeing a million cocks, both wonderful ones from online porn and shitty ones from unsolicited dick picks. It’s also massive. I don’t have a lot of experience to measure it to, obviously, but either my vibrator is shyly modest or Laz has one fucking huge cock.

  And right at the end, along the ridge, near the swollen dark tip, are two barbells, two rungs of a Jacob’s ladder. Am I crazy for being relieved he only has two? I’m not sure my virginity could handle his cock, let alone one lined with metal.

  “That’s not going to fit,” I blurt out.

  He lets out a hoarse laugh. “I’ll make sure it does. Now, are you going to need a bowl of popcorn for the show or do you want to get naked too?”

  I grin at him, my heart alternating between tight squeezes and low dips, like it’s on a rollercoaster ride inside my chest. My feelings are all over the place, I’m staring at a very raw, very beautiful, very formidable naked Laz, and now I’m expected to get naked. I barely even look at myself naked in the mirror when I’m at home alone.

  “Just a minute,” I tell him, turning around to have the glass of champagne. I gulp it down, the bubbles going up my nose, feeling as fizzy as my brain.

  Laz has closed the gap between us by the time I’ve turned around.

  I can’t even react. This big naked man is right up against me, one hand disappearing into my hair. He kisses me, softly, sweetly, enough so that all my worries and hang-ups start to melt, like an ice cream cone in the sun. I’m dripping into his hands, his touch, his lips.

  While our kiss deepens, our tongues moving harder yet slower and then faster against each other, his large hands slip to my shoulders, palming them briefly before running the straps down. They reach around, pushing down the back of my dress, undoing my bra.

  I know what he’s doing and I couldn’t appreciate it more. He’s removing my bra without removing my dress. He knows what makes me feel more comfortable.

  He pulls my bra out, the straps briefly getting tangled before he throws it on the armchair.

  He kisses every bare inch of skin. Neck, collarbone, shoulders, arms, the swells of my breasts. My nipples harden underneath the fabric as his fingers brush past them teasingly. My breath hitches in my throat, needing more from him, wanting more, yet being afraid of getting it.

  He drops to his knees. My hands go to his hair, wrapping his locks around my fingers and holding tight because if I don’t, I’ll fall right over.

  I peer down at him, stealing a look, watching the muscles in his back move, the tattoos he has back there. I see words I can’t read etched below his shoulder blades. />
  His head goes back as he stares up at me with an open, wanting expression. His hands trail up my calves, up my thighs, going under my dress and rising up, up, up, his palm shooting electricity into my skin. His eyes never leave mine.

  I’m holding my breath. I don’t care. How could anyone breathe through this? I’m afraid if I exhale, everything might blow away, dissolving like a dream.

  This is Laz.

  On his knees.

  Looking up at me like I’m his place of worship.

  No matter what happens, don’t forget this. Don’t forget this.

  His fingers keep going up the outside of my thighs, wrapping around the lacy edge of my underwear.

  He pulls them down, slowly, inch by inch. Even the silky fabric brushing down against my inner thighs makes my body shiver.

  I lean into him, step out of them. Slip off my heels.

  “Get on the bed,” he says thickly. “On your back.”

  “Okay,” I say, my voice so tiny and thin against his. I’m actually glad he’s being bossy, I wouldn’t know what to do otherwise.

  I go to the bed, lie down on top of the cool covers.

  Lift my head and watch as Laz comes to the foot of the bed and gets on it, prowling between my legs which I instinctively open wider for him.

  He doesn’t say a word but he gives me a look, a hungry one, an amazed one, and that’s when I slowly lean my head back into the bed, close my eyes, my fingers gripping the covers already in preparation for what’s to come.

  Just breathe, I remind myself but then I’m gasping for breath as he parts my legs with his hands and pulls my dress up to my waist so I’m completely exposed and bare for him.

  Is this really happening?

  This is really happening.

  And that’s when I remember that I did shave. Whether it was just stupid luck or wishful thinking, thank god.

  Laz groans, his thumbs slowly dragging across the soft flesh of my inner thighs, spreading them further. “You’re beautiful.” His voice is ragged, hushed, low. I feel it in every part of me. I believe it.

  It’s enough that I relax. That I take it all in, relish the feel of his hands as they squeeze my skin, parting me.

  His head goes between my legs, his stubble scraping like sandpaper against my thighs. His mouth presses against my most sensitive parts.

  I gasp, then gasp louder as his tongue slowly snakes out and licks down the middle of me, swirling slowly over my clit with the cool, hard press of his tongue ring.

  Fuck. Fuck.

  Fuck!

  I’ve never had a guy go down on me before. I’ve never met someone who wanted to do it enough to bring it up and I obviously never would. So everything I’m feeling is only what I’ve dreamed of and…fuck. It’s the only word I have for this, this…This is better than what I imagined.

  Good lord, if this isn’t a prerequisite for fucking, it should be.

  His tongue is wet, warm, firm then soft, the ball of his tongue ring providing constant pressure as he’s licking me up and down.

  Like he’s lapping up the most decadent desert and wants to savor

  every

  last

  bit.

  And with each pass of his tongue, my body is shocked, again and again, firecrackers lighting up along each nerve until I’m ready to explode.

  Laz moans into me and that just sends me into overdrive. I grab his hair again, which I’ve decided is my favorite thing to do and my thighs gently squeeze the sides of his head, which is now my second favorite thing to do.

  He responds by deepening his moan, the vibrations rumbling through me, bringing me to the edge. All my nerves are wrapping tighter and tighter and tighter around themselves, ready to snap, dying to unravel.

  “I’m close,” I whisper. I tug at his hair, hard enough to bring up his head. “I’m close,” I tell him again.

  He frowns at me between my legs, his mouth wet from my desire. I’m hit with the fact that for whatever reason, this doesn’t seem odd or weird at all. Yes, it’s Laz but…

  This is the Laz that I always should have known.

  “This is the start of the evening of a thousand orgasms,” he says. “It’s not just a clever name. I’m going to make you come in my mouth and you’re going to come fucking hard.”

  I swallow hard. Good lord, his words…

  But I can be direct too.

  “I want to come with you inside me.”

  “Jesus,” he says harshly, more to himself. “You can’t say things like that Marina or I’m going to lose it.”

  “Come inside me,” I say again, finding courage, finding strength, fueled by this urgent need for intimacy, for Laz to have me as no other man has.

  “Sweet, sweet girl,” he whispers to me as he starts crawling over me, “you’re going to ruin me, aren’t you?”

  “Pretty sure you’ll ruin me first.”

  “I’ll go slow,” he says, running his hands up my sides until they cup my breasts. “Don’t worry about the sheets.”

  But that’s not at all what I meant. At all. My vibrators may not be as oversized as Laz is, but I have used them consistently and in many different ways. I’m pretty sure there will be none of the usual hymen-blasting signs of sex afterward. I mean, I’m a virgin but I’m not sixteen. I have a sex drive. I have fantasies. Needs. Wants. I’m more than ready.

  The real question is whether Laz will ruin me in the long run. We’ve already stepped over that fuzzy grey line that separated friends from lovers. I’ll go as far as to say that line was crossed when we went out on our first date. But after this, the biggest lines of all, I don’t think there is any going back.

  I’m not just about to have sex with Laz.

  I’m about to lose my virginity to him.

  Something that’s been shameful, a burden, like the opposite of a Scarlet letter. I’m not a whore but I’m too far gone on the other side. Too innocent, too good, too perfect. And deep down, too damaged and fucked up. It’s a complicated cross I’ve had to bear and unless you’re a twenty-nine-year-old virgin, then you don’t really know how heavy that cross is.

  And now it’s almost all over. Once I give that to Laz, he’ll be imprinted in me in more ways than one. In some ways, I should have just fucked someone else a long time ago, because the first time I slept with Laz was going to be heavy anyway.

  But that moment is long gone. And now I’m giving myself to him, a man I’m in love with, a man I hope will carry my heart with his for as long as he can.

  If things fall apart after this…

  “You okay?” Laz asks above me, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. His arms are propped up on either side of my head, his hips pressed against my thighs, his legs parting my legs. His cock is hard as concrete, pressing down against me.

  “I’m okay,” I manage to say, giving him a small smile.

  “If I’m hurting you…”

  “If I don’t like it, I’ll make you stop.” I pause. “Condom?”

  Please don’t make me pull out Jane’s.

  “Right,” he says, sounding sheepish.

  He gets off of me and picks up his pants from the floor and immediately I feel bereft at his absence. I also feel silly because there I am pretty much fully clothed on the bed while he’s buck naked, his firm, gorgeous ass facing mine. I want to bite it so bad.

  While his back is turned, I pull my dress over my head and now I’m completely naked. At least the position is flattering. And flattening.

  He turns around and stops in his tracks once he sees me. I swear I see his cock move, get even harder. I fight the urge to run my hands down between my legs and touch myself, even though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Maybe another night.

  What if there isn’t another night? that nagging voice pops up in my head. What if this is it?

  But that voice can shut the fuck up right now.

  “You’re something to write about,” he whispers, voice choked in awe. “Look at you. Look at how absolu
tely perfect you are.”

  I give him a shaky smile. “You’d write a poem about me?”

  A quiet intensity comes over his eyes. “I’ve written countless poems about you. But I don’t share them. They’re all in one tattered notebook at home.”

  I blink. Oh my god. There’s a secret Marina book?

  “They’re not even in your published book?”

  He gives his head a tiny shake. “No,” he says softly. “Those words are about us, for us. They’re too intimate for anyone else.”

  My heart is doing that thing again, swelling like a balloon, threatening to burst.

  All this time…

  Laz tears the foil packet in his hands, the sound bringing me back to what’s about to happen and I watch with big eyes as he takes the condom and slips it on with the kind of precision I don’t want to know about. It goes over his piercings with ease.

  His piercings. I guess that’s something I should think about.

  “Do I, uh, need lube for those?” I say to him as he comes over to the bed.

  “Those?” he asks, brows raised.

  “Your piercings. On your dick.”

  He grins. “Oh. No. You don’t have any idea how wet you are, do you?” And at that he brings a hand between my legs and with his eyes locked on mine, slowly inserts a finger.

  “You’re soaked. “

  Now two fingers. Then three fingers. I gasp as I tense up, clenching around him. But it isn’t painful in the slightest. Of course I’d have to multiply three by, like, seven, to substitute his cock.

  He moves over me, grabbing the base of his cock and pressing it softly against my entrance. “If it’s too much, I’ll fix you up. How about that?”

  I nod but he doesn’t push inside. Not yet.

  He runs his hands, palms flat, up the sides of my waist, sliding over my breasts, his thumbs expertly brushing over my nipples.

  “Look at you,” he whispers, pinching my sensitive skin until I moan. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you. See how unbelievable you are. Every single inch of you is pure poetry.”

  He drags his lips over my breasts, his tongue flicking and teasing and tasting. “I want to write you with my tongue.”

  It swirls around my nipple as he sucks it into his mouth.