by Amanda Faye
"Stop, stop, stop, stop," she finally surrenders, pushing on my forehead and attempting to climb off my face. I let her, only to use her momentum and bone-lessness to lay her flat on the bed. With a snap of my legs and a twist of my hips, I'm up on my knees, settling myself between her open legs.
"Ryan," she pants, but I don't slow; don't hesitate. I line myself up with her opening and slide home. Her warmth and wetness welcome me like a sailor returning from the sea.
Her head twists left and right before she slides her arms up to my back and wraps her legs around my hips.
When I bottom out, I pause, enjoying the way she pulls me in deeper.
With one arm supporting my weight, I bring the other to her face, tilting her head so I can dip my tongue between her teeth, letting her taste herself against my lips.
At the urging of her heels, I start to move. Slow and steady, I want to enjoy it this time. Relish it. Ravish her from the inside out.
Cris's eyes are closed, but I won't, can't close mine. I can't risk missing a moment of her withering and whimpering underneath me.
I snap my hips, the velvet of her pussy embracing every thrust.
Her hips arch off the bed, and I bring my spare hand under her ass, lifting, and angling, so I rub against her center.
A moan escapes her lips, loud and wanton, and my hips increase of their own accord, desperate to coax that noise from her again. As my thrusting increases, her panting fills the room. The sounds of our sex, her moans, and my grunts, my balls smacking her ass, assault my senses. The smell of her pleasure wafts from between our bodies.
I press myself against her, letting my chest rub against her breasts and bring my lips to her ear.
"I am going to ruin you. Every time you close your eyes from this day forward, you're going to picture me, between your legs, marking you as mine."
I let my teeth sink into her neck, ensuring I leave my brand. She hisses and arches, pulling me until I feel her womb clench around me.
"When you try to stand in the morning, and your thighs burn, and your knees wobble, remember it was me that made that happen. When we're in the shower, and you see my teeth in your neck, and your tits, and your ass, remember that by the end of the night, you were begging for me to claim you as my own."
She's keening and gasping, and I lose what little grip on my sanity that remained. Gathering both her wrists in my hand, I jerk them above her head, pulling her body taught beneath me. I plant my feet against the headboard and leverage myself against her. Push her breasts to scrape my chest and her clit to grind against my pubic bone.
"From this moment on, Cristina, You. Are Mine."
Her orgasm rips from her as she freezes underneath me, body bowing like an tree in the wind.
My heart stutters as she sucks my soul from my body, slipping it safely beside her own, and then takes off again at a thousand beats per minute as my physical form sheds its seed.
I try to kiss her, but it's weak and uncoordinated, and I do little more than breathe my air into her lungs.
Her eyes are still closed tight, and I watch in amazement as tears slip down one by one. I loosen my hold on her hands and dip into licking the moisture from her face. She frames my cheeks in her palms, bringing my forehead to rest against her own.
I'm exhausted and sated and nowhere near done for the night. But I need a moment to catch my breath. I collapse onto Cristina before rolling to the side and gathering her in my arms.
The last thing I remember before dozing off to sleep is the whispered prayer from her lips.
"Maybe we can do one night only, forever."
Epilogue
Cristina
Six Months Later…
I never grasped the meaning of the phrase 'bicker like an old married couple' until I woke up in Ryan's arms. Making love with him was everything I ever thought it would be and more. I laughed. I cried. I came like a freight train.
If I thought I'd wake up to him whispering poetry in my ear, however, I was sadly mistaken.
His fingers trailed gently from my hip, over my belly, grazing my breasts. My desire lit like a match, and I was already anticipating round four. Or was it five? Then his hand slid to my shoulder and shoved me off his chest.
"You know I love you, Sugarplum, but your hair is up my nose, and your hip is on my bladder. Let me up. I have to pee."
Floundering like a fish out of water, I pushed my, admittedly, wildly untamed hair out of my face and shouted at him as he walked naked through my hotel room, "I was only in the position I was in because your dick kept poking me in the back last night."
"You liked it, and you know it."
He didn't even shut the bathroom door. Listening to him pee should gross me out. For some reason, though, it didn't. Instead, I followed him in, still bickering away.
"I hope you got your fill, mister, because last night was a one night only thing!"
The only response I got back was that stupid, annoying, adorable shit-eating grin.
And so, it started.
We went to dinner at his folk's house that night. My mom was there, plus Beth and her little family. We walked through the front door with his arm around my shoulders, and he kissed me on the forehead before he left my side to chat with his dad.
I lectured him, harshly, about keeping his distance while we were around the family. It went in one ear and out the other. He called me Sugarplum, and I shot him dirty looks. He tried to sneak a kiss, and I shoved his face away after smacking his cheek with my lips.
I was antsy and nervous the whole night, convinced that someone would jump up and call us out for the change in our relationship.
But there were no exclamations from them, and no proclamations from us.
On and on it went.
It wasn't until weeks later when I walked in my mom's front door to find Ryan under the kitchen sink that I realized the only thing that had changed in our relationship was me.
I lounged in Ryan’s bath that night and thought back over the last fifteen years—to the hundreds of times we'd walk through the door with his arm over my shoulder. To the thousands of stolen kisses—taken as bribes or payment. Sometimes he'd lay one on my forehead and run as fast as he could, laughing the entire time. To the millions of times he'd ticked me off while making me smile simultaneously.
I thought of the billions of times he's told me he loved me; in every way it could be said.
We'd been an old married couple since we were sixteen years old. I was simply the last one to know.
I told him it was for one night only the day I moved into his house.
I told him it was for one night only the day I accepted his ring.
It'll keep being for one night only, every night, for the rest of our lives.
The End
P.S.
We did get married on the beach. She wore her bikini under her dress.
P.P.S.
No, we didn’t invite Tom to the wedding. Cris isn’t that cruel. I may have dropped an invite for Stephanie in the mail though.
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Love,
Amanda
Biography
Amanda Faye currently resides in Atlanta with her high school sweetheart and husband of 15 years and their 4 amazing children.
She's had a passion for reading and writing since she was a child. She stole her first romance novel from her mother at age 12 and hasn't looked back since.
You could say being a Reeder is in her blood. (Family joke)
Catch a sneak peak of Book THREE in
the Forbidden Fruit Shorts Series, available for pre-order now.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B088KRN51B?notRedirectToSDP=1&ref_=dbs_mng_calw_2&storeType=ebooks
Add it to your tbr pile today!
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53352210-one-night-only-forbidden-fruit-shorts-2?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=3sOU8o1L78&rank=19
Chapter One
Suzanna
"I am. I'm the father. The baby's mine."
Silence. Blessed peace follows the unexpected statement from my brother's best friend. The earth herself pauses in its rotation while my collective family holds their breath, waiting for the information to process.
Then pandemonium breaks loose.
I should be involved in the arguments taking place. After all, it's the paternity of my unborn child that they're discussing. I can't, though. I'm too busy rewinding the last three months of my life to see if I've possibly slept with Matthew and not realized it.
No. I don't think I did.
I take in the room, doing as I've done since I was a child. Taking in the madness from the safety of the outside.
My brother Alex, who knows damn well that this child is not Matt's, has a calculating expression on his face. His eyes quickly flick between Matthew and me, formulating and discarding plans of attack in rapid succession. Alex is a politician, born and bred. It's what he's been trained to do since birth. Analyze a situation and find the best possible outcome.
My younger brother Tyler is with his wife in the corner, conversing in rapid but quiet tones. I can't understand what they're saying, but the tone is clear enough. As Alex's campaign manager for the House of Representatives, it'll be his job to sell this to the public. This, as in my ill-begotten pregnancy.
Matt is nose to nose with my father. I try to focus on what they are saying, but words have become fuzzy in my ears. I pull a trick of serenity from the lockbox in my head. I close my eyes, picturing a big blue space of nothingness. It's not just blue. Shades range from the deepest night to the brightest sunrise. I count backward from ten, allowing the numbers to fill the space in my mind. Willing my body to calmness. I make it to three before the numbers shatter. Cracks in my psyche are breaking it to pieces.
A wave of nausea flows over me, and I reach behind me, feeling for the chair I know is there. When I'm sure of my placement, I let my knees go weak, and limply slide into the seat.
My hands rest on my knees while my head dangles over my legs. I let the oxygen saturate my blood cells, inhaling through my nose, and exhaling through my mouth. This, too, shall pass. Difficult roads lead to beautiful destinations. A hundred different platitudes drift in and out of my brain, each of them less helpful than the last.
How did I get into this situation?
I know the mechanics. Girl meets boy. Girl kisses boy. Girl, let's boy ride bareback because she's on the pill, forgetting that she finished a round of antibiotics a week ago, and her birth control probably isn't working yet. The girl tries to call the boy only to find out he gave her a fake number.
It's an all too familiar story. Frankly, half of my social worker cases started a similar way.
What I'm trying to figure out is how did I get here? What steps took me to the place where my secret crush, my unrequited desire, the boy I've been clandestinely in love with, is currently telling anyone who will listen that I am carrying his child?
You may wonder why this sort of announcement is causing such a ruckus. It's the twenty-first century, after all. Women have babies out of wedlock more than they have them in it.
Well, that may be true. But not in my family. I'm Suzanna Belle. Yes, that Suzanna Belle. The second child and only daughter of The Blueridge Belles. Our obscure corner of the mountains has produced two presidents, three senators, a vice president, and too many random political offices to count.
If you're not a politician, then you're a politician's wife. Or campaign manager. Or maybe you run a non-profit that your closest politician uses as camera bait. Still, the point stands.
All except for me. It was apparent from a young age that I didn't have the constitution for public service. (Read, quick-witted, and able to pivot on your feet.) Instead of going into an approved profession designed to help my brother, however, I shamed the family legacy by becoming a social worker.
Isn't social work a public service you ask? Why, yes, it is. Thank you. But, it's not one easily used to gain voter turnout. I can't have a camera following me at work waiting for the perfect photo op.
My mother's voice floats into my ears, and when I hear her huff, "This is just like the Palins all over again," I almost eke out a laugh.
Almost.
Only my mother would equate me, a college-educated independent woman, with an unmarried teenager.
I can feel motion beside me and open my eyes to see the feet of my brother. I don't flinch away when I feel his hand land lightly on my back. I'm okay with physical affection, but not when I'm having 'a moment,' as my family calls it. When I lean into his touch, he starts to rub firm circles into my spine, easing some of the tension building there.
"You don't have any control over what she does, David."
I peek up from my hiding spot when I hear Matthew lash out at my father. Matthew moved to our town when he was ten years old. He and my brother have been fast friends ever since. I left for college and never moved back into the family house, so Matt has been more of a staple in these halls than I have. It's one of the reasons Alex asked him to come tonight.
That, and we hoped that with a nonfamily member present, our parent's reaction might temper at least a little bit. We were wrong.
Still, though, that doesn't explain why Matthew decided to announce that he was the father. I understand that he was trying to lessen the pressure on me. I even appreciate the gesture. But he's got to know that as soon as they realize it's not his, and of course, they are going to, it's just going to be that much worse. Then, not only will I have disgraced myself by getting pregnant, but I'll have pulled Matthew into my shame by lying for me.
I zone back out, letting my thoughts wander where they will. It's odd, seeing Matthew so worked up. He's a pediatrician. He has two modes; happy and adorable. Not this raging hulk of a man I see before me. Nobody talks to daddy like that.
No one.
If I weren't so freaked out, it would be really hot.
My father is a marine and a two-time vice president. The third youngest vice ever elected. Yet, I've never seen him this worked up. If I thought it was because he cared about me, I might feel gratification to see such a fire lit underneath him in my defense.
Another flood of sickness crashes into me, and I must make some move, some sound of distress. Suddenly Alex drops to his heels next to me, pushing my hair out of my face.
"Matt," he barks, and the air pressure changes immediately. Matthew's like a hurricane. The eye of the storm. He's striding towards me, shoving my father out of his way.
Matt lowers to one knee in front of me, taking my head into both of his hands. It's the closest we've been since my senior prom. Maybe the closest we've ever been. His face is mere inches from mine.
I feel weak at his touch. Palpitations burst through my chest, and I try to convince myself it's from the morning sickness.
At seven o'clock at night.
"Susie Q," Matt questions breathlessly, and another piece of my wall crumbles around me. He's the only person who has ever called me that. My parents thought nicknames were below our class, whatever that means. But always, always, I've been his Susie Q.
Without taking his thumb off my cheek, he pushes two fingers into the pulse point on my neck. His head moves imperceptibly, as if he's listening for something the rest of us can't hear. Satisfied with whatever he's heard, he whispers, "What's wrong princess, tell me what hurts?"
I'm sure he says that to all the girls. Literally. Every girl under the age of thirteen has probably had those words whispered in her ear when they feel at their worst. I can't stop
the shudder that runs through me at his tone, though. Deep, possessive. Almost Sensual.
I make the mistake of looking him in the eye. Blue, but like the abyss in my mind, they flex and blur depending on his mood. His mind must be as twisted as my own because his eyes can't seem to settle on a color. There's a storm of emotion billowing behind them.
At this distance, I notice things I only get to glance in passing—the way his three-day-old stubble covers his chin but naturally fades away from his lips. The widow's peak, bleeding into an otherwise full head of light brown hair. The piercings in his ear that I know he won't let close. Even though it's uncouth for a pediatrician to wear earrings—his words, not mine.
I feel more than see a crowd form around us and break eye contact with Matthew to look over his shoulder. Everyone has formed a half-circle around me and the two men kneeling at my feet. My father and mother. Alex's wife, Julie, who happens to be my favorite person on the planet. Tyler and his wife, Michelle. Uncle Charlie and his partner Tom. Tom gives me an encouraging wink. His arrival to the family rivaled even this hoopla.
My heart kicks up again, the pressure of this many people crowding around me, elevating my tension levels. My stomach heaves, and I close my eyes, counting in my breaths as I go.
A vast blue blankness. Tranquility washes over me. The numbers hover in my mind. Ten, nine, eight—.
"So, son, before I call your parents, tell me; are you going to do the right thing here and marry my daughter?"
My father's drawl is sharp, a sure indicator of his distress. Matthew doesn't even hesitate.
"Yes, sir, if she'll have me."
Before I have a chance to react, my stomach lurches for a final time, and I'm bending over the side of the chair, vomiting spectacularly into my mother's potted chestnut tree.