by Kim Karr
Up.
Down.
Slow.
It’s her, doing this to me.
Her.
With my fantasy in place, I close my eyes and gently rub first around the head, and then down my shaft. With my other hand, I fist my balls. Both hands move in tandem.
Fuck, that feels good.
Because I gave myself a pass, I picture her doing this. Her in the shower with me and us free to explore each other in any way we want. God knows I want to explore her. All of her. Her pussy, her ass, her mouth. Every single inch of her.
The memory of that hot little pussy of hers has me grabbing my shaft harder and moving up toward the tip. I want her hands to be the ones gripping me, not mine, but I have to settle for this, and in my fantasy, it is her hands, not mine.
Water droplets from the shower pound my body and act as a lube, making it easier to move faster. I think of her—her face, her body, how much I want her.
Fuck!
I imagine driving my cock into her sweet pussy, and the fantasy of that makes me want to come hard and fast.
Oh, fuck yeah.
My fist pumps at a quicker pace and I lick the water from my lips. I think about slowing down, but I am already too far gone.
My forehead falls to the shower wall and I grab my balls tighter, twisting my cock to feel a little pain.
Fuck!
Pressure wells deep within me and a tingling radiates along my spine.
I am going to come.
I am going to explode.
Fuck!
As my orgasm speeds higher and higher, so does the pleasure—it feels like electricity is shooting through me. That unbelievably good feeling mounts and I can’t hold on any longer.
I clutch on tight and let myself go.
As I come, my cock twitches so fast it feels like a spasm, but it’s so incredibly good. I explode at the thought of her and the intensity of my orgasm shocks me. When the feeling rises again, I can’t believe it.
I’m not finished.
This time I really let myself go—crossing that threshold to another world and reliving the same feeling again and again until I am spent. If just the thought of her milks me of everything I have, how will it feel when I’m actually inside her?
After the high subsides, I slouch against the glass and think—it will feel fucking fantastic.
As my breathing returns to normal, so do my senses, and I chastise myself. I shouldn’t be thinking of her at all; she’s Cam’s little sister.
With a sudden urge to chop my dick off, I lather up with soap, rinse off, and get the fuck out of here.
I don’t bother to shave.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection.
What’s it going to be…resist temptation or give in to it and risk everything?
Only time will tell.
21
13 Going on 30
Amelia
People say that real life is nothing like it is in the movies. That’s not always true. When it comes to falling in love, I think the two can sometimes resemble each other quite a lot.
You probably won’t end up kissing someone in the rain for the first time, or finding the one who completes you at your place of work, but that doesn’t mean the best movies aren’t about love, especially the relatable ones.
Romances that feel real, make you feel like you’re floating on a cloud, are the very best ones. And as I read Fangirl, I find myself feeling just like that.
With my red pen in my hand, I cross out some of Kate’s lines and rewrite them. Taking liberties that might be unwelcome don’t bother me. For some reason, I seem to be able to fall into the role of Kate with ease. And because of this, I go with it.
The hero, Kellan, is a twenty-something party guy with a big ego. He became an overnight star on a hit television show about a surfer who quits college to follow his dreams, and he thinks he is all that.
Kate is the smitten fan who has stars in her eyes when she meets Kellan at her father’s surf shop, which is being used to film an episode of Kellan’s television show. After contemplating what to do for days, she finally emerges from the back room and nervously asks him for his autograph. And that is how they meet.
Not my favorite part.
Don’t get me wrong—the screenplay is well written and draws me right in. It’s just that Kate, who is free-spirited and lively, which is what draws Kellan to her, seems to fall under his spell way too easily. As his love interest she needs to be less nervous, more indifferent, not exactly playing hard to get, but not as awestruck, or else I don’t think Kellan would be as intrigued as he is.
Other than the beginning, which is where the majority of my notes are, I think this will make a fantastic movie about finding love when you least expect it.
Technically, I’m not breaking and entering because I had to get my things anyway, and I knew where the spare key was.
Brooklyn isn’t home yet, though, and it’s close to four. Sadly, I have to go. Cam and Makayla had to take a ride to West Hollywood, but will be home anytime. Turns out Presley’s diaper bag somehow got left behind. Maggie assured Makayla she’d be fine without it. That Makayla could send it to work with Cam on Monday, and Keen would bring it home after work. Still, Makayla insisted on returning it today. I think she has a case of babyitis.
I might have teased my brother about it this morning, and he might have given me the narrow-eyed stare he is famous for.
That was enough to tell me he’s not ready for that next step. I think he feels the need to build his career first. You see, Cam is determined to be a huge success, like our father, but without our father’s help. Yeah, he has daddy issues, like me. He, however, is forging ahead on his own. He owns a men’s retail clothing company, and Keen works for him, and so does Maggie, but she’s still on maternity leave.
It’s pretty cute—this little family they have established.
Anyway, they said they’d be home by dinner, so I should probably get back and even start cooking something.
I consider leaving Brooklyn a note, just as I thought about texting him all day, but I have yet to hear from him after his abrupt departure from the car last night, so I leave his manuscript on the bed with the red pen on top of it and go.
He’ll know I was here.
I take my time locking up, hoping to see him. I take my time walking around the path to my brother’s house, hoping to see him. And I take my time going in, hoping to see him.
I don’t.
Once inside Cam’s kitchen, I force myself to stop thinking about Brooklyn, and busy myself with what to make for dinner. I find a loaf of bread in the freezer and take it out to thaw.
Just as I’m rummaging through the pantry for ingredients to make spaghetti sauce, Makayla comes in. “Hi,” I say as I set the cans of crushed tomatoes on the counter.
She blows on her fingers. “Hi. I should have worn gloves. It’s cold outside.”
“Is it usually this cold?” I ask, opening the brand-new refrigerator and looking for some spices.
“No.” Makayla sets her purse on the counter. “Or at least I don’t remember it being this cold last year at this time.”
There is a small container of basil and oregano on one of the neatly organized shelves that I am sure my brother had nothing to do with. I grab it, along with some fresh garlic and an onion. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d make pasta and garlic bread for dinner.”
Makayla rubs her stomach. “That sounds amazing. We had black bean burgers and chickpea salad for lunch at Keen and Maggie’s, and I’m starving.”
Opening the drawer nearest the stove, I’m not surprised to find it is the utensils drawer. “Black bean burgers? Yuck,” I say, pointing my finger toward my mouth before grabbing a can opener.
“Maggie’s specialty,” Makayla adds, slipping her shoes off and leaving them neatly by the door. She likes things in their place. I wouldn’t say she’s OCD, but she
’s definitely organized.
Maggie’s house, where Brooklyn lives, isn’t so organized. I’d say I’m somewhere in the middle. Neatness is cool, but not always needed. I’m happy either way.
“How can I help?” Makayla asks, washing her hands in the sink.
I hand her a dish towel. “How about you pour us each a glass of wine and make the garlic bread, and I’ll do the rest.”
Once her hands are dry, she slings the dish towel over my shoulder. “Deal.”
The pots and pans are all neatly hanging from the new pot rack over the island and I reach for one of each. “Where’s Cam?”
She opens the wine chiller that I had not noticed and bends to study the bottles. “Oh, he saw Brooklyn when we pulled in, and he went over to talk to him.”
Worried, I bite my bottom lip, and turn away from her to set the pot in the sink and the pan on the stove. “What about?” I try to keep my voice even.
After a pause, she removes a bottle of red. “I’m not sure.”
The can opener is state-of-the-art, nothing like my old, hard-to-turn one, and I don’t even struggle to open the can. Mid-turn, I glance over my shoulder. “Everything looks so beautiful in the house. You’ve done a great job.”
With a smile, she opens a cabinet near the chiller and grabs two large goblets. Over her own shoulder, she tosses, “Thank you. Cam has helped.”
Turning, I smirk to myself. My brother couldn’t care less about how anything is decorated. “Like with what? Deciding the length of the couch to lay his ass on and watch the basketball game?”
Giggling, she pours the wine. “Well, he pretends to help. It’s cute.”
I fill the pot with water and set it on the stove on medium. Then I open the upper cupboard nearest the stove to find the olive oil. I pour some into the pan before stepping to the butcher block beside the stove to chop the onions and mince the garlic. “So tell me, when are you two going to get married?”
Makayla sets the glass of wine beside me and bends to grab a cookie tray from the drawer under the stove. She looks up. “I don’t know, maybe this fall or even next spring. Neither one of us wants to rush it.”
Turning the stove on to heat the oil, I start to chop the onions. “That’s smart. It gives you time to finish remodeling the house and plan your wedding without a lot of stress.”
Sipping her wine, she looks over the rim of her glass at me. “Yes. Cam has been trying to buy this house from our landlord for a while now, and I think they’ve finally agreed to a price. Once we actually own it, we want to finish the inside and then attack the outside. First thing Cam wants to redo is the outdoor patio.”
Dropping my knife, I turn to her and clap my hands together. “Oh my God, you’re actually going to get to buy this house. That is fantastic.”
Her shoulders lift with excitement as she starts to cut the bread. “I think so, too, but don’t tell Cam I told you. He wants to tell you himself.”
“Tell Cam what?” The voice is deep, and definitely my brother’s.
“I’m so busted.” Makayla smiles and twists her head to kiss him.
Cam swats her on the ass, and then meets her lips. “Bad girl. I think I might need to punish you,” he whispers, but not low enough.
“Stop!” I shout. The last thing I want to hear is my brother talking about sex. “She was telling me about your new house,” I blurt out, dumping the tomatoes in the pan.
Cam approaches and looks over my shoulder. “Yes!” He fist-pumps. “Your spaghetti sauce is my favorite.”
With a smile, I add the garlic and spices. “I know.”
The wooden spoons are in the drawer on the other side of the stove, and he opens it and grabs one. Just as he hands it to me, he says, “Be sure to make enough. I asked Brooklyn to join us.”
When I take the spoon, I ladle it around and try to hide my joy by bending to smell the aroma of the freshly cooking garlic. “There should be plenty.”
Makayla slides the sliced bread coated with butter and garlic into the oven. “I’m going to go change, and then I’ll set the table.”
Just then the water boils, and I grab the box of pasta. “Don’t rush.”
Cam reaches for the strainer and sets it in the sink in the island. “I’ll be back to help. Will you be okay?”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to rush, either.”
He grins. “You sure?”
Grabbing the towel over my shoulder, I swat him across the chest. “Go. I got this.” I like to see my brother happy. And with his happy mood right now, I know nothing bad happened with Brooklyn.
Just as I dump the pasta in the water, my cell rings and Landon’s name flashes across the screen.
Along with Carter, I talked to him earlier, so I’m surprised he’s calling again. “Hello, ball boy,” I answer, just to be sassy.
“It’s Major League player to you, and hey,” he laughs.
Putting the phone to my cheek with my shoulder, I grab the large pasta fork in the drawer. “Silly me, I forgot you received that little promotion.”
His voice goes low. “You like to hit below the belt.”
I know he’s looking for a sexy comeback, but for some reason I don’t want to go there, and I turn the conversation, just as I did earlier. “I’m just honored to get two calls in one day.”
“I was worried about you. You sounded upset when you told me about your father earlier. Did you call your mother?”
The water boils a little too much, and I turn the heat down. “I did.”
“And?”
My thoughts wander to what Carter told me this morning when I told him all about last night. My best friend told me not to play around with two men at once. And even though he gets that Brooklyn isn’t looking for anything more than a hookup, he says that is what I am doing. Someone always gets burned, is what he told me. Seriously, I should listen to Carter. After meeting two men he really liked last summer, he secretly dated each. And what he found out was that a love triangle is never a daisy chain when both dumped him.
With that in mind, I cover the sauce and turn the heat to simmer, and then grab my wine and lean against the counter. I will keep our conversations in the friend zone until I can get over my crush on Brooklyn. “I told her what I found out, and how sorry I was. Not surprisingly, she cried, and then she asked me not to hate my father.”
“But you do?”
Frowning, my brother walks back in. “Who’s that?” he mouths.
I ignore his glare and swirl my wineglass. “Hate is a strong word. I think I’m numb right now, and disappointed.”
“That’s understandable,” Landon comments. “Does he know you know?”
“He does. I emailed him. Told him everything, and also told him I’m taking the next two weeks off.”
“And?”
“And I haven’t opened his response. I’m not really ready for that. What do you say we talk about something else,” I suggest.
“Sure,” he says, and then asks, “So you’ll be home in two weeks? I want to take you out to the field and teach you how to throw.”
“Sounds fun, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” I tell him, and then catch my brother’s stare. He narrows his eyes at me. I widen mine and turn my back. He knows all about our father—he sat beside me this morning when I sent the email—so his preoccupation with my phone call has nothing to do with that.
“How about I come out there?” Landon offers. “I have next weekend off, and I really want to see you again.”
The memory of Brooklyn and his fingers inside my pussy comes to mind, and the thought has my toes tingling. With Landon here, it could be messy, not to mention keeping things in the friend zone would be much harder. “No, that’s probably not a good idea right now.”
There’s a slight pause, but he recovers quickly. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”
With my mind still on last night, my cheeks flush a little as I remember how Brooklyn made me come, and I know I should get
off the phone with another man. “Yes, I will. I promise. I’m making dinner and should probably get back to it.”
“Good night, Amelia,” he says, and disconnects. He’s so easygoing, so smooth. I can’t help but contrast that to Brooklyn, who is anything but easygoing, and much rougher around the edges.
When I turn around, I see not only my brother staring at me, but Makayla, too.
“Who was that, Carter?” Cam asks suspiciously.
“No,” I reply.
“Then who?”
Makayla smiles. “Was that a boy?”
“Maybe,” I admit, instantly regretting my flirty tone.
Makayla’s smile grows wider. “A boy you like?”
The pasta should be done, and I turn to stir it one last time before straining it. “Maybe,” I say again, this time a little softer, a little less playful.
“You have a boyfriend and haven’t told me about him? What’s his name?” Cam demands.
Turning with the pot in my hands, I walk toward the sink and answer with, “His name is Landon Reese, and he is not my boyfriend,” just in time for the kitchen door to swing open and for Brooklyn to hear.
“Landon Reese, the Yankees’ new pitcher, is your boyfriend?” Cam asks in a tone that screams he’s anything but thrilled.
Dumping the noodles into the strainer, I don’t look up. I really hate that Brooklyn is listening to this. “We were talking, but like I said, he is not my boyfriend. Now, drop it.” My voice is stern.
Seeing the signs of a sibling fight on the horizon, Makayla busies herself taking the bread out of the oven and putting it into a basket.
Cam, on the other hand, doesn’t drop it as I told him to. Instead, he presses his palms on the counter and leans forward. “Ballplayers are not the type of guy you want to get involved with, Amelia.”
There he is, the overprotective big brother who can never remember I am an adult. And that I can make my own choices, and wisely, I might add.
“They’re all players, just looking to get some,” he adds, in case his warning wasn’t enough to deter me.