Troublemaker

by Kayley Loring

  When the door opens and I see Alex’s jaw clench as he stares at my outfit, I consider offering to wash the dishes for Franklin for all of next year too.

  “Hi there,” he mutters, his voice strained. “Come on in.”

  I step inside his home. It’s contemporary and fairly nondescript on the outside, as are many homes in this neighborhood. At least that’s how it looks from the street. But I catch my breath as soon as I see the interior. I feel like I walked into an Instagram post. Franklin would totally approve of this space. The dark hardwood floors are shiny and warm, and the furniture and décor are tasteful but inviting and comfortable. There are so many big windows, it’s probably filled with natural light during the day. It feels pretty masculine and grown-up, but there are toys and children’s books here and there. Ryder’s shoes are lined up by the front door. It’s a man’s home, but the boy’s presence is deeply felt. I can just picture the two of them hanging out together here.

  I don’t know why I’m tearing up, but it just feels really nice to be in this space.

  “Welcome,” he says. “You look really good.”

  “Thank you. I really love your house.”

  “Thank you… Would you like me to put that bottle of wine somewhere, or should I just bring you a corkscrew and an extra-long straw?”

  “Oh.” I didn’t realize I was clutching the bottle to myself. I hold it out to him. “This is for you.”

  “I love Malbec. I’ll open it up and let it breathe.”

  “Should I take my shoes off?”

  “Actually, I was planning on eating outside, if that’s okay with you.” He gestures for me to follow him. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt and flip-flops. So casual, but he has the most beautiful feet I have ever seen attached to a human male. They might even be sexier than his earlobes.

  “That looks great,” I say, all husky-voiced. “I mean that sounds great.” I somehow manage to tear my eyes away from those beautiful sexy feet.

  Holy shit, his kitchen is beautiful and sexy too.

  I just want to climb up onto that long, tiled countertop and take a nap.

  Or maybe I want to do other things on there.

  There are beautiful Spanish ceramic painted plates displayed on the walls, fruits piled high in one gorgeous brightly colored bowl.

  It’s like how I feel when I walk into an Anthropologie store. I want everything and I want to move in. Except Anthropologie stores never make me this horny. And I don’t know, maybe I’m focusing a little too much on the house because I don’t want to obsess about the man who owns it. The one I’m probably going to have sex with soon. Yes, I make lists and do mental inventories to calm myself down—so what?

  But I love it. I love the furniture and the tiles and the earlobes and the feet. “I love all of it,” I whisper.

  “Good,” he says, uncorking the wine and then picking up a serving tray that’s already filled with small plates of food. Tapas-style. “You’re welcome to hang out here anytime. Come on.”

  I drop my shoulder bag on the kitchen table and follow him through the patio door to a wraparound porch. There’s a built-in nook that’s decorated Moroccan-style, with lanterns and beautiful pillows. Beyond the deck is a small private yard with a teepee toward the back of it, between two beautiful olive trees. Several rugs and pillows are spread out on the grass in front of the tent, and there are strings of lights around the trees and the rugs.

  It’s magical.

  I want to say so, but there’s a lump in my throat.

  “Hope you don’t mind sitting on the ground,” he says, placing the tray on a low table at the center of the rugs. The table is already set with plates and cutlery and wineglasses and an open bottle of wine. “The skunks don’t usually come around until later. We should probably eat fast, though.” He grins at me. “We’ll have dessert inside.” He winks.

  I finally realize there’s soft music playing out here. There must be built-in outdoor speakers. I settle myself cross-legged on a flat pillow on one side of the table and arrange my flowy skirt around myself like a princess.

  I’ve gone from feeling like I’m in an Instagram post to feeling like I’m in a fairy tale. The kind of naughty fairy tale that I never knew I wanted to live in. But I want to live here.

  Alex pushes up his sleeves, revealing more of his delicious forearms, and sits down across from me.

  He pours us each a glass of wine and then holds up his glass. I pick up mine.

  “To winter break,” he says.

  “To winter break.”

  We clink glasses, and I take a big gulp of much more expensive Malbec than what I had brought and lick my lips.

  “So, Ryder’s at a sleepover?”

  “Yep. At my friend Nico’s house. Our boys are the same age.”

  “That’s nice. Does he know I’m here?”

  “Nope.”

  I take another sip of wine and put the glass back down. “I’d like to keep this under wraps… Do people still say under wraps?”

  “Only the really cool people. And I agree that we should.”

  “Even from Ryder, I mean.”

  “I know what you mean. I think he’s actually pretty good at keeping secrets. And I think he’d be really happy to know that we’re seeing each other. But yeah. Let’s be discreet.” He smiles at me.

  I can’t stop smiling at him.

  “This food looks amazing.”

  “Help yourself.”

  I keep smiling at him. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not for food.”

  We stare at each other for a hot second. His jaw tightens again, and then we both stand and he scoops me up into his arms, carrying me back to the porch.

  “It’s so beautiful out here, though. Thank you for setting it up. I feel kind of bad.”

  “Well I promise you’re gonna feel really good in about thirty seconds.”

  24

  Alex

  I don’t know how my earlobes survived thirty-two years of neglect from women, but Emilia is enthusiastically making up for it as I carry her through the sliding doors into the kitchen.

  I kick off my flip-flops and slide the door shut with my elbow.

  “The counter, the counter,” she mutters between feverish kisses.

  “What about it?”

  “Put me on the counter.”

  I was headed for the bedroom, but whatever the lady wants…

  I set her ass down in the center of the counter, and she wraps her legs around my waist. The crazy pink skirt is bunched up between her legs and fanning out around her. I want to get my head under there, but I also never want her to stop kissing my face like this. Like she’s trying to keep me alive with her kisses. And she is.

  I’m mostly in-the-moment here—it’s hard not to be, with so much blood rushing to my dick. But tonight, more than usual, I’m flooded with thoughts of the past, present, and future. My ex-wife was my dirtiest dream and my worst nightmare all at once. Emilia is somehow every boyish fantasy, every divorced dad practical wish, and every filthy grown man desire that I’ve ever had. She’s brought a weary part of me back to life, and I want to give it all back to her. Every night and day.

  I feel her leaning away from me, even as she continues to kiss my chin and my jaw. She’s reaching for the open bottle of wine nearby, taking a brief intermission to take a couple of swigs and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Want some?”

  “I’m good.”

  She puts the bottle back where it was, and now her kisses are even more intoxicating.

  She isn’t wearing a bra under her shirt, and it’s been driving me crazy. My hands slowly make their way from her hips up under that shirt. But before they reach her ribcage, she stops kissing me again to pull her shirt up over her head, tossing it aside. She stares at it on the floor, eyes widening as if she’s realizing what she’s just done. She covers herself with her arms.

  My topless, hesitant little vixen.

 
Before she can question herself, I pull her loose hair to one side and kiss her neck. This long, smooth, fragrant neck. Licking and gently sucking and biting the skin from her bare shoulders up to her jaw and cheek and behind her ear. Her gasps and sighs are sexy and rewarding, but they only make me want to get to the part where I make her scream my name.

  But I’ve waited this long.

  The eternal build-up has been the most exquisite torture I have ever known.

  I kiss her mouth and move her hands, holding them behind her back until she understands that I want her to keep them there.

  “Alex,” she whispers. It’s a complete sentence. A statement and a question and a prayer.

  I take hold of the two soft, creamy white tits that I’ve been fantasizing about since the summer. I take my time, kissing and licking all around each one, and then I lick and kiss her areola and nipple, and I kiss both breasts, all over. Ravenous. Controlled. Ravenous again. She tastes like lavender and honey and sex. My hands are greedy, and my mouth is watering, and I have never been so hungry for a woman. Her hands are in my hair. Her moans are high-pitched and growing pained and desperate. I kiss her and kiss her. Until her tits are pink and swollen and heaving, and her whole body is trembling and writhing, and her spine is useless. She can no longer sit up. She probably couldn’t open her eyes if she tried.

  My cock is the Incredible Hulk, trying to tear through my jeans.

  I pick her up and carry her in my arms, out of the kitchen. She’s limp and her head keeps rolling around, but when I get to the bottom of the stairs, she mumbles something.

  “What?”

  “TV room.”

  “What about it?”

  “Take me there.”

  “You want me to take you to the screening room right now?”

  She nods, and then her head rolls back and she’s a porny rag doll again.

  I carry her to the screening room and place her on the sofa. It’s still dimly lit from when I was in here earlier. With great effort, she sits herself upright and opens her eyes to look around. “Mmmm.” She licks her lips. “Put on a movie.”

  “You want to watch a movie? Now?”

  She nods. “Just put something on. Anything.” Her voice is hoarse and so husky, and I will do whatever the fuck she says.

  I find the remote and hit Play, without turning on the speakers. I don’t remember what I was watching this afternoon. I can’t remember the name of any movies with those beautiful tits in my face. I start to kneel before her, but she grabs my hands and pulls me to the sofa and then straddles me.

  This fucking skirt makes it impossible for me to reach between her legs, and I’m starting to hate it.

  Except how can I hate anything with those beautiful tits in my face?

  Emilia is unbuttoning my shirt and rocking back and forth and bearing down on my erection and biting her lower lip.

  She pushes my shirt apart, dipping down to kiss my chest, swiping her hands across my pecs, inspecting the chest hair, and then climbing off me as she unbuttons and unzips my jeans.

  Holy fuck.

  She pulls my jeans and boxer briefs down and off, and I fix my gaze at the screen in front of me. A grown man in an elf costume runs around, and honestly, this is exactly what I need to concentrate on to keep from exploding. Think of Christmas. Santa Claus. Reindeer. Do not think about the white-hot woman between your legs and the hands on your thighs. Do not concentrate on what she’s telling you, about how she’s fantasized about doing this for months—about having my big hard cock in her mouth while I watch a movie in my screening room.

  Jesus.

  Is she kissing the top of my foot?

  Do not concentrate on how fucking good it feels to have her kissing and licking her way up the inside of your thigh.

  Fuck that. It feels so fucking good, I want to live in this delirious moment.

  This moment of her confident but gentle hands and her warm, adventurous tongue and her moist lips and the sound of her devouring my throbbing cock.

  My hands are in her hair, and she is gripping my shaft and cupping my balls with exactly the right amount of pressure while sucking, and when the tip of her hot tongue swirls and flicks beneath the head, I groan and reluctantly push her away.

  “Baby. You have to stop. I need to fuck you. I need to.”

  My vision is so clouded with lust, but I know she is nodding and wiping her mouth and slowly standing up.

  “I want you to fuck me too,” she says plainly. She looks over her shoulder. “I love this movie.”

  “I will probably get hard every time I see Will Ferrell for the rest of my life.”

  She smirks. “Sorry not sorry.”

  My little vixen is not so hesitant anymore.

  She waits for me to regain the use of my limbs and pulls me up. I lead her up the stairs, to my bedroom. I’m naked, and she’s still wearing that long, pretty, terrible skirt.

  When we reach the second floor, I turn to pick her up and carry her over one shoulder. She squeals and laughs. “This. Fucking. Skirt.” I drop her onto the bed, flip that skirt up, and bury my face between her legs. She isn’t wearing panties. She’s been going commando all this time, without telling me, and I will punish her for this. With my tongue. I will punish myself by waiting just a few minutes more. I will savor her sweet pussy, and I will drive her wild until she is begging to have me inside her.

  And then I will fuck Miss Stiles, long and hard.

  All night.

  25

  Emilia

  Oh, for the love of vulvas and all things holy—is he trying to kill me?

  I feel like I’m lost in a pink cloud of orgasm overload.

  My face is covered by my pink skirt, and his face is covered by my pink… oh my God, what are you doing down there?

  I manage to push the skirt off my face, but I can’t lift my head off the bed. I’m pretty sure this is something I used to be able to do—move different parts of my body at will. But now all I can do is sink into the mattress and breathe heavily and moan and sigh and yelp while experiencing insane rhythmic contractions and sudden shocks and the kind of pleasure that will probably short-circuit my brain.

  In a way, it has felt like he’s been kissing me ever since we first met. It has been half a year of foreplay with this man, and I don’t think I can take it anymore. But also, I never want him to stop French kissing my lady parts.

  “Alex. Alex. Al…exsssssss OH MY GOD! Oh God! Alex! Yes! Oh my God. Yes! Yes!”

  “Fucking hell, baby,” he groans. “You’re so hot.”

  “Please…” I have never said these words out loud before: “I need you inside me now. Pleeeaaase.”

  “Yeah,” I hear him whisper. “Yeah.”

  I can’t open my eyes, but I can hear a drawer open and shut. I can hear a tiny package being torn open.

  And then I feel the elastic waistband of my skirt being tugged down past my hips as Alex grumbles, “This. Fucking. Skirt.”

  It’s off. I’m finally completely naked before Alex Vega. And I’m too blissed out to wonder what he thinks of me.

  “Jesus, Emilia. You’re so beautiful.”

  I feel his lips just above my knee, I feel his teeth on the flesh of my hip, I feel the tip of his tongue on my nipple…

  My entire body shudders, again, for the nine hundredth time tonight.

  “Are you ready?” he mutters as he positions himself over me.

  Am I ready?

  I burst into a quick fit of laughter.

  Let me just ask my screaming, convulsing vagina and uterus, hang on.

  “Yeah. You could say that.”

  He kisses my mouth, so deeply. He tastes like the two of us, and we’re fucking delicious.

  The sound of Alex Vega exhaling as he presses inside me is what I imagine it sounds like when the gates of Heaven open up for you.

  Or maybe the gates of Hell, because it’s hot.

  I somehow manage to bend my legs to dig my heels into the mattress.


  “God, I’ve wanted this for so long, you know that?”

  “Me too,” I whimper.

  He cups his hands around the top of my head, bracing me, and starts to thrust his hips. “So good,” he hisses. “Baby.”

  I snake my arms through his and grab on to his shoulders. His groans and moans are such pained, sexy little songs, I have to see his face. I force my eyelids open.

  And the face above me is the most beautiful, vulnerable, masculine thing I’ve ever seen.

  He’s lost inside me.

  I’m not just on the receiving end of all of this. He’s feeling it too.

  And it’s empowering.

  I’m more in control of my body now.

  I move my hips to match his rhythm. It feels so good. The weight of him on me, the solid length of him penetrating me. This is how it’s supposed to feel with a man.

  “Alex,” I whisper as I raise my legs to wrap them around his waist. “So good.”

  He groans and his head drops forward for a second, and I think he’s going to come.

  “Baby,” I encourage him. “Yes.”

  But he doesn’t come. He seems to have gathered strength from some deep, fuck-champion reserve, because he straightens his arms on either side of me and starts thrusting in earnest now. Drilling into me.

  Oh my God—this is how it’s supposed to be with a man.

  I let go of his shoulders, flop my arms down, and just let him ram into me.

  Some strange noise has been echoing around the room, and I finally realize it’s me. This guttural animal cry of total surrender and satisfaction. I sound crazy, and I don’t even care.

  And just when I think this is the best sex anyone has ever had in the history of sex, Alex Vega grabs my legs, lifts them, and sits up on his knees, pulling me up into him so my legs rest on his shoulders. He holds on to my thighs, rough and commanding. I point my toes and stretch my arms up over my head and let him maneuver me any damn way he wants to because I love it. He leans forward, and suddenly the angle and depth of his penetration is incredible. He’s discovered some new amazing part of me, and my whole body is rejoicing in a slow and deeply intense way, despite the speed of his thrusts. It’s like hurtling through space in slow motion.