Virgin Daiquiri

by Elise Faber

“Hi,” I said, a little breathless from the jog to the front of the house, but mostly breathless because it was Brent . . . and fuck could the man wear a suit. It was deep navy with a bright white shirt underneath. No tie, which was a shame because the outfit definitely gave me the urge to take him by the tie and drag him into the next room. But the shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way up, so I contented myself with fantasizing about caressing that triangle of exposed skin with my tongue . . . then maybe showing him how good my unbuttoning skills were as I made my way down.

  I was good at shirt buttons.

  But I thought I was even better at pants buttons.

  Hadn’t had a lot of experience with undoing belts, however . . .

  Which was preciously the point—my gaze firmly locked on said belt (which was in a killer shade of dark brown that also matched a cool pair of shoes that weren’t old-man frumpy, but instead model-worthy)—that I realized I hadn’t said anything aside from Hi, and that had been a good two minutes earlier.

  I tore my eyes from the belt and brought them up to Brent’s face.

  Then realized he hadn’t been speaking either.

  Because his gaze was on me . . . or rather on my body. I shivered when it drifted slowly back up, almost as though he were tangibly tracing my curves, my skin prickling and goose bumps rising on its surface, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my bra.

  And he saw my body’s reaction.

  Or, at least, I suspected it. Because my nipples got tingly and then his face changed, need sharpening his features as his eyes lingered there for a long moment before they eventually moved up to mine.

  Heat.

  Scalding brown eyes that threatened to set my body on fire.

  He cleared his throat. “That’s some dress, darlin’.”

  I nibbled my lip, started to murmur a “thanks,” but suddenly I found myself in his arms, pulled flush against that broad chest of his, getting a close-up view of the heat in his gaze. “And then you had to go and bite that gorgeous mouth of yours,” he said, a mix of velvet and gruff that slid over my skin, arrowing heat directly for my pussy. “I can’t have you abusing this mouth.” He brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, making my breath hitch. “Can I?”

  If me abusing meant he’d hold me like this or hopefully kiss me like it was imminent based on his expression, then I was definitely going to keep the lip nibbling.

  His palm slid up my side, fingertips drifting on the outside of my bottom ribs, skating along my arm, drifting up my throat before coming to a stop on my jaw. “Can I?” he asked again.

  Cinnamon on his breath, glazing my lips like the most delicious frosting on Earth.

  Calloused fingertips caressing my skin.

  A hard chest against mine.

  Our mouths perfectly aligned because of my heels.

  Check. Check. Check—

  I stopped cataloging, stopped thinking.

  I closed the distance between our mouths.

  Perfection. His lips on mine were utter perfection, and for one inane moment, I was glad I hadn’t worn lipstick because I knew this was the kind of kiss that would obliterate the most carefully applied liner and stain. Especially when he managed to part my lips from one heartbeat to the next, his tongue sliding home, and reminding me why I’d lost a piece of my sanity under the mistletoe at Bobby’s on Christmas Eve.

  The man could kiss.

  Gently coaxing one moment then his arms banding tight, pulling me even tighter against him as his lips and tongue demanded mine to meet him move for move.

  Not a hardship.

  Also, I wasn’t just going to follow. I could lead, could be demanding, too. I slipped my tongue into his mouth, chasing his, nipping at his bottom lip. And Brent let me take the lead, at least for a moment.

  Then he shifted, spinning us so my back was pressed to the open door.

  My legs went around his waist, and he stiffened, lips coming off mine as he sucked in a breath that almost sounded pained, but before I could ask if he was okay, his palm dropped to my hips, angling my body, holding me to him so I could feel his hardened cock, just between my thighs. Then his mouth descended again, and Brent took control back, his mouth and hands working in tandem, frothing my desire into a tumult of need, until it felt like I might die if I didn’t have this man inside me.

  “Brent!” I gasped, throwing my head back when he slid his lips along my throat, nuzzled into the cowl neck of my dress, finding bare skin.

  And . . . thank you, God, because his mouth closed over the hard bud of my nipple, suckling it through the fabric of my bra, the wet material and damp heat of his mouth nudging me closer to oblivion.

  I moaned, tightened my legs on his hips, and gasped, “Inside!”

  Without a word, he moved, lifting his hand and me from the door, slamming the wooden panel shut, and flicking the lock closed.

  I’d meant inside me, right there, not giving a shit that we were making out in full view of anyone who might happen by. But I didn’t have time to clarify that or even to complain he wasn’t inside me because Brent slanted his mouth across mine, and it was very obvious who was in control.

  That person being Brent.

  He carried me across the room, dodging the box I’d intended to use to pack away another portion of Christmas Extravaganza, avoiding the coffee table, not disturbing the vases of ornaments on the sideboard, not doing anything except arrowing directly for the couch and setting me down on top of it.

  But he didn’t follow me to the plush gray cushions, didn’t drop down onto me, pressing my back against them.

  Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of me.

  And this time, the coffee table was disturbed, shoved abruptly to the side, its contents rattling, a stack of blocks that spelled ‘Merry Christmas’ toppling to the floor, hitting the carpet with barely audible thunks.

  My chest rose and fell in rapid succession as I struggled to suck air into my lungs, but any and all hope of that faded when Brent turned back from moving the table, and his scorching gaze met mine. “Darlin’?” he asked, no velvet left in his voice. Only gruff, and a gruff that sent all my nerves, but especially the ones between my thighs, tingling.

  But . . . it was also Brent asking a question.

  Brent checking to see if I was with him.

  Well, I was about ten steps ahead of him. I wanted his hard cock—which I could see clearly outlined against the tight fabric of his slacks—and I wanted it inside me. I lifted a hand, reached for his belt.

  He caught my wrist, lifted it to his mouth. “Behave,” he murmured against my skin.

  Not likely.

  I was living my best life now, and that meant I was grabbing every opportunity—and okay, maybe the occasional hard cock, so long as that cock belonged to this man—to reach for what I wanted and deserved.

  I lifted my other hand, managed to grasp onto the top of his belt.

  But then Brent proved that he knew his way around a duck and weave. He snagged my other wrist, clasped them both in one hand, and shouldered his way in between my thighs.

  Oh my.

  I had Brent Collins between my thighs.

  And it was glorious.

  I stopped fighting his hold right about the time he let his free hand slide up the inside of my leg, stopping a hairsbreadth away from the damp silk of my underwear. I definitely stopped fighting when he slipped his fingers under the elastic and dipped them through my wet folds, unerringly finding my clit.

  My head dropped to the back of the couch, my thighs instinctively spread farther, and a moan spilled from my lips.

  Fucking yes.

  “Up, darlin’,” he murmured, helping me lift my hips so he could slide my panties down my thighs, over my heels, and off somewhere in the direction of my nutcrackers.

  One hand returned, sliding up my calf, behind my knee, up my thigh, dipping back through my wet pussy. I expected to see his other hand reach for his belt, to finally release his cock, to finally, finally get inside me.
But instead, he slipped both hands to my ass, lifted me slightly, and then bent, pressing his mouth to my center.

  I screamed.

  He paused, glanced up at my face, and his lips curved into a sexy smile that had more moisture drenching my pussy. Then that smile disappeared.

  Because he dropped his head again, and this time he didn’t stop when I screamed.

  This time he kept going, tracing his tongue through my folds, drifting up to my clit and sucking firmly. I groaned, arching against him, pressing closer, my hands no longer reaching for his belt but gripping his head, angling him until he found . . . just . . . the . . . right . . . spot.

  Teasing, flicking, zeroing in on what made my head spin, then exploiting what he learned, catapulting me up the edge of pleasure until I was on the razor’s edge of exploding.

  And then he slipped one large finger home.

  I came apart against his mouth, clenching against the blunt intrusion, wave after wave after wave of bliss expanding out through my body, leaving me limp and sated and slumped back on the cushions.

  I barely felt Brent remove his hands, was hardly aware of him tugging my dress down, but I became aware when he gently lifted me to my feet.

  First, because how in the hell was I supposed to balance on heels—chunky or not—after he’d given me the orgasm to end all orgasms? Second, unless he was putting me on my feet so he could lead me to my bedroom then I was much more interested in being on my back on that couch than teetering on my heels.

  He smoothed my dress over my hips, fixing the displaced collar, tugging down the hem over my panty-free bottom half.

  Which—hot—was also not the point.

  The dress should be coming up, being yanked over my head, not going down and covering up all the parts where I wanted his mouth and teeth and tongue . . . and cock.

  “We’d better get to dinner, darlin’,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around my waist.

  Dinner?

  Did sucking his cock off like a lollipop count as dinner?

  Also, apparently living my best life meant transforming into a sex fiend—though I’d challenge any straight or bisexual woman to not become addicted to a man like Brent, especially when said man had just given me the orgasm to end all orgasms.

  Yeah. I’d chosen the right time to start living.

  Especially when Brent seemed to read my thoughts on my face, or maybe it was the fact that my eyes had dropped to his waist again, to the erection that was still present and pressing against the fabric of his pants.

  “Trying to do the right thing, darlin’,” he said. “Trying to show you a good time. Take you out for the nice meal you deserve.” I leaned against him, knowing my breasts were pressed to his chest, knowing he could feel it, that he liked it because his breath caught, and his hands clenched into fists where they rested on my hips.

  “Darlin’,” he rasped again, warning this time in his tone. “We should leave now, or we’ll miss our reservations.”

  I shifted in his hold, slipped my arms around his waist. “I don’t care about reservations, baby.” I lifted on tiptoe, my eyes staring into his. “I want you to take me in your arms and walk me down the hall to my bedroom. I want you to make love—”

  “I can’t.”

  I smiled. “I don’t mean that you literally have to lift me. I know I’m heavy. But I want you Brent. I want to make you feel as good as you just made me feel. I want—”

  “We should—”

  I slipped my hand down, squeezed his cock.

  “Fuck!” he grunted, fingers clenching on my hips.

  “Let’s go to the bedroom—”

  “No!”

  I blinked, horror washing through me. “Oh, my God,” I said, jerking out of his hold. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Oh my God,” I repeated on a groan, turning away and shoving my hair out of my face, embarrassment coursing through me. He didn’t want me. “I shouldn’t have pushed. I—I didn’t think. I—”

  Warm hands gripped my shoulders, spun me to face him.

  “I don’t know what’s going through your head, darlin’. But first of all, you’re not too fucking heavy for me to carry, bad back or not,” he growled, and before I could ask him about the bad back, since that was the first I’d heard of it, he took my hand and placed it over his erection. “And you’re not pushing. Or not pushing me to do something I don’t want. I do want you, baby. I just . . . we should take things slow.”

  I bit my lip, let my eyes drift away, feeling suddenly both unsure and also a bit like a hussy.

  He wanted to take things slow, and I was the one trying to steal his virtue.

  Cool.

  And also, maybe I was all about living my best life and jumping in with both feet, but also . . . maybe Brent was just being nice. Maybe he’d realized he didn’t want to hurt my feelings, but actually wasn’t into me—

  “Hey.”

  I shook my head and turned away again, searching for in what would prove to be a vain attempt for my underwear.

  One, because I couldn’t spot them straight away.

  Two, because almost as quickly as I’d turned around, I found myself spun back to face Brent again.

  “Darlin’.”

  Another shake of my head, my eyes burning. “We should just go to dinner, like you said,” I blurted.

  “I do want you, Iris.”

  Maybe more level-headed and clear-minded I would have recognized the angst in his tone, the insecurity, but I was heading down the road to a full-blown burned my pecan, cherry, and pumpkin pies meltdown and wasn’t capable of discerning anything aside from my burning humiliation at coming on to someone who didn’t want me.

  Did that make me an asshole?

  Probably.

  Especially because my first thought to him saying he wanted me was, Yeah, sure he did and then trying and failing to pull out of his grip, because I’d just told the man who’d turned me down that we should go to dinner, and the horror coursing through me at the thought of actually having to sit across a table from him after knowing that he didn’t want me, that I was a disgusting, pressuring asshole who couldn’t read the signs was overwhelming—

  Brent’s face came very close to mine, fury crashing across his features. “Fuck. Stop it, darlin’,” he snapped. “I fucking want you, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone—”

  “Then why?” I snapped right back. “I don’t want slow or careful. I want—”

  “I’m a virgin.”

  My words died on my tongue.

  Asshole? Yup.

  Because I certainly hadn’t seen that plot twist coming.

  Nine

  Brent

  “Fuck me,” I muttered, dropping my arms and striding away from her.

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” she said, and I spun back, mouth falling open in surprise. She was going to make a joke about the giant bombshell I just dropped? But then she got a glimpse of my face, and her own mouth fell open. “Oh my God, Brent, you’re serious?”

  I nodded stiffly.

  And cue silence.

  Shit. It wasn’t like I’d planned on being a virgin this long, but things happened and life got away from me, and all of a sudden, I was twenty-eight and had done everything except actual sex.

  A real catch, that was me.

  “B-but—” Her eyes drifted to mine then away then back to mine, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Eventually she closed her jaw, sucked in a huge breath, released it, then asked, “How?”

  And more silence.

  “How’d I get to be a twenty-eight-year-old virgin?” I asked into the stunned quiet.

  Iris nodded. “Um . . . yes?”

  I bolstered myself for her to laugh my ass out of her house then gave her the TL;DR, otherwise known as the very glossed-over breakdown of my past.

  “Grew up in a very religious family, so it was never on the table, never something I even thought about. I wasn’t allowed to be alone with
a girl, let alone have a girlfriend.” A shrug. “When I enlisted and eventually did get a girlfriend, she was also from my church, and we never made it that far—mainly because we were both still really into the religion thing and then later because of a good friend of ours knocked a chick up and she was a total nightmare.”

  I sighed when her face remained shocked.

  “So, anyway, we decided to wait. I was deployed, she got tired of waiting, and I nursed my broken heart for a good long while. Got close again, a few times, but the situation wasn’t right. Then was deployed again. Hurt my back badly, my best friend was killed, and I was fucked up for a while—physically and mentally.”

  She made a pained sound and my eyes met hers briefly, just long enough to ascertain that the sound wasn’t pity. Sympathy I could handle. Pity, not so much.

  “Then I got better, started working at Bobby’s . . . and you strolled into the bar and took my breath away.”

  Silence. Long, painful silence.

  Then, “Oh.”

  Just Oh.

  For fuck’s sake, I’d bared my heart, and all I’d gotten in return was Oh?

  Christ.

  I started to look away, but my gaze was drawn back when she grasped my hand and squeezed lightly. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”

  “He was Brooke’s brother.”

  She sucked in a breath, eyes glistening with tears. “Oh, no.” She closed the distance between us, cupped my face in both of hers. “Brent. God. I’m so sorry.”

  “He wasn’t the only person I lost there,” I said, eyes focused on a spot over her head.

  “Brent.”

  Just my name. Just that one word filled with so much pity, and I couldn’t hack it.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Brent, honey.”

  “I need to go, darlin’.”

  “I—”

  Not letting her finish whatever she was going to say, I brushed her hands away then dodged her when she made to reach for me again.

  Can’t do this. Can’t. Not right. Not good enough. Not—

  The mental spiral continued as I reached the door, as I fumbled with the lock, kept blaring in the background so I barely felt Iris come up behind me, not until I’d finally managed to flip the bolt and grasp the knob, my fingers shaking like I had the world’s worst case of withdrawals, and her hand dropped to my arm.