Tied (14 page)

“You look relaxed,” I comment. “Did you have a good afternoon?”

Kate stands and grazes her palms over my chest and across my shoulders, feeling me up. “It was nice. But I know how to make it even better.” She wraps her arms around my neck and slides her tongue around my ear. It’s soft at first—teasing. Then she plunges inside with the perfect amount of pressure to make my knees want to buckle.

Every guy has a spot. A highly sensitive place that, when stimulated, goes right to his dick. For some, it’s the neck or the stomach. For some freaks it’s the toes. But for me? It’s my ears. Kate knows this.

Sucking lightly on my earlobe, her hands skim down my sides
around to the back, before settling on my ass with a firm squeeze. I’m not complaining—this is me here—a little grab-ass or jerk the johnson is never a bad thing. But Kate is usually more on the conservative side. Less overt with her sexual advances, particularly when other people are nearby.

I lean my head back to look at her face. Her smile is lazy, and her eyes—did I say they were shiny? They’re not. They’re
glassy
. There’s a difference.

“Have you been smoking Warren’s crotch stash?”

She bites her lip. Guilty as charged. She holds up two fingers, pinching them together, and closes one eye. “Just this much.” Then she gives me an innocent, adorable look. “Are you mad?”

As I said before, I’m not into drugs. They’re not just a vice—they’re a crutch. A chemical support for weak-minded individuals who can’t deal with life’s everyday bullshit. But it’s not like Kate is popping Mommy’s Little Helpers three times a day. Since I’ve known her, she’s gotten stoned exactly twice—both times with Dee-Dee, while the four of us were on vacation together. Kate doesn’t buy or grow her own stuff. She would certainly never get high around our son.

So if she wants to kick back and toke up once in a blue moon, I’m not going to be the self-righteous, overbearing asshole who gives her shit for it. “Of course I’m not mad.”

Her smile grows. “Oh . . . that’s good. Because I have plans . . . plans that require you not being angry.” She giggles wickedly. “Well . . . maybe a little angry would be okay.”

Then she attaches her lips to my neck, sucking and kissing, moaning softly. Have I mentioned that weed makes Kate horny? Oh, yeah, it does. Which is another reason I’m perfectly happy with her current condition.

I sweep her up into my arms, princess style. She squeals. Then I tell Jack, “We’ll be in our room. Don’t knock on that door unless the place is on fucking fire.”

Now that the goddess host has left the building, Jack’s feeling needy. “I thought we were going to play Xbox?”

“Plans change.” I swing around and make my way toward our room.

“That’s not cool, man. Bros before . . .” My glare cuts him off. Because there’s no way I’m going to let him finish that sentence when he’s talking about my fiancée.

He takes the hint. “Fine. Dicks before chicks, then.”

“You might want to rethink that. Because while you’re out here jerking your game remote with Warren, I’m gonna be in there, with Kate. No contest, buddy.”

I walk through our door and kick it closed behind me. Then I set Kate on her feet, cup her face with my hands, and kiss the breath right out of her. I pull the pink robe down her arm, exposing the creamy flesh of her shoulder. I taste it with my tongue, then slowly make my way up to her neck.

Her head rolls to the side with a moan. My hands make quick work of the robe and the black, strappy nightgown underneath—sliding them off Kate’s body into a ring of satin around her feet. After kissing her lips deeply one last time, I kneel in front of her, soaking up the sight of her beautiful bareness.

She’s perfect. It shouldn’t surprise me—I know what she looks like. But still, every view of Kate’s firm tits, her flat waist, her toned, smooth legs, revs me up like a kid getting his first glimpse of porn.

Because she’s mine. Because she’s amazing. Because she wants me as badly as I want her. And this is the way it’s supposed to
be—the way it’s supposed to feel. The way it always will—an intense haze of lust and heat and adoration.

Her heavy-lidded eyes look down at me as I lean forward and kiss the skin around her pussy. She’s completely smooth and soft—freshly waxed. Kate pulls back just a bit at the contact.

“Tender?” I ask.

It’s times like this I’m particularly glad I’m a guy. Because manscaping with an electric razor is one thing. Getting hair ripped out in large clumps with hot wax?
No thanks
. Sounds like a goddamn torture technique, doesn’t it?

Though the results are awesome.

She exhales. “Just a little sensitive.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

I cup her ass and bring her sweet snatch to my mouth. I caress her with my tongue—like an artist stroking a fresh canvas. Slowly at first. Then deeper, with more purpose—more pressure. And I’m overwhelmed by the texture—the sight, the taste, and the scent. It’s sublime sensory overload.

The saints can keep heaven, because this spot between Kate Brooks’s legs is so much fucking better. Paradise on earth.

We’ll stop right here for a second. Don’t want to ruin the vibe—but we should talk about a “very special” topic. A topic that the male youth of today are tragically under-informed about. I like to call it cunning linguistics.

You may know it as going down. Dining at the Y. Carpet munching. Having a box lunch. The point is, pussy-eating is an acquired skill. All that making-the-alphabet-with-your-tongue crap is for lazy schmucks who couldn’t find a G-spot with a fucking flashlight and a navigation device.

You have to hone your craft—develop your technique. It’s a lot like . . . basketball. Just knowing the right moves isn’t a
guarantee you’re gonna score points. Because you have to know whom you’re playing with—the type of moves they’re partial to. Too much attention to a sensitive clit kills the momentum. Not enough attention and the chick will be checking her watch thinking,
Is he done yet?
Body language is crucial. Reading the signals—taking cues.

At the moment, Kate’s pussy is dripping—wet desire clings to her thighs. And it’s fucking glorious. Women should never be embarrassed about being turned on. Even if you squirt like a high-powered water gun or gush like Old Reliable—be proud. Guys love it.

Because it can’t be faked.

As “Sally” demonstrated in that 1980s Billy Crystal movie, just because a woman acts as if she were coming, it doesn’t mean she really is. For some, every pant, scratch, and squeal may be suspect. Is she really getting off? Or is she just tired of getting nailed? But feeling, seeing, that slick desire tells men that you’re actually into it. That
they’re
doing it
right
. And that makes us guys want to do it
more
.

Now that my good deed is done for the day—back to the bedroom.

Kate’s hips start to rotate against my face. My hands help her along. She leans her upper body back against the wall. Her breaths come faster and her face turns upward. Her eyes close. Then the explosion comes. She grabs the back of my head, holding me in place as she clenches and grinds against me. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Fucking gorgeous
.

After a minute, her grip loosens, and her eyes open. She looks down at me with a satisfied smile, and I kiss a path up her body as I stand. Her limp arms rise slowly up and around my neck,
and just before she presses her mouth to mine, she whispers, “So good.”

I thought so too, but it’s always nice to hear. As she kisses me, my hands find her ass again. Kate’s ass reminds me of a kid’s favorite stuffed animal. Once it’s within my reach, I just can’t seem to let it go.

I drag her up my body and her legs lock around my waist. Now that I’ve gotten Kate off, my plan is to slow things down. Take our time. Because once you have kids—time is never your friend again. Even in the dead of night, there’s always the thought, the nagging fucking possibility, that time will run out. But that’s not the case now.

James—whom I love with everything I am—is my parents’ problem. I plan to make the most of it. By spending the next few hours doing all the fun, naughty—
loud
—things I wouldn’t risk doing when he’s nearby.

“I owe you a massage,” I whisper to her.

But Kate has other ideas. She reaches down between us and pulls my rock-hard dick out of my swim shorts. She strokes it expertly, until my eyes cross. “You can massage me later. I need you to fuck me right now.”

Christ.
I love it when she gets bossy. With one hand, I push my shorts down the rest of the way. Then I line us up and slide slowly inside. “God
damn
.” Her body swells around me. Takes me in and holds me tight.

It might sound stupid—overly romantic—to say that Kate’s body was made for mine. But that doesn’t make it any less true. My hips pull back, and her muscles squeeze harder, not wanting to let me go. I push in deeper till Kate’s ass hits the wall behind her. I pump into her with short, hard strokes, thumping against
the wall in a drumming rhythm. We gasp and moan together—cursing and humming—with every thrust.

It’s not gentle. Or quiet. We’re loud enough for the rest of the house to hear us. Hell, we’re loud enough for Indonesia to hear us. Holding her against me, I turn around so my back’s braced against the doorframe of the bathroom. I lift her up and down smoothly. My arms strain from the action, and a sheen of sweat covers our skins.

Then I take a few steps into the bathroom, to the vanity counter. I perch her on top, knocking clinking bottles of perfume and face wash to the floor. I kiss her deeply, and her tongue dances against mine. She pulls back and grips my hips with her hands, taking over the pace.

She moans and begs and orders, “Slow.”

I do as she commands, rotating my hips in sensuously slow circles. Clashing against her, bringing us closer to that powerful pinnacle with every breath we take.

“Fuck . . . ,”
I hiss, because it feels too good not to.

“Drew . . . ,”
she answers with a soulful whimper.

Kate’s legs tremble, shake under my steady hands. I move faster, pump against her harder, greedy for the feeling of her tight, hot muscles pulsing and contracting around me. The heels of the black shoes that still encase her feet dig into my ass as she matches the give-and-take of my hips with her own.

Then she’s clinging to me—chest to chest—her teeth biting into my shoulder as she screams. “Yes . . . yes . . .”

When you’ve had as many orgasms as I have, they tend to blend together, forming one general happy memory. But every once in a while, one stands out from the rest. It’s a moment I’ll think about later—relive on my next business trip when masturbation is my only recourse.

This is one of those orgasms.

Ecstasy rips through me like a submarine missile tearing into the ocean. I lean forward over Kate, pressing her against me. Trying to get closer—to absorb every ounce of bliss she’s giving me. I think I shout her name, but I’m not sure.

Several moments later, after the sound of my blood pounding in my ears has lessened, I look into Kate’s smiling eyes. She pushes my damp hair off my forehead. Then she kisses the tattoo of our son’s name on my chest.

And she hugs me—holds me—resting her cheek against my heart. “I love you, Drew.”

It should be weird to have such sweet words and tender actions come after the rough and raw screwing we just enjoyed. But for us? Nothing weird about it.

For us, it’s perfect.

I
did eventually give Kate that massage. Not that she needed it, relaxed as she was—but rubbing warm baby oil on Kate’s body is my idea of a really good time. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how things went from there. Which is why, at the moment, Kate is passed out cold on the bed. I’ll let her sleep another twenty minutes or so before I’ll have to wake her. Because it’s common knowledge that women take forever and a day to get ready for a night on the town. Kate may be different from most girls in a lot of ways—but in that way? She’s exactly the same.

I walk out of the bedroom to the kitchen, looking for some nourishment. Man can’t live on sex alone—as cool an idea as that would be. The house is quiet. Jack and Warren probably took off to escape the sounds of bumping and grinding all around them.

I make myself a turkey on rye in the kitchen, then I glance out the balcony doors and spot my sister. Sitting alone on the private brick patio in the rear of the villa.

Mentally I shake my head and step out through the doors.
Alexandra glances at me quickly, then turns her eyes back to the foliage surrounding the yard. Forlorn is not a look I’m used to seeing on my sister. It’s unsettling.

I sit down in the lawn chair beside her and put my sandwich on the table. I should start off kindly. Unaccusing. Considerate. I should be diplomatic.

“What the fuck, Lexi?”

She takes a sip from the martini glass in her hand before placing it on the table. “Go away, Drew. I’d like to be alone.”

“I’d like to buy a private island in the South Pacific and name it Drewland, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. We can’t always have what we want.”

I pick up the pink-concoction-filled glass and give it a sniff. My head jerks back and my nose wrinkles. Whatever my sister’s been drinking smells like fruity ammonia—like strawberry-scented bat piss.

“If you’re going to poison your body, at least have the decency to use a premium-brand toxin.” Cheap liquor is strictly reserved for winos and college kids who don’t know any better.

Her face is impassive. Slack and sad. She shakes her head slightly. “You don’t understand.”

I toss her drink onto the grass. “I resent that. I’ll have you know I understand all perspectives—man, woman, or child. God and I are a lot alike that way.” I pause for a second and my voice softens. “What’s wrong, Alexandra? Whatever it is, maybe I can help.”

Her tone is flat. Lifeless. “Steven is going to divorce me.”

I snort. “With the way you’ve been acting lately, I don’t blame him.”