Chase

I’m sitting in the back of an Irish bar, drinking a scotch, and watching Bro’s all-girl band cover the best boy band songs of the last three decades.

Only in New York. This town fucking rocks.

I forgot she could sing. Her voice is chocolate silk, rich and decadent and wrapping around me like a lover’s caress. She could be singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” for all I care. For this moment, when she doesn’t know I’m here, I can soak her up without having to pretend.

Her voice, I might’ve forgotten, but the piano lessons, I remember. After three years of ear torture, Ares put a fist through the instrument. Told his parents there was a spider and that he was protecting Zeus. Using small words and a few hand gestures, of course. Lots of legs. Bad bug. Scaredy Zeus. And then he’d shown everyone his biceps.

It worked. They bought Bro a keyboard with headphones instead, and everyone’s lives were vastly improved. Gotta hand it to her—her keyboard playing is drastically better.

Or all of this could be choreographed and lip-synced.

A week ago, I would’ve thought it with a superior sneer. Today, I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t real.

Not that I’ll admit it to her.

I have a half-drunk bottle of cheap white wine—she strikes me as the red type—a bouquet of flowers that I put on my chair and bounced on with my ass, and a box of coconut chocolates on the table. Ambrosia hates coconut like normal people hate expired milk or wasp stings. Probably because she’s allergic. If this doesn’t say I hate you, let’s go fuck in the back alley, I’ll have to accept the fact that I’ll spend the rest of my life at half-mast with no hope of satisfaction.

Which might be preferable to confessing to her that I may not hate her at all.

They’ve been playing for about forty-five minutes. I’m not sure how long their set goes, but I’m getting antsy. I’ve had a raging hard-on since I got Zeus’s text yesterday telling me about Bro’s band. Girl bands are fucking hot, period. Girl bands with Bro in them are don’t look too close or you’ll burn your retinas out.

And I actually do mean that in the complimentary way.

They finish up “Bye Bye Bye” and hit the opening chords of some classic New Kids on the Block, and suddenly two overgrown blond apes leap on the stage.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I can’t get in Bro’s pants with her brothers here. And those leggings she’s sporting are a fucking wet dream. They’re sparkly with a red and black swirly-pattern that highlights every curve and crevice. The short tank that lands just above her belly button isn’t bad either, though I’d rather that was my face on her chest than some boy band dude.

On stage, she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Willow’s shaking a tambourine in front of the mic with Parker rocking the guitar beside her, both of them laughing. They shift to the side to give the Berger twins more room, and the doofuses—doofusi?—break into boy band dance moves.

I hope Zeus thought to check the structural integrity of the stage before jumping up there.

Willow starts singing with Bro doing backup on “The Right Stuff,” and holy shit, the stage is literally shaking under the Berger twins.

Not that I care.

Because when Bro’s not singing, she’s laughing.

Head tipped back, long neck exposed, eyes dancing like pixies in the moonlight. I want to be her keyboard, those fingers tripping over me. I want to be her mic, that voice channeling through me. I want to be her chair.

Because duh. Damn fucking right I want her straddling me.

Cut me some slack here. Limited blood flow. Poetry only goes so far when it’s been three fucking days since I’ve been buried inside her tight little pussy.

I want that.

I want her to laugh at me. I want her to smile at me. I want her to come for me.

And I want it now.

I grab my gifts, flag down a waiter, and slip him a grand to get me backstage and end their set. Two minutes later, Bro and her band come tripping down the hall.

She freezes when she sees me. “Hello, dickhead,” she says hesitantly, like she isn’t sure the word tastes right.

I shove the gifts at her. Her lips start to curl as she takes in the crushed flowers, and her brows crash down at the obviously half-empty wine bottle. “The chocolates are filled with coconut,” I say. “Let’s fuck.”

She grabs me by the shirt and hauls me into a small room, kicks the door shut, and locks it. Her hands are down my pants before I can count to hallelujah. “You look like you slept in horseshit after the horse ate glitter,” she says.

I rip her tank off and grab her breasts. God, they’re bags of hot orgasmic honey wrapped in pink lace that I’m going to suck until she screams my name. “You sing like your vocal chords are made of the rotting corpses of rejected lab frogs.”

She’s stroking me and squeezing me and licking her lips while I pump in her hand and pray she still has those sharp fingernails and a hatred of my balls, because Christ, I need to feel everything—pain, pleasure, passion, everything. She pushes me backward, and a set of drums and cymbals clatter to the ground.

“Fucking klutz,” she says.

“I’m going to fucking bang you on those drums.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I’ll just bet you would.”

She drops my cock to grab my face and stick her tongue down my throat, and I squeeze her breasts. She jumps on me, wrapping her legs around my hips, and we stumble backward. My back connects with a wooden shelf. Something that feels like a half-full jug of milk grazes my temple. Bro has my bare cock nestled between her legs, rubbing and grinding and driving me to sweet torture, the fabric on her leggings adding an erotic friction.

Fuck, I’ve needed this.

I grip her ass and knead it while I yank her tighter against me, making her rock harder against my straining shaft. I’m so hard I’m about to split skin and my balls are so tight I can feel them under my ribs.

So. Fucking. Good.

She punches me in the shoulder. “Shut up, dickwad. We’re not good.”

I lift her ass and bite her nipple. Her head falls back and she cries out, but when I jerk my mouth away—I’m having twisted sex with a woman who hates me, but I’m not a total asshole—she shoves it back to her breast.

“You fucking animal,” she pants. “Try that again like you actually mean it.”

I nip again, and she squeezes her thighs so tight around my hips I wonder if it’s possible for her legs to crush bones. She’s rocking her pussy on just the tip of my dick, and Holy. Fucking. Vixen.

Her legs tighten more, and she’s still rocking her hot, wet center on my head while I nip and suck and pull on her nipples. She can probably crush beer cans between her thighs. She squeezes tighter, pumping like a fucking bunny teasing the top of my cock, and I start to lose feeling in my toes.

This woman. God almighty. I want to fuck her on her back, against the wall, in my shower, on my floor, on my kitchen table, on that beanbag chair in her office, facing her, taking her from behind, sixty-nine, on a set of fucking trapeze bars, and then I want to do it all over again.

She’s slick and wet, so fucking ready for me. I pull her perfect breasts out of the lace bra and lick a circle around one nipple, then the other, before clenching down again. She has a rock hard grip on my head, holding it there while I feast on the rosy buds.

Her tits taste like her name. Ambrosia. Nectar of the gods. Too potent for human consumption.

I’m going to fucking eat her anyway. I’d die of Ambrosia poisoning, and I wouldn’t have a single regret.

She’s mewling and crying and pumping against my stomach and my head, saying my name.

Chase, Chase, Chase in that hot chocolate wine voice.

And I’d thought she was playing music before.

I shove away from the shelf, trip over the drums, and catch us before I crush her. There. A desk. I lunge for it and drop her sweet ass on the edge. She leans back on her hands, lifting her ass, and I rip her leggings off. She spreads her long, creamy thighs and silently dares me to touch her. I run a finger under the edge of her pink lace panties. She shivers. She’s watching me with hooded eyes, breath coming fast, her fantastic tits rising and falling and distracting me from the promised land.

“Need a map again?” she says, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I can’t hear the disgust. Like she can’t fake it anymore either.

But I know Bro.

If I say something nice, I’m not getting to lick her pussy. I stroke her smooth skin again, just beneath the edge of the teensy triangle, and my cock wants to know why we’re not plundering and pillaging already.

She shudders, moans, and drops her head back.

That’s why.

I want to see her pleasure. I want to see her lose herself.

I want to know I did it to her, and I want her to know it’s me.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it’s boring me,” she gasps.

“You probably taste like three-day-old roadkill.”

“Your tongue wouldn’t know the difference between roadkill and Kobe steak.”

I rip the bows on her thong. It falls away, and I bury my face at the apex between her thighs, in that sweet, pink pillow hiding her magic button. I lick her seam, taste her arousal, and plunge my tongue where no man will ever go again.

This is mine.

She rocks on my face, my hair fisted in her grip while I lick and suck and nip her clit just like I worshipped her tits. And if her tits were the nectar of the gods, her creamy center is the forbidden fruit. My balls are so tight dots are dancing in my vision. My dick is pulsing so hard it has its own heartbeat, chanting mine, mine, mine.

Her thighs clench around my ears. She cries out my name, and the heady taste of her orgasm coats my tongue. I lap it up, her body pulsing and writhing around my face while she yanks my hair out by the roots, coming and coming and coming.

Just when I think she’s done, I squeeze a finger into her pussy.

She clenches around me and her breath comes out on a wheezy cry.

I add another finger, then a third, thrusting, rubbing, searching. She pumps against my hand.

I nip her clit again, and god, wave after wave of spasms squeeze my fingers until they’re numb.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps.

I rise on shaky legs. My cock is so engorged I might’ve strained something vital in it. “Was that good for you?” I push at her entrance with my dick, watching my head slide along the seam of her bare pussy.

She shoves a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re still here?” she pants. “I barely noticed.”

I press deeper, her walls so fucking hot and wet and tight, I wonder if maybe she couldn’t crush a beer can with her vagina too.

“You can’t feel that?” I smirk. I know she can, and she knows I know she can.

“You mean your crinkly winky?” she fires back.

I thrust my crinkly winky deeper into her core.

She gasps and rides it, the sight of her sweet, milky pussy riding my dick making me impossibly harder.

“That little crooked pencil?” she moans. She grips my tight balls and rakes her nails over them, and oh baby, yes.

I sheath myself all the way up to the hilt. One thrust. Two. I have my dick buried so far inside her I might never get it all back out. I don’t want to come out. I want to let her ride my rocket until we’re both blind, but she’s so fucking hot, I can barely hold back.

Chase Jett is not a three-thrust wonder.

Just for the record.

With superhuman strength, I pull myself almost all the way out. “If you don’t appreciate my giant, oversized, novelty pencil, then maybe I’ll go put it in another pencil box.”

She sinks her nails into my ass and tries to tug me back in. I thrust at the edges of her pussy, teasing her with my head, but I don’t give her what she wants.

She’s jerking against me, inching closer, riding higher up on my dick, and it’s pissed at me too. Let’s just bang the hot pussy. I’m not fucking Superman.

I can still taste her, and I know she’s going to squeeze me dry when I finally let her. But once I let go, it’s over. She’ll kick my ass out of the room, pretend she doesn’t know me, and we’ll have to do this dance again before I get through her pearly gates once more.

She shuts her eyes, drops her head back, rubs her hands over her breasts, teasing her own nipples, which sets off fireworks in my gut and nearly overrides my self-control. She’s fucking touching herself, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

And then she does the one thing that I don’t and can’t anticipate.

“Please, Chase,” she whimpers.

How the fuck can I resist that?

I shove into her like I’m coming home. My cock is doing the driving, thrusting, grinding, pumping, into her hot, wet, silky pussy. She’s already pulsing around me, aftershocks from her first two trips up the mountain or precursors to the real show, I don’t know. All I know is I’m buried up to my balls in Bro’s slick pussy, she’s raking her nails over my back, thrusting her tongue in my mouth, biting my lip, and matching me thrust for thrust like I’m her salvation.

The metal desk bangs on the wall. A mug of pencils clatters to the ground. She clenches around my shaft and buries her claws in my ass, and I’m done. I come like a rocket, firing deep inside her while she spasms and screams and comes all over me again.

I ride wave after wave after wave of release, every pulse, every heartbeat, every explosion and aftershock making up for not having her in my bed every minute of the last three days. My legs give out as I spend my last, and I collapse on top of her on the desk.

Her fingers rest in my hair. Her heart pounds in my ear, and her breasts pillow my head.

She doesn’t push me away.

God in heaven, if she thinks we’re going again, I’m going to need an hour.

My joystick is still buried inside her. At the idea of another round, it twitches and lifts an interested ear.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bro murmurs. “Some of us have to walk tomorrow.”

I smile against her skin.

She just said something nice to me. Not that I plan on letting her know I noticed.

The room slowly comes back into focus. Drums all over. A stool upended too. A sheaf of papers got scattered. There’s a bottle of bleach on its side in front of the shelves, Bro’s clothes scattered about. I’m somehow still wearing my shirt.

And my pants.

My dick was free, so that was enough.

Next time, we’re doing this in a bed. Or I might have to trick her into trying that top-of-the-Empire-State-Building thing with the pile of hundred dollar bills first.

She might need more public sex before she’s comfortable at my place. Or before she’d let me back into her place. I grew up in a two-bedroom shack. I’m not picky. Though her neighbors were oddly disturbing. Definitely my place first.

I suddenly freeze. “Are there fucking cameras in here?”

She laughs, and my cock swells inside her. She wiggles, and more blood channels back into my dick.

“Didn’t you read the warning on the bottle of those little blue pills?” she says.

I twist my head and bite her nipple.

She clenches around my dick. I’m sore and spent and wobbly, but I rock inside her anyway. Because she’s not kicking me out. She’s not leaving me.

“Seriously, do dick enhancements come with the fortune?” she says.

I’m at full-mast, and I’m already where I want to be. I suck her nipple all the way to the back of my throat, and she arches into me, grinding against my over stimulated woody. Once she’s worked up, panting and writhing and pulling my hair and humping me like a rabbit, I let her breast go, scraping my teeth along the hard little bud.

“Where do you think I got my fortune?” I murmur.

“Money laundering,” she grits out.

“I think you’d like to have a thick, long roll of my money right where my dick is,” I say.

Her hips jerk. “Oh my god,” she moans.

“I’d like to watch you ride a chilled bottle of thousand-dollar champagne.”

She’s picturing it. I can tell by the way her eyes go distant and her hips can’t keep a steady rhythm.

“And then I’ll drink it out of your pussy,” I add.

She explodes around me again, and my cock tries to match her volcanic release, but I don’t have anything left to give. I just ride on the aftershocks, letting her milk me with her core until she’s limp. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes have rolled back in her head, and for half a second, I wonder if we’ve actually killed her.

“You,” she rasps out, “are a dirty, dirty man.”

She likes it. For her, I’ll be the filthiest fucker to ever walk the planet. “You have no idea, princess.”

For the first time in my life, I’m wrapped in a comfortable silence with Bro.

So this is what it feels like to not hate her.

Or possibly to like her.

Or possibly more than like her.

I’m half-hunched on her, still sheathed in her warm center. She’s crooked on the desk, eyes still closed, with what looks like the makings of a good neck cramp with the way her head’s leaning against the wall.

But it’s the soft, quiet realness of her that gets to me.

I’ve never seen her not fighting.

I run a hand down her arm, and a smile teases her lips. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m risking my balls staying attached to my body now, and I know it, but I squeeze her in a gentle hug.

She squeezes back—lightly enough she could claim it was a twitch if she wanted to—and my heart melts.

I’m done, ladies and gentlemen. Bro Berger won a gold medal in the orgasm Olympics, and now she’s hugging me. On purpose.

I turn my head and press a kiss between her breasts. “How did you like Vassar?” I say.

She goes from chill to shrieking harpy in under a second. Her fist catches my shoulder, and she uses both her feet to shove me away. My dick flops cold and wet against my thigh. “Get out,” she screeches. She leaps upright, fully naked, a flush covering her entire body. “Get. The. Fuck. Out. Now.”

I hold up a hand. “Whoa, hey, I—”

A drumstick flies at my head. Then a mug. She grabs a printer cartridge from the shelf, and I duck that too.

“Bro, calm down, I—”

“Don’t—” Where did that shoe come from? “—ever—” Oh, Christ, the jug of bleach too “—talk—” A stone Buddha head? Are you kidding? We’re in an Irish bar. “—to me—” Fuck, that’s a full bottle of Jameson “—again.”

Running away is not in my DNA. Despite what Bro might tell you about the night we screwed around in the giant bratwurst on wheels, I don’t run.

I make tactical decisions based on my circumstances.

And I know, without a doubt, that leaving this woman to wreck this office in peace is my smartest course of action.

I’ll leave a few big bills with management to cover the damages and call her tomorrow. But right now, I’m not letting the door hit me on my ass on the way out.