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I perch on the edge of the seat and motion for him to take my place. As soon as he does, I crawl on top of him, straddling his lap, and place my hands on either side of his face.
“I want your cock,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth crooks up as he opens his pants to push them below his ass. “Damn, this leather is cold,” he laughs as his bare bum meets the car seat.
I briefly think about the next people to hire this limo but push it out of my mind.
I’m not worrying about other people right now. No, this moment is about me. And the guys, of course.
Wyatt reaches between us and positions his cock at my entrance. When he starts to enter me, I bury my face in his neck, and as soon as he’s inside, he puts his strong hands on my hips and begins to rock me.
I slide onto him until my clit’s pressed tight, and I grind back and forth, the double sensation of being fucked and having my clit rubbed making me crazy. I go even harder on him and his grips tightens to keep me from falling off, and as the limo rounds a corner, I shriek, losing my balance.
But he catches me. Because that’s what he does. That’s what all the guys do for me.
A trickle of perspiration runs down Wyatt’s temple. His dark curls stick to it, so I push his hair off his handsome face and rub my lips against his salty sweat until I’m not sure who’s perspiration is whose.
“Goddamn, you feel good, Amalia,” Wyatt groans in my ear. He takes a fistful of my hair and, tilting my head back, finds the most sensitive spot on my neck. He sucks and kisses me there and I know I’ll have a mark tomorrow, and I don’t even care.
“Yeah, your pussy is perfect, it feels like you’re going to pull my dick right off, that’s how tight you are. It’s the perfect fit… touch your clit, baby, I want to see you touch yourself.”
I do as I am told, because of course, and with a finger on either side of my erect clit my little nub is pushed further against Wyatt and with one last forceful thrust, he hits me in just the right spot.
“Oh God, Wyatt, I’m going to come,” I moan.
“Okay, baby,” he says, “ride that dick, ride me hard until you come, until you explode, and then I’m going to fill you with my cum?—”
‘It’s so good Wyatt, so good, oh god it’s so good…”
I don’t know what he says next because my ears fill with the rush of blood while I shake with one orgasm and then another and eventually the limo slows like my heartbeat does, and we all go to bed in someone’s apartment, whose, I’m not sure.
It doesn’t matter.
43
LEVI
“Mom,it’s fine to have a chocolate wedding cake. This is your fourth marriage, remember. I think at this point you can do what you want.”
It’s funny, watching Amalia from across the room where she thinks she’s having a personal conversation with her mother. Not that she’s discussing anything confidential, but I can hear her clear as day on what must be the third call in the last couple hours from her mother.
The woman sounds like a piece of work, and kudos to Amalia for her patience dealing with her. Although it’s clear that patience is running out, from all the eye rolls and foot stomps I’m witnessing.
Who would have thought I’d be listening to the beautiful Amalia on a personal call while we’re working together on a book I wrote that I never thought would see the light of day, when I just witnessed her writhing in the back of a limo the night before, getting her brains fucked out by Wyatt while she sucked my cock so hard I nearly had an aneurism?
Life is fucking strange.
And now I’m trying to work with her and she’s so distracting I can barely put two words together, like a goddamn horny little teenager fumbling through his first conversation with a pretty girl.
I never thought that sort of excitement, like anything is possible, was something I’d experience as an adult. Yet here I am.
This doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get crushes. I mean, sure, I like an attractive woman but while dating is all fine and good, I just haven’t had time for much of a social life outside the publishing industry for the past couple years. So this business of being preoccupied by any woman, much less Amalia, who I never would have pictured myself with, is doubly unexpected.
She returns to our meeting, clicking across Wyatt’s concrete floor in her high-heeled boots and tight jeans, her face bare of any makeup except her signature red lips. Fuck if she isn’t sexy as hell and not just because she’s hot-looking, but also because she’s smart and self-confident. I know she’s pushing to publish my book primarily to save her job—at least that’s how all this started—but she really wants to make sure it’s as good as it can be and is working hard to make me see that.
It's not easy, working with a stubborn author like me who thinks he knows everything about the written word. I know some people can’t stand guys like me. Hell, sometimes I can’t stand myself.
But I like how I am with Amalia. Without even trying, she’s started to open my eyes to all the bullshit of the fancy-schmancy world of literary publishing, and how suffocating it is. I don’t have to watch my every word around her because I know she won’t go running to the press to tell them I hate Hemingway’s writing when I lied and said he was one of my main influences.And she sure won’t tell them I have an erotic romance under my belt that’s about to be published under the name of Ryder Night.
