Blown Away (A Romantic Comedy) (Five More Wishes Book 1) (3 page)

I would have bruises for a week, but at the time, I was feeling no pain.

My legs separated, and I kicked off my shoes, sending them flying across the office. My hand went to his button and zipper, freeing him, and his hands lifted up my skirt and cleverly pulled at the elastic on my panties, slipping a finger along my slick folds and into my wet core.

I might have screamed… I don’t remember. Whatever it was, I’m certain I made a lot of noise, and who could blame me? I had gone from zero to a hundred-and-fifty in the fast lane. If I had been at the Indy 500, I would have blown them all away.

My hormones were exploding all over my body, but I wanted them to explode even more. More. Bigger. Faster. I grabbed at him, urging him to press forward.

This would have been an opportune moment for me to remember my eighth grade sex ed course. What had Mrs. Sullivan told the class? Something about condoms and birth control. Something about diseases that could make body parts fall off.

And something about pregnancy.

I got an A in sex ed class. I wrote a poem about periods in iambic pentameter that blew Mrs. Sullivan away. But at the moment when my legs were wrapped around Cade’s waist and the tip of his penis was teasing me in the best way possible, I completely forgot that Mrs. Sullivan ever existed. I couldn’t recall a single blue hair on her head or a single one of her dire warnings about genital warts or colicky babies.

All I could think of was…

“Hurry! Give it to me! Take me! Harder! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I grabbed at Cade furiously, pushing my hips up toward him, and he lifted my blouse and palmed my breast. I didn’t shut up until he entered me and after that I just gurgled like I was having a seizure, and maybe I was. It was the best feeling ever. If I could have walked around for the rest of my life with Cade’s penis in my vagina I would have been a happy woman, indeed. No need for a Pulitzer. No need to win the lottery or to lose the cellulite on the back of my thighs. All I needed to make me happy as a clam was his big circumcised wiener that filled me up completely and knocked against my cervix, like it was wondering if anyone was home.

Speaking of a clam, my clam spasmed while Cade began to thrust. He leaned down, and kissed me, this time with an intense passion. I squirmed against him, my body in a hurry to climax. But he was taking his time, like he was eating a four-course meal by candlelight, whereas I was in the McDonald's drive-thru chowing down on a Quarter Pounder.

He wouldn’t be rushed. He entered me slowly until our pelvises ground against each other, and then he retracted until he was almost out of me, entirely. Over and over and over, but every so slowly. When he was done with my mouth, he kissed his way down to my breasts and savored them, too. My body was on fire. I didn’t know how he could stand the heat from touching my burning skin. He should have been wearing oven mitts or at least have had a fire extinguisher handy.

“Cade,” I moaned, drawing out his name into three syllables. I was melting into pure arousal. My estrogen was multiplying itself like an amoeba. I was a Victoria’s Secret Angel, porn star, and Olympic gymnast all in one. Cade lifted my leg until my foot was by my head so he could enter me even further. As if he could read my mind, he thrust faster, picking up speed. To top it off, he dropped his hand to caress me as he entered me.

The rest is fuzzy. I’m pretty sure I levitated. For sure, I spoke in tongues and sang the Beatles’ “Revolution” backward. Within seconds, I exploded and Cade exploded right after.

Completely sated, we laid immobile on the desk for at least ten minutes, him lying on top of me, and me gathering his body with mine, my limbs wrapped around him, and his exploding love stick still inside me.

Yes, I was in bliss.

Yes, I was in bliss because the sex was mind-blowingly mind-blowing and not because I had knocked back two tequilas.

I was lying on an old desk with a stupid smile on my face and my body turned into melted butter. If I could go back in time, I would slap the bliss right off my face, because at that very second, Cade’s gorgeous, strong sperm swimmers were swimming through my cervix on their way to fertilize my traitorous egg.

Those little bastards.

We never spoke about the tequila night after that. For fifty-one days, we acted as if nothing happened, as if it wasn’t the best sex I ever had. Not a peep about a change in our relationship or whether friends-slash-colleagues should be lovers. Immediately after we caught our breath, still in the after-effects of the throes of passion, we got off the desk in an uncomfortable silence and stolen, sheepish looks. Then, we got dressed and picked up the office supplies from the floor.

Like nothing happened.

I punch Cade, again. He responds by tapping my solar plexus, sending me teetering backward on my heels until I pop out of my shoes. They get stuck in the mud, and I fall on my butt.

“Why did you do that?” Cade asks, staring down at me. It’s hot outside, but the cold mud is seeping through my JC Penny skirt, giving me the chills.

“Why did I do that?” Insufferable jerk. I kick at his shins, but I can’t reach him. Cade offers me his hand, and I grudgingly take it. He pulls me up with no effort at all.

“If you’re trying to make a good impression on Samba, you’re doing a miserable job at it.” Cade smirks and touches his nose, as if he’s trying to prevent himself from sneezing or laughing. Probably laughing.

I wag my finger in his face. “Don’t laugh at me. It’s not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” he says, arching an eyebrow.

“No, it’s not.”

“A little bit.”

“No, it’s not,” I insist.

“A shade less than George Carlin, but well above Louis CK.”

I stomp my bare foot on the ground. “You have to be nice to me.”

“I do? Since when?” he asks, honestly curious.

“Since,” I begin but bite my lip. I need to tell him about the maybe probably baby, but I can’t bring myself to tell him. I’d rather tell him how much I weigh or watch him pick his nose. I would rather get a Pap smear or a prostate exam…if I had a prostate. Or a colonoscopy. Well, maybe not a colonoscopy. It’s a toss up…a giant hose up my butt or telling Cade that he’s going to be a daddy.

“What’s going on in your brain?” he asks, interrupting my merry-go-round train of thought.

“Nothing.”

“Something awful is happening in there,” he says, pointing at my head. “Like Godzilla meets Chernobyl.”

“Your mouth is Chernobyl. It’s spewing nuclear waste.”

He gathers my shoes, and I balance with my hand on his shoulder while he kneels in front of me to help me slip my feet into them. “Breaking Bad marathon at my place tonight?” he asks.

“Again?” We’ve already seen the entire series three times.

With my feet re-shoed, he stands up and dusts his hands off on his jeans. “I got a limited edition DVD set with commentary by Peter Jackson.” Cade loves to re-watch TV shows and yell at the screen about how he could have made it better.

“Peter Jackson directed Lord of the Rings, not Breaking Bad,” I say.

“I know, but he’s a fan. He has insights. Come on. I’ll order pizza.”

I love pizza. I’d do anything for pizza. “Anchovy and pineapple pizza?”

“Oh, come on,” he groans. “Give a guy a break.”

“Thin crust anchovy and pineapple pizza?”

“Thin crust? At least give me a regular crust. It’s a lot of work eating around the anchovies and pineapple. The crust is all I got.”

I hold my own and don’t back down. It’s either anchovy and pineapple pizza, or he has to shout at the screen by himself. It’s no fun for Cade to shout at the screen without a witness to see how clever he is. “Fine,” he grumbles after a moment.

I probably shouldn’t wait until the Breaking Bad Jane dies in her own vomit scene to tell Cade about the bun in my oven. I need to get this out, now. I can’t keep it from him any longer. “The thing is,” I start, but Cade puts his hand over my mouth.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Mr. Wacko Psycho Dictator is about to speak. I hope this is over fast. I need to eat a big lunch to prepare for tonight’s pizza fast.”

Sure enough, Samba and his butler have stopped arguing, and Samba is addressing the crowd with his hands up, as if he’s about to conduct Beethoven’s Fifth. His pants are a little too white, and with the sun shining just right, I can see that he’s not wearing underpants. Yuck. The vision is giving me my first dose of morning sickness.

“You may be wondering why I gathered you here today,” he announces in his thick accent, which sounds like a mixture of French, Spanish, and Moon Doggy surfer.

“I think I know why. I’m figuring that the people of Oz have called him home,” Cade says, pointing at the balloon.

My pregnancy test-laden purse distracted me from the balloon before, but now I’m wondering about it, too. At first I assumed Samba was using the balloon as a dramatic backdrop, but now I’m not so sure. His butler is sour-faced, obviously upset about something. He continues to fiddle with the ropes that hold the hot air balloon down to the ground. It’s a battle between him and the cords, and the cords look like they’re winning.

I’ve got a bad feeling.

Samba is smiling, talking about his love for America, which is whipping the protestors into a frenzy of outrage. Nobody in the land of the free wants him walking around free here. Even though he’s richer than Midas, he’s bringing down property values. Samba seems clueless that people don’t love him. He continues a line of blah-blah with gusto and enthusiasm.

I need to take notes, but I’m drifting. Why is the butler untying the balloon? How can I have a baby? How can I take care of it? I wonder if the Associated Press will give me a byline when I write this story and hand it off to them. Should I tell Cade about the baby now? Should I ever tell him? What is he going to say? I’m out of paper towels. I need to buy some on the way home, today. Oh, my God, the balloon.

The ropes look like some kind of alien predator, and they’re taking down the butler. He’s tied up in the ropes, and he’s trying to extricate himself, but he’s older than dirt with zero percent muscle mass, and the ropes are getting the better of him.

Poor half-dead, Adams Family butler man.

“As a farewell gift, I will give an exclusive to one lucky journalist,” Samba says, making me jump to attention. My skin prickles with excitement. I would torture a puppy for an exclusive. Well, not really, but you get the picture. I want the exclusive bad. I feel Cade’s eyes on me, and I look over. He wants the exclusive, too. I can see the cogs turn in his brain, trying to figure out how to kill me and bury me so he can get the exclusive.

“A tell-all before I go away to pay my debt to society,” Samba continues. A tell-all. My mouth waters, and I step forward. A tell-all could be my Pulitzer. I hop on my heels in excitement. I raise my hand, like I want to go to the bathroom. Cade takes two steps forward so that he’s blocking me.

“Cade Reed of the Summer Island Gazette,” he announces. “I’m more than happy to do an honest, fair piece about you, Mr. Samba.”

Samba frowns. He hates being called Mr. Samba. He’s old school autocrat. He needs pomp and circumstance. “Your Excellency,” I call, elbowing Cade out of my way. “Millicent Mossberg of the Gazette.”

I don’t need to say another word. He loves being called excellency. Samba’s eyes light up, and he practically skips toward me. He takes my hand in his. Ew. His touch makes my flesh crawl, but I keep my exclusive-getting smile plastered on my face. There’s no missing his attraction for me. There’s mud on my ass, but his focus is fixed on my boobs. I take a deep breath to inflate them.

Hey, I may have no shame, but I’m going to rip the exclusive out of Cade’s hands no matter what I have to do. Well, not no matter what I do. There are some matters I won’t do. Samba is caressing the skin between my thumb and my forefinger, and I want to vomit.

“My beautiful Millicent,” he says, sounding a lot like Dracula. “Yes, I will tell you everything and you will tell the world, yes?

“Yes,” I say and shoot Cade a neener neener face. Cade isn’t paying attention, though. He’s more focused on Samba’s fingers molesting my hands. It looks like Cade is jealous of more than just my scoop.

“Come, you will interview me in the balloon,” Samba announces with a flourish, taking my arm and walking toward the balloon.

“The balloon?”

I’m not going in the balloon. I’m scared of heights. I’ve never gotten above the second rung of a ladder, and I’m pretty sure that a hot air balloon goes higher than that.

“I will fly over this beautiful land with a beautiful woman and tell her about my beautiful life,” Samba announces in a sing-song voice, which gives the protestors a burst of outrage.

He’s walking me closer to the balloon with Cade on my heels. The butler is still wrestling with the ropes, which have caught him, making him hang a foot off the ground. “There’s not a lot of land to fly over,” I say, a slight tinge of panic in my voice. “We’re on an island. There’s a big ocean all around us. With water. And sharks. Sharks with teeth. How about we do the interview on the ground? There’s no chance of drowning or getting eaten alive by sharks on the ground.”

Samba doesn’t care about the Pacific Ocean and the possibility of a terrible death. He’s determined to fly in the balloon as some kind of statement before he’s locked up for the rest of his natural life in a white-collar prison, along with Southern California’s finest Wall Street manipulators, mutual fund defrauders, and general pension-stealing criminals. I tug my hand out of his grip and gnaw on a fingernail.

No way am I going in the balloon. No way. Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen. I’m never going up in a hot air balloon. I’d rather have my eyes gouged out. I’d rather slide down a slide made of razor blades. I’d rather become a vegan. I’m not going in the balloon. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

I need a miracle. I need an intervention. Somebody help me!

“She’s not going,” Cade says, stopping Samba. “I’ll interview you and go in the balloon with you.” My hero. It’s the most chivalrous thing anyone has ever done for me. It’s also a lowdown dirty trick to steal my story.