Topped (12 page)

“Kinky,” she murmurs against me. And then she bites my chin. Fuck, I love this woman.

I cannot say this out loud. She would lose her shit and probably murder me.

I kiss her forehead, her cheeks, hover over her lips and keep moving south. Past her collarbone, her amazing tits. I lift up the shirt and kiss her stomach. I pause long enough to watch her squirm under me, pressing me farther south.

I’ll go anywhere she wants me.

Treasure is waiting for me. The intoxicating smell of her sex beckons me onward until I am right where she wants me, licking and sucking, nibbling and biting. At first, I keep it over the panties, torturing her with half caresses until she is all but begging me to strip her bare. I look up at her, hands bound over her head, and feel dizzy with excitement.

I shove the lacy cloth aside and give myself access to what I really want, what she really wants. Her pussy has never been so well licked before in her entire life, I can promise her that. My tongue darts in her opening, and I press my face into her. All I can smell, all I can taste, is her.

I could probably die happily.

“Oh,
fuck,
Joe,” I hear her whimper and then she shakes into the first of many orgasms. I hold her tight and let her ride my face, my stubble as added friction against her. Her cries are so sexy I almost come myself, something that hasn’t happened in a long time.

Is this what love does? Why was I so resistant?

While she’s settling after the orgasm, I pull a condom from my bedside table and roll it onto my cock. I love the way she watches me handle myself, and I give a few strokes just to show off. She’s staring at it like she could eat it.

But, you know, in the good way, not in the fall-asleep-with-your-dino-spouse-and-wake-up-castrated way.

“I’m going to fuck you like Trump wants to fuck the Mexicans.”

I unbind her hands and flip her onto her stomach. The world’s most adorable “Eep!” slips from her lips. I haul up her hips to be flush with my prime thrusting position and slide the tie across her face, down to her neck, back up to her lips. She growls a little as I toy with her. Finally, I push the tie into her mouth and tie it behind her head, gagging her. I smack her ass once, lightly, to warm her up. She giggles and I thrust deep inside her without warning, pausing at the sudden hot grip of her around my cock.

I move slowly, regaining my footing so I don’t come in half a second like my body desperately wants. I smack her ass again and she moans, arching her back and pressing into me. It feels so amazing. I do it again and again as I thrust into her. Soon, we’ve found our rhythm. Every time I smack her ass, she moans and begs for more. Every time I smack her ass, I feel the urge to come so hard. Every time I smack her ass, I want this moment to stretch on infinitely.

I hold out through another orgasm for her, where she cries my name and rides my cock and I pray to every god I can think of that I can hold it together for just a little while longer. I wait until she quiets, then flip her over so I can look her in the eyes when she falls apart for me for the last time. More importantly, I want her to see me.

Like, really see me.

“This is what I think of your policies,” I bend down and hiss in her ear. “I’m going to tear down every wall you build.”

#metaphor

I pull off the gag and let her pant freely as she writhes beneath me. We are machines, better than anything I’ve ever written about, until my vision blurs and I can’t hold it in anymore. I press my thumb to her clit and work small circles until I feel her tighten around me, and then I thrust through the waves of orgasms until I fall back onto the bed, breathing heavily and pretty sure I’ve just experienced the best sex of my life.

With a Trump impersonator.

This sweet girl peels off the condom and cleans me up. She then nestles beside me and whispers the words every man wants to hear.

“I’m ordering pizza.”

T
he drive home
is not necessarily any less confusing than the drive there was.

No,
you
just had sex dressed as a presidential hopeful with a terrible business track record. And
you
liked it. No,
you
.

Only two things are certain. The first: I still can’t bring myself to feel okay about a man who tops me on the charts with dinosaur porn topping me in the bedroom. The second: the connection between us is starting to feel charged with emotions that have
nothing
to do with our mutual professional disdain.

What a tangled web!

Luckily, it’s gorgeous out tonight. My city seems to know I had an awkward evening and is responding by being absolutely beautiful. The sunset is something
National Geographic
would kill itself to have a photo of. Everything smells good.

It sounds like a total joke, but a lot of Kansas City just smells like barbecue, all the time. When you have as many wood-fired grills in one place as we do, it’s bound to happen.

It makes me a little hungry. I had held back on the pizza out of politeness, like a fool. I consider swinging by Q39 for a burnt-end fix but decide against it. I have a date at home with a bottle or two of wine. And I owe Jane a long explanation.

But how can I explain it to her when I hardly know how to explain it to myself?

This would never, ever happen in a Randi Rose novel.

I blush deeply as I recall that he
was only kidding,
and I borrowed a suit and tie to dress up anyway. He’s got me turned completely inside out. I’m never this horny. Never in a million years would I dress up for any man. I’m better than that. I’m stronger than that. This weirdo has managed to get completely under my skin and, in the process, showed me unexpected pleasure. It’s like I don’t even know myself anymore.

It was really good sex, though. Like, maybe best ever good.

I don’t understand how someone I loathe so much can make me feel so good. This is the biggest inconsistency in my life. Hate-sex. Who honestly has hate-sex? That sort of shit is only for the movies. And for my girlfriends with their exciting sex lives. I get most of my fodder from them because I live in my office with Scrivener open. I don’t date. I don’t sleep around.

That is, until now. What the hell is wrong with me? Everything about tonight has hit my WTF sensors, starting with my agreeing to dress up as Drumpf for him.

He laughed at me. To be fair, I looked moronic. But I stuck to my guns and insisted, and I would swear I saw respect in his eyes. Maybe even—something more? It can’t be. But he said some really ridiculously nice stuff to me. No one has ever said those things to me before, and I hate it. He shouldn’t be the one to say them to me.

We’re enemies. We don’t belong together. I have to remind myself he probably just said that stuff to make up for laughing in my orange-tinted face. And yet, I wouldn’t take them back for anything in the world. I’m insane. I’m also floating the whole drive home, bound only by my seatbelt.

Nothing makes sense. In a Randi Rose book, my heroine would—well, her situation would be super different. She’d have just realized her rancher boyfriend had sold her favorite horse. That’s the kind of problem normal people have. Anywho, then she would have a heart-to-heart with herself in the mirror, remind herself she’s better than any man, and she would dump him. And return the saddle she borrowed from her friend.

Saddle, suit, same difference.

I skip my driveway and head straight for Jane’s house, still dressed in poor unwitting Bobby’s Versace. I text her to meet me outside and idle creepily in front of her gorgeous home. I’m tempted to hide in the bushes, but I’m pretty sure her husband has no idea I’m wearing his clothes home from an illicit tryst.

Mayhaps I’ll leave the shirt staying on bits out of the recap to Jane.

She comes outside, two glasses of wine in hand. Have I yet mentioned that she’s my new best friend? Sure, she already has one named Melissa, but I’m claiming her anyway.

“What’s shaking, Cruz?” She winks at me and hands the glass over.

“Trump, please,” I scoff. “As if Cruz could look this good.”

“He does look like a real creepazoid. But so does Trump. Well, whatever floats your boat.”

“Trump does own boats. Lots of them. More than Cruz could ever hope to obtain to send back illegals.” Can you tell I’m just trying to put off the real conversation?

“I love when you talk politics to me,” she sighs wistfully. “So. Care to explain why you needed to borrow a suit and now smell like sex?”

“Would you believe I needed a final round?” I sip the wine, relishing the much more expensive flavor of wine from her house versus mine. “In costume? Why do I keep screwing the guy I hate?”

“Please tell me you took off the suit first. Bobby will shoot me dead.”

“Super took it off.”

“Oh, god.” Her tone of voice tells me she knows all about the shirt because although I am a liar, I’m a terrible one.

I hold up my free hand. “Really! The suit definitely got hung up before any funny business happened.”

“Good. We can remain friends. So, feel free to enlighten me. Why do you keep screwing the guy you hate?”

I take another sip of wine, larger this time. “No. I’m asking you. Know me better than I know myself, because right now I got nothing.”

Jane laughs and shakes her head. “You are completely in love, that’s obvious. Can I just say, I don’t miss the dating life. At all. It’s too much stress. Married life is so much more simple.”

“I’m not in love!” I am extremely indignant. And I don’t know why I’m blushing, but at least it’s dark and she can’t tell. “I don’t think I’m the kind of person who can be married.”

I take another sip of wine. “I barely need men. That’s why this whole situation has me so floored. It’s like I don’t even know who I am.”

“Oh, honey.” I can’t tell if she’s amused or full of pity. I don’t like either option. “We do stupid things when we’re in love. Like wear borrowed suits to our sex-dates.”

“I don’t love him!”

“Sure.” She smiles around her wineglass. “I used to borrow Versace for all kinds of boring guys I never loved.”

“I don’t love him, damn it. I just…love the sex. Maybe I just forgot how good sex is.”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t look convinced.

“For realsies.” I am the epitome of a mature woman.

Jane leans against her Mercedes and studies me for a minute. “Okay, serious?”

“Serious. Please.”

“You’ve been out of the game for a long time, self-imposed. You dedicate yourself to your work and have forgotten what it’s like to actually live the lives you write about. There’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing. Matter of fact, if he weren’t Charlie Shivers, and remained Joe Schmoe from the bar, this wouldn’t even be an issue. I know you said you didn’t even want to know his last name, but you’d have no qualms sleeping with him and seeing him around the conference. You wouldn’t beat yourself up every time you feel good.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely. If he weren’t Shivers, you wouldn’t care at all. But you care about your art, and he stands in the way. Let’s be totally honest here, too: your pride is a problem. His books are fucking hilarious. Are they insightful and literary? No! And he doesn’t aim to be. He’s just some jackass who writes funny, stupid books and found his niche.

“You write these amazing, heartbreaking, breathtaking books that get lost in the shuffle. Which sucks. But it’s not Shivers’ fault. And until you remedy that in your head, or until the week is over and you never have to talk to him again, you won’t feel any better. Your pride is also a real cock-blocker.”

I stare at her, mouth slightly agape at the knowledge being dropped by a 5’2 busty brunette in a robe. “Damn. Been holding that in for a while?”

“You asked for my opinion.”

“That’s not exactly how I remember it.” In fact, I distinctly recall her offering this advice unsolicited.

“Well, you didn’t have any better answers for yourself, so.”

I sigh and lean against her car, resting my head on her shoulder. “You’re right. But I still hate him.”

“That’s totally valid. He one-starred your entire body of work.”

“Asshole.”

“Total asshole.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, watching the stars crop up on the horizon. “What do I do?”

“That’s entirely up to you. Never see him again and think back fondly to this week as the week your dry spell ended. A few sessions under the covers isn’t going to magically erase all the history you two have with one another.”

“That’s probably for the best.” That is not longing I feel. It’s relief. I think.

“Was it fun at least?”

My knees bend slightly. “The
best
.”

Jane smiles and squeezes my arm. “Sex is meant to be fun. If you aren’t ready to face your real feelings, then chalk it up to that and nothing more. Remember: there is nothing wrong with you for indulging yourself. You’re using him for carnal pleasures. Nothing more.”

I kiss her cheek. “I am dedicating my next book to you.”

“For all the makeup I’ve done this week? I want three dedications. Now go home and take off that suit. I’ll pick it up when I see you in the morning. And I’m dry cleaning the shit out of it because I don’t believe you.”

I clutch my chest in fake shock. “Rude!”

“Whatever. Finish your wine and go write. I know you want to.”

“You know me so well.” I chug the remains of my wine and hand over the glass. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early!”

I head home feeling slightly better. She was exactly what I needed. Super wrong about that love thing, but right about the other.

I can like sex. That’s totally allowed.

So, I indulged my carnal desires tonight and came out winning. I seduced him so wildly he melted before my fake glow and then said things he really shouldn’t have said. High-five, self. We still got it.

And who knew I was missing out on so much? Kink is a totally hot thing! Who knew neckties could be used for things like that? Who knew dressing up as a dude could be so liberatingly sexy? Okay, maybe everyone who read
Fifty Shades
. But I thought it was fantasy, not something normal people did. I didn’t think people actually liked it. But I loved it. More than that, I’m now totally inspired to bang out (ha ha) a few chapters of something new and thoroughly kinky.

No dinosaurs, of course.

At home, I peel off the expensive suit pants and pour a final glass of wine. Second to final, maybe. It’s strangely sexy to stand here in panties and a button-down with nothing else on. Is this why people do this? How can I be a romance author who has completely missed out on this very sexy thing? I’d feel ashamed if I didn’t feel so amazing.

Wine in hand, I put on some music and dance up to my office, reveling in my pantslessness. I wish I could share this moment with someone.

Note to self: get that cat you’ve been considering.

I sing along with my Spotify playlist, serenading my wineglass. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was drunk right now. All the classic signs are there—I’m flushed, I want to sing and dance, I’m vaguely dizzy. Beyoncé was right. Being in lo—
lust
will definitely make you feel tipsy. That song’s called “Drunk In Lust,” right? Well, that’s how I’m singing it.

I sit before my computer and reread the last few chapters I wrote at the beginning of the week. No tears tonight! This is so weird. Cheerful writing always seemed like it was something the rom-com girls had a monopoly on, and I was not part of the club.

I sit cross-legged in my chair and run a hand over my bare thigh. It feels amazing. How have I not done this before? I am free and I am
in
that club now and I can do anything at all!

My fingers run higher up my thigh and stop just before hitting the center of my panties. I’m so tempted to shove them aside and enjoy myself. I’m dressed for it and have the wine and music for it, but I’ve got work to do. I sit up straight and finish reading.

These chapters are good. Intense. But lacking something. An idea hits me like a sack of potatoes. What if I use my experience of earlier (the tie, not the Trump, dear god I still have some standards) to write the next sex scene as a metaphorical portrayal of how Stefanie has given up control?

I pour another final glass of wine and dive into my work. In less than an hour, I’ve banged out (ha ha) two new chapters, and the book has suddenly come alive. It’s amazing. It’s sexy. It’s unlike anything I’ve written before, and also way better.

I’ve never been more proud of something I’ve written. It’s not cheap, the way I always thought adding kink would make it—it’s beautiful. It’s passionate. It’s intense. It’s like these scenes opened up a whole new world within my book.

I reread them while finishing my glass of wine, and I want to share them with everyone. I copy the scenes and send them to Jane, a smile tugging on the corners of my mouth. Then, I send them to Evelyn and Vanessa, knowing they’ll ask what got into me and knowing I won’t have an appropriate answer to give them, because I can never breathe a word about what happened tonight. Even Jane doesn’t know exactly what happened. If there are questions, I’ll side-step once they read.

I’ll pretend I’ve been spending time on Tumblr.

Damn it, Charlie Shivers. Fuck you in the butt with a zombie robot. You should
not
be the one who opens this door for me. But wowzers, I’m so glad I found the door, regardless of who opened it.

How did I never realize that exploring a little Dom/sub play can reflect the emotional state of the main characters? Introducing kinkier sex between the two of them perfectly clashes with the external plot arc, creating friction in more ways than one, and turning this into something absolutely beautiful.

If it took banging my nemesis to bring my work to the next level, maybe it’s time to tone down my rage a little and admit that he has his place.

Except his place should just be in my bed. Not my mind. And it really, really shouldn’t be in that one spot in my chest that twinges a little every time I picture his smile. Really shouldn’t be there! I use my annoyance as fuel to write another few chapters, closing in on the end of the book. I’ve never finished one this fast.