Gloria's Forever (Gloria Book 3) (14 page)

“On the lips,” instructed Chaz.

Gah! What had I gotten myself into? “No way,” I pleaded, my voice hoarse from all the alcohol. I’d lost track of how many margaritas I’d consumed.

“Way!” shouted the group in unison.

To my absolute horror, Chaz spun me around several times. When he stopped, I was dizzier than a lush on a three-day binge. I swayed on my feet and had no clue about my bearings. Loud, pulsating techno music thrummed in my ear.

“Will someone at least tell me which direction to head in?” I asked, teetering between laughter and anxiety. I’d had one too many drinks. Had I not, I would be running out of this joint, blindfold and all.

Gripping my shoulders, Chaz pointed me in the direction of my target. I took small hesitant steps in my heels, my friends guiding me with roars of laughter. “That’s it…to the right…no to the left…you’re getting closer…”

If I wasn’t so smashed, I would have felt enormously embarrassed, stumbling and fumbling through this chic club, blindfolded. Along the way, I felt up some big-boobed girl, knocked over a bottle of something super expensive, and bumped into a server carrying a tray. Actually, this wasn’t too bad given how accident-prone I was. Most of these encounters were met with giggles, but there were also a few what-the-fucks. Though blindfolded, I could feel people staring at me. My skin prickled. I knew now what a blind person felt like going through life. A bolt of compassion shot through me.

“Just two more steps to the right,” I heard Chaz shout out.

With my arms outstretched, I did as he directed, and suddenly my fingers were tangled in a thick wad of silky hair. It must be him. He didn’t flinch or say a word.

“Kiss him, kiss him!” I heard my friends chanting in the distance.

Oh, God. What was I going to do? I couldn’t let them down or I’d never live it down. I’d come this far. Without overthinking, I blindly ran my hands over my victim’s face. His skin was soft with a fine layer of silky stubble, and his features were distinct and defined—a straight, manly nose; a strong, slightly clefted chin; and above it, a set of lush, velvety lips. I lingered on his lips, tracing them with my fingertips, building up the courage to touch down on them with my own.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m playing a game of Truth or Dare, and I have to kiss you.” God, how ridiculous I must sound and look with my blindfold.

I took my victim’s silence as a sign he was willing to play along.
Okay, here goes
. Clutching his angular jaw between my hands, I bent down to kiss him. But before I could latch my lips onto his, he rose and, in one swift move, crashed his lips onto mine.

Oh. My. God. A heat wave shot through me. It was one of those kisses like in a movie. Fierce, delicious, passionate. Opened mouth and oh so consuming. And he tasted divine—the sweet taste of champagne lacing his breath. He bit my upper lip, forcing me to part them, and plunged his warm, velvety tongue inside my mouth. His tongue instantly found mine and they entwined, dancing like they’d been together forever. He tugged hard on my ponytail, yanking back my head, and coiled it around his hand, tearing at my roots. The delicious pain mixed with the delicious pleasure of his kiss, sending a rush of erotic sensations through me. Every nerve ending was a sparking fuse. My breathing grew shallow. Already lightheaded, I was now borderline delirious. I’d never been kissed by a man like this before. I didn’t want him to stop. What was wrong with me? I’d just gotten engaged.

In the background, I could vaguely hear my friends cheering and whistling. “Go, girl!” For sure, head cheerleader Chaz.

My inner voice told me to stop, but no matter how much I willed it, I couldn’t get my lips to part from his. In fact, I deepened the kiss, pulling him closer to me by the collar of his shirt. The material felt expensive, like the gazillion thread Egyptian cotton kind. Everything about this man tasted and felt divine. He squeezed my ponytail tighter. I moaned into his mouth and he moaned back. God, the throaty sound of him was sexy!

And then suddenly, as fast as he had plunged his tongue into my mouth, he withdrew it. In tandem, he let go of my hair. I gasped, desperate for more.

“Wait!” I cried out, my hands grappling for him. Instead of finding him, I found myself knocking over a chilled glass. My heightened sense of smell told me it was his champagne.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, struggling to tear off the tight, blinding tie. “I’ll buy you another.” Finally, I undid the tie. I blinked once. He was gone, and I was painfully all alone. Where did he go? My eyes frantically searched the pulsating crowd, darting left and right, but he was nowhere to be found. Even if he was facing me somewhere, staring into my eyes, I wouldn’t know it because I didn’t know what he looked like.

My friends were now all standing and applauding me. I’d lived up to the dare. Kissed a strange man on the lips. Oh, those lips!

Dazed, I staggered back to the group and dared not tell them how much I’d enjoyed it. And wanted more.

*

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By Nelle L’Amour

COMING MAY 2015

Zoey

T
he only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that he leaves me alone. I have some down time and am able to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every women in the world wished him “
Get Well. I <3 you!”
while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans:
Thx, baby. Feeling good. Luv you back. <3
I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back from
People
magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive”—Brandon Taylor. Total swoonsville!

Two hours into tweeting, my cell phone dings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.

Did u say u give massages?

I reply.

Yes.

He responds.

I want one now
.

Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.

Well…???

In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.

Do I need to fire u?

GAH! He wouldn’t.
He would!
Fucking spoiled asshole.

FINE.
Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.

*

Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room. I’ve shlepped over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oils. Brandon’s on the couch reading the trades.

“Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.

He looks up from his magazine. “Should I strip down?”

His words send goose bumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment.
Pure perfection!

“No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you nude. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”

“I don’t do underwear.”

My eyes unconsciously shift to his crotch. That big cock of his (at least I think it’s big) is one zip away. I wonder how
really
big it is. Nine inches? Ten?

He interrupts my mental calculations. “Fine. I’ll put on a pair of boxers I occasionally sleep in.”

“Perfect.” I pause. “By the way, if you don’t remember, I only do vanilla massages.”

His brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to rub your cock and give you an orgasm.”

He relaxes his brows. “That’s too bad.”

His words send flutters to my inner thigh area. “What do you mean by that?” After asking the question, I’m sorry I did.

He looks at me earnestly. “My cock’s pretty stressed out.”

No more questions. “Ask Katrina to de-stress it.” My voice is thick with sarcasm.

His mouth twitches. “Yeah, right.”

I sense exasperation in his voice. “By the way, how was your dinner with her mother?”

“Stressful. That’s why I need a massage.”

Don’t ask
. The less I know the better. “Get ready. I’ll set up my massage table in the meantime.”

Five minutes later, he’s back. Clad in adorable polka dot boxers that hang sexily low on his hips. My heart pounding, I soak him in. His hospital stay did nothing to take away from his gorgeousness. My eyes travel down from his head to his toes, taking in his sculpted pecs and biceps, his washboard abs, that perfect pelvic V, and his long muscular legs. His cock is less than a zip away. I could just reach inside the slit of his boxers and grab it.

“Get on the table, face down,” I tell him, trying to act professionally. These lewd thoughts are disturbing me. But it’s hardly the first time I’ve had them.

He does as bid, resting his head on the headrest attachment. His long legs reach almost to the very end of the table. I admire his beautiful muscular back and his broad shoulders.

“Good. I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on some relaxing music. It’ll help you loosen up.”

I pad over to his music system and chose an appropriate album. One of clarinetist Kenny G’s
Greatest Hits
compilations. The music starts playing—“Loving You” is first up. On the way back to the table, I also dim the lights and light a scented candle. The atmosphere is perfect. For a sensuous massage.
Or
a sensuous fuck.

“Are you ready?” I ask him when I return to the table.

“Yeah. More than ready.”

“Are you cold? I can drape a sheet over you.”

“No. I’m hot. Just get to it.”

Mr. Hot and Bossy
.
Ms. Hot and Bothered
. I bend down and reach into my tote bag for the bottle of aromatherapy oil I’ve brought along. Standing up, I squirt a generous amount on my hands and then rub my palms together to warm it. I place the bottle on the nearby coffee table.

I start with his neck and upper back. That’s where most people feel the most stress. I press my strong, oiled hands on his velvet flesh and begin kneading his muscles.

“Fuck,” he moans. “That feels amazing. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I went to a training school. I’m a certified massage therapist.”

“Mmm. What smells so good?”

“The oil I’m using. It’s therapeutic. Inhaling it will help you relax faster.

As I continue to work his back, I hear him take a deep breath through his nose and then he sighs in a sensual, drawn out way that makes my skin prickle. It’s just like the sound of a man having his cock sucked.

“You’re very knotted up,” I say, working him harder and deeper.

“Tell me about it.”