Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle (50 page)

He looked around, then gathered up his clothes and started getting dressed. I took his cue and gathered my clothes as well. My panties were so fucking wet, I felt like I had a wading pool between my legs. Damn him and his garden-watering powers.

Once I had my clothes back on, he grabbed me and pulled me in for a kiss.

“I hope that wasn’t too weird,” he said, grinning at me. “I was watching you with that other guy, Charlie, during the photo shoot. I got all these feelings, like I wanted to fuck your face.” He looked away from me, as if embarrassed. “I don’t know why I say stuff like that to you. I think you bring out my inner porn star. I hope you’re not too disgusted.”

He was so tall, and my floral ballet flats weren’t helping me get up to where he was. I reached up with both hands to tilt his face so he was looking at my eyes.

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “I think everyone has a little porn star in them.”

“You’d make a great porn star.” He reached down and cupped my buttocks, pulling me closer in our embrace. “You already have a great name, and you could totally be a star, but don’t get any ideas, because you’re mine now, and I ain’t sharing.”

I wheezed with laughter over the idea of being a porn star. “Right. Like people would pay to see me bounce around.”

“They would! There’s a huge market for…” He trailed off and didn’t finish.

“BBW?”

“Hot, confident women,” he said.

“Let’s not pretend my body shape doesn’t put me into a certain category. A certain fetish. And one you seem to have, yourself, mister.”

“Honestly, Peaches, you’re my first…”

“Fatty?”

“I was going to say you’re my first
regular girl
, but now I’m worried even that’s going to come out sounding wrong.”

I shrugged. “You’re my first pretty boy.”

He grimaced. “That’s a little emasculating.”

“So ver-y pret-ty.”

He made an amused noise as he crossed past me to flick off the lamp, blinking the room into darkness.

His voice soft and disembodied in the blackness, he said, “How pretty am I now?”

“About as pretty as I am fat.”

“I don’t like that word,” he said, and we both knew he didn’t mean pretty.

“Dalton, tall people are tall. Short people are short. It is what it is. I’m okay with the word, because I’m okay with myself. But are you?”

“Some days I hate every single thing about myself.”

My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, and I could make out the whites of his eyes and the moon light from outside the window glinting off them.

Every fiber of my being wanted to make a joke to fill the awkward silence. To say something flip, and change the subject.

Instead, I asked, “Do you really hate yourself?”

After a pause, with our breathing as the only sound in the room, he said, “No, but it would explain a lot. I guess I’ve been working so hard, for so long, that I forget what it is I wanted in the first place.”

“I thought you were doing this indie movie because you wanted the challenge of a different acting role.”

“Sure, but to what end? Maybe get an award? So I can get bigger roles and work even harder?”

“Dude, I work in a bookstore. In the morning, I live for getting my mocha from Java Jones. And then in the afternoon, I live for locking up and going home to read or hang out with my friends, or maybe even less. The night before I met you, I was cat-sitting for one of my mother’s friends. My mother didn’t even ask if I was available before she pimped me out. It was just assumed I had nothing else going on Friday night. So, let me ask you this, Mr. Dalton Deangelo, famous actor, do you really think I, Peaches Monroe, responsible cat sitter, have all the answers?”

He drew me to him in the darkness, a warm body in a cool, dark room.

“You seem so happy,” he murmured.

“To you, sure. I’m happy whenever you’re around, you big, stupid monkey.”

He took in an audible breath. “That may be the greatest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Good.” I reached up on my tiptoes and kissed his lips in the dark. “Now take me back to my house and do some seriously nasty porn star stuff to me.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

He took my hand and led me out of the dark room, moving slowly so we didn’t trip over the many cables stretched across the pathway.

Outside the cabin, we made our way toward the car by the light of the moon. Along the way, Dalton popped into one of the trailers to “liberate” a bottle of champagne for us from craft services.

As predicted, Vern was napping in the car, sleeping like a kitten behind the tinted windows. It took a moment of us rapping on the windows to wake him up.

Dalton and I climbed into the back seat, and I snuggled next to him for the ride home.

It had been just over twenty-four hours since I’d seen those photos and awful comments, yet it felt like a distant memory. Being with Dalton made me feel like fame was our problem, shared, and not mine or his to worry about alone.

“Do you like champagne?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Isn’t it just sparkling wine?”

“Hah!” He popped open the bottle of champagne, the cork banging into the rounded ceiling and ricocheting into my forehead.

“I’ve been shot!” I joked, then I acted out a dramatic death.

“Oh no,” he said. “My girlfriend’s dead, and what’s worse, we don’t have any glasses to drink from.”

I sat up and swiped the champagne from his hand, raising it to drink from the bottle.

“You are one classy dame,” he said as I was drinking. This made me nearly spew champagne all over him, but luckily I fought the bubbly drink down.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I said, “I’ve never been a dame before, much less a classy one. I like it.”

“Cheers.” He tipped up the bottle and drank noisily.

“Who needs glasses, anyway,” I said.

He turned and gave me a sly look. The world beyond the car’s windows was black and cozy, and inside we were lit by pale blue interior lights, from an LED panel running along the ceiling. Dalton’s skin looked cool and blue, his eyes shining.

“You’ve got the perfect champagne glass,” he said, eyeballing my cleavage.

“Naughty boy.”

Another sexy look, his eyes shining.

“I want a taste of your sweet, sweet champagne,” he said, still eyeballing my cleavage like mad.

“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation? Come get some.”

He slid closer, then tipped up the bottle and poured champagne between my breasts, where it pooled in the small triangle next to my chest.

I squealed as the cold champagne trickled down between my breasts, to my stomach and the hem of my jean shorts. My champagne glass wasn’t water-tight, but did hold, somewhat.

“Better drink fast,” I said.

He grabbed my funbags with both hands and started lapping at my bubbling boob-crack.

I shook with giggles. “You sound exactly like Howie, this old wooly sheepdog we used to have.”

“Ruff, ruff.” More slurping.

The cold champagne and his hot mouth and tongue were not an unpleasant combination. The front of my tank top was now completely drenched in sweet booze, and the damp layers of fabric weighed down at the front, skimming below the edge of my bra.

He pulled back. “Your turn.”

I shook my head. “Oh, baby, you don’t even have one squishy bit, let alone two to squeeze together.” I pulled up his shirt and probed his shallow navel playfully with my finger. “This little valley wouldn’t hold much more than a teaspoon full, but I suppose we could try.”

We pulled his shirt up, and he lay back on the bench seat. I got on my knees on the dark carpet interior of the car, feeling wet and sticky from the waist up, and even more wet and slippery from the waist down. My P-town was ready for visitors.

Vern the driver continued to smoothly steer the car toward my house on Lurch Street, taking corners ever-so-slowly. I was pretty sure he knew we were up to hanky panky in the back seat, but I didn’t care. In fact, the whole having-a-driver situation was starting to feel almost normal to me. Good things are surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to.

Dalton’s smooth, muscular abdomen was certainly a good thing. I poured champagne into the valley of his navel, and then got to work slurping it out. Now it was my turn to sound like a wooly old sheepdog, between giggles.

After my third or fourth refill of the valley and subsequent lapping, I said, “Despite the inadequate size of this champagne glass, I think I may be drunk. Or drunk-ish.”

“I’m confiscating this,” he said, swiping the bottle from me and polishing off the remainder himself.

Our timing was perfect, because we’d just pulled up in front of my house, and after all that sexy licking, I needed a good rogering.

In my most dramatic, breathy voice, I said, “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

“I have to be back on-set in nine hours, which means I can only come in and fuck you for eight and a half straight hours.”

“Then I guess we’ll skip the nightcap and get right to the fucking.”

He growled as he pushed open the door. Cool, moist air filled my lungs. I stepped out to find it wasn’t raining, exactly, but the air was dense with that misty Pacific Northwest humidity that hangs in the air, like rain in slow motion.

Dalton took a moment to give instructions to Vern about picking him up in the morning, and then we ran together into the house.

Shayla wasn’t home, because she was working a split shift and closing the restaurant. I knew she’d be a while, since the staff usually partied together on Monday nights after closing. (And Tuesday nights, most Wednesdays, every other Thursday, alternating Fridays, plus Saturdays if someone’s birthday fell within the previous or following week.)

“Here we are again,” he said as we entered my bedroom.

This time, I was mindful to close the door in case my roommate came home. There’s absolutely nothing shameful about riding your studpony and calling him Lionheart, unless of course, someone finds out.

The overhead light was too bright, so I clicked on the adjustable lamp I used for reading in bed. That was a little too bright for nude viewing of someone who eats carbohydrates, so I peeled off a damp layer, the green lace tank top, and draped it over the lamp.

“Mood lighting,” I said as the room took on a cool, green cast.

Dalton pulled out the drawer next to my bed. “Good. We’ll need all of these.”

I clapped my hands. “Balloon animals?”

He stripped down without delay. Grinning, he said, “I’ll show you balloon animals. Get those sexy little fuck-me-in-the-ass denim shorts off and bend over that bed.”

I gulped, and then I did exactly as ordered. Naked from the waist down, I gathered my pillows for support and bent over.

He came closer, and I freaked.

“Music,” I said, standing upright again and running to the dresser. I pushed the books off my stereo, and set it to the playlist I usually used for… let’s just call it relaxing.

The sultry sounds of Justin Timberlake (don’t judge me, I know you like him, too) came out through the tiny speakers with the surprisingly big sound.

His voice bordering on stern, Dalton said, “Stop stalling and get your sweetness over here. Time for those dirty porn things you requested.”

“Eep!” I returned to the side of the bed and bent forward.

“Just one, small adjustment.”

Something hard tapped against my heel. I lifted my foot, and he slid a good-sized hardcover book under my right foot, and then repeated the same with my left foot.

“Perfect,” he said, tearing open a condom wrapper.

“Eep!” I repeated, my whole backside exposed and practically quivering with excitement.

With my pulse pounding in my ears, I awaited a tap at my back door.

He didn’t go straight for my puckered kisser, though, but massaged my clit and very wet slit with his fingers. His touch felt so good, as always, and soon he replaced his fingers with the head of his sheathed cock. I moaned with pleasure, my body flushing with heat. My muscles relaxed, and I could feel myself opening like the loading bay doors, ready to receive. He could drive his big truck in… any time.

He nudged harder and filled P-town with his cock.

First he stroked in and out of my pussy, his hands firmly on my hips. He paused to withdraw and slide his length along me, between my lips and bluntly across my clit. The whole area between my legs became one throbbing hotspot of sensitivity.

He took me to the edge, but neither of us slipped over. We were holding out, but not holding back. Not vocally, at least.

“Oh, Lionheart,” I moaned.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re wrapped around my dick.”

He thrust hard.

“Lionheart!”

“You want more? You want me to fuck you like a porno-pony?”

“Yes! Fuck me, you porno-pony.”

And then… then it was party time.

He slowed down, thick and almost ready to unload deep within me. Slow to the point of stillness, he pushed up the white and black camisole I was still wearing, and his hands stroked up and down my back. He kept grinding into my pussy as he rubbed my back, which was so sexy, like I was an extension of his cock, my torso branching off from his body at the hips.

I groaned in frustration, wanting to come. Hot. Swollen. Wet. Wanting.

He withdrew from my pussy and rubbed the slippery tip against my pinched O, which made me say, “Oh!”

O again. “Oh!”

Between the lube on the condom and my excited juices, he slipped in easily. A whole new set of bright lights flashed on behind my eyelids.

O.

“You feel so fucking good around my dick.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Can you take it all?”

Nervous giggles.

“Laughing?” His tone was light with amusement. He grunted, “I’ll give you something to laugh about.”

He thrust deeply, his balls hot and prickly against my pussy now.

With encouraging grunts from me, he sped up.

“Harder, faster,” I said. (Classic!)

He really gave it to me, harder and faster and harder again.

Our bodies slapped together amidst animal noises for a spell, and we changed positions a few times, finally getting into a more relaxed situation, lying on our sides on the soft bed.