Authors: Alessandra Torre,Al.
Brand New Stories of First Love
I’ve had a lot of firsts in the last three years. Today is a new one. First time throwing a three-year-old Birthday party, Hollywood Style. Too bad my sexier-than-sin husband is absolutely no help. And Cocky is in the pool. And Ben is having a panic attack. And Justin is feeding my child sugar at every opportunity.
This is past the dirt, and more than just Hollywood. This is our life as Sole.
he last few
years have brought a lot of firsts for me. First time looking into a camera and saying a line. First time kissing a man I hated. First time falling in love with a man I hated. First time leaving my hometown. First time at Cannes. First time house-hunting. First time . . . well. If I list them all here you’ll fall asleep from the boredom. I’ll skip to today. First time I kill my husband.
Easy there. I can feel you getting all stiff in your seat. You don’t need to point out that I’m married to the Sexiest Man in America, according to People Magazine. Or that my husband and I are “just made for each other” according to Mama. Or that the man takes my breath away by just smiling at me and makes my skin heat with need by frowning. I know all of that. But the man . . . oh, I want to kill him right now.
“Cole Masten, you’ve got three minutes to get that damn bird out of our pool!” I stand on the pool deck, the pavers warm beneath my bare feet, and yell loud enough that a gardener pokes his head up and over a bush.
Cole ignores me, pushing out of the water and perching on the edge of the pool, watching proudly as Cocky swims in a half circle.
. I lived in the country over two decades, and I have never seen a chicken swim, not once my entire life. The first time Cole put him in the pool, I bolted out of my chair and was across half the yard, diving in fully clothed only to find out the damn bird paddled around like a duck.
“Cole.” I growl his name and he lifts his head, resting his palms on the edge of the pool and squinting up at me. Shirtless and squinting. I feel my heartbeat increase despite myself.
“Summer,” he counters.
“You got fifteen kids who are gonna be here before we know it, and I’m not having them swimming around in chicken poo water.”
“Fifteen? Who invites fifteen kids to a three-year-old’s party?”
“Shh . . .” he gently lifts Cocky out of the water and holds him to his chest. “You’re hurting his feelings.”
I’m telling you, I am going to kill him. I watch Cocky lift his tail and know, my lips not moving fast enough, what is about to happen. “Cole!” I shout, pointing my hand, and he lifts Cocky away from him in just enough time to see him ruin our spotless pool.
I stare at the water, a long white stream of poo reacting with our chlorine, misting through the water, leaving a trail of bacteria that can’t be Chloroxed clean. I don’t take my eyes off it. I can’t, because I know what would happen if I do. The abs in my peripheral vision shake, and I can’t help myself, my eyes darting to Cole, who still holds the rooster out, his abs taunt as he laughs. “Come on . . . Summer,” he says, Cocky tilting his head at me as if confused. “The timing’s funny.”
“It’s not funny,” I insist, feeling the edges of my mouth betraying me, and I scrunch up my forehead, insistent that I retain my anger in this situation. “It’s infuriating! Do you know how . . .”
oh God, I am going to laugh,
“how much bacteria is in that—?” The giggle comes out, Cole’s own laugh pushing it to the surface, and I clamp a hand to my mouth, trying to keep it in, trying to muster enough indignation to give the man a proper dressing down, one he’ll remember, one vehement enough that he’ll stop giving the damn chicken swimming time. I step back when I see him heft himself out of the pool and to his feet, setting Cocky on the ground and striding toward me, his grin wide, his eyes on me.
“Nooo,” I warn, my giggles drying up as soon as I see his intention, my hands out in guard, a useless defense as he wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tight, his wet body ruining my Vera Wang shift dress, one that had been flown in from Vera herself specifically for this party, for the photo shoot that would accompany it, a mountain of ridiculousness over a birthday that should be celebrated with cupcakes, balloons, and some new binkies.
“Ooh . . .” I breathe. “Jasmine is going to
you.” Jasmine, the publicist, the one who handpicked this ruined dress, the woman who is due any minute and who has absolute fits over things like wilted tulips and me getting my hair done at SuperCuts.
“She can kill me,” he says, squeezing me tighter, his embrace lifting me off the pool deck. “It’s worth it.”
“For Cocky’s swim?” I sputter, pushing off his chest.
“No,” he says, and then I am over his shoulder, the leather dress riding up my thighs, my struggle slippery against his wet skin, and he reaches up and smacks me on the butt, hard enough that I squeak. “Stop struggling,” he orders, jogging up the back steps, and I have to stop, if only to hold on.
He lays me on our bed, following me closely, my escape impossible as he is suddenly on top of me, wet thighs between my dry one, his bathing suit cold against my panties, and he smiles down at me as he lowers his mouth to mine. “Haven’t I told you what your giggle does to me?”
“We don’t have time for this,” I gasp out the words even as my legs wrap around his waist, his mouth cutting off my protest, his kiss taking its time, soft brushes of lips then deep tastes, one of his hands gently working through my hair and lifting my head to his kiss.
“We always have time for this,” he whispers, and then I feel him, the hard heat a strong contrast against the wet suit, and I reach down, helping him, pushing his swim trunks down to his thighs.
“Leave on the dress,” I lift my hips and work the supple leather up to my waist. I pull my panties, a pale blue lace pair, to the side and watch him, his length bobbing . . . so close I can already feel it.
“I’ll destroy those,” he says. “Take them off. I’m not in a restrained sort of mood.”
I can’t, can’t wait another second, not when he is already right
, so hard he is shiny, so ready I can already see a drop of precum at his tip. “Just do it,” I beg. “Screw the panties.”
When he thrusts forward, I close my eyes, a groan coming out. There is nothing like the feeling of him in me. The perfect wet fit of our bodies, the angle he knows that I love, the twitch of him inside me as he tries to control himself. The first few strokes he normally stops short, conscious of me, wanting to give me a chance to adjust to his size first. This isn’t one of those times. This is full Cole from the start, and I am ready for it, greedy for it, opening my eyes and celebrating the view in the afternoon bedroom light, gentle sunlight giving me all of him in high definition. His hand grips the bed next to my head, the bite of his grip showing me his level of control. His chest flexes, abs are tight, his jaw set as his eyes burn down the length of my body, watching everything about my face, reading my signs easily. How much I can take, how fast I want it, the angle and depth that makes me arch against him. The panties only add to my pleasure, the bunch of fabric tight against my clit, the friction of every stroke giving me a brush of extra stimulation.
It isn’t clean, it is messy and quick and uncontrolled. I feel his teeth, hear his grunt of effort, the slick slap of our movement, the yelp of my beg and oh . . . I beg. I beg for more, for harder, for softer . . . my begs make no sense, yet he understands them all and when he comes, his voice breaks, his thrust deepens, his thighs shake.
I can’t move, I lie against his chest, my dress still bunched around my waist, and think about everything that needs to be done, precious minutes slipping away, but I stay in place. Appreciate the move of him underneath me, each breath a gentle heave of muscles, his fingers slow and languid up my back and into my hair, curling around the strands there.
“I’m sorry about the pool.” His chest vibrates with the words.
“You should be.” I turn my head, propping my chin against him and looking up at his face. “Ben is going to
you.” I whisper the words dramatically and widen my eyes.
He laughs off the threat, his grin dropping when our bedroom doors shake, a barrage of knocks pounding against the surface.
“Summer Masten!” a shrill voice calls out, panic on the fringes of its vowels. “Summer Masten, you get your Vera Wang clad butt out here right now!”
I try to burrow under the covers but Cole pushes me off. We fight silently, my yanks at the blanket useless against him, and he laughs softly despite himself. The pounding on the doors stop.
“Cole?” Ben’s voice carries clearly through the crack, and I picture his lips, puckered and pressed between the double doors.
“He’s in here!” I call loudly, ducking from a pillow thrown, Cole’s accuracy dead-on. “And it’s his fault the pool got dirty!”
Utter silence from the other side and I pause, a return pillow lifted, ready to be thrown back in my husband’s direction.
“The pool?” Ben finally asks, his voice a few octaves higher than normal. “What’s wrong with the pool?”
I throw the pillow at Cole, my full-force heave landing with a disappointing bounce, and he shakes his head at me with a smirk, snagging it off the floor as I fling one of the bedroom doors open, Ben stumbling into the room, his hands automatically moving to tug his summer suit into place, his appearance impeccable, the only thing out of place his flushed face.
He turns to Cole, his face hitting a new shade of red at the sight of my husband. The pillow strategically held over his crotch, Cole’s gorgeous body on full display, as he stands stark naked in the middle of our bedroom.
Cole shrugs. “Cocky got in it. He had an accident.”
Ben’s blush turns ashen. “In the pool?”
“Mooommmmmy!” A blond streak breaks through the open door, and I catch her in mid-leap, swinging her onto my hip with a smile.
“Hey, pumpkin.” I nuzzle her neck. “How was shopping?”
“Amaaaazing!” She throws open her arms in an exaggerated fashion. “Uncle Jay is getting me a pony!”
I gasp, widening my eyes theatrically. “No, he is not.”
“No, he is not.” Justin chimes in from the doorway, dropping a shopping bag on the floor and sagging against the frame. He glances in Cole’s direction, nodding in greeting, not blinking an eye at the scene. “We negotiated and agreed on ice cream instead. She conveniently forgot that as soon as she finished.”
“In the pool?” Ben repeats, waving his arms for attention. “Cocky went to the bathroom in the pool?”
“Can I get dressed?” Cole asks.
“No,” Ben and I say in unison, and Justin rolls his eyes, holding out his hands for my daughter, the terrible negotiator.
“Grace, let’s go down to the kitchen.”
I hold her tight and glare at him. “Easy there. Shopping, ponies, and ice cream? No wonder she loves you.” I shift her higher on my hip and walk to the door, snagging Ben’s arm and pulling him after me. “Ben, let’s get you a drink and regroup.”
Herding the men out the door, I give Cole one last look, catching the moment, right before the door shut, when he winks at me and drops the pillow.
. I want him again already.
never noticed before throbs on the right side of Ben’s forehead. I watch it and try not to smile. It is hard because the man is seriously freaking out all over Grace’s party—an event that should be fun. But Ben had opened an event-planning business, and he’d convinced me that Grace’s birthday would be the *cue sparkly fingers*
showcase of his talents.
He glances at his watch and huffs out a breath. “One hour. I have one hour. How long ago did this happen?”