ROMANCE: Mr. Mystery: (New Adult Bad Boy Romance) (Contemporary Mystery Short Stories) (166 page)

Ryan smiled. “Well, that's a hard question... I don't want to get him in trouble with his wife or anything,” he said, winking playfully at me, and even though I knew the joke was directed at Daniel, I couldn't manage to make the distinction between this and flirtation, and I found myself blushing yet again in spite of myself.

“But, well,” he continued, staring into his wine glass reflectively, and considering his words. “I guess you could say he and I had a bit of a penchant for getting ourselves into trouble... And I mean, hell, nothing that serious or anything. I don't mean to make it sound more dramatic than it was or anything.

Not like we were arrested or anything like that, although I guess there were probably occasions when we could have been...” He chuckled at this, although it didn't really do much for me in terms of easing my nerves. “But, you know, just normal college kid stuff. Dumb things, really. We liked to keep our professors and the campus police on their toes.”

I chuckled flakily, and asked, faintly curious, “Like what?”

From then on out, for the next several minutes, my guest went on to describe some of his and my husband's antics over the course of their college careers, although I have no idea what the hell any of the specifics were on anything. Something about pranks and drinking, that sort of thing, but the details were entirely lost on me as I gazed deep into the man presently speaking to me.

On a number of levels, asking for this sort of insight into their past lives was probably a mistake on my part, because listening to him tell a story meant that I would be forced to just sit quietly and stare at him, taking it all in, and unable to tear myself away even if I wanted to. And this, I felt, would be the death of me over the course of this already intense situation...

As his lips moved, distorting, melting, reshaping around the nonsensical words he spoke, I found my eyes dripping onto them, being sucked toward their gravity without a hope in hell of escaping. My stunned eyes bled over his body, dripping over every beautiful surface, taking in the whole of his astonishing reality as though he was the first man I'd ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on in my entire life.

Christ, what the hell was I going to do? He was just so... So devastating, so perfect to behold, like a damn male supermodel, or some species that was just the least bit sexier than a human was capable of being. And the thing was, I couldn't even lay my finger on just what the hell the specifics were about him, what certain things they were that turned me on so bad about his presence.

I ran into attractive men all the time, but as a rule they didn't get me anywhere near as uncontrollably worked up as this sexy stud of a beast was doing. It was like, his entire being, everything about him, was sculpted, put together, in such a manner that it was calculated to be the most effectively crippling to my psyche, pulling me into him, and never letting me go.

My nostrils flared, and my mind raced as I examined him all over, ripping his clothes off in my mind and savoring every last, pulsing, sweaty bit of the flesh underneath. His jet black hair, his penetrating eyes, and his light, sexy stubble framed a face that verged on severe in its beauty.

A perfect nose, an immaculately formed skull, the features all place in just the right spot, every angle, every flowing line enough to get swept up and lost in for eternity. His lips were of the sort that seemed made to be kissed, delicious and succulent, one could tell, from simply looking at them, and positively irresistible when you were forced to gaze across the room at them for as long as I had.

He was well-dressed, in a manner that made fashion seem effortless, though my concern was genuinely with what lay underneath the fabric, the bulging fierceness struggling at every corner to push its way free and consume me. I could tell, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was one fit, well-toned man, his body a damn wonderland of muscle and strength and severity, the glory of his anatomy unmistakable beneath the frustrating confines of his clothes.

His shoulders were beautifully broad, and his arms were thick, powerful, as they shifted through the air with telling of his story. His chest, meanwhile, was absolutely strapped, threatening to bust through his shirt anytime he strained too roughly in any direction, my eyes pinpointing onto the series of black buttons running down along his shirt, willing them to come popping off and unveil the sweet, sexy treasure that lay underneath.

And then there was his ass... Oh God, what an ass... I'd peeked at it so many times this evening in spite of myself, anytime his back was turned and I had the opportunity to catch a glance of the thing without him noticing. I could imagine those glorious glutes as plain as day, sculpted, toned, succulent, juicy, everything a girl could possibly ever want. And finally, I couldn't help but see, his crotch bulged lie all hell at any given point, the fabric of his pants struggling to contain the immensity of his cargo below the belt.

The sheer splendor of the thing surely beyond what I could even begin to imagine. I wondered, vaguely, whether he was circumcised- my husband was, and though I'd heard mixed things about uncircumcised cocks depending on who you asked, I fantasized that his was just such a penis, with that extra bit of flesh going for it, able to please a woman in the most lurid, the most powerful of ways...

And good God almighty... I gasped, suddenly, caught up in my own fantasy and startling suddenly back to life.

“You alright?” my fantasy lover asked.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, yeah I'm... I'm fine,” I said, and he smiled.

“So, anyway...” he continued, and carried right on with his story.

I sank back into my chair, feeling as though I might get stuck to the damn thing in my ridiculous perspiration, and my head throbbing with an immense come-down after that immense bout of fantasizing.

What the hell was wrong with me? I was a married woman, for Christ's sake, a
happily
married woman, for that matter. It was absolutely ridiculous of me to be thinking sexual thoughts about any other man, and in particular my husband's best friend, when what the two of us shared was so strong, so vibrant, and so perfect.

Prior to this unbearable stud waltzing into my life, I had never even had the desire to be with another man. Daniel and I were absolutely perfect for one another, and in fact, he had been like a godsend for my life.

I'd been so miserable when the two of us had met, so committed to the idea that my life couldn't possibly get any better than the daily trudge that it had become at the time. I just felt so empty all the time, at my awful job and with my ridiculous student loan debt hanging above my head like a plague. Some days, I would just get home and feel like crying, and it had seemed as though finding anyone to share my life with was as vain and as impossible a task as anything else.

It just didn't seem like the sorts of guys I'd wanted to meet were out there, or else they were already taken, and I was left with a bunch of immature boys, or else with the sorts of mature men who were so dull and unsatisfying that they made me even more depressed.

But then, when I'd met Daniel, sweet, wonderful Daniel, it had been like my entire life suddenly improved, and everything seemed like it was bearable again. It felt, for the first time in forever, like I could really be happy, and I was, and when the two of us got married, it had been like nothing else in the world could come anywhere even remotely close to matching what an amazing feeling it was.

Three years. Three long, wonderful years together, like a lifetime with one another already, but our best days, surely still ahead of the both of us. The spark had not died down in the least bit since the night of our honeymoon, and the two of us were in line with one another on so many levels that he somehow managed to meet my every need, even some needs that I didn't even realize myself at the time were present.

Just this morning, for instance, he'd surprised me with sex first thing in the morning, and sex that catered to my every last need to an extent even greater than it seemed to be for his own personal enjoyment. I'd been dreaming lightly at the time, very lightly, and basking in the early morning light bleeding across my skin from the bedroom window.

And then I'd felt him, knocking on my back door, if you will, the stiff morning wood of his cock brushing playfully up against my backside through the fabric of my nighty. It seemed like he always wanted me, and I always wanted him, and it seemed preposterous to imagine this ever being any other way.

I gently roused myself awake, stretching out like a feline in the sun, moaning lightly as I arched my spine and worked a few of the kinks of sleep from my back, and then I turned away from him, putting my back to him completely, just to torment him a little bit, but smiling all the way.

“Mm, God, put that thing away,” I muttered playfully, “You're going to poke someone's eye out...”

And at that, he pushed himself just a bit harder up against me, and I could feel my body reacting to his touch, turning on, and heating up first thing in the morning. I felt his fingers beginning to slide onto my body, creeping down my arm, and latching onto my breast, squeezing on me like I was his damn teddy bear, holding onto my body as though he simply needed to know I was there beside him.

He leaned in, then, and began to put his lips on the side of my neck, kissing me with the utmost tenderness, running warm, wet pecks all up and down along my throat, and then really doing me in by leaning in, and nibbling on my earlobe ever so slightly with his teeth. He squeezed harder, harder, and suddenly my want for him verged on unbearable, and I had to concede defeat, letting down the facade of my playful rejection.

I turned around in bed to face him, leering into his eyes with the ferocity of a predator, and then pouncing on him accordingly, pushing my mouth into his own. The two of us made out like we were newlyweds all over again.

Pulling our throbbing bodies together beneath the covers, our tongues piercing one another's gullets, and sweeping, lapping, licking around, tasting one another like there was no damn tomorrow. We both tasted like morning, honestly, but that seemed secondary to the sticky, dripping haze of the moment, and I felt as though I couldn't possibly get enough of that sweet, glorious bastard into my body fast enough.

At last, we'd pulled ourselves apart, gasping at our own ferocity, our nostrils flaring as we struggled to regain our breath, and our chests beating heavily against one another. I could feel his erection digging deeper and deeper into me, really bowling me over, as he leaned in, and whispered into my ear: “I thought since you were making dinner this evening for Ryan and I, I could at least serve you breakfast in bed to reciprocate you for it...”

I had a pretty good idea of what he meant by that as he said it and braced myself, and sure enough, suddenly he was dipping his head beneath the covers, disappearing from view, and his fingers beginning to creep sensually around the fabric of my nighty down below.

My thighs began to quake as he pushed the hem of the thing up, and his fingers slipped beneath the tight, lacy band of my panties. I tried to still myself, to sit back and enjoy this for what it was, but it became impossible to contain myself as he dredged the skimpy little things down off of me, and tossing them from beneath the covers onto the floor bedside the bed.

And slowly he lowered his face in between my hot, wet thighs, and I could feel my body tense up with the seeping of his warm breath into my feminine anatomy. He gingerly brought himself inside me, entering into my body like liquid, putting his lips up against those of my pussy, and his tongue pushing along inside me, swiping along the floral folds, and kissing me with such softness, yet such enthusiasm, that I didn't have a clue in hell whether I was coming or going.

And so he consumed me, his head a bobbing lump beneath the sheets, his tongue sweeping and cascading and absorbing my delicate flavor, rolling along with splendid perfection, and getting me so damn worked up that I thought I might burst with pleasure.

My buttocks clenched, and my spine arched, every square inch of my anatomy on fire with sensitized nerves, my nipples hard, my fingers curling into the bedspread, and my legs wrapping around his bobbing, lapping head, tying him into me, and pulling, pulling, pulling him deeper into myself, as though my very life depended on it.

And then, God help me, I felt him hitting the sweetest of my sweet spots, at just the right angle, at just the right time, and my eyes shot wide open. I screamed, and moaned, and it turned into nothing but a feeble whimper as the orgasm pumped through my body, soaking through my flesh to such a degree that I thought I might somehow stain the sheets with my pleasure, and every bit of my body trapped by the sweet, carnal splendor of my husband's perfect cunnilingus.