All About the D

The red camera light catches my eye, but I ignore it. This moment, this video, is just for us, so I’m not gonna worry about what we’ve recorded.

Picking up the rhythm, I sneak a hand between us and spread her wetness with my thumb, flicking that tight nub. It only takes a few strokes until she contracts around me, shuddering on my shaft.

It almost sets me off, but no, I hold my release back. When I pull out, she shivers.

My eyes trail down the light sheen of sweat on her body, soaking her in. I don’t need alcohol when I’m with her. I’m drunk on her sensuous contours. High on her soft planes.

“Got another one in you, baby?”

She laughs and shakes her head no, but I don’t accept that answer. I set her feet on the ledge near her ass, opening her up, getting back to my original plan to lick this pretty pussy.

A deeper flush paints her cheeks. I smile because I can guess what she’s thinking while I spread her out on the kitchen counter in the middle of the afternoon.

“Don’t be shy, baby. You’re so fucking beautiful. You turn me on like no other woman ever has.”

I motion between us where she can see my arousal. It’s aimed at her like a divining rod.

Her shoulders relax even though I know she still wrestles with this sometimes. And there’s only one way to help her forget.

Kneeling on the floor, I grab her thighs and use my thumbs to part her lips.

The first lick makes her gasp. The second makes her scream. But the third makes her fist my hair and hold me to her mound where she writhes on my tongue.

In no time, her whole body tightens in my arms. I can feel it. Feel her building. I can tell she’s primed and—

Fuck, yeah, she comes, riding my face, tits jiggling over me, leg quaking against my shoulders.

She shrieks so loudly her dog starts barking.

But I don’t stop, and she comes again.

And again.

And again.

Mission accomplished.

When I look up at her, her eyes have that sleepy, sated look I’m hungry for.

“Oh, my God, that was surreal,” she blurts, and then laughs. She pants, out of breath, and strokes my face gently. “It’s your turn.”

I clamber up and begin fucking her for real. Fast, hard. Frantic. All my pent-up lust and desire for this woman unraveling my restraint at lightning speed.

She grips me so damn tight.

I’m on the edge.

So close.

So fucking close.

Then she says the words that send a shiver through me.

“Cum on my tits, Josh. Do it. I know you want to.”

God, yes.

I thrust harder. Faster. And when I’m just about to come, I pull out, and she shifts off the counter onto her knees. She holds herself up to me like an offering, and I jerk off until I pulse all over her creamy, full breasts.

Marking her as mine.

Because she is.



Later that night, we shower at Evie’s house, then go to my condo.

After we order Indian food for delivery, we watch the video we made.

It’s sexy as fuck. Except for the selfie, it never shows our faces. And that blowjob, you can’t tell who she is, it simply looks like a dark-haired woman.

As soon as I see it, I reconsider and want to post a clip. Just a small piece of it. A small piece of us.

With Evie’s approval, I trim the video on my laptop so it’s only the part where she’s stroking me off. All you can see is her hand and my abs. The video is in black and white and looks classic.

Except you can hear me groan.

She nods, and I upload the video to my blog. It’s the first time I’ve let them hear what I sound like.

I hope this isn’t a mistake. Except there’s no identifying us from this. I’m sure of it. But this is my way of showing the world she’s mine. Even if it’s behind the fa?ade of my blog.

And I want to claim her. So fucking bad.





22





Josh





Staring at my screen, I smile when I see Evie’s text.

Hope you’re having fun! Miss you, handsome.

I text her back, wishing I could bail and spend the night wrapped around her instead of needing to show my face at my parents’ Fourth of July party.

Drew burps in my ear. “Gotta drain the lizard.”

Cringing, I put my phone away and watch my best friend stumble into the blue hydrangea bush on the side of my parents’ house and whip out his dick even though guests eat and chatter in an elegant white tent not ten yards from us.

“Jesus Christ, Demerit,” I mumble, using his nickname from our childhood.

Fortunately, no one is watching. This would be hysterical if I wasn’t paranoid someone was gonna get a pic of him waving around his wang at a Cartwright event. My mother would have a coronary, especially with all the press that’s here because of my brother’s senatorial campaign.

“Dude, don’t distract me when I’m pissing,” he slurs, not giving two fucks that he’s taking a leak on one of the city’s most well-preserved historical homes.

The leaves rustle like it’s raining, but it’s not.

I cringe, but I can’t hold back a laugh. So what if there are a dozen bathrooms inside the house? He’s completely not housebroken.

He’s also completely wasted.

Surprise, surprise.

Averting my eyes while I wait for him to finish—he’s been drinking since before I picked him up to come here—I take in the view from my parents’ expansive lawn. Later there’ll be city fireworks over the Willamette River. But today, it’s the bright, clear kind of sun that hurts because it’s so rare. The light that makes you see things you didn’t notice before.

We have this spectacle every year, but this time it’s different. Today is about my brother’s senatorial run.

Spencer has gathered five hundred of his closest friends—campaign donors—who are eating finger food served in whimsical packaging on the East Lawn. Tiny Chinese takeout boxes for cold noodles. Little bamboo boxes of sushi. Miniature sliders. Most people are wearing red, white, and blue, enjoying the warm day.

On the wide steps leading up to the house, Spencer holds court with a swarm of reporters. When they ask questions about anything too serious, my brother redirects the conversation with well-rehearsed answers. Except that’s the problem. They sound rehearsed, like all of his responses are preordained and neatly typed up on two-by-four note cards, which are probably tucked away in his suit pocket.

Who wears a suit on the Fourth of July? That’s right. My brother.

Eventually, he motions for Zannah to bring over the baby, and Spence wraps his arms around his family. They somehow manage to get the baby, who is sporting little red and blue overalls, to coo for the cameras for a perfect family photo.

This is the moment he’s been waiting for—the photo op. The image that will get plastered all over every media outlet. The one that says family and tradition and values.

Unfortunately, the main reason my brother stands a chance of winning is because the other guy embezzled a shit-ton of money. My brother’s plan is to look pretty and not say anything that rocks the boat too much.

Which gets under my skin. Because he has a chance to do something good, to do something significant, to stand for real change.

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