Laurel's Bright Idea (Billionaire Baby Club Book 3) Page 12

  Titus looked around at my kitchen. White cabinets with brushed nickel pulls and matching faucet, top-of-the-line stainless steel GE Profile appliances, a dark navy island, and pale gray quartz counters with nice touches of gentle, subtle movement. Flooring was vinyl, sturdy and wide plank, made to look like wood but a fraction of the price, in alternating light and dark shades to complement the counters. The whole effect was a kitchen that was clean, simple, comfortable, balanced, and timeless. I was very proud of it; I’d also been careful to not spend so much that I’d never get the cost back in resale value. The flooring was carried through the house, with antique, handwoven rugs under the dining room table, the couch in the living room, and in each of the bedrooms. The theme of gentle, timeless, monochromatic base colors with pops of color for accent carried through to the rest of the house as well.

  Titus took it all in. “You did all this?”

  I nodded, pleased and flattered at the fact that he was obviously impressed. “Damn, girl. You got skills.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been around enough renovations professionally that I had an idea how things worked, and I knew I could do most of it. And I always had my friend Mark in my back pocket—he’s my go-to contractor that I refer clients to, and if I was stuck or wasn’t sure what to do or how to do it, I’d call Mark, and he’d walk me through it without mansplaining or taking over. I’m very proud of my home, but I understand why you’d think it’s not what you expected from me.”

  “No, it’s beautiful. For real. Comfortable. Feel silly using this word, but it’s…cozy.”

  I laughed. “Oh, you’re too macho and cool for something to be cozy?”

  He snorted. “Yes. I’m Titus fucking Bright—I don’t do cozy.” He laughed. “It’s honestly not that. Or maybe it is. But I grew up in a shithole, and then went from that to a P-O-S, rusty as fuck, twenty-year-old Econoline work van, and then tour busses and hotels, and then finally the rig I got now.” A shrug. “I dropped out of school and left home at sixteen, and I’ve never had a home that wasn’t on wheels since.”

  “You dropped out of high school?”

  He nodded. “Yup. Finished ninth grade and we dropped out to play full-time halfway through our sophomore year.”

  “Wow.”

  He grinned. “And then there’s you, miss I went to USC.”

  I rolled my eyes. “UC Berkeley, actually.”

  “Nice.” A pause. “So. Can I see your room?” Titus murmured.

  I swallowed hard. Nerves rifled through me. “Uh, sure.”

  I led Titus Bright to my bedroom, my sanctum sanctorum. No one saw my room. No one—certainly no male.

  So…why was I leading him to my bedroom? Why was I allowing this man to see this part of me, this private, vulnerable side of me?

  I really, really hoped I wasn’t going to regret letting Titus see this part of me.

  7

  King bed, pale lavender fleece quilt, fluffy white pillows, white walls with abstract black-and-white photography, another of my antique hand-woven rugs. Part of the reason I’d chosen this house was that the master bedroom featured a closet that was abnormally massive for the style and age of the house.

  He paused to look at a photograph on the wall—an aged, cracked wooden pier pylon up close, framed so it was hard to tell what it was. “Who took this?” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “If you say you, I’m gonna have an existential crisis.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one should look the way you do, be as successful as you are, as cool and down to earth and funny, as sexy, and be able to renovate a house on your own, and be a talented photographer.”

  “It’s a hobby,” I said, shrugging. “I think Lizzy is the only one who even knows I do photography.”

  He sighed, sounding actually annoyed. “So you did do the photography in here?”

  “Guilty as charged. I discovered it in college. My friend had this old black-and-white antique camera, and I was messing around with it, and he later developed the roll I’d been screwing around with, and was like, girl, you’re really good. You should keep doing this. So I did. I got myself a camera and once in a while when the mood strikes, I’ll go bum around downtown or something and shoot a few rolls. I have fun with it, but it’s not something I’d quit my day job for.”

  He examined the other pieces on my walls. “I dunno, this shit is pretty legit. I’d buy it.”

  “It’s legit, huh?”

  He nodded. “Legit.” He turned in place. Swaggered toward me—prowled, really. “You are somethin’ else, Laurel McGillis.”

  I was nervous—why was I nervous? I’d already fucked him. I knew it’d be good.

  Too good, and maybe that was why.

  Either way, my knees shook. My hands shook. My mouth was dry. My heart was thumping. I had to swallow a dozen times, and still couldn’t make my throat any less clogged.

  “Something else, huh?” I echoed, inanely.

  He took my hips in his hands and tugged me to himself, slowly and inexorably. And I went, blinking up at him.

  “I can’t fuckin’ handle you, Laurel. You’re too much of too many different things.”

  Something in those words lanced straight to my core—and not in a sexy way. “Yeah, I get that a lot. It’s why I ham up being the stereotypical shallow dumb blonde LA girl. It’s easier.”

  He shook his head. “Bullshit. That’s the cowardly way out of being your real bad-ass self.”

  “But you yourself just said you can’t handle me. I’m too much.”

  He snorted. Touched his lips to mine. “You can’t tell sarcasm when you hear it?” Another kiss. “I dunno if sarcasm is the right word. A joke. Saying the thing you don’t mean, to emphasize how much you don’t mean it.”

  I felt his lips touch mine, again and again, delicate, dry little half kisses peppering my mouth, my upper lip and then one corner and then the other, each one making my heart skip a beat, skip a beat, skip a beat.

  “So you can handle me,” I breathed.

  He slid a hand around my waist to cup my buttock. “I dunno, Laurel…can I handle you?”

  I huffed a laugh, tilting my head up to bare my neck for his descending trail of kisses. “Such an idiot.”

  He laughed, not at all offended. “Yup.” His touch slid down over my backside, the hem of my skirt, and then found the bare backs of my thighs. “This fuckin’ skirt, though—this what I can’t handle.”

  I pulled his beanie off, and his thick, curly black hair fell around his face; I gathered it in my hands and held the back of his head as he pressed kiss after kiss down my throat to the generous expanse of cleavage above the buttons of my shirt.

  “What is it with you rock stars and these out-of-season beanies?” I asked, breathless.

  He laughed, backing away to focus on undoing the top button. “It’s a whole look. I dunno. It is kinda stupid. My head gets hot and then my hair gets sweaty and turns into a frizz bomb. But it looks cool, so…” A shrug, as he undid another button. A few more in quick succession. “Did your tits get even bigger than the last time I saw you, or what?”

  I played with his hair, laughing. “Push-up bra magic.”

  “Well, I approve.” He had my shirt open, and sat back to simply stare at my chest. “Goddamn. You make me want to do some seriously dirty shit to you.”

  I let him search my waistline for the zipper of my skirt, which was on the side rather than the back. “Oh? Such as?”

  He found the zipper finally and lowered it, and now my skirt was open but on, to match my shirt. “Gross things that you wouldn’t like.”

  I laughed as he reached under and around the back of my shirt to unhook my bra. “What are you doing? And again I say, like what? I can be dirty.”

  He shook his head, ignoring both questions. Pushed my shirt backward, letting it fall off, and in the same movement, slid the straps of my bra off of my shoulders so that garment fell off at the same time, and then without missing a beat knelt and dragged
down my skirt and the skimpy black thong I wore under it.

  And just like that, within the space of a single breath, I was naked.

  He knelt at my thighs, hands gripping my ass cheeks and pulling me to his mouth. “Can’t get enough of this.” A lick, a kiss, sending lightning searing through me. “Of you.”

  I gasped, and my hips flexed. “God, Titus. I can’t get enough of you doing it to me.”

  He shook his head, sighing, groaning. “I can’t stop.” A flick, a lick, a kiss, a hot breath, fingers now inside me, tongue drilling me and driving against me. “I like you too much.”

  Oof. That…made the anxious, nervous hammering of my heart all the worse.

  This felt good, too good, and I wanted the dirty. I wanted the rough. I didn’t want his tender words. I didn’t want to know he liked me. He was a rock star. He was famous for his errant sexual promiscuity, infamous for the stories of threesomes and more, for letting girls desperate for him line up outside their bus so they could get a turn with him, and his willingness, stamina, and impossibly short refractory period to please them all.

  I was fine being another conquest, another of the many girls to get a sample of Titus Bright’s intensity, his glorious body, his sinfully killed mouth, his wondrously massive cock.

  I was fine with it. Totally fine.

  I was not looking to be the girl who thought she could tame him, who thought she could capture his heart along with his body, not to mention his fidelity.

  I didn’t think that. Didn’t want that part of him. This was just sex. Nothing more.

  God knew I wasn’t about to go handing out the keys to my heart to anyone. Mainly because there were no keys—or, more accurately, the keys led to a vacant space, a black hole, an empty cavern where no light existed.

  There was nothing there to give.

  I had no business pretending otherwise. No business even wondering what it could be like to…

  He interrupted my thoughts with a renewed assault on my sex, which shook me, left me gasping and heaving. He got me to the edge and drove me over without mercy, without slowing. I came with a hoarse cry, and my knees gave out.

  He let them.

  Caught me, and tossed me onto my bed with a bounce. Knelt over me and set about devouring me all over again, until I was quaking with the fury of a second climax, hard on the heels of the first, and then a third moments later, until I was sweating and crying and screaming, thrashing under him.

  He let me down from the mountain, then, but only because I begged him to.

  “Stop, Titus, stop. Let me…god, fucking god, Titus,” I gasped. “You’re crazy.”

  “Feeling that sweet pussy come all over my mouth is the best fuckin’ drug I’ve ever had,” he murmured, crawling up my body, still fully clothed. “And I’ve tried ’em all.”

  I had to touch him. Had to make this dirty rather than sweet. Yanked at his shirt. His shorts. Fumbled awkwardly at his underwear until he laughed and kicked them off, and then he was beautifully naked above me. I grasped him, caressed him. Fondled his balls and used both fists on his length until he was growling.

  I scooted backward, up the bed, away from him. Lay on my back and cradled my breasts between my arms for him. “Tell me the dirty things you want to do, Titus. Better yet…show me.”

  He crawled up the bed after me, cock swaying heavily, hard and thick and long, plump fat head leaking, weeping. “You really want to know?”

  He knelt over me, straddled me, staring down at me, his gaze rife with appreciation.

  “Do I look like I’m teasing?”

  He caressed my breasts. “You look like the most goddamn gorgeous creature on the fuckin’ planet. You look like I want to steal you and hide you in a cabin in the mountains for a fuckin’ month so I can keep you to myself, so I can have my wicked fuckin’ way with you all night and all day until neither of us can fuckin’ walk.”

  I sat up a little more, and he straddled me, towering over me, his hips at chest level. “That sounds like the best idea I’ve ever heard.”

  He pressed his thumb against my lower lip, then against my nipple. “These fuckin’ tits, though, Laurel. I want to fuckin’…” he groaned, sitting down on his heels to cup my breasts in his hands. “I want to lick them and kiss them and taste your nipples…” He lowered to do exactly that, moaning at the taste of me. “And I want…” He lifted up, onto his knees. “I want to fuck them, Laurel.”

  I cupped my breasts and pushed against him, clasping his thick hard cock between the mounded globes of flesh. Lifted my chest and sank down, plunging his shaft between my breasts. “Like this?”

  He groaned, watching his cock vanish between the globes of my tits, feeling the soft silky flesh around him. “You know the fantasies I’ve had about doing this?”

  I smirked. “Consider me the source of all your fantasies come true, then.”

  He shook his head, biting his lip as he shifted his hips. “You don’t want that.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want, Titus. You don’t know what I want.”

  “So tell me.”

  “What if I told you I wanted to know I’d made your fantasy come true?”

  “You don’t get it. I’m not talking about some ongoing thing, like I sit around in the shower jerking off thinking about randomly titty-fucking someone.” He plunged upward again, to sprout up between the tops of my breasts, and I couldn’t help but bend over to fit my lips around the tip as it appeared. “Jesus, woman. You’re gonna kill me, here.”

  “Good. That’s what I’m going for. Murder by orgasm. And you thought you were dirty.” I lowered around him, so he sprouted up again and I let the flat of my tongue slide against his tip, tasting his leaking essence. “So then what is the fantasy?”

  “You.” He growled wordlessly as I kept him in my mouth and used my hands to plunge my tits around him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Laurel. You’re the fantasy. You, doin’ this.” His hips were moving, then, flexing. “Coming all over these tits. Flipping you over and fucking from behind until you’re crying for it, and then coming all over your perfect ass. Fuck, Laurel. You want to know the dirty truth? I wanna fuck your mouth. I wanna bury my hands in all that blond hair and fuck your mouth until you take my cum down your fuckin’ throat.”

  “Oooh, Titus,” I breathed, smirking up at him. “You are dirty.”

  “Told you.”

  This was familiar territory. I understood this. It was safe. Dirty, sexy, flirty, naughty, I could do.

  “You’d better pick one, then.” I rose up and plunged down, taking him into my mouth on the upstroke. “Since you’re already here, might as well start here.”

  “Laurel, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off as I sped my efforts. He had my headboard in a death grip, the wood frame crackling under the power of his hands. “Fuck, you feel good.”

  “Yeah? You like this?” I whispered, my breath huffing on the tip of him, took him into my mouth and then back out again. “You like fucking my big fat titties?”

  He grunted a laugh, an affirmative. “You have no idea, Laurel. None.”

  He was grinding against me, now. Hard, fast. I just held myself around him, mouth open above the opening between my breasts so each thrust put him into my mouth. Faster, faster. Grunting, groaning.

  “You gonna come all over me, Titus?” I whispered. “Paint my tits with your cum, Titus. Let me have it.”

  He didn’t stand a chance. My trap had been set the moment he saw me in this outfit.

  “Fuck, Laurel,” he snarled. “Fuck, fuck.”

  “Yeah, baby,” I whispered, watching him lose control, watching his jaw clench, watching his beautiful razor-sharp abs tense, watching his hips pump and plunge his cock through the gap of my tits, watching the hard angles of his V-cut sharpen with each thrust. God, he was beautiful.

  Granted, I got nothing whatsoever from this, on a physical level. But watching Titus Bright—the Titus Bright—helpless above me, face a rictus of crazed pleasure…that was fuckin
g fun. Pleasurable in itself, knowing I had him, right where I wanted him, too blasted into the dazed wonder of ecstasy and knowing he was getting it from me, that was a reward it and of itself.

  Bonus: the fact that he was too distracted to level me with his unexpected sweetness, his impossible to resist genuineness, his emotional vulnerability, his openness with his past…

  Dammit, woman, stop. Stop thinking about him like that.

  Focus on the dick.

  He was close. I could tell at a glance. Throbbing, eyes closed for a moment then wrenching open to watch himself against me. His movements were sporadic, his rhythm faltering.

  “Laurel…” he groaned.

  I just moaned, for his benefit. Moved to complement his thrusting. And then as he went frantic with the rapidly rising edge of orgasm, I abandoned the pretense of using my tits, took him in my fists and wrapped my mouth around his thrusting head and sucked, took the thrusts and swallowed around them and then backed away and plunged my touch around him faster and faster until he jutted his hips forward hard, once more, flexed there, head thrown back, up on his knees, gasping, groaning. He dropped his chin to his chest as he reached release.

  I took the first shot in my mouth—as much on my lips as in my mouth. He growled and thrust and came again, shooting another thick gout onto my chest—I clenched my arms around my breasts to pile them up for him, letting him take over jerking him, squeezing them together as he spurted yet again, now painting his thick white cum in a stripe and puddle on my squeezed-together nipples. When he began to sag, I let go my breasts and gathered his shaft in my hands and plunged down on his still-pulsing erection, mouth latching around his cock and sucking the last droplets from him until he sank backward and fell to the bed beside me in a dazed, heaving heap.

  Covered from lips to tits in his sticky, cooling seed, I watched him gasp. “You alive over there, Mr. Bright?”

  “Nope. Dead.” He was gasping raggedly, as if he’d just sprinted a football field. “I can’t believe you just let me do that.”

  I patted his chest. “It was hot, trust me.”