Cherry Bomb (Brighton #1) Page 4

  The elevator dings, and we stumble onto his floor. He drags me down the hall to his room and fumbles for the key. Despite spending the majority of the night with his hands on me, and in the Uber, in me, he hasn’t kissed me yet, not on the lips anyway. My body aches for it. For that little moment of anticipation just before his mouth lands on mine. The first few awkward seconds. The hypnotic meeting of mouths. I crave it, yet he hasn’t given it to me.

  I’d think he wasn’t into it, if not for the way he’s been touching me all night. His hand on my waist, and then lower. His lips grazing my forehead. His teeth scraping against my throat. Two hours of foreplay and now I’m bursting with frenetic energy. I yearn for him. Desperate to taste his lips on mine. Like he is water, or some sweet nectar I could live off of. The source of life, or at minimum, multiple orgasms.

  Unlocking the door, Cash pushes it open, then slams me back against it. The force seals it shut, and before I can register the pain, I’m lifted off my feet. On instinct, I wrap my legs around his waist and run my nails through his scalp.

  “You played me,” he says, carrying me to the dresser. I don’t have a chance to take in my surroundings, but in the darkness, I can tell the room is nice. No, not nice, it’s opulent. I don’t even want to guess how many tables I’d have to wait to afford a single night here, let alone the week Cash will occupy it.

  “I did not,” I lie, draping my arms around his neck.

  He sets me down on the dresser, settling between my legs. “You. Played. Me,” he grunts, dropping kisses and bites down the column of my neck. “You were a naughty girl.” One big hand finds purchase at the base of my throat and squeezes. His nose brushes against mine. His lips are so close, I can almost taste them. Lifting as high as I can, I try in vain to reach his mouth.

  “Does my sweet little Cherry Girl want a kiss?” he taunts. I widen my eyes, doing my best to convey an innocence I haven’t posed since I was sixteen, and nod. “What will you do for it?”

  This man has my body in knots. I don’t feel the stress of financial aid, or the ever-present ache in my gut, or the need to self-medicate. He’s replaced every vice I’ve ever had and he hasn’t even kissed me yet. I’m FUCKED. Fiercely. Undeniably. Completely.

  “Anything,” I breathe, and it’s true. I am at his mercy. I would crawl through hot ash if he asked me to, just to feel his lips on mine.

  “Good answer.” He grins, and it happens. His tongue flicks out to moisten his lips. His eyelids go slack and he leans in. His head tilts left. The hands around my throat force my head to the right, and finally, reverently, our lips touch.

  There are no sparks, but there is fire. It starts low in my gut and builds. Higher and higher I burn, as his mouth worships mine. His hand flexes, and my lips part, as I suck in air. Only with the oxygen comes his tongue. He tastes of expensive gin and bad decisions. He tastes of sin. He tastes immoral. It’s heady. I gasp for more.

  He palms my ass. My Brighton Brew uniform bunches around my waist, exposing my panties and the sunflower tattooed high on my thigh. His hands knead my flesh as his mouth explores the skin around my throat. He sucks and bites, and I know he’s marking me. I know I’ll have to explain it to my roommate tomorrow, but right now, I don’t really give a fuck. He told me earlier I was his for the night, and somewhere, deep down past the bad-girl exterior I put on for the world, I wish I could be his forever. I know it sounds weak, and maybe I am, but I feel an odd familiarity with this man. It’s his eyes, I think. They make me feel at home, even here, in this dark room, when I should feel out of place.

  “On your feet,” he demands. “Turn around. Hold on to the edge of the dresser.” I do as I’m told. My body trembles in anticipation. I can’t see him, but I feel his fire behind me. I hear the telltale sign of his belt buckle loosening, and a shiver runs down my spine.

  He drops the belt on the dresser. The metal buckle crashes against the wood, and I jump. “Shh,” he soothes. His fingers tangle at the hem of my uniform and he pulls it over my head. My bun, which was precariously placed at best, tumbles down my back, covering my spine. “Gorgeous,” he hums, more to himself than to me. His fingertips trail down, down, down, until I feel them tugging my panties aside. I turn and find Cash on his knees. His mouth inches from my ass. He looks up at me with those eyes that calm my soul and speaks. “I’ve been imagining if you taste as sweet as that cherry tattoo behind your ear all night.”

  He grabs my ass and pulls my cheeks apart, diving between them. He licks down the seam of my thong. My legs wobble as he continues lower. Warm, velvety flesh laps at my center. He spears his tongue inside me, swirling it around, then retreating, licking his way back up.

  There’s no teasing. He simply devours me. Licking and sucking and slurping my pussy and my ass like it’s one of his gin and tonics. My fingers flex around the dresser as I try to stay upright. My toes tingle. The fire rises to my throat. My eyes roll back, and the already dark room gets darker. I am in a black hole of pleasure. There’s no beginning. No end. Just Cash and his tongue on my most private parts.

  I can feel myself coming apart on his face. It’s violent. The orgasm rips through me brutally. My knees give out, and somehow, Cash catches me around the waist just before I crash into the lush carpet.

  We make it to the bed and I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he undresses.

  First, his shirt. It falls to the ground like a feather. He steps out of his pants, revealing the tight black boxer briefs underneath. His erection is long and thick and rigid. He palms it as he takes me in, contemplating his next move. My breathing evens out as he crawls his way up my body.

  My breasts are wrapped in red lace. Pink nipples visible underneath. Cash pulls down on the cups, and circles one furled peak with his tongue. “I think I’m addicted to the way you taste, Cherry.”

  “I think I’m addicted to the way you taste me,” I reply.

  “Cheeky as ever.” His mouth covers mine. This time, his kiss is slow and salty and tastes of my pussy. I lick my way inside his mouth as he settles his weight on his elbow. His other hand nestles between my legs and he pushes two fingers inside my slick opening. I’m still wearing panties, but they are pushed to the side and soaked through from his mouth and my juices.

  His fingers move slow at first, following the same rhythm as his tongue, then as my body starts to tense, they pump in and out faster.

  “That’s it, Cherry Girl. Give me one more.”

  I nod, breathless. I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. I’m too busy chasing the high his thick fingers offer. In and out and in and out, he pumps. Each time, the noise my pussy makes gets louder, wetter, more obscene. I try to push his hand away. The pressure is too intense. “I…can’t…” I pant.

  This is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Too much, and yet not enough. “Just relax. Let yourself feel it.”

  I do as I’m told because, quite frankly, my body is here for this torture. I sink into the plush mattress as Cash finger fucks me. My legs shake and I cry out as moisture drips from my center. “That’s my good girl,” he praises, gathering as much of the wetness on his fingers as he can before bringing them to my mouth. I wrap my lips around the digits and suck. Cash then brings those same fingers to his mouth and licks up the rest, before his forehead drops to mine and I feel the thick mushroom tip of his dick flick my sensitive clit. My body convulses as he pushes into me.

  My legs wrap around his waist and we rock, head to head, nose to nose. Slowly. Kissing. It’s more intimate than any one-night stand I’ve ever had, and yet, it’s the most erotic sexual experience of my life. Fingers wrap around my throat and squeeze every so often.

  We spend the rest of the night like this. Alternating between intense lovemaking and hard-core fucking. By the time his cock softens and cum leaks from my center, I am spent. We settle under the blankets, and as my eyelids flutter closed, a wave of peace washes over me. Before long, I fall fast asleep.

  Cash

  I’M JOLTED AWAKE BY A lo
ud thud, followed by a soft hiss. Cherry is jumping up and down on one foot, her panties are bunched around her thighs and her bra hangs off her arm. “What is this, some sort of peculiar American mating dance?” I tease.

  She flips me off. “No, I stubbed my toe on the corner of the bed. It hurts like a bitch.”

  Sunlight pours in through the window, casting a golden glow on her olive skin. It’s angelic. My own filthy little angel who takes a cock like a porn star, and plays pool like one of the guys. I snag my watch off the bedside table. “It’s early,” I comment, glancing down at the blue-faced Rolex. “And it’s Saturday. Plus, I owe you breakfast, so at least let me feed you before you sneak off.”

  Her face pinches. “I wasn’t…I’m not ghosting you…I was just trying to avoid the morning-after awkwardness, which”—she waves a hand around her half-naked body—“isn’t going so well at the moment.”

  “Ghosting?” I ask, searching my data bank of American lexicon. I’ve been living mostly full-time in the States for the last sixteen years, save for the few months out of the year that I work in my firm’s London branch. I’ve mostly assimilated to American slang, but from time to time, even I get stumped. “Is that an American thing or a Generation Z thing?”

  Cherry straightens her panties. “Umm…ghosting is like dropping off the face of the earth. Disappearing. Never to be heard from again. You might as well be dead, like…”

  “A ghost,” I say as understanding washes over my features. “You kids are clever.”

  “Oh my God, Grandpa. You aren’t that old.” She giggles, then turns to find her dress. While she’s distracted, I hop to my feet and tag her around her waist, lifting her up and tossing her onto the bed.

  “Can your grandpa do that?” I ask, coming down on top of her.

  Her big gray eyes shine with amusement. “No.”

  My head drops to the space between her chin and her collarbone and I kiss my way down her throat. “What about this?”

  “Eww, no.” She snorts. The sound makes my dick even harder than it already is. My hand falls between her legs. Her laughter turns to gasps as I stick two fingers inside her puffy pink center.

  “Are you sore from last night?” I whisper in her ear.

  “In a good way,” she mewls, undulating under my hand. “I’ll probably feel you there all morning.”

  “I want you to be able to feel me when you crawl into your bed tonight,” I murmur, spreading my fingers and opening her up like a flower. “Stay,” I say again, pressing a kiss on the center of her mouth. “Stay.” Kiss. “Stay.” Kiss. I don’t beg—ever, but I also don’t make it a habit to fuck twenty-year-olds, so it would seem as if Cherry has me breaking all my rules.

  Her mouth goes slack, and her gray eyes shine with lust. “I guess I can stay for a bit.”

  Forty-five minutes later, room service knocks on the door with breakfast. A man dressed head to toe in white wheels in a silver cart loaded with nearly every item on the menu. Cherry left me in charge of ordering while she showered. She had told me to order her whatever, which with my ex meant order the thing I’m craving but won’t tell you I’m craving, because it’s more fun if you guess.

  “What’s all this?” she laughs, towel drying her hair. Her face is scrubbed free of makeup, and I realize how young she really is. I was being honest last night when I told Logan I’m not into college girls, but there is something about Cherry. Under the bravado and sexuality, something reminds me of my younger self, back before I let money, power, and age corrupt me.

  “Breakfast. They had a two for one deal,” I joke.

  “So, you got ten of them?” She wrinkles her nose at the food. Her slender body is swallowed by the large terry cloth robe, making her look even younger. I’ve officially become a cliché. Next thing you know I’ll be driving a Ferrari and getting a fucking spray tan.

  “I didn’t know what you liked,” I confess, gesturing to the spread. “And I’m a gentleman.”

  “You don’t fuck like one.” She laughs, and the poor man who delivered our food turns white as a sheet.

  I shake my head and slide him a fifty-dollar bill. He thanks me as I walk him to the door, then I return to find Cherry at the cart pouring a cup of coffee. She’s loosened the robe, the tie hangs down the sides, granting me a view of the long expanse of her chest. The towel that had been wrapped around her hair is also gone and her long black tresses are a sharp contrast to the white. My dick twitches. It’s like I can’t get enough of her. It takes every inch of self-control I have not to throw her on the bed and fuck her again.

  “You want?” she asks gesturing to the carafe, unaware of just how close I am to acting on my dirty thoughts.

  I shake my head. “I prefer tea.”

  She gives me her signature throaty laugh. “Would you like a crumpet? Maybe beans on toast?”

  “Oh, fuck off, you Yankee arsehole,” I say turning up the accent dramatically. The chair drags along the carpet as I take a seat at the small dinette, helping myself to a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast.

  She snags a strawberry from a bowl of fruit and settles on the chair next to me. “That’s all you’re going to eat?” I arch a brow.

  She shrugs. “I’m not much of a breakfast person.”

  “A man can’t live off coffee alone,” I try. She’s thin, kissing the line between svelte and malnourished. I don’t know why but the urge to take care of her hits me square in the chest. Maybe because she’s young, or maybe because I can’t seem to get enough of her pussy, but either way I’m not backing down.

  “A woman can.” Her cheeks lift into a Cheshire smile as she tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear.

  I shake my head and table the food talk for later. There’s another question rattling around my brain. Leaning over, I press a kiss on the cherry behind her ear and whisper the words I’m too much of a wanker to say aloud. “How old are you?”

  Cherry leans into my kiss, turning so her lips are inches from mine. “Nineteen,” she says nonchalantly.

  I’m going to hell. “But we were in a bar.” Even as I say the words, I know it’s daft, but I’m grasping at threads, hoping they’ll somehow turn into rope.

  “Because I have a fake ID.” She waggles her brows and steals the toast off my plate, nibbling on it. “Why are carbs so damn good?”

  “God’s way of punishing us for the Garden of Eden,” I toss out, still gobsmacked over the fact that the too-young-for-me twenty-one-year-old is actually a much-too-fucking-young-for-me teenager.

  Cherry laughs and the sound sends a jolt of electricity to my dick. Nineteen. Nineteen. Nineteen. I chant it, as if that will somehow erase the flavor of her pussy from my taste buds. Like it will make my dick soften. Like I won’t fuck her again before she leaves this room. Then I remember my daughter’s face, my nineteen-year-old daughter’s face, and I groan.

  “Hey, what the hell was that?” she asks sipping her coffee.

  “My daughter. She’s…also nineteen.” And the whole reason I quit my job and uprooted my life to move to Brighton. I need to be focused on Arden and mending our relationship, not picking up girls her age like some creepy old tosser.

  “So what?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she honestly doesn’t think this is weird or if she’s just fucking with me.

  “So, I’m old enough to be your dad. I was your age when my daughter was born.”

  She looks up to the ceiling then back down. “Thirty-eight? That isn’t so bad. I mean, yes, twice my age, but not grandpa status. And you didn’t seem so concerned with my age last night…or this morning.”

  “To be fair, I thought you were twenty-one, last night and this morning,” I admit. “You’re quite literally the same age as my daughter, and I know for a fact that if she brought home a man twice her age, I’d be livid. I should have let you go—let you ghost me,” I add with a snap of my fingers. “But—”

  “You also want to fuck me again,” she guesses and I nod. “Don’t beat yourself up about i
t. You’re a man, and I’m a woman. Age is a social construct. We can fuck each other’s brains out until one of us gets bored. Then you can go find another Sarah and live a boring life. It ain’t that deep.”

  Legally, she’s an adult. Morally, I’m fucked. She is right about one thing. She is a woman, the only woman who has held my attention for longer than the time it takes to climax since Sarah, and that has to mean something, right?

  I pull her onto my lap so that she’s straddling me. “What if I want more than sex with you, Cherry Girl?”

  “Then you’re fucked in the head.”

  I run my hands down her tattoo-covered arms and cup her butt. “You’re kind of a badass. You know that, right? Gorgeous as fuck, a little self-deprecating, and although you’d never admit it, a little sad.”

  “You know all that from one drunken night of sex?”

  “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,” I say honestly. She groans and wiggles off my lap. “I didn’t mean that in a cheesy, Hugh Grant way.”

  “Who?” she asks settling back into her seat and lifting her coffee.

  I blink at her. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Relax,” she laughs. Her gaze wanders over to the cart of food, and she sips from her mug. “I’m fucking with you.”

  “So, when I start to talk about feelings, you deflect?” It’s more of an observation than a question, but I voiced it aloud, so I wait for her answer.

  “We don’t have feelings between us. We have dirty sex. Hot sex. The best sex I’ve ever had. But it’s still just sex.”

  We are silent for a moment, me eating and marinating on her words. Her, sipping her coffee and fidgeting. “So, what kind of name is Cash?”

  “Cassius. Named after my dad, but try being a kid with the name Cassius in Hackney. The little bastards were brutal.”

  “Aww. Baby Cash was bullied?”

  I nod. “Until one year, baby Cash grew two feet taller and put on thirty pounds of muscle.”