Текст книги "Rug Burns"

Автор книги: Cory Cyr

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Rug Burns

By

Cory Cyr

Rug Burns Copyright © 2015 CORY CYR

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by: Cory Cyr

Cover design by: 2015 © Wicked by Design

Front Cover Photograph: courtesy of Shutterstock®

Back Cover Model: Derek Poole

Back Cover/Photography: © CJC Photography

Edited by: Cassie McCown

Formatting: Sharon Kay of Amber Leaf Publishing

Copyright 2015 by Cory Cyr

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS  

Contents:

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Acknowledgements

About the Author

DEDICATION  

To my BFF Dianne (Weezie) yes, that’s actually her nickname. Thank you for many years of friendship. We have endured some major shit. But regardless of the ups or downs we have always survived. Just remember: if you were thirty-five, hot, gorgeous, and rich—oh and a man . . . I’d marry you! Here’s hoping for many more years to come.

PROLOGUE

I Love Cock.

Those three little words.

Individually, they are insignificant. The man hearing those words doesn’t have to be a rocket scientist to comprehend them. So simple and non-threatening, yet those three words are powerful. The woman that expresses it, maintains it, and controls it. I am a goddess when I have you at my mercy. I may be the one down on my knees, but I control you tip to root. You’ll do anything I want just for that moment of pleasure when you’re in my mouth. And in that single instance, I own you.

I have seen grown men beg, whimper, and try to take command. But I hold the authority. Sucking your cock is my domain. You may be on top when you fuck me, but make no mistake when I go down on you. I am the master. It’s crazy that men will do anything just for a blowjob. You’ve whispered promises, made bargains, and murmured words you thought I wanted to hear.

Don’t confuse me with other women. I’m not them. I enjoy taking a cock in my mouth more than actual sex. I love giving oral. Call it whatever you want: hummer, blowjob, cock sucking, hoover, fellatio, slurpin’ the gherkin, skin flute, or puff chore. The truth is I enjoy being on my knees because, mentally, I know I have the ability to bring you to yours.

When I swallow, it’s because I love it. My lower body begins to prickle and a slow burn courses through my belly. You’re not the only one who comes. I take pride in the fact that I can make you sob like a little boy or growl like a caged animal. Blowing a man is an art form, a skill—one I have spent years perfecting. And if it’s the right cock, it constitutes pleasure for both of us. My mouth is as talented as Picasso and as rare as the Allnatt Diamond.

I know many women who abhor the act of cock sucking because of swallowing. They have no idea how much absolute mastery they have. Women could rule the fucking world if they did it on their knees. I relish that moment when a man’s length swells in my mouth and his body begins to go taut with impending release. My cheeks hallow out as I suck every drop from him. Is it flavored like ice cream? Hell no. I’ve had tangy, spicy, bitter, and tart. Most of the time, the actual taste is irrelevant—it’s mind over matter. I’m sure that’s why God invented breath mints. But every once in a while, you get one and it’s like nectar of the gods.

Every man is uniquely different. Some get possessive and demanding. Most are cautious. After all, I do have their dick in my mouth. You have the hair pullers, the chokers, and the ones I call the mercenaries (those totally out for themselves)—I guess I should call them greedy choking mercenaries. Some melt in my mouth with arousing passion and some are too stunned to do much of anything (I call them jawbreakers—way too much work, not enough return).

I make no apologies because I enjoy saying those three salacious words—as well as the act. I’ve been termed a slut and a whore, but the fact is I haven’t fucked many men. My roster regarding intercourse is rather pitiful. I don’t know how many men I’ve blown. I try to remember only the best and the worst. The ones in between are irrelevant. We all have to be superior at one thing. Well, fellatio, that’s my one thing. I’m lucky because I enjoy the one activity I’ve perfected. If they gave out an award for puff chores… I’d win the Nobel.

I’ve always had specific rules. Rule one is I never give a second blowjob—ever. One per person (No, I don’t charge. I’m already wealthy). Blowing the same man twice is like a rollercoaster. No matter how many times you ride it, it will never be as thrilling as the first time. Rule two is no second dates. Of course, rules were meant to be broken.

The thorn in my side: Keenan Stone.

I’d had a lady boner for him since the first time I’d seen him in a fashion magazine. I mean extremely tall, blond, and British—and eleven years younger than moi. The man possessed all the qualities I desired when actively seeking cock. When I finally got an opportunity to meet him, I had aspirations—big ones. I also prayed he had a big one too, because I planned to slurp that gherkin’. Then I met him. Motherfucker. Prick. He wasn’t only gorgeous and hopefully endowed like a porn star, but he was sweet. Sweet or nice equals dangerous.

Of course, along with Mr. I’m-not-only-hot-as-hell-but-a-nice-guy, my bestie Haven had to royally fuck up my night at the gala, the event where I was to be introduced to Mr. Stone and optimistic to greet his bottom half. But because of Latch McKay, aka man whore, Keenan’s best friend, my plans got waylaid. Too many drugs and too much booze turned Haven’s boy toy Latch into Mr. Hyde. He’d done unforgivable things to her that night. It took him years to redeem himself in my eyes. Keenan Stone had been the white knight. Of course. He’d exacted revenge on Latch in Haven’s honor. My hero. Argh!

Apparently, Keenan didn’t follow in Latch’s footsteps. They were polar opposites. He was a kind and decent man. Two traits I found appalling in men I wanted to blow. He made my life miserable—a living hell. And for the first time, someone was succeeding in bulldozing his way into my heart.

I hated the fact he wouldn’t succumb to my advances. He respected me too much. Bastard. There was no fucking or sucking. Who knew there was a man alive who could say no to a blowjob? But there he was, touting a body that was clearly meant to be naked and enjoyed. Every time he looked at me, I wanted to weep. Jerk. He had the bluest eyes and the softest voice. Have you ever been refused in a British accent? I have. And for the first time in my life, I was brought to my knees… and it wasn’t for a blowjob.

1

Scotland, Present Day

I’m nervous. Actually petrified. Okay, probably more agitated than anything. I’m not the kind of woman that gets easily flustered. But that Englishman is always bringing it out in me. In the beginning, it was strictly frustration because he said he respected me too much. Fuck that. Now I’m just rattled all the time around him. He’s beautiful. I mean the kind of drop-dead gorgeous where your heart begins to palpitate and looking into his eyes is like ogling the sun. It almost worked. I mean we almost worked. I still have yet to figure out why he chose me.

Fuck, the man could have any woman in the world. No, scratch that—the universe. Not only was he eye candy so sweet it made your teeth ache, but nice. He was the kind of man every mother wants for her daughter. I’m talking the fairy-tale prince you dream about and wish for. Although, I never did. I never wanted that. It was supposed to be a one-night stand. But the bastard never actually left; he just kept coming back. I’d love to say the sex was so stellar he wanted another taste. But there was no tasting of any kind for months. Truly, Keenan and I never had the one-night stand because our first night had been sabotaged by Latch and Haven.

All I wanted was to sample him. We didn’t even have to fuck. I would have been content sucking him off. I’d imagined for quite a few months that his cock was as stunning as he was. He ruined it all. By developing feelings. I was honest from the get-go. He always wanted more, and I tried to tell him early on that just wasn’t me. It’s not that I was incapable of love; I just never felt the need for it. I never had the desire to be committed to one person. Just the thought made me break out in hives.

He wouldn’t let it go. That first year and a half was perfect. We had an off-and-on-again relationship. No strings—no commitments. I’ll admit I never wandered far. And even though I would never confess it to anyone, I never slept with another man. Yes, I gave oral, but a blowjob had never been as intimate to me as actual intercourse. I’d seen him out in public with a few women during that time, but somehow, we always drifted back to each other.

When we did finally consummate our relationship, it was like nothing I’d experienced. Having sex with Keenan Stone was like an endless tsunami. The man could give you an orgasm repeatedly until you were begging for a life preserver. He had skills. I might have been the queen of blowjobs, but he was the king of coming. That should have been enough.

I never understood why we needed to be more. He wanted a commitment, something long-term. I should have said no to cohabitation, but he’d wanted us to be exclusive. Jesus, even the word is hard to say. I feel like I’m spitting cotton. He coerced me into living together, and now he wanted to seal our fate, fucking forever. I tried to explain how illogical it was to consider it. He was young, famous, and gorgeous, with many more years to sow his oats. I was older and a real estate mogul and would never be ready to hand over the reins to one man.

Yes, I could call myself a mogul now. I’d made it big in the real estate field. I had so many clients I had to narrow it down to only the very wealthy. I didn’t need the income and I never had to work, but I enjoyed it. I liked the interaction with people, and when Haven moved to Scotland, it got lonely. So I poured myself into my business and worked my ass off.

The fact was Keenan needed more. He wanted an “old-school” relationship. The problem is I am actually “old-school.” I have eleven years on him, and he needs to be with someone his own age, a woman who will give him everything he craves and desires. I’m not who he should grow old with. I’m going to get there way ahead of him anyway. Even now, he’s only thirty-four, and I’m in my mid forties. He can do better. Maybe not sexually, but for a faithful relationship, absolutely. Even though I tried many times to tell him that isn’t who I am, he would persist. I think somewhere deep inside, he thought he could change my mind. It never mattered how I felt. I knew this thing with Keenan had lasted longer than I ever expected.

I should have done this in fucking L.A., but the fact is I’m a pussy. I have major trepidation. This is his fault. He said we could talk about it after we got back. I’d already made up my mind. He had to know that. Ever since, my mood has fluctuated between paranoia and wanting to vomit.

So here I am, doing this here in Scotland where I’ll have Haven’s encouragement. Who am I fucking kidding? She’s going to flip out on me. She’ll be pissed off. And Latch, Jesus, the guy will go postal. He might be off the booze and drugs, but he still has a Scottish temper. Hell, even his mother Fiona might conjure up some spell. I’ve always said she’s a witch. Still, I chose to do this here because I need Haven to hear me out and support what I say. I kept my mouth shut for the most part when she went through holy hell trauma with Latch. Their beginning was a whirlwind and not in romance book kind of way. She owes me.

So here I sit. There’s at least twenty people milling around the house and tons of staff doing prep work in the kitchen. What am I thinking? Maybe I should just forget it and deal with it later in L.A. I mean, it is Latch’s thirtieth birthday party. I could have picked a better time. The truth is I know what this will to do to Keenan. He was already distraught before we left. This will be the final straw for him. I may need my bestie’s support prior, but he will need it after. I want Latch to be his solace, and I know no matter how much of a douche he can be, he’ll be there for his friend.

I feel physically ill. I’ve never been the nervous type, and here I am sweating bullets. I can pretend everything’s fine and leave it be, but he’s pushed me too far. He’s left me no choice. He wants too much; no matter how much I bend, he always wants more. I have nothing else left to give. I have to walk away now. I can’t be this ideal woman he’s created in his head. He needs so much more than I can offer. He doesn’t realize it, but I’m doing him a favor. He’ll eventually meet some perfect woman that will want forever, and I’ll become a distant memory.

Haven walks in, and I stare at her with nervous eyes. She looks amazing decked out in a crisp white sundress. Her face reflects she’s at peace and happy. She has the life she dreamed about: a gorgeous husband and a child. Both seemed out of her reach for years because of a past relationship that left her traumatized. I didn’t believe she would recover, but somehow, Latch saved her. They saved each other.

“So can I give you the usual crap now or do you want me to wait until later?” she asks, a spark of humor crossing her face. I look up as I twist my hands and take a deep breath. I know what she’s going to say. It has become a ritual every time Keenan and I come to visit.

“You have that glow, girl. Tell me. Are you knocked up again or have you and Latch just done the deed?” I tease and add, “By the way, where is the lord of the manor?” This is hardly the time for joking, but if I’m not my usual quirky self, she’ll sense something’s wrong.

Haven shoves my shoulder and flashes a stern warning while rolling her eyes. “Shut up,” she whispers. “No, I think one child is enough. I already have two if you count Latch, I suppose. He’s in the shower and will be down shortly. I can’t believe it’s been five years. He’s frickin’ thirty, Weezie. Time really flew by. I rather miss you, you know. No matter how much I love it here and how happy I am, I miss our girl time. Sometimes, Skyping doesn’t cut it.”

I cringe. I know what’s coming. Haven goes into her yearly embrace. She calls it a hug; it’s actually more like a stranglehold. We lived together for years, and having so much distance between us has been rough. But I’m glad she’s content and has the life she always deserved.

Although, I doubt she’ll ever finish the book she’s supposedly writing. Between taking care of Latch and their son Logan, she has her hands full. She doesn’t need to work anyway. Haven is set for life. She married one of the most notorious bad boys of the video game industry. Not only an award winning graphic designer, but a wealthy one at that. The man is outrageously hot and twelve years younger than her. Plus, he’s extremely smart. Yeah, she hit the mother lode, but it was an unstable path to happiness. Were all the ups and downs to eventual bliss worth it? The love they share is so evident and nauseatingly sweet, I feel as though I’m on the verge of a diabetic coma every time I leave.

“We need to talk, Haven,” I say as I pull her into another room. My heart is pounding, and I’m wondering if she can hear it.

“I have guests. Latch’s mother, Keenan—”

I stop her before she goes through the entire guest list for Latch’s party. “This is important. A crisis. A fucking disaster on a global scale,” I hiss as I close the door. “You got anything to drink in here?” I ask as I look around, hoping to find a brandy decanter or whatever the super wealthy Scots stash in their libraries.

“No, all the booze is in the kitchen. The one you dragged me out of. What is it, Weezie? You’re kind of scaring me. What’s going on?”

I can feel my cheeks heat as I begin to perspire. Here I am, forty-five years old, and I can hardly articulate what I want to say. I can speak three languages with a cock in my mouth. What the hell is wrong with me?

I begin to pace by the window with my head hung. This isn’t that big of a deal. I throw men away all the time. True, I hadn’t done it with Keenan. We’ve been together for five years. I had rules—fucking rules to live by—until him. I can’t understand why this has to be so damn emotional for me. He has to realize what’s coming. He has to expect it. He’s spent years getting to know me. He knows who I am.

“It’s Keenan. I um…” I stammer as I cross my arms and exhale.

“What is it? Did you have a fight? What did you do? Are you breaking up?” Haven bombards me with questions, her face blanching with every inquiry.

I wish. “Not exactly. Maybe. Yes. I need a break—from him.” There, I said it. Hell, that wasn’t so bad. Actually, I feel better.

Haven spins me around, and her face is clouded in anger. Not an expression I’m accustomed to except when she was dating Latch.

“What do you mean a break? What the hell, Weezie? You’ve been together for almost five years.”

“The first two don’t count. We weren’t exclusive—”

Haven cut me off, waving her hand in my face. “Yeah, I forgot those first two years meant you could fucking do whatever and suck whoever you want,” she spit out, giving me a brittle look.

Whoa. First of all, my bestie rarely says the word fuck, and sucking cock has always been referred to as a puff chore. My girl is a delicate flower. I suppose having Latch McKay pluck off her petals for the last five years has given her some steel cajones.

“He fucking proposed,” I whisper. “That’s right, bestie. That fucking Brit blindsided me by asking me to marry him. I didn’t know it was coming. Not really. There were no signs of delusions prior. He wasn’t drunk. He doesn’t do drugs. And as far as I know, there’s no mental illness in his family. So why, for God’s sake?

“I tried to pretend his knee had given out when he went down on it. After all, he is an action star and occasionally enjoys doing his own stunts. Then the prick produces a ring with a diamond… equivalent to the size of his cock. I didn’t know what to say. I stumbled my way through, ‘I have to think about it.’ Which made his luscious lips all frowny and sad, causing him to pause and then get pissed.

“I have gouged out his heart with an ice cream scooper. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me. I marred his beautiful face with heartbreak. And it actually hurt me to do it. I felt discomfort. Something I never experienced before when I denied other men. But I’m doing it for his own good. I’m not the woman for him, and trust me. I am definitely not wife material. It’s better he gets hurt now than him finding out down the road.” I end the monologue with a deep exhale. I might pass out. Divulging that amount of information all at once has made me hyperventilate.

He was oblivious when it came to my behavior and attitude. I could be professional in public when we were together—most of the time. However, there had been several instances where I’d had too much to drink and gotten a little amorous. So sue me. My boyfriend is sexy as hell, and when the mood struck me, I wanted him.

For Keenan being a model slash movie star and best friends with reformed man whore Latch McKay, he’s reserved. Soft spoken and a gentleman. Possibly the British in him. I always told Haven he was a one-night stand that never went home. I’d almost given up on him years ago. He kept me at bay for so many months I was convinced he was either the greatest fuck there ever was or a eunuch.

Shock registers on Haven’s face. Then her expression becomes downright scary. Her cheeks blush profusely and her state appears confused. She looks fucking elated and angry all at once. I know what she’s thinking. Jesus, I can read her mind. The bitch wants us to have identical lives. To be married together. Fuck my life. She had to know—this is not me. I’m past the age of the white wedding and dream honeymoon. What is wrong with everyone? Doesn’t she realize I’m not “M” material?

“That’s wonderful, Weezie. Keenan is perfect for you. I can’t wait to tell Latch. Just think… two BFFs married to two other best friends.”

“Wait a fucking minute. What the hell? Did you just ignore the part where I said no fucking way? It’s not going to happen. What is wrong with everyone? Have you all been drinking the same Kool-Aid?” I stare at her for a minute, then all of a sudden have a epiphany. “Oh my God—you knew. I can tell. You knew he was going to propose and you didn’t tell me. Warn me. Jesus, Haven, have you gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Has everyone gone mental? You of all people should know I can’t do the ‘M’ thing. It’s unnatural. You’ve known me longer than anyone. Why would you keep this from me?” I say, furious with her for not giving me a heads-up.

“Weezie, don’t be mad. You’re right. I do know you too well. And you would have overthought it and run before he even had a chance. And what do you mean the ‘M’ thing? Damn, Weezie, it’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“Monogamy,” I say, choking. “It’s not part of my chemical makeup. He thinks a piece of paper is going to keep me in check? I’ve been doing it for years, but it hasn’t been easy. I can’t be corralled. He thinks he can break me like some fucking horse.”

“Bullshit. You’re making up goddamn excuses. Why would you even want another man? He’s young, gorgeous, and treats you like a queen. He’s a dream come true, and he loves you—regardless of what a slut you used to be. You’re not getting any younger. Do you think you can puff chore your way through the next ten years? At least give him a chance. You’ve been together long enough to know. He’s the one. I know it. Everyone does. The question is why don’t you?”

I think about what Haven just asked. Why don’t I know it? The problem is I do know it. Do I love him? With every fiber of my being. Jesus Christ, even acknowledging I love him to myself makes me dizzy. I tried not to. I didn’t want to. But when I look at him, he makes my girlie parts tingle. I had many men get me excited, but not like this. The way he gazes at me guts me every time. I’m caught between not being able to breathe and losing consciousness.

He squeezed into my life by a hair—by a thread. I never allowed another man that connection. Sexuality had never been anything to me but a release mechanism. I’d never felt a bond, just a carnal need. But with Keenan, it had always been different. He aroused me not only physically, but emotionally, and now I was going to punish him for it.

It was only supposed to be a fuck. A blowjob. It was never meant to be more. I allowed him to take it to the next level. I did this. I pray he’ll hate me. It’ll be easier for him to walk away if he does.

Who am I trying to fool? It would be easier for me.