Chapter 1 #2
She opens her mouth wider, and I flick her with my tongue, coaxing hers out. Her lips brush mine, slowly starting to feel me—play with me—and in a moment, I’m sinking onto her mouth in a kiss, my hips pumping hard and fast between her legs.
Breaking the kiss, I turn my head over my shoulder, grinning at her husband as I slip in and out of his wife. His eyelids hang heavy, watching me thrust, his cock straining against his pants.
“Pull him out,” I tell Rip.
My friend smiles and disappears. I rise up and flip the man’s wife over, lifting her onto all fours. Gripping a hip in one hand and her hair in another, I gather saliva in my mouth and spit it onto her ass, thrusting harder and harder.
I grit my teeth, pleasure coursing through my body. “Fuck, yeah.”
Hearing a zipper behind me, I glance over my shoulder again.
Mr. Coldwell’s hard dick stands free, and I bring my hand down on her ass, feeling her backing up into it as I fuck her.
“You got a week,” I tell him, stuffing his wife as sweat drips down my back. “Otherwise, I’m coming back with new guys and giving them a turn.” I smile. “After I take another one myself, of course.”
His head falls back a little, and I hear him moan as his shaft points to the ceiling. In a moment, his wife’s pussy constricts around my cock, pulsing, and she fists the pillows above her head, trembling.
“God, you’re wet,” I groan. “You want us to come back? Hm?”
She coos as her orgasm flows through her, and I turn to her husband again.
He yanks at the restraints, twisting his wrists, and my head floats so fucking high. I love him watching this more than I love the feel of her.
“You right- or left-handed?” I ask him.
Mr. Coldwell yanks his right arm, moaning through his gag.
I nod at Rip. “Free his right hand.”
My friend unbinds Coldwell’s right wrist, and the man doesn’t even think to remove the cloth around his mouth or try to loosen his other hand. He grabs his cock, watching his wife and me, and starts pumping it.
The pre-cum glistens out of the tip, lubricating his hand, and I turn back to her. Pushing her face down on the bed, I thrust once, twice, then again, feeling all of my blood gather in my groin until I’m gasping for air.
Closing my eyes, I shudder, sliding in and out of her, bursting, while I listen to her pathetic little husband jerk off to us.
Fuck…
I breathe hard, the orgasm coursing through me as I finish.
I don’t have time to catch my breath, though. Tyson climbs on the bed, shoving me. “My turn,” he growls, his condom already on.
I roll off the bed as he flips her back around, his mouth on hers as he pushes her knees apart and thrusts inside of her.
In a moment, he’s riding her hard, pushing her knee up next to her head with her second orgasm not far behind.
I crash down to a chair, laughing as I hear him go off. He could never hold it long once he sees a woman come.
Rip pulls her up next, facing her at the bottom of the bed on all fours. She watches her husband watch another man fuck her.
Mr. Coldwell comes on his stomach at some point, but while I stare at the scene on the bed, I’m no longer really watching.
The people who know me would say I’m selfish. That I don’t care once I’ve already had mine, but it’s all a performance. Sex always is.
I love dreaming about it when I know I’m going to have it. What I’m going to say, where I’ll take them, how I’ll taunt them…
I love the foreplay and wondering if I’m going to get it.
And I really enjoy the feast. The smell of their skin, the look of their bodies, the taste of their mouths, their necks…I don’t think about anything else when I’m doing it.
Afterward, though…the desire to play a character leaves me, and it’s just…
Empty.
I could be watching a car insurance commercial right now, and I just want to get on to the next thing where I’m in a new performance. My family, my job, my friends, drinking…It’s rare that I just want to be me. It’s rare that I just want to hang out and talk.
Thirty minutes later, we’re finished, and my friends wait for me outside.
“Well done,” Timothy Coldwell says as he swipes the ball of his pen across the check. “I don’t think she’ll be able to wait for another birthday before having that again.”
Yeah, it was fun. But it’s never quite the same the second time.
He grins, handing me the payment as his wife soaks in a bath upstairs with a glass of champagne. “You all played it exactly how she asked.”
I take the money, folding the check in half. “It was a pleasure.”
Leaving them to it, I walk out of the house and jog down the five marble steps.
Rip blows out a breath of smoke and tosses his cigarette into the fountain in the center of the driveaway, a fire pit bowl blazing in the center.
Tyson turns, all of us back in our clothes, my black necktie hanging loosely around the collar of my white shirt.
“You think he was filming that?” Tyson asks, both of them walking with me.
“I was.” And I throw them a loaded look.
They chuckle, not even asking for details.
Maybe I set my phone out in the room and they didn’t notice or maybe the Coldwells’ maid—one of our own from our side of the tracks—set up cameras in the house after I knew we were coming here.
It doesn’t matter. Our eldest brother, Macon, has three rules for his brothers now.
Don’t complain about anything unless you’re gonna fix it.
Work.
And don’t fuck a Saint without proof of consent.
Oh, and…Don’t make babies with dumb people.
Four rules.
Or five, if you count…Knock before you come into my bedroom.
As if I’m not drowning in ass and need to see his wife naked.
So, yeah. Five rules. None of which apply to the youngest, our sister, Liv. Macon thinks she’s a responsible little angel. I’ve yet to be convinced.
“Go back to the Bay.” I toss Rip the keys as we traipse across the driveway of square slate tiles, each outlined with grass.
He narrows his eyes. “How are you getting home?”
“I still have work to do.”
They rumble with laughter as they head through the open gates and veer left, out of sight, to where we parked our cars.
Tyson will take the truck he and Rip came in, while Rip returns the Jag I drove here.
My brother’s wife came into their marriage with a lot of money, and last year, after a round of “if you had unlimited money and everyone in Sanoa Bay was fed, safe, and had cash to burn, which car would you splurge on?” he finally replied with a gruff “Jaguar.” It didn’t sound like him at all, but he said they were fun to drive and he’d like seeing his wife arrive to dinner at a fancy restaurant in an equally fancy vehicle.
She bought him the car the next Christmas, and while he does bring it out for the rare occasion of setting foot over here in St. Carmen to dine with her at Le Jardin on her birthday, he doesn’t drive it otherwise. He probably feels like a poser.
Shit, I’ll drive it, then. No one ever thinks I’m trying to be something I’m not. I can do anything.
Listening to my friends drive off, I pull out the check, open it, and stare at the amount, which is just short of a down payment on a Honda Civic.
Or I could save it instead or buy some clothes or go party in Miami for a weekend, but the things I want don’t have a price, and anything I need is easy enough to take.
I let them pay me anyway, though. It keeps things clear.
Holding the check over the fountain, I flick it into the flame of the fire pit, the blue paper turning black and the writing disappearing in a moment.
Quirking a smile, I walk out of the driveaway and down the quiet midnight lane.
Maples and oaks line the neighborhood street, and old-world gas lanterns cast a dim glow in the dark night, marking the gates for other estates.
An occasional palm tree rises to block the stars, but we can’t see them anyway through storm clouds that roll in like clockwork every June.
The heat cooks the cypress, palms, and magnolias, mixing them with the scent of wet earth and hot pavement, and in twenty minutes I’ll wear the smell, too, because it soaks into the skin.
Iron hates this time of year. Florida summers swelter.
But the streets grow emptier the closer we crawl to July and August, the CEOs taking their families to cooler temperatures and the ones who remain slowly going insane with irritability and cabin fever.
There are road ragers losing control of their tempers when some BMW-driving dick rides their ass on the freeway.
A wife’s back drips with sweat when she’s had more than enough bullshit from a cheating husband and finally stands up for herself.
More murders happen in hot weather than in cold.
What I know is there’s beauty in every season if Iron would only look.
Hands in my pockets, my palm pressed against my phone, I stroll through the town.
St. Carmen was settled after Sanoa Bay hundreds of years ago.
The Spanish and Portuguese claimed our pristine little isle, colonizing not only the land but the Seminole tribe that inhabited it, and when the British, Dutch, and French gained control for a bit, our Bay became centered on survival instead of preserving cultural identity.
Our ancestors learned to fight for the land instead of fighting one another.
We’re still united in the same battle today.
I pass through the village in the center of town, the two-story police station done in the quaint Spanish style with clay tiles on the roof even though almost no Cubans, Dominicans, or really anyone of Spanish ancestry lives on this side of the tracks.
When the founding fathers of St. Carmen settled this land, they really wanted the Bay first and foremost. The ocean is damn near out our back door, and they needed a marina for their yachts, docks for trade, and hotels with ocean views for their tourists. They never got it, though.
Yet they still try.
Ultimately, they’ll win.