For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love (33 page)

Or she might not have. My mom valued her independence.

“Good.” Drift opens the door, swings his legs to his left. “Then we fly out tonight.” He places his feet on the garage floor and stands, forcing me to stand with him.

“Fly out?” I glance over my shoulder. His face is set with determination. I know that expression. He’s moving forward with whatever course of action he’s decided upon, pedal to the metal, no thoughts of braking. “Where are we going?”

“To Vegas.” Drift clasps my hand, forcing me to keep pace with him. “We’re getting married.”

“Married?” I’m acting like a damn parrot again, repeating everything he says.

“Married.” He opens the door to my house and ushers me over the threshold. “You love me. You wouldn’t have sex with me if you didn’t.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Drift leads me toward my bedroom. “You love me.”

“I love you.” Does he love me?

He looks around the room. “Where’s your passport?”

“I carry it in my purse.” I had dropped my purse near the front door. “But—”

“You’re always ready to leave the country.” My boss nods. “I like that.”

He strides out of the bedroom, taking me with him.

“Stop.” I tug on his hand. “This is all moving too quickly.” My head is spinning.

“Too quickly?” He stops abruptly and I smack into his back. “What are you talking about, Wrench?” Drift turns, a frown darkening his face. “We’ve waited for three fuckin’ years.”

We waited to have sex. This is marriage he’s talking about. “Drift—”

“I’m not waiting one more day.” He shakes his head. “And I sure as hell am not sleeping alone tonight. Do you know how damn difficult it is to leave you every night, to return to our house without you?”

Our house. He has always called it that. I thought those were merely words, the CEO in him giving everyone the illusion of ownership.

Now, I don’t know.

“I never want our days together to end either,” I confess. “But marriage is forever, a commitment we shouldn’t take lightly.”

“Cassie girl.” Drift captures my face between his big palms. “I have your mark permanently inked on my skin. My baby might be inside you. I would have walked away from the sweetest ride I’ve ever been in if it hadn’t been available in your favorite color. I’m committed. Fuck.” He leans his forehead against mine. “I’ve been all in since the first moment I saw you. There is no one else I want riding in my passenger seat, no one else I would trust with my cars, my company, my heart.”

Emotion swells within me. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He gazes at my upturned face. “God, you’re fierce.” Drift’s lips slant over mine, the pressure exquisitely firm, forcing me to let him in. His tongue races along mine, sliding, stroking, revving my desire.

I clasp his shoulders and lift onto my tiptoes, seeking more of him, more of the connection between us. He cups my ass, drawing me even closer.

His desire meets and meshes with mine. Our lips fuse together and our kiss deepens. My heart pounds. My breath quickens. Drift hardens. He squeezes my ass.

“Fuck.” He stares at me, his chest heaving. “I want you so fuckin’ much and I can’t have you. It’s too soon for another round. You must be sore.”

“Parts of me are.” I unbuckle his belt. “My mouth is fine.” I unzip him, push his dress pants and boxer shorts downward. “How about we shift gears?” I lower to my knees before my boss, my man, my future husband. “And I take you for a test drive?”

“This is no test drive.” Drift’s voice deepens to a pussy-wetting rumble. “You own me.”

I run my hands over him from tip to base. He shakes, his eyes glittering with need. A bead of pre-cum forms over his slit. I rub it along the crown of his cock, making his skin glisten. “I have your pink slip?” I fondle his balls.

“Pink slip, keys, the whole damn car.” His jaw clenches.

“Hmmm…” I lean forward and vibrate my lips over his cock head. He groans. “Let’s see what you can do.” I lightly graze my teeth over his shaft, following a vein, breathing in his manly musk.

He watches me, his eyelids partially lowered, the skin on his face stretching tight, as I lave his skin, tasting this private part of him. I tease him with my lips and fingers, relishing my womanly power, the way I can strip his control with each caress.

“Fuck, Wrench.” He widens his stance, bracing his feet apart. “You know how to work a cock.”

“Not just any cock.” I flick my tongue over his slit and he shudders. “I know how to work you, Drift.” I curl my fingers around his shaft and pump him. “You like it hard and fast.”

The muscles in his thighs flex. “I’ll come hard and fast if you continue like that.”

“Don’t come, not yet.” I repeat the words he earlier told me. “Not until my lips are around you. I don’t want to waste a drop.” I smack my lips.

“Christ.” His fingers fold in fists, his knuckles whitening.

“Would you like to shoot your cum down my throat?” I nibble on his rim, tasting the hint of myself on his skin. “Fill my stomach as you filled my tight wet pussy?”

“You know I want that.” His eyes flash. “Suck me, Cassie. Don’t torture the man you love.”

“I do love you.” And he loves me, this truth reflected in his handsome face. I push my lips over his tip and sink down, down, down on him. He fills my mouth, his girth challenging my cock-sucking abilities.

I manage, opening wide, only to have Drift’s length defeat me. His cock head taps the back of my throat, leaving an expanse of shaft neglected.

We can’t have that. I cover this flesh with my fingers and move against him, sliding my tongue along his cock, enthusiastically licking and sucking.

My boss allows me to set the pace for four, five, six inhalations. Then he takes control, threading his fingers through my hair, cupping my head, guiding me up and down his shaft.

Drift likes to drive and I don’t mind being driven. I happily transfer this responsibility to his broad shoulders, content to be in the passenger seat. He directs my movement. I flutter my tongue against his hardness.

Drift’s cock bobs. “Fuck.” He increases the tempo, twisting his fingers in my hair. “You feel good, Cassie, better than good, perfect.”

He feels perfect also. I gaze up at him, captivated by the glitter of his eyes, the darkening of his face, evidence of his building desire.

This man is made for me, satisfying my need for speed and for danger, while giving me the security and safety I require.

Drift is the partner my mom wanted me to wait for, to find.

I hold onto his hips as he draws me toward him and pulls me away, his rhythm punishing, fast and exciting. My lips hum and my cheeks indent around him.

The smuck, smuck, smuck of hard shaft plunging into wet mouth fills the hallway. Drift’s balls tighten. His cock swells. He’s close but he needs a push to get him into that top gear.

I close my fingers around his balls and squeeze.

“Fuck.” He drives his hips forward, slamming his tip against the back of my throat and throws back his head. “Fuck,” he bellows to the ceiling.

Liquid heat bathes my battered flesh and fills my mouth. I swallow again and again, milking him until he’s dry, taking his essence inside me.

“Cassie. Cassie. Cassie.” Drift’s legs shake.

The tremors increase in intensity until his knees buckle. He falls to the floor, bare skin smacking against hardwood and I wince. That must hurt.

“Fuck me.” My boss wraps his arms around me and pulls me snug against his chest, folding his fit physique over mine. “What the hell was that?”

“Did you like it?” I tease, petting his back, feeling damn proud of myself. “The next blow job will be even better.”

“That’s not fuckin’ possible,” he murmurs into my hair. “My ears are buzzing. My head is spinning. I think I blew a gasket when you squeezed my balls.”

I grin. “I told you I could drive stick.”

“You sure did.” He chuckles, his body shaking against mine. “Any time you want to take me for a drive, Wrench, my body is yours.”

“Is it?”

“It is.” He kisses the top of my head. “Always and forever. I love you.”

“I love you too, Drift.” I beam, happy to finally be in the arms of my billionaire boss.

*     *     *

Other Standalone Titles Set In the Same World As Test Driving The Billionaire

One Night With My Billionaire Master

The Good Assistant

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NEWSLETTER

Jen Frederick

I
was eight
when I first started telling people I was never going to marry. Wyatt Majors, my best friend at the time, said he wouldn’t marry anyone either because girls were gross and he didn’t want to live with another boy either. That made me feel better because it meant I wouldn’t be alone. It didn’t occur to me that if I got married I wouldn’t be alone either. That sort of logic didn’t exist when I was eight. Or when I was eighteen, to be frank.

It was in college, while my psychology major roommate was spouting off on projection and behavioral confirmation, I realized that my eight-year old declaration had been made out of self-protection. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married, it was that I never thought anyone would ask me, and therefore I hated the whole idea of it.

And as I grew older and other people dated and I didn’t, that resolution solidified from an ephemeral youthful statement to a meaningful part of my make-up. It was one thing that everyone knew about me—I was a serious student who eschewed dating.

When I was a sophomore and one of our new acquaintances asked me why I wasn’t seeing anyone, Wyatt informed them that I didn’t believe in the archaic, primitive notion of pairing off. I didn’t protest because he was simply parroting something I’d espoused dozens of times before.

I’d said it so many times that I’d become confused as to whether I truly did believe it or if it was still something I’d say to preempt anyone from telling me that I was unmarriageable.

But now I’m twenty-seven, five years out of college, and the idea of marriage—or at least dating—is pretty darn attractive. I’m tired of being alone. The problem is I have zero prospects. My entire circle of friends is either married or a bunch of horndogs.

Somehow, because I wasn’t looking to hook up, I became one of the guys. I’m still one of the guys even though I have boobs and a fairly sizeable ass. Maybe the fact that I wear oversized t-shirts and baggy jeans has caused them to mistake me for a man.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see datable material. I see…a bunch of drab brown hair, thick eyebrows, and a chest full of boobs, and hips that move on their own. I’m not anything like the sexy ladies that come up to the guys at Mulligan’s as we sit around the table, drinking beer, eating chips, and cheering on our favorite teams.

Most of our friends are paired off now, except for Wyatt.

I don’t know why Wyatt’s not dating anyone. Or why he’s not married. He’s a catch. Granted, I’m biased because I’m in love with Wyatt, but I think anyone who likes peen would be interested in him. He’s got a good-sized bank account. He likes animals and kids and is generally a decent person.

Even sitting on my sofa, shoveling potato chips into his mouth like Idaho and all of its starchy crops will disappear tomorrow, he’s bangable.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asks, hand halfway to his mouth.

“Was I?” I suppose I was. I stare at him all too often, preferably when he isn’t looking, because nearly everything about him makes me happy. The sun-kissed, wheat-colored hair that has a tendency to fall over the left side of his forehead has become my favorite version of blond. It’s overlong in the back because he only gets it cut every three months or so. His eyes are this tawny gold that remind you of lions and cougars. Big, lithe, sexy cats—also my preferred animal.

“Yeah, you’re staring. Is there something on my face?” He brushes a hand over his square jaw—the one that looks so firm and solid that you could break a rock against it.

A few guys have tried. To hit him that is. He’s gotten into a few bar fights. He’s super protective of his friends. One guy in a bar called me an ugly name, and Wyatt turned around immediately and clocked him. When the bouncer came over, Wyatt told them quietly he’d been standing up for me and if that meant getting kicked out of the bar, it’d be worth it.

The bouncers bought it and kicked the other guy out, which I was grateful for because I really liked Mulligan’s.

“Remember that time when you hit that guy over at Mulligan’s for calling me fugly bitch?”

He frowns. “Okay, that’s random but yes.”

“Why’d you do it? I mean it was rude, but I’ve been called worse.”

He sits up immediately, brushing his hand down his abs to dust away some nonexistent potato chip crumbs. The motion causes his shirt to ride up a bit, and a delicious sliver of skin appears. I suck in my breath and bite my lip. The whole motion discombobulates me, and I leave to go into the kitchen on the pretense that I’m thirsty.

Unfortunately, Wyatt follows. “First, no one says anything bad about you in front of me and second, who the hell is calling you worse things than that asshole?”

See? Wyatt is so nice he can’t even bring himself to repeat the words. I grab a glass from the cupboard and then pour myself some water. I’m parched. Thinking about Wyatt’s perfect body and his bare skin makes me hot all over. The single glass of water does nothing to quench my desire. I need the whole pitcher to be poured over my head.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember all of the times.”

“All of the times?” he nearly roars. “Why are you just now telling me this?”

I stare at him over my second glass of water, utterly confused, but touched, by his show of anger. “It didn’t seem important at the time. They were stupid, careless things.”

He runs an agitated hand through his hair, and the ruffled mess makes me think of the times I’ve seen him wake up—mostly when he’s passed out at my place from too much drinking, even though his apartment is across the hall from mine.