Read Chapter 1 of “Most Beautiful”
Warning: Spicy!
(Note this is the unedited version and is subject to change before release)
© JM Blake 2024, All rights reserved
Dev
“Strike Three! Yourrrrrrrre OUT!”
The boos echo off of the wooden rafters, sprays of thrown peanut shells pelting the room and the crash of a few glasses hitting the floor. The bartender, sick walrus mustache and all, joins in, throwing his wet towel at the flat-screen TV, cursing a blue streak, and pounding his fist on the scarred oak bar top. I chuckle quietly, though it’s for nothing. No one can hear me over the passionate/crazy Boston fans. The smell of spilled beer and burgers drifts through the crowd.
“Best, keep that laughter down, city boy. I don’t want to have to save your pretty ass because you forgot what town you are in,” Summerlin, my father’s old college roommate, tells me. I came up to close a business deal near the Old South, and when he heard I was haunting around our Beacon Hill house, he showed up to drag me to a bar he likes to go to when he feels like “slumming”— a Yankees fans way of saying watching games around Red Sox nation. I’m much more used to being ensconced in a private box with full service, and I laughingly tell him so.
“Spoiled. It’ll do you good to mix it up everyone in a while. That rarefied air you Clares’ breathe has got to be stifling.” He takes a long sip of his beer, peering at me over the edge as I roll my eyes.
“So this isn’t a social call then? My father put you up to this?” I drum my fingers on the tabletop, an irritation scratching my stomach. I just wanted to watch the game and relax, not be interrogated, and I told him so.
“Son, I’m on your side, here. All I want to do is spend some time with you. We don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to.”
“Good, because I don’t. I fucking thirty-five years old, Summ. I don’t need my ‘daddy’ interfering in my life. When I have something to say, then I’ll say it.” I signal the bartender for another round, adding a whiskey to my beer order. I got home from London several weeks ago, and instead of heading back to my penthouse in Manhattan, I came to Boston to open up the family’s Pickney Street mansion (okay —maybe I was hiding.) I was halfway expecting my mother to show up, but I guess they sent Summerlin instead. She would have definitely been knocking on my door if I’d gone straight to New York.
“How was London? I hear you got in early on some top-secret project,” he throws back the rest of his beer, turning the glass upside down, a weird quirk he’s been doing since I was a kid.
“Remember Nick Grant from Harvard? His friend owns a sustainable energy company, and they are doing some amazing stuff.” I leave out my brief infatuation, which led me to solidify that my recent decisions were the right ones.
“Well, let me know if they are open to more investors. I’ve got a few bucks I can throw down,” he taps his pocket where his slim wallet is. For all his talk about me being spoiled, Summ is just as wealthy as my family is—his is just newer. He started a boat business years ago, and it grew into a fleet of cargo and merchant ships that sail internationally. He’s loaded but has never lost his down-to-earth roots. His wallet has one credit card and exactly one hundred dollars. That’s it.
“I will. After their presentation, I’m sure they will be looking for more capital soon.” The crowd starts yelling again as a Red Sox player slides into second base on a steal. The score is tied, and most of the guys in the bar are on their feet. I crane my neck and see that the next batter has hit a single, and the runner is speeding around the bases, trying to make it home. I stand up, screaming for the fielder to throw faster, and the ball hits the catcher’s mitt mere seconds before the runner slides into home, tagging him out. I clap my hands and cheer, though once again, it’s drowned out by the screaming bargoers. I faintly hear happy yelling and peer around the crowd into a dark corner. I see a woman jumping up and down and pause to admire how great her ass looks in her skintight jeans. She’s got a backward Yankees cap on, and I see the long length of her ponytail snaking down her back.
“You gonna stay and watch the rest of the game?” Summerlin asks, standing up. His wife is probably looking for him to come home, and he is just as anxious to get there. They’ve been married forever with a ton of kids, but they still act like newlyweds. I sneak another peek at the girl in the corner and nod. “I’ll have one more and then head home.” I hold out my hand for him to shake, and he uses it to pull me into a tight hug.
“Call me when you want to come over for dinner. Steph will make your favorite.” I squeeze him back and wait until I see his broad back leave before snatching up my glass and weaving toward the back. I close in on her, my lips twitching when I see her little Timberland-booted feet propped up on the table, her glass balanced on her stomach. Her ponytail, which I can now see is a deep auburn, touches the seat, and her navy blue Yankees t-shirt has the number “2” on it. Her table is facing a small TV, which is covered with plates of small appetizers. I look for a second person, but she’s alone.
“Excuse me. Is this space open for refugees from enemy territory?” Her head snaps up, and lightning strikes. Her grey eyes, plush, deep pink lips, and thick slashed eyebrows all quirked with annoyance but morphed quickly to interest and then blankness.
“Depends…” she smiles, her face lighting up. Jesus.
“On what? I promise I am a dyed-in-the-wool Yankees fan—my dad raised me right. I can even pull up pictures of me in a Babe Ruth onesie if you want.” I wave my phone at her, and she laughs, a deep, husky one, head thrown back and effortless.
“I definitely want to see that picture. How old were you? And please don’t say in your twenties.” She waves her hand, and I pull out the chair across from her and grin.
“I was two if that helps.” I take in her features full-on, pinching myself under the table. How does she walk through life safely? This girl is unreal. “I’m…” I hold out my hand, pausing. “I’m Dev. What are you drinking?” I lift my hand to summon the barkeep, but she shakes her head.
“I’ve reached my limit. And I’m Joan, by the way.” Mine dwarfs her tiny hand, but I can feel her strength and, surprisingly, a few calluses. My thumb rubs the inside of her wrist, and her pupils dilate. I keep my grip on her for a moment before reluctantly releasing it. We chat about the game, lamenting some of the new rules and whether the Yanks are making the World Series this year. She matches me stat for stat, and I feel even more intrigued. She tells me about a time she went to a game at Fenway and talked so much shit to her neighbors that it made the local news. The game seesaws the lead and the patrons are at a fever pitch of aggression, yelling colorful curses at the players on the screen. Joan’s eyebrows shoot up at some of the language, her full lips twitching in silent hilarity. I laugh as she mimics some of the broad Boston “aaaaaa” and shake my head when she tries to get me to copy it. She’s funny as well as gorgeous and I’ve never been so glad to be in a Red Sox bar.
“I don’t hear a New England accent at all. Are you even from Boston?”
Her head tilts and those white teeth flash at me. She stares for a full moment before leaning forward, the deep vee of her t-shirt gaping, showing me the full swell of a pair of spectacular breasts. I don’t even pretend not to look, and now I can’t seem to stop.
“Dev? Did you really come over here to talk about the origin of my accent and the home run leader’s BA, or are you looking to take me to bed?” Her directness takes me back, but then I smile. “Was I that obvious?”
“Yes, you were,” she laughs. “But I saw you when you walked in. I only have one night and don’t want to waste it with small talk. How about you?”
One thing my annoying parents didn’t raise was a fool. “I only have one night too. Where shall we go?” I think about the staff at the Beacon Hill house and grimace. We have four live-ins, and they will snitch to my mother in a minute.
“Judging by the look on your face, your place is off the table. There’s not a wife and kids lurking around, is there?” I shudder, which makes that laugh appear again. “Absolutely not.”
“Girlfriend? Fiancee?”
Christ. “Nope, not those either.”
She stands up, her height less than I expected, but her curves even more pronounced. “Then let’s go.” I throw a stack of bills on the table, hurrying to follow her small form as she weaves in and out of the crowd. She gets a few boos when people spot her shirt, but she doesn’t break stride, tossing up a few middle fingers and jeering back. I’d worry about her, but that face stops most men in their tracks. She waves her hand at a taxi, and it screeches to a halt. I climb behind her, snatching the hat off her head, leaning down, and capturing her mouth. Her lips mold under mine, her sweet tongue twisting itself around mine. The driver makes an amused sound, but neither one of us stops. I pull her closer, the feel of her hard nipples pushing against my chest, making my cock throb. The scent of her hair—a sweet, familiar smell—envelops us, and I grab a handful and pull.
“I may not make it to your place; I want you desperately,” I tell her, and she chuckles, her hands drifting under my shirt. “We are almost there. I walked earlier, and it was just far enough that I thought a taxi would be faster.” I rub my lips against hers, tongue fluttering out to tease. She moans, and the sound makes my hardness leak. The taxi slows down and then stops, and I fling the door open, pulling her behind me. She murmurs directions up a flight of stairs, handing me a set of keys when we reach the top landing. The lights are out, but neither of us cares, hands frantically pulling at each other’s clothes. I feel a frenzy, a desperation that is foreign to me. She leads me down a shadowed hallway, the moonlight showing me a large bed filled with pillows and a thick duvet. I lift her small frame onto the mattress, pulling off her work boots and socks and running my fingers across the soles of her feet. I lean down and kiss each toe, biting the tip of one, before running my hands up and down her jean-clad legs.
“Tell me, Joan, what’s off the table?”
* * *
Joan
What’s off the table???
Not. A. Damn. Thing.
I’d let this man do whatever he wanted to me, and that’s no lie. I can’t tell him that, though, because I watch the news, and there are some freaky ass people out there.
“Ummmm. What did you have in mind?” I shudder as he plucks at the button of my jeans, the zipper pushing itself down with my heaving breaths. I thank the heavens above that I have decent underwear because I am way behind on laundry, and the only panties I had left were these sexy red lace ones and a pair that said “Sunday,” even though it’s Wednesday. The lace ones kept crawling up my butt, but they look hot, so that’s a plus.
“Well, first, I’d like to peel these pants off of you and then lick my way from those toes all the way up to that pussy and see how many times I can make you come with just my mouth. Then I’d like to see those nipples that are teasing me behind that t-shirt and make them harder with my teeth. Then I want to fuck you until you see colors. How does that sound?”
It sounds like a fucking “yes, please.”
I just nod frantically because his fingers are dancing around my belly button before sliding down further, the tip of his thumb teasing my clit before retreating and starting over. A glamorous smile sweeps across his face. This guy is unbelievable. I was mid-bite on a hot wing when he walked into the bar, and no lie, I dropped it on the floor. And nothing comes between me and my food. It was like a slow-motion movie, his longish hair falling onto his face with a gust of wind, while he pushed back with one hand, propping the door open with the other He was wearing a fitted white button down, sleeves rolled up, top button undone, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his ass like a kid with a carnival stuffed animal. His blue eyes were electric from across the room, and the rest of his face just filled in—a cosmic joke that a gorgeous, perfect man would also have an athlete’s body. I had a brief fantasy of him in a pair of baseball pants, holding a bat, and then shook it off. Men like that are so far out of my league—no pun intended—that it’s not funny. I took one last look at him and then went back to shoving fries into my mouth. I was so busy making fun of all the Red Sox fans around me that I didn’t even see him approach. I don’t know how I kept my cool, but I was a hair away from jumping on him, shocked at the plain attraction on his face. For little ole me.
So I went for it (you would too, don’t judge.) And now he’s pulling my jeans down and licking the outside of my underwear with a ridiculously hot tongue, promising me dirty things that I want him to do immediately.
“Jesus, look at you. I don’t even know where to begin.” I almost tell him that I can give him some ideas, but he beats me to it, leaning forward and nipping at my thighs, circling the throbbing wetness until I want to scream. “You smell like dessert,” he says, his mouth hovering teasingly until my body involuntarily surges up to his mouth. He chuckles as I moan in frustration, but it’s cut short when his tongue burrows deep, tapping my clit with ferocity. I feel a tide coming; part of me craves it, and the other wants to revel in it. I push/pull on his hair, the thick softness sliding through my fingers, and he laughs lightly. “Can’t decide if you want to come or not, hmm?” I shake my head, and he takes the decision out of my hands, sucking my clit into his mouth; the roughness of the lace, combined with the wetness of his mouth, sends me over the edge. My breath halts in my chest. Are those angels singing? I’ve surely died.
“I’ll give you a minute before I go in again.” I’m sprawled out like a starfish, giving him a halfhearted wave. He chuckles, and hearing the rustling of clothes, I lift my head to see him unbuttoning his shirt down to his waist before shrugging it off his broad shoulders. I gulp at the sight of a large—very large—bulge creeping down his pant leg. I’m praying it’s an illusion because there is no way…
“You keep staring at my cock like that, and I’m going to forego my original plans and just fuck you.”
Do I listen? Nope.
He pulls his jeans down, the dark grey of his boxer briefs sliding down his muscular thighs seconds later.
Holy. Shit. I close my eyes and open them again, convinced his perfection is going to be replaced, but no. He really has a body like that.
“You don’t listen well, do you, Joan?” He picks up his pants, fishing a condom out of his wallet. I watch in avid greed as he slides it down his thick length, expertly popping the end to make room. What size are those?
“Magnums. Now give me that.” He plucks at the red lace, and they snap off on one side. He yanks the scraps off, tossing them over his shoulder, turning me roughly onto my side. He slides behind me, lifting my top leg high up over his arm and placing the head of his cock at the entrance of my pussy.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” he breathes into my ear, rocking back and forth, coating himself in my wetness. “Are you ready?” I nod through my moans, and he slowly pushes himself inside of me, his thickness stretching me with a sweet sting. “Fuuuuuck. This pussy is going to kill me.” He pulls out an inch before pushing into two. I bury my face into the covers, biting the fabric to stop my impending screams. He continues his easy motions until his full length sits inside of me. I take a short breath, almost afraid that a deep inhale will push him further. He’s nearly too big, a centimeter more, and I would cry foul. The hand that is grasping my hip for leverage slides down, pinching my clit with the rhythm of his thrusts. My blood heats; the wave that had washed away earlier is coming back, a storm in the distance.
“Ah, ah, ah, Miss Joan. Not yet. You think I can’t feel how hard you are pulsing?” He does some sort of ninja maneuver, and I’m suddenly on my knees with him still buried inside of me. He pushes my head down, pulling my hips even higher, thrusting into me with a relentless force. I scream out his name as the tide starts rushing over me, my eyesight going black in pleasure.
“I told you not yet, Joan.” He smacks my ass cheek twice before pulling out of me and flipping me over once more.
“Please, please, please,” I chant, begging him to continue, stop, and never let me go. My legs are draped over his arms, knees pushed back to my chest. His strikes are deep—I can feel him in my soul. He leans down, never stopping his thrusts, his tongue flicking against my lips, and I hiss when the twist of his hips hits a particular spot inside of me that sends light flashing behind my eyes. He lets one leg go and slides his hand under my head to deepen the kiss. Sexy grunts come from his mouth, drifting down into mine. The muscles in his broad back tighten as he slams into me with desperation.
“Fuck, this pussy is hot. Just a little bit more, sweetheart.” I nod frantically, my eyes practically rolling back into my head. He taps my cheek, and I focus on his face. That. Face. His eyes bore into mine, a half smile on his full lips that morphs back and forth into a snarl. I smile back, a weird tug in my chest. For a brief moment, I feel like we are the best of friends. A sudden sizzle marches up my legs, and I can’t take anymore. It flames into an explosion, and my back arches off the bed as the pleasure burns me inside out. He pumps impossibly harder until his shout echoes through the room, his thrusts wild and desperate until he finally collapses on me, his breath marathon- choppy. My head is a blur of emotion and pleasure, with absolutely zero regret. I wrap my arms around him a squeeze, squealing when he flips us over again, with his arms twined around me in a tight hug, mine now trapped under his back. We stay that way until I drift off to the soothing feel of his hands rubbing my back.
* * *
Dev
I can feel from her boneless relaxation that she is asleep. I’m debating whether I need to make the trek back to Beacon Hill or if I want to let her nap and then have her again. Sex with this woman was a revelation—between her hilarious stream of conscious babbling, her uninhibited responses, and her genuine affection, she rocked my foundation. I’ve had plenty of one-night stands in my life, tons of throwaway affairs, yet I’ve never felt the connection, the umbilical of emotion I’ve felt with Joan. A slight sadness that I refuse to let bloom flutters in my heart. It’s been years since I’d felt anything like this, if ever. And it can go absolutely nowhere.
“What are you thinking about so hard? Your brain woke me up,” her husky voice is hoarse. I bury my face in her shoulder, her hair a mass of silk in my face.
“I’m wondering if I should go or if I could convince you to let me have another round.” I smile at her snort, her head lifting to look at me, a saucy grin stretching her face. “Ask me nicely.”
“Joan, may I please have your pussy again?” I can barely get the words out for my laughing.
“Yes, you may.”
I shout out at her prim response and tug my arm from under her head, leaning down to her mouth, those lips a beacon. She kisses with her whole body; her head slowly moving in tune to my tongue, her arms twining around my neck, one supple leg pretzeling with mine. Every so often she scratches her nails against my scalp and I moan with the sensation— I could live here, kissing her, for hours.
“I feel like I’ve been depriving you, poor thing,” I pull back teasing. She cocks one of those thick eyebrows, a perfect slash of deep red, and smirks. “Oh?” I nod solemnly.
“Yes, here I’ve been, selfishly doing all of this work, and not letting you have your share of control. Up, up, now baby. Let me see how you ride my dick.” I pat her hip and she sits up, a devilish smile on her beautiful face. Even in the low light of the room, I can see the blush on her creamy skin, the warm color spreading down to her full delicious breasts. They tempt with her movements, and I follow like a hypnotic with a swinging gold watch. She crawls to the edge of the bed, her ass facing me, and I tilt my head to get a better look. She peeks over her shoulder, and I grin at being busted. She rolls her eyes and pops up with another condom, tearing it open and sliding it down my dick which is pointed straight up and at her. She slides it down, staring for a minute, an adorably contemplative look on her face.
“It’s already fit three times. You can do it.” Her eyes narrow and she climbs on top, knees high, positioning herself before sinking down slowly, her head dropping back, thick hair tickling my thighs. My hands automatically grip her hips, trying to guide her movements but to no avail. She’s lost in her pleasure, eyes closed and mouth open. I stare at her, fighting to keep myself from losing it. “Joan…” I snarl as she does a twisting motion with her hips that has my spine bowing off the bed. She laughs lightly, and as I slick my thumb across her clit, her laughter morphs into a moan, her sweet, sweet pussy throbbing quickly and her shout making me smile. I grunt out my release, tamping my lips tightly, not wanting to embarrass myself with the depth of my own pleasure. She collapses onto my chest, limp arms coming up to hug me, the soft puffs of her breath dancing across my skin. I hug her back, and she tightens her embrace with a little squeal. We lay like that for a while, before I crane my neck at the illuminated clock and sigh.
“Time to go?” She asks sleepily, sliding off me, and burrowing her head into her pillow.
I nod regretfully. “Yeah. I’ve got an early morning.” It’s not a lie though I wish it was. I stand up and walk to the adjoining bathroom, flushing the condom and washing up quickly. Joan is up and wrapped in a robe when I return, straightening up my clothes and finding my wayward shoes, one of which landed on the windowsill. “How in the hell…” she whispers and I chuckle. “You can’t blame a man for being in a rush.” I grab the boxers and pants she hands me, leaning down to kiss her lips again. I click on the night table light and tap the button on the music speaker under the lamp. A slow, sweet song comes on, and I hold out my hand. “Dance with me.” Her face lights up, and she floats into my arms, letting me sway her to the sexy beat. “I know this song. It’s an update, yeah?”
She nods, her head resting against my bare chest. “Cruisin’ by D’Angelo. I like it better than the original, but don’t tell anyone that.” I step away, grasping her hand and giving her a spin before pulling her back tightly to my body. The feel of her curves resting against me, the scent of her skin, is starting to fuck with my head. I run my hand through her hair, feeling the thick silk slide across my palm. My eyes close and I force myself to ignore the sigh that she breathes. Our bodies are like two lost puzzle pieces, finally finding their perfect fit. My grip tightens, before reality, that sick bitch, kicks in. The song ends, and I dip her, a giggle popping out of that mouth. I bow and continue getting dressed while she sits crosslegged on the bed.
I take a look around the room surprised to see how impersonal it is. There are no hints of her personality at all, no warmth. I slide on my shirt, each button a step toward our parting, toward never seeing her again. She says nothing, twitching around, fluffing pillows and blankets. Her hair is loose and wild, like deep fire, and I marvel again at her stupendous beauty. I sit next to her and tap on the bedpost.
“You don’t live here, do you?” I ask as she tilts her head with a frown. “In this apartment. It’s not yours, right?” She smiles slightly, shaking her head. “No, this is a friend’s place. I’m headed home in a few hours.” I open my mouth to ask her where home is, the impulse to connect, to see her again, overwhelming. But I don’t. She seems to see through my dilemma, smiling sadly and reaching up to run her hand through my hair, scratching rhythmically. “It’s okay, Dev. I’ve had a wonderful time, too.” I grab one of her hands, kissing her fingertips, biting gently at a callous. A million words rush up my throat, but I settle on just one.
“Good.”
I slip on my shoes, and feel my pockets for my keys, and wallet, pulling out my phone and calling an Uber. “Two minutes,” I tell her, tugging her along with me to the door. I pull her into my arms, holding her tightly, every atom of my being, every strand of my DNA, screaming to not let her go. “Thank you,” is all that can get past my throat and she leans back, her eyes pinned to mine.
“The Yanks are gonna win it all this year.”
I burst out laughing as my phone chimes that my ride has arrived. “You bet your sweet as they are.” I slap her on said ass, and she squeaks, rubbing it. I open the door and hold up a finger to the driver, propping it with my foot. I sweep her into my arms, our lips locking for a long moment. She pulls away first, a big grin on her face. “See ya around, Dev.” I chuck her chin and head down the steps, turning at the bottom.
“See ya, Joan.” I wink at her as I climb in the backseat, forcing myself not to turn around. Which is just as well because I sure as hell didn’t need to see the look of devastation on her face.
