What A Difference A Year Makes
Dates are important to women. Particularly to women in relationships.
There’s all the major holidays: Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter. There’s the birthday—obviously. Then there’s the day you met, the day you went out, the day you dropped the L-bomb, the day you got engaged, the day you got married…
I could go on, but I really don’t want to.
Because here’s the thing—guys don’t give a shit about any of that stuff. When we pretend to care? It’s only to avoid the verbal ass-whipping that’s sure to follow if we act like we don’t. For us, there’s only one day worth commemorating. One moment that deserves recognition. The ultimate holy day of obligation.
I like to call it—the Fuckiversary.
It’s the day you first sealed the deal. Bumped uglies. Hit the homerun.
Or in my case—the grand slam.
I mean, seriously, you meet new people every day; it’s a common occurrence. But unless you have a stellar record like yours truly, you don’t screw a new person every day. So for guys, the first time you did the deed is definitely a day to celebrate.
And for me and Kate? That day is today, kiddies. It’s huge. One year ago, the course of my life was altered forever. The foundation of my existence was shaken.
And my bed frame.
That’s why I’m in the kitchen right now. See me? Whistling, slicing fruit, and squaring a variety of cheeses? They’re for later. We’re going to need them—gotta keep the energy up. Because, in my book, you don’t just memorialize a fuckiversary. You top it. And considering the Olympic-worthy high bar that was set that night? I’ve got my work cut out for me.
But I’m always up for a challenge. Pun intended.
I don’t want you to think that fuckiversaries are just about humping like dogs either. Although, that position is always fun.
But no, it’s also about tradition. Sentiment.
For a first wedding anniversary, gifts are supposed to be made of paper or some kind of useless crap like that. My gift is so much better—Santa’s elves can eat their hearts out. Kate is going to lose it when she sees it. Her jaw’s gonna hit the floor. And her panties will be right behind it.
The front door opens.
That would be the lucky lady herself.
I left work at noon—had preparations to make—so I haven’t seen her since lunch. I walk into the living room. And there she is—bag in hand, a mid-length trench coat wrapped around her scrumptious little body. Her hair is down and shiny. Spiked black heels encase the tasty toes I like to suck on like a hard candy.
And as with every other time—it hits me like a punch to the gut.
Sickening, aren’t we? There’s a garbage can in the corner if you feel the need to puke.
I stalk towards her. “How was your day, dear?”
She puts her bag down, but leaves the coat on. “It was…distracting.”
I’m about to ask her what that means, but she cuts me off.
“What are these?” She’s referring to the lighted candles and rose petals strewn about the place.
Depending on your lifestyle, there are different definitions of romance. For some it’s classical music, a foot massage, or satin sheets. Personally, I happen to think a blow job during a Yankee game is ideal. But Kate is a more frilly, girly, kind of romantic. So these are for her.
She smirks. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I mean what are they for?”
I walk around her, my eyes caressing every curve slowly—like my hands will be doing shortly. Then I lean in and whisper next to her ear, “They’re part of your surprise. Because today is a very, very special day.”
She shivers—in the good kind of way. And her voice drops low. “I know. One year ago today, I rocked your world.”
“You rocked my world?”
She nods, and her eyes sparkle. “Yep. Right off its axis.”
“I’m pretty sure it was the other way around.”
Her tongue peeks out and wets her lips. “You’re sadly mistaken, Mr. Evans.”
I move in closer. “Maybe you need a refresher, Miss Brooks.”
She tilts her head, looking up into my eyes. Daring me.
“I think a refresher is exactly what I need.”
My hand snakes around her neck, pulling her against me. And our lips mold together. A year ago, I didn’t appreciate the value of kissing. Then it was just a teaser—like the never-ending stream of previews you have to sit through in the movie theater until you get to the main attraction.
But with Kate, kissing is a whole fucking event in and of itself. The way she tastes. The way she moans. The way her tongue slides against mine. It’s goddamn dizzying.
My hands come up to remove her coat, but she grabs them. And she pulls back, a little out of breath. “Wait. Not yet. I left work early today—to pick some things up. For you.”
“I got you something too. Can I go first?”
I like being first. It’s just how I am.
I stand in front of her. Then I slowly unbutton my shirt, keeping eye contact the whole time.
Kate tries to guess. “Did you take strip-tease lessons?”
I smile. “No. But I’ll keep that in mind for next year.” My dress shirt hits the floor. I lift my white T-shirt over my head. And Kate’s hand rises to my chest and trails down my stomach. I back away and wag my finger. “Patience, Kate.”
She stomps her foot and pouts. And I want to tell her just where she can put those pouty lips. But I don’t. Gifts come first.
Then it’s our turn.
Ha—did you get that?
I turn to the side and remove the gauze bandage that covers my upper right bicep. And then she sees it. Her eyes glaze over, and her jaw goes slack.
And she whispers, “You got a tattoo…of my name?”
It’s a black whip—that spells out KATE.
I hope you weren’t thinking it was going to be an engagement ring or something. Screw that. In today’s day and age, rings don’t mean much. Ask any married man who frequents the titty bars—rings can be removed.
But a tattoo? That’s forever. Permanent—unless you like the idea of having several layers of skin scraped off.
Kate’s fingers slide around it disbelievingly. “I love it, Drew. It’s the most…amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me. I love you.”
I cup her cheek with my hand. “Not like I love you.”
She smiles for a moment. But then her expression changes. And she looks…disappointed.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing…it’s just…you branded my name on your flesh. I guess I just feel a little stupid. All I got you were toys.”
My ears perk up. Like a dog hearing the rustle of his food bag.
“Toys? Would these toys be…naughty…in nature?”
Kate bites her lip. And nods.
Sweet Jesus. My mouth goes dry. “Can I…see them?”
Some guys aren’t into toys. Dildos—with their bells and whistles—can be intimidating. But not to me. I think of them as tools of the trade. Power tools, to be exact, and there’s no shame in using them. Even a master carpenter wouldn’t try to build a house without a handsaw and hammer, you know?
Kate takes a bag out of her purse. She reaches in and pulls out a short, velvet-tipped riding crop.
And my cock comes alive like Frankenstein’s monster.
For all you ladies out there? Take notes. Sex toys are the ultimate gift. Fun for the whole family. Okay, not really. But they’re definitely the gift that keeps on giving.
She hands it to me. “Remember a few weeks ago? In the living room when you…you know…with your hand?”
My voice is breathless. “Yeah.”
Of course I remember. You might not know it looking at her, but deep down, Kate is a total cock tease. She likes to push me to the edge—see me snap. And on that particular day, she’d been taunting me all morning, walking around braless in a barely-there tank top and underwear. At one point, she sat on my lap and wiggled around.
Then she hopped off claiming she didn’t have time to finish what she’d started because she had work to do.
And I lost it. I pulled her back, threw her across my thighs and spanked her.
Like the naughty girl she was. Wasn’t anything to write The Story of O about—just a few short slaps to the ass. But it was fun.
Kate smiles shyly. “I liked it.”
Oh, baby—she wasn’t the only one.
Kate reaches back into the bag from heaven. And pulls out a small silver cylinder.
It’s a vibrator. It almost looks like one of those practical-joke electric buzzer things we all had when we were kids. She hands it over.
“It’s called a—”
“Bullet,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I know.” I stare at it. And images of Kate writhing under me—bordering on the brink of insanity and begging to come—fill my head.
My voice comes out rough, but worshipful. “You are the most awesome girlfriend ever.”
I wrap my arms around her and kiss her. And it’s long and slow and appreciative.
Kate pulls back and smiles big. “There’s one more thing. I saved the best for last.”
She slides the belt of her coat slowly from the loops and grips the lapels with both hands. Then, in one fluid motion, she drops the jacket to the floor.
And I almost come on the spot.
Lots of women think lingerie is the magic ingredient of seduction. They buy something lacey and expensive and expect us guys to be drooling into our frigging laps. But it doesn’t really work that way.
At Christmas, for example, when you see a big, brightly wrapped package under the tree with your name on it, you’re interested. But it’s not the wrapping paper you’re looking forward to. It’s the present inside. Lingerie works the same way. It’s nice—but naked is always better.
Except for this.
This is the wet dream of every man born after 1975.
It’s the elite of eroticism.
The ultimate fantasy.
Oh yeah—it’s the Princess Leia bikini.
My mouth drops open. “Oh…my…motherfuck.”
Kate spins slowly. Proudly. “Do you like it? It’s crotchless.”
Seriously. I have no words. I’m pretty sure every ounce of blood in my body has been rerouted to my dick, so there’s not enough left in my brain to form them.
Kate’s voice is hushed and tempting. “If you promise to be good…I’ll let you chain me up like Jabba did to Leia.”
I break out of my horny-induced trance. I grab her upper arms and haul her against me.
“Baby, the only thing I’m promising is you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. She screams. And laughs. And I walk down the hallway, passing by my tray of prepared snacks.
Because, really—who the hell needs food?
I slide Kate off my shoulder, gripping her sweet little ass on the way down. I turn her around so her back’s to me. Then I bend the riding crop halfway and let it fly.
It lands on the exposed skin of her ass cheek, and she lurches forward with a squeal. Then she giggles. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. With great power comes great responsibility, Batman.”
I take my pants and boxers off in record time.
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I plan on satisfying every responsibility I have, again and again and again for good measure. Now get on the fucking bed.”
She does—on all fours. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and her eyes are on mine. Christ, look at her. All laid out—just for me—waiting.
I feel like a goddamn kid in a candy store.
The only question is: Where to start first? It’s always a fabulous conundrum. Every one of Kate’s assets are equally deserving of attention. Hell, even the backs of her knees are sexy.
I slide the velvet tip of the crop across her chest, between her breasts, and down her stomach. I pause between her legs.
The beauty with this kind of tool is that the nerve endings rush to wherever it touches, making the skin hypersensitive. Taut—like an over-tuned guitar string just dying to get plucked.
Kate’s eyes close, and her head tilts back. I rub the crop over her pussy, back and forth.
Then I smack it lightly.
And she gasps.
When I was ten, my parents got me a racing bike during the height of the BMX craze. I remember thinking at the time that it was the greatest gift I’d ever get.
Boy, was I a moron.
I lean closer to the bed, over her, and kiss a trail up Kate’s spine and around her neck.
I pull the gold bikini down from one plump tit and latch on.
Her nipple’s already a stiff pink peak, but I flick my tongue over it anyway. Kate moans. And lifts one hand to the back of my head.
I smack her ass with the riding crop. “Don’t move.”
Her hand snaps back to the bed.
This…submission. It’s not about degradation or humiliation—it’s about faith. Leaving yourself completely open, totally exposed. Offering everything you’ve got, everything you are, to someone else. Letting them see the real you, not just the person you want to be. Every sin, every fantasy, because you know they’ll never judge you. Never hurt you. Some people go their entire sorry lives without knowing what real trust is.
But I know.
I have it.
With Kate. Only ever with her.
I give her nipple one last lick and move on. I put the riding crop down and twist the vibrator on.
Then I move down to Kate’s ass. A bright red square marks one cheek. I soothe it with my mouth. And bring the buzzing bullet between her legs, moving in wide, slow circles—coming close to her clit but not actually touching it.
Anticipation, satisfaction—pleasure and pain—it’s a delicate balance. When combined in the right amounts, the sensation can be overwhelming. And because I’m an expert on Kate’s body, I know just how to play her. When to speed up and slow down. If Kate were an orchestra, I’d be a maestro.
She moans and wiggles her ass, trying to move her hot spot closer to the vibrating toy. But I’m not having it.
I grip the gold bikini bottom from the back, drag it down her hips and toss it on the floor. Because as fun as crotchless panties are, Kate Brooks’s cunt is just too fucking pretty to cover.
I move the bullet in ever tightening circles in front. And then I dip my head down between her spread legs from behind. I nibble around the outside, taking my time. Then, I plunge my tongue deep inside.
The bullet finally makes its way to her clit—and I press it down firmly.
She moans as she comes. Her forehead hits the bed and her arms and legs tremble with aftershocks. She pants, “Drew…please…I want…God…”
All the nightingales out there? They should just freaking kill themselves with a bird-sized BB gun.
Because Kate begging for it is by far the sweetest sound God ever made.
“What, baby…what do you want?”
Instead of pleading for my cock, like I thought she would, Kate turns the tables on me. She spins around, and before I can blink, my painfully hard dick is down her throat.
My head rolls back. And I’m pretty sure I just went blind.
She sucks hard and moves her lips up and down fast. Yet as unbelievably perfect as her mouth feels, I find the willpower to pull out. I turn her around, grab her hips with my hands, and thrust into her from behind. She groans long and low. With relief and satisfaction.
Or maybe that was me.
We’re both so fucking turned on—I can’t tell anymore.
She pushes back against me as I surge forward. Kate’s head is low, and her hair swings like a pendulum as we rock and grind against each other. Clashing. My strokes gain force. Driving us forward.
But I need more. I need to feel her—be closer. I nudge her further onto the bed and climb on behind her.
Then, still buried inside, I pull Kate up by her shoulders and bend my knees so she’s straddling me—but facing away. Reverse Cowgirl Style.
My chest presses against her back. Her hair tickles my face as my lips devour her neck. She’s everywhere—surrounding me. Her scent, the feel of her against me, the taste of her skin, the sound of her voice crying my name.
And if you’ve got to go? Trust me—this is the fucking way.
My arms cross over Kate’s chest with my hands on her shoulders, pushing down as my hips thrust up hard.
And her words come out high-pitched and urgent: “Drew…Drew…I’m coming.”
“Fuck…I know…I can feel you.”
Her walls tighten around me like a starved boa constrictor.
And even though I want to hold out, even though I don’t want it to end yet—or ever—my dick apparently has other ideas, and I explode deep inside her.
My hands fall down to Kate’s waist, pulling her closer to me. Her head rests on my knees, and my mouth is against her back.
We’re both panting, out of breath.
But I find my voice first.
Kate laughs against my legs. “Couldn’t agree more.”
Much, much later, Kate and I lay in the middle of the bed, on top of the covers. A tangled mess of limp limbs and sweaty skin.
I like this part.
That may be pansy to admit, but let’s be real. Kate’s name is tattooed on my frigging arm. Trying to pretend like she doesn’t have my balls in her purse? Really kind of useless at this point.
Her head rests on my chest. And I feel her smile before she whispers, “Tell me something about you. Something no one else knows.”
I look at the ceiling. And call forth my deepest, darkest secret.
“I have Justin Bieber on my iPod.”
She giggles, “Really?”
“Yep. That ‘As Long as You Love Me’ song. And if you ever tell the guys, I’ll deny it till the day I die.”
She traces my abs with her fingers. Then I say, “Now you. Tell me something I don’t know yet.”
She kisses my chest slowly as she thinks. Then she looks up into my eyes. “Nothing. You know absolutely everything there is to know about me.”
“All right. Then…if you had three wishes, what would you wish for?”
I once told Kate I wanted to make all her dreams come true. And I didn’t think it was possible at the time, but she means even more to me now than the night I told her that. So if there’s something she wants, something she needs? Heaven and hell better watch their backs—cause I’ll knock both on their asses to get it for her.
She thinks some more. And when she speaks, her voice is hushed with surprise and gratitude. “I wouldn’t wish for anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, at this moment, I have everything I want. My mother’s happy; I love my work. And anything more I ever would’ve wished for…is right here in front of me.”
I swallow hard. Hearing that answer? That’s better than a whole sack full of sex toys.
Okay—maybe not the riding crop.
But it’s definitely close.
I frame her face with my hands and kiss her.
Life’s funny, you know? I mean, did you really think a year ago—when Kate and I were going at it, falling through my front door—that we’d ever end up here? At the time, I figured it would be just another one-nighter. Amazing—no question—but still just a fantastic scratch for my long-suffering itch.
And yet here I am.
Completely, disgustingly infatuated.
And I couldn’t be happier.
And this is just year one. Not to go all Notebook on you, but Kate and I have a hell of a lot more years ahead of us. A lifetime’s worth.
And I plan on making the most of every fucking one of them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
By day, Emma Chase is a devoted wife and mother who resides in a small town in New Jersey. By night she is a keyboard crusader, toiling away the hours to bring her colorful characters and their endless antics to life. She has a long standing love/hate relationship with caffeine. Emma is an avid reader. Before her children were born she was known to consume whole books in a single day. Writing has also always been a passion and with the 2013 release of her debut romantic comedy, Tangled, the ability to now call herself an author is nothing less than a dream come true.