Wild Thing (Naughty Things 3)

I pull her finger out of my mouth and say, “Lyssa,” feeling sad for her.

“We can pretend,” she says. “Right?” She places both her hands on my cheeks and leans in. Kisses me.

I kiss her back.

I know I shouldn’t. I feel the guilt of a best man fucking his best friend’s fiancée, and I don’t even care.

If her name is Lyssa Baylor then I want to fuck my best friend’s fiancée.

“Everybody pretends,” she whispers past my lips. “It’s all fake, Mason. So who cares, anyway?”

She pulls her dress aside again, reaching for my cock. And when she tugs on it, I do the unthinkable. I take two steps forward and we’re not even two steps apart. So now my chest is pressing up against her breasts, forcing her against the wall. She lifts up her leg and I brush the middle section of satin dress over the side of her thigh to get it out of the way.

And after that, it takes no effort at all to slip my cock inside her.

The one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do.

I would eat her out, and let her blow me. And kiss her, and suck her nipples, and smack her ass, and all that other stuff. And it would be OK if I just didn’t fuck her.

And now I’m fucking her.

In her wedding dress.

Which I picked out.

Which she is wearing for me.

And I will not be the one waiting for her at the end of that aisle when that wedding day finally catches up to her.

“Wild Thing,” she whispers past my lips as I kiss her and fuck her slowly.

I think I love her.

Because I can’t stop this. Even if I wanted to—and I don’t—I can’t stop this. And even though I know stupid Margaret probably has her ear up to the door, listening as I slide my cock in and out of Lyssa’s wet pussy, I won’t stop this.

Lyssa hikes her leg up higher and I reach down, pick up her other one, and press her back against the wall as I begin to thrust harder.

She moans, then bites her lips to make herself be quiet.

And I moan, and she places her fingers over my lips to make me be quiet.

And then Margaret is knocking and asking us questions and we ignore her. Just… ignore her. Because Lyssa’s breathing heavy, like an animal. And I’m doing the same.

And we are just animals.

We are just… wild things.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN – LYSSA

Margaret can go fuck herself. What does she care if we have hot sex in the dressing room? We bought the stupid dress.

Mason holds my hand all the way back to the car. He’s got my bagged-up wedding dress over his shoulder and I’m carrying the rest of the shopping bags.

We look like a power couple who just went crazy with the credit card.

And I love it.

He lays the dress carefully across the back seat of the Mercedes and the rest of the bags go into the trunk.

I’m already sitting in the passenger seat when he gets in his side and starts the car, then glances over at me. Opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.

He puts the car in gear, then back in park.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I say, looking at him.

He stares at me, but keeps quiet.

“I broke the deal. I’m sorry, not sorry. And if you want to leave when we get home, or spank me, or beat me with the belt to make me understand that what I did was wrong, then fine. It was worth it.”

“That’s not what I was gonna say.”

“Oh.”

He sighs. “I was gonna say… we need rules.”

“What kind of rules?”

“Maybe just… an understanding.”

“OK.”

“You’re going to marry that guy next week, Lyssa. And I’m going to Sweden to be with my mom.”

“That’s our understanding?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Well, half of it. That’s what’s gonna happen in a week. But until then, just… fuck it, ya know.”

“Fuck it?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Yeah, fuck it.”

And then he puts the car back in reverse, backs out, and we drive away from the mall.

But we don’t go home. We stop and eat first. He gets a steak and I get a grilled chicken salad, and then we stop at the grocery store and get things that are not oatmeal, or grilled cheese, or spaghetti.

And we talk about what kind of cereal we like, and if we should buy cage-free brown eggs or just the regular white ones. And what we should cook for the next week.

On the way home after that he tells me about his mom, and where he’s gonna go in Sweden, and I tell him about the trip my stepfather booked for my honeymoon.

“Alaska?” he says. “I mean, I like Alaska. I’d totally go to Alaska. But on a honeymoon?”