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Bad People

Bad People

Sex with the one you don't love.
Griff crouched low on the balls of his feet and rocked side to side. A single, clear bead rolled off his chin and darkened the scuffed, brick-red surface between his shoes. He looked up. With a loud pop, a ball spun quickly in his direction and dove sharply toward the ground in front of him. One jab step and an upward swing of his powerful left arm caught the fuzzy sphere at the height of its bounce and sent it screaming past the reach of a grunting, white-clad opponent.

“Nice shot, Griff.” Olivia winked at her partner as she backpedaled to the baseline to receive serve. “Haven’t played in a while, huh?”

“When was the last time Nick strung this thing?” he grumbled, ignoring the compliment. He knitted his brow and bounced the racquet strings on the heel of his hand. “Sucker plays like mush.”

“Love-fifteen,” pronounced a smug, cultivated voice across the net. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Eat shit,” muttered Griff while toeing the chalk on the service line.

“What’s that you say?” called Brock.

“Just tell your girlfriend to hit the ball.”

“Easy, Gri-iff.” Olivia sang quietly. “Remember Ni-ick…”

Michael Griffin didn’t belong here. He didn’t want to belong here. He had crossed the gold plated threshold of the oldest and stuffiest yacht club in Connecticut only as a favor to his best friend. A combination of essential loyalty and a guilt trip born of an obscure drinking episode compelled him to agree to the match. Grudgingly.

Yeah,” Griff repeated to himself sourly. “Remember Nick.”

He thought about the naked girl he’d left in his bed that morning, the effervescent coed waiting tables at the beach for the summer. He’d awoken to her face nuzzling his neck and his fingers resting over the warm, moist crack of her ass. She caressed the round muscle of his shoulder while her lazy tongue tasted him between kisses on the chin and throat. She was way ahead of him, nipples poking his skin, crotch grinding on his thigh.

The fog of slumber lifted slowly. He inhaled deeply and twisted his hips and shoulders in an elaborate stretch, smiling at the spray of electric blue hair unfurled gaily across his chest. He probed between smooth cheeks and found his way to the slippery heat of her sex. She lifted a knee. With a throaty groan, he pulled her higher and they kissed, wet and noisy. Her breath carried the stale scent of sleep and on her lips lingered the unmistakable taste of pussy. The hostess, he remembered. He tried to look around, still locked to her mouth.

She bit his lip, jolting him out of his drowse. She left, silly. Concentrate on me. A wiggled tail drew his fingers more deeply into her. She steadily brushed his hard nipple with her thumb and he felt his cock begin to straighten and rise. Please put it in me now, she whispered.

That’s what I left, he thought, for… for what exactly? For my friend, he answered. For my fucking friend.

Brock’s partner let loose her serve to Olivia’s backhand. She set her feet, turned her shoulders and, with picture perfect form, sent her return directly into the net. Griff bit his lip.

“Hmmmgh… fifteen all, people!” announced the smarmy voice that, to Griff’s ear, was growing increasingly effeminate as the match wore on.

“Sorry, Griff.”

“No problem, babe.”

Olivia was seventeen when Nick brought Griff home to meet his family. Seven years later, bouncing around on the Har-Tru surface in a white dress that flared over her tanned thighs, she looked good enough to eat. That would never happen, he thought, turning around to see her lips tense and eyes narrow in concentration. She was Nick’s sister and that was that.

The match had been arranged more than a month earlier. Nick was to have teamed up with his sister to have a friendly go at Brock and his fiancée, Sloan. He worked in the trust division of a Wall Street bank and had been cultivating the well-connected lawyer as a source of business for more than a year. The Lathams had been members of the club for generations and it was one of the rare venues that could impress the notoriously haughty Mr. Brock Rogers-St. John. 

That was before Nick announced that he had injured his shoulder in a bicycle accident. And that's where Griff came into the picture.

Griff looked up at the veranda. Three sets of enormous blades turned slowly above linen covered café tables. The edges of cocktail napkins fluttered, held in place by tumblers scored with icy trails of water. Seated in a wicker rocking chair, Nick hoisted his Long Island iced tea in silent salute to his friend.

Griff hardened the corner of his mouth and shot Nick a lethal look. If there was one thing Griff hated more than a polite game of tennis it was losing a polite game of tennis.

He tried to remember the last time he had played. It might have been two years earlier when Nick had dragged him out for a weekend bacchanalia at some transitory girlfriend’s place in the Hamptons. He was pretty sure that was the last time he had seen his racquet at any rate.

He had picked up the game in the teeming playgrounds of lower Manhattan where the Recreation Department lent prehistoric metal racquets to anyone who could produce a New York City school ID in lieu of a deposit. By the time he was thirteen he was making pin money by hustling paunch bellied accountants and off duty cops for five dollars a set on the public courts.

“SET!” Brock bleated fifteen minutes later as Griff’s forehand missed long. The pairs stopped to towel off and take some water as they switched sides.

“I really expected more of a match,” Brock chuckled at Griff. He lowered his voice before glancing in Olivia’s direction. “Better pick up your game if you hope to get a sniff of what lays beneath Miss Latham’s damp little tennis whites.”

Griff could handle the thinly veiled condescension that had issued from Brock’s lips all afternoon and he couldn’t care less that he was dismissed as irrelevant by the patrician asshole. He was even amused by the lawyer’s vainglorious prattle about prep school tennis championships. However, the ugly remark about Olivia was a casus belli. He planted five iron fingers wide on Brock’s chest and stopped him dead in his tracks.

“You wanna run that by me again?”

The color drained from Brock’s face. He swallowed hard with a forced smile pasted on his lips. “I… ah…”

“Oh Brock doesn’t mean anything by it, Mr. Griffin.” It was Sloan's syrupy Charleston drawl. Her fingers lightly touched the arm that prevented her fiancé from passing. “He has the most scandalous sense of humor.”

Tea green eyes cast a dazzling essence of light that distracted Griff. Her hand lingered momentarily before she smiled shyly and removed it from the knotted bicep. He allowed his gaze to fall over the swells beneath her featherweight top and the slinky curve of her thighs before removing his hand from her man. She pushed her short blonde hair off her brow and pinched her lower lip between her teeth before following her shaken fiance onto the court.


Sloan studied the stranger talking quietly to Olivia on the other side of the net. All she knew about the stand-in was that he had apparently achieved some measure of celebrity as a college basketball player. He had improbably befriended the incurably scrawny and devotedly un-athletic Nick during their undergraduate days.

He was a specimen; that much was obvious. A complex network of lean muscle was visible beneath the microfiber shirt that clung to his sweat dampened core. His quadriceps nearly burst the seams of his shorts each time he bent a knee extending for a ball.

Olivia giggled at something Griff had said. Sloan idly wondered if Brock had stumbled upon something with his crude remark. Could there be something physical between the Latham girl and him? She scolded herself for the misplaced hint of envy.

She coolly told herself to calm down. What she felt, the rapid heartbeat and the tingle between her legs, was simply a biological reaction. The way Griff had looked at her, his obvious sexual interest, affected her the way nature had intended, nothing more. She had to admit he would make a desirable mate physically. His dark, intelligent eyes and noble jaw line complemented a body built for speed and power. And what woman could resist wondering how much meat swung between those long, muscled thighs?

She’d only engaged in casual intercourse on a handful of occasions. Of course, that was over now. Still, she would have enjoyed breaking this one in, she mused, never having bedded an unqualified stud. Sloan knew how to control men. He would be taught how to please her and would yield his exceptional body to her will. She imagined straddling his narrow hips, leaning back on her hands and grinding on his large erection.

“New balls.” Brock held up an optic yellow sphere as he prepared to serve.

But this is not the jungle, Sloan thought. While Brock may have lacked certain physical qualities, he possessed the raw material Sloan needed to shape her future. He was bright, articulate, and perfectly willing to push aside anyone in his way. The Rogers-St. Johns were the Brahmin of the legal universe, having begotten prominent jurists, scholars, and statesmen since the dawn of the republic. His future was promising.

However, Brock needed a guiding hand, someone who could see three moves ahead without the opaque veil of emotion. Her family, with interests in tobacco and shipping, wielded significant power of its own. Together, she had concluded, they would get to the statehouse and beyond.

“Concentration, Sloan.” Brock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at her as Olivia’s return skipped between them. “That was your ball.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Sloan watched Griff move over the court effortlessly. She and Brock were winning the match but something was off. Griff was always coiled and poised for a ground stroke well ahead of even their best placed balls. When he lost a point, which he did at precise intervals, he was consistently a foot long or wide.

The match continued in predictable fashion. Their opponents played with enough skill to win, yet steadily fell behind. Brock was delighted, Sloan could see, no doubt already fashioning the story he would tell about how he had bested the all-conference star. She grew uncomfortable as he discarded his false bonhomie in favor of more biting commentary when victory appeared inevitable.

Stepping up to handle a short return, Brock fired an overhead volley directly off Olivia’s right arm.

“Game. That makes it five-two,” he announced perfunctorily, tapping an extra ball over the net. “Your serve.”



“The fuck was that, dude?” Griff glared across the net, holding Olivia’s wounded wing in his hands. Sloan could see the ugly, scarlet mark below her elbow begin to swell.

“S’okay, it’s just a bruise, guys,” Olivia haltingly assured them. “I’ll get some ice on it when we finish.”

“It’s called tennis… dude,” Brock replied with a snarl. “And watch your language here. You’re not at home, wherever that is.”

“That’s how you like to play? Unload on a girl fifteen feet away from you?” Griff moved toward the net as Olivia tugged on his arm.

“Brock, I think you should apologize to Olivia,” said Sloan steadily, lifting her eyes toward the concerned, wrinkled faces on the veranda. “It was just a missed shot, right? Tell her.”

“Oh come off it! She said she’s fine,” he barked. “Besides, Olivia understands. Don’t you, dear? She comes from the kind of family that knows what it takes to win. Look around this place.”

Griff stood at the net with his arms crossed, listening to the exchange. He raised his eyebrows in mock enlightenment and plastered a surprised expression on his face.

“Ohhhhhhhh… winning!” he exclaimed. “That’s what you’ve been doing for the last hour?”

He picked up his racquet and walked to the baseline.

“My serve, right?”

“Griff…” Olivia pleaded. “Forget it. I’m fine, really.”

Griff flicked his left wrist, sending the racquet spinning into the air in front of him. It rotated in a blur before the handle landed securely in his right mitt. His eyes never left Brock.

“You know, my left elbow is flaring up again,” he explained. “I’ll just have to get by with my right hand.”

He tossed a ball high in the air, bent his knees, and unleashed a leaping serve that sizzled past Brock before he could react. The ball didn’t pop; it sounded like the report of a firearm on contact. Couples on nearby courts stopped to watch.

Sloan suppressed a smile as she waved at a second service ace. So the son-of-a-bitch was playing with his off hand all this time, she marveled. She and Brock fared no better when it was again their turn to serve. She watched her increasingly desperate partner flail and lurch as if he were set upon by angry bees. He winced as Griff’s murderous ground strokes continued to zero in on him.

Part of her enjoyed seeing Brock get his comeuppance. It might actually do him some good, she thought. This was the man she would spend the rest of her life with and she was strongly attracted to his unfailing confidence, his unfaltering belief in his superiority. Still, she thought there was a valuable lesson to be learned here. Do not underestimate your enemies.

The set was tied in short order, five-five. Brock’s chest was heaving and the seat of his tennis whites was covered with red clay dust.

“Why don’t we make this the final game, boys and girls?” It was Nick, standing courtside. He shifted nervously in his Tattersall vest and brown linen slacks. “Since Sloan and Brock won the first set, they’ll win the match if they take this one. Otherwise, it’s a tie. What do you say?”

The competitors looked around at each other silently.

“C’mon, there’s a bartender in the clubhouse who’s just dying to meet you.”

“Of course, Nick,” replied Sloan, impatient at Brock’s hesitation. “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”

As the players moved back to their places, Sloan turned to look at Griff. He had fixed Nick with a sideways look and one raised eyebrow. She saw Nick glance at her fiancé, who was busy wiping off a round, rust colored mark in the middle of his chest, and then back at Griff. He winked and walked away.

She understood. The game would be over in a matter of minutes. Griff had his friend’s permission to complete Brock’s thrashing. Far from being upset, Sloan appreciated the stratagem. Nick had enlisted the star athlete to feed Brock’s ego by losing to him in heroic fashion. She was certain now that the so-called bicycle injury had never occurred. If Brock hadn’t lost his composure he would have been savoring his fraudulent, two-set victory at that very moment.

Sloan didn’t mind the deception; not at all. Nor did she concern herself with the thumping her intended had been forced to endure. Served him right for his stupidity, she thought. What disappointed her was Nick’s failure to see his plan all the way through. He had allowed useless sentimentality, his brotherly instinct in this case, to keep him from accomplishing his goal. It was yet another sign of male weakness as far as she was concerned.

Brock bounced a ball three times and blew out a long preparatory breath. Across the net Griff was coiled low, shifting his weight from side to side. White teeth illuminated his broad, tanned face.

“C’mon, Princess, haven’t got all day.”


Griff sunk his hands deep into the pockets of his neatly pressed khakis and felt the price tag he had removed from his navy blazer just minutes before. The collar of his broadcloth shirt felt like a noose. How do people wear these things all day? He wondered. He took in the vast space that contained the bar. To him, it wasn’t a room so much as it was a cathedral built to worship the excesses of the idle rich.

The soaring ceiling, some thirty feet above his head, featured a celestial stained glass fresco of two-masted transoceanic racers flying upon stormy seas. The walls were covered with scale models of sailboat hulls climbing from the inlaid oak floors to the sculptured, Beaux-Arts moldings and arches overhead.

His party was standing among a grouping of sofas and wingback chairs in front of a carved sandstone fireplace. Still damp from the shower, he tucked his sandy blonde hair behind his ears and set out across an ocean of Tabriz and Kashan.

“Griff!” Olivia threw her arms around his neck and pulled herself high on the toes of her gladiator sandals. “Mmmm… you look so handsome dressed up this way. Smell nice, too.”

“Whoa… easy Liv.”

He felt the crush of her soft breasts through the cotton dress. Not knowing where to place his hands, he looked at Nick who smiled and rolled his eyes. Griff refused to acknowledge the nascent surge in his loins while the young, fresh body pressed tightly against him. Settling on her hips as a safe haven, he gently created space between them and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Aren’t you two adorable?” Sloan liquidly approached them, champagne glass in hand. “How long have you been together?”

“We’re not.” Griff wrapped his arm around Olivia’s shoulder and she settled at his side. “Liv’s too smart to get mixed up with me.”

“We’re not together yet.” Olivia’s smiling eyes twinkled up at him. “One day I’ll get my daddy to give him a sinfully extravagant dowry and he’ll just have to marry me.”

“It’s true.” Nick approached the trio with scotch in hand, trailed by a sullen Brock. “We think he’s been holding out for the place in Vail.”

“Vail?” Brock weighed in, his voice dripping with boredom. His eyes wearily played over Griff’s outfit. “Does he even own a pair of skis?”

Griff beheld the resplendent Mr. Rogers-St. John. He was bedecked in a burgundy striped regatta blazer over a starched white shirt and white gabardine trousers. His bow tie was an alarming collaboration of maroon and pink. Griff initially mistook white wingtips on his feet for golf shoes.

“Hey,” Griff lifted his chin at Brock. “How ya doin’ Gatsby?”

Nick cleared his throat loudly and threw Griff a look that all but begged him to lay off the wisecracks.

“Let’s all have a seat.” He waved his arm over the upholstered leather furniture. “It’ll be a few minutes before our table is ready.”

“Please tell us, Mr. Griffin, what it is you do,” Sloan inquired, finding her fiancé’s hand as she settled next to him on the sofa. Her eyes were wide with interest. “Nick has been so mysterious concerning your appearance today. Are you in banking as well? ”

Griff looked back at Sloan. Poison, he thought. She was the apple Adam had pulled from that tree, dooming us all. Shimmering, straight blonde hair suggestively fell over the corner of one eye. Her mouth was perfect, like a remembered kiss. Her pale frosted lips were slightly parted, anticipating a smile.

He had observed her carefully all day. She played her part almost flawlessly, the winsome second fiddle to her virtuoso hero. Yet her bearing betrayed her; she couldn’t hide the aristocratic carriage and the discreet air of superiority. He saw it in the eyes that flashed at Brock, and the unheard utterances spoken into her hand with her head bent toward him. She possessed the most dangerous sort of ambition, he thought, the kind no one else could see.

“Banking? No, I give blood, mainly,” he replied. “I also volunteer for clinical trials. You know, to test out new medicines, devices… that sort of thing. The money isn’t bad.”

Nick choked on his single malt and coughed into his fist.

“Stop… stop it,” he sputtered before chuckling. “Jesus H., Griff! Don’t listen to him Sloan. He makes a respectable living despite the occasional lack of civility.”

“Griff builds and restores custom wood boats,” chimed a beaming Olivia. “What he can do with his hands… it’s amazing.”

Sloan raised one eyebrow.

“Oh, a tradesman! Well that’s just splendid, isn’t it?” Brock perked up, delighted at the news. “We’ll have to get you over to the Southampton place, right dear? It’s positively falling apart. We desperately need a sturdy handyman who doesn’t mind getting dirt under his fingernails.”

Griff smiled and thanked the waiter for delivering his pint.

“Griff isn’t a handyman, Brock.” Olivia put her beer down and frowned. “He’s a craftsman… an artist.”

“It’s outrageous what’s going on out there these days.” Brock was addressing Nick now, ignoring Olivia’s objection. “The bloody contractors are driving around in Audis now. It’s as if they… well, as long as we don’t run into them on the first tee some day, eh?”

“Oh I don’t know, Brock, I don’t have a problem with…”

Griff tilted the glass of amber liquid to his lips and raised his eyes to Sloan. She nakedly returned his gaze as the others carried on.


Sloan stepped out of the chart room and onto the covered porch, the breeze off the sound pulling diaphanous white curtains behind her. Dusk had begun to thicken into night and a faint carpet of grey spread across the wide lawn that ran to the water’s edge. She and Brock were weekend guests at the old Latham estate, the place Nick and Olivia had summered as children. The elder Lathams had left on a three month Mediterranean tour. Old money, she thought; the best kind.

She had left Brock upstairs with a cold, wet cloth over his eyes, having changed into something more comfortable than the ridiculous costume he had worn to dinner. She made a mental note to start paying more attention to his wardrobe. It had been a difficult day for him, she thought. After the humiliation of tennis, he was by turns morose and belligerent. He had made a perfect ass of himself repeatedly trying to wound Nick’s friend. She’d had to step in to put an end to it.

Worst of all was the demeanor of that boat builder, she recalled. He had treated Brock, his better, with an air of amused indifference, hardly making the effort to respond to him. She grudgingly admired his easy confidence. His speech, his laughter, his movements… it all seemed so unforced. But, as far as Sloan was concerned, his eyes moved over her altogether too freely whenever she spoke. It had bordered on inappropriate.

She walked to the end of the porch and leaned on the railing. She pictured the way his muscles flexed when he moved over the court and the trails of sweat that ran through the sun bleached hair of his arms and legs.

She kicked herself for feeling turned on by his brief flashes of attention. When Griff locked on her with those dreamy brown eyes, she knew he wasn’t interested in her conversation. He wanted to strip her naked, bend her over that beautifully set table, and thoroughly fuck her in front of Brock, their hosts, and the fully assembled membership of Clear Harbor Yacht and Tennis. The vivid image produced a flutter in the pit of her stomach and a warm release between her legs.

Sloan smiled, knowing what her big sister would say to all these thoughts. Sloan, you need a proper rogering.

“Hi Sloan.”

“OH!” She jumped, wondering for an instant whether she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

Griff stepped out of the dappled, evening shadow of a lilac tree and laughed good-naturedly. He had changed clothes. The tails of a lightweight flannel shirt hung outside his blue jeans.

“Sloan, I’m sorry… really. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He lifted his thumb in the direction of a pebbled path. “I was just going for a walk. I’ll leave you alone… or…you’re welcome tooo… join me?”


Olivia said goodnight to her boyfriend and tossed her phone on the bed, distracted by what she had just seen from her second story window. Griff had disappeared down the boathouse path with that royal bitch. What in hell? She asked herself.

Sloan and that creepy boyfriend of hers had spent the entire day treating Griff like a servant who didn’t know his place. She was furious with her brother for having anything to do with them. It was a good thing Griff knew how to handle himself. He had avoided an ugly scene while managing to keep his dignity intact. Why in the world would he even talk to her?

She walked to her closet and slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders. She smiled inside as she stepped out of the crisp pile of cotton bunched around her feet, recalling the way Griff had defended her. No one had ever done that before. She curled one corner of her mouth and shook her head, thinking Brock was lucky it had happened at the club. Had they been anywhere else, she was sure Griff would have shoved a racquet up his ass.

Olivia stretched out on her bed in her panties and folded her hands behind her head. She reminisced about the summers Nick invited Griff to the old homestead. He was possibly the worst sailor she had ever seen but the three of them had riotous times together out on the sound. Damp, salty air drifted through her window and she could almost hear the heavy rustle of sails as the wind snapped them tight.

She thought about a time the two of them had taken out the Sunfish, blinding licks of sunlight glancing off the water. Griff used to make a game out of capsizing the fourteen-footer. He was three years older than she but acted like a big kid. She loved the fact that he dropped his tough guy act and let down his guard when they were together.

On their way back in, Griff turned with the wind and the two of them tumbled overboard on top of one another. They popped to the surface gasping and laughing. She held his wide shoulders and wrapped her legs around his thighs while he tried to keep them both afloat. His lips looked so kissable and, for a moment, she thought he might finally do it.

That’s when she felt it, a hard bulge pressed against her crotch. It so took her by surprise that its meaning hadn’t immediately registered. By the time she realized that that their genitals were separated by microscopic layers of nylon, Griff had pulled away, quickly dunking her to cover his embarrassment. They righted the little craft and sailed home, making uncomfortable small talk along the way.

Olivia couldn’t get it out of her head. By the time she reached her bedroom she was in a joyful panic. Griff had an erection, a big one! Because of me! ME! She wanted to call her best friend and tell her the news. She’d had a crush on him from the very first time she saw him and a knot formed in her stomach whenever she heard his name. Yet, until this day, he had shown no sign that he thought of her like… like that.

From across the hall came a squeak of turning handles and the familiar hiss of the shower. Griff’s room was part of a Jack and Jill suite with a shared bath. Before she knew what she was doing, Olivia’s feet carried her into the unused guest room. The musty smell of stale linens filled the darkened room, gold-threaded brocade blocking the soft afternoon sun.

A ribbon of light angled across the floor and illuminated a narrow slice of vapor tumbling slowly in the air past a partially open door. She stood in shadows and peered through the four inch gap. She drew her breath so sharply she was sure he must have heard. Griff was completely naked, leaning over the tub with his hand testing the cascading water.

Even now, lying on her bed with a wet finger teasing her nipple, she could recall every detail. The roundness of his buttocks and weighty suppleness of his penis were in such stark contrast to the sectioned sinew of his athletic frame. His fluffy pubic hair, which began as a trickle from his belly button, matched perfectly the light brown spray across his chest. She had never seen a cock before that day, not in the flesh.

His cock. God, his cock. It draped across the two fat ovals that bulged in his dangling sac and swung below them. Her mouth watered at the memory of the meaty shaft adorned with plump veins and a faintly darkened ring. It was turned ever so slightly to one side and it jiggled as he stepped inside the curtain. She pictured the flared, pink head with its curled ridge and ached to feel its texture and shape on her tongue.

Olivia lifted her bottom and pushed her panties down to her thighs. She wondered if his beautiful organ would grow even longer when it became aroused… aroused by her. She massaged her outer folds while she imagined how thick it might become. He would smile down at her with his sleepy eyes and tell her it was okay, looking cute and nervous. He’d allow her to see all of him, to play with him, fully erect; no secrets any longer. I’m yours, he’d say.

Her fingers moved in a circle over her clit. He would be too big at first. I won’t hurt you, he’d promise. I’ll never hurt you. The stiff penis would glide into her slowly, deeply, taking her breath away. His heat and muscle would become a part of her.

Olivia pulled off the panties, pressed her soles together, and spread her knees wide. Two fingers curled inside her tight opening and pushed upward. The waves would build inside as he began to fuck her, really fuck her, giving in to his raw desire. He would hold her down and finally make her his woman, invading her, claiming her. Her contractions would break wildly over his wonderful, pulsing cock as it pumped his hot seed into her body, his face a study in exquisite suffering.

Her orgasm shook her body and curled her toes. “I love you, Griff.”


Griff faced the wide expanse of water amid a rising chorus of crickets and frogs. He and Sloan had wordlessly followed the path that wound downhill from the main house through a thicket of red oak and hickory to reach the shoreline. They stood on a weathered deck outside the boathouse, a breeze lifting the golden hair that barely touched Sloan’s shoulders.

She was staring at the grey horizon with her arms crossed tightly across her chest when she broke the silence.

“Why did you invite me here?”

Griff followed a squadron of gulls and watched them disappear into a brake of scrub pines before he answered.

“I was being polite. I didn’t think you’d accept.”

Sloan pursed her lips and nodded. “I don’t know why I did.”

He turned to look at her. She still wore the silk print dress she’d had on at dinner. The supple material made love to her sleek lines, hugging her ribs and caressing her hips. Her eyes sparkled, even in the failing light. He had to admit it; she was stunning.

“Maybe you were curious.”

“About you?” She turned and looked up at him. Her black pupils flittered back and forth as she studied his eyes.

Almost involuntarily, he raised his hand to brush bangs of white gold off her face. Her body stiffened infinitesimally. He could tell she was surprised by his touch yet she didn’t object.

“Partly about me, sure,” he said. “But mostly about yourself.”

A sly grin formed slowly on her lips. “Athlete, master craftsman, and a psychologist? You’re a Renaissance man, Mr. Griffin. Or do you prefer that I call you Michael… or Griff?”

“No, that’s okay,” he shrugged. “Mr. Griffin’s fine.”

She dropped her head and laughed, hands still folded under her arms. The sound was surprisingly disarming. It reminded him strangely of the wind chimes on his front porch.

“Well, it’s a beautiful setting anyway,” she said as her laughter faded.

“And a beautiful evening.”

“So this is where we engage in small talk.” Her smile was catastrophic. “Are you always this exciting, Mister Griffin?”

He had to touch her again. That face. He didn’t care how she might react. He had no interest in Sloan beyond her looks. Having witnessed her act all day he had no desire to join that particular circus. That stuffed shirt she had shown up with could have her.

He raised his hand and traced lazy circles on her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She tilted her face into his caress and skimmed her lips back and forth across his hand. Incredible, he thought.

“Is this what you do? You just reach out and take what you want?” Her head continued to roll and dip into Griff’s now open palm. “We might have more in common than I thought.”

He slid his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. “I don’t think we’re much alike, Sloan.”

Her long lashes and wide, green eyes suggested innocence and vulnerability but every movement of her body told him that she welcomed, even expected his advances. Do I really want this? He asked himself.

“I’m about to be married, you know.” She dropped her arms to her sides and looked boldly at him.

“Congratulations. I hope you’ll be happy.”

“I mean…” There was a hint of annoyance in her tone. “I’m marrying the man who’s waiting for me in that house… right up that hill.”

He curved a hand around her waist and pulled her roughly against him. He heard the breath escape her lungs as she banged into his solid core. God, she weighs nothing, he thought. Dipping his head near her ear, he drew in her sweet perfume. He felt a growing tightness in his jeans.

“Sloan, I don’t care. I was being polite again.”

Griff slid a hand between them to cup her breast, giving it warm squeeze before moving to the other. He found a nipple with his finger. It was erect, sending a new surge into his uncomfortably restrained organ. He moved from one hard button to the other, gently coaxing them through silk and satin layers, feeling them grow under his touch.

Sloan held his gaze unflinchingly as his other hand examined her ass through the slinky dress, making no move to stop him. He knew she could feel the bursting erection angling toward the waist of his jeans.

She gripped the molded flesh of his shoulders before sliding her hands over the rugged contour of his arms, breathing unsteadily through her mouth.

“How tall are you?” Sloan squirmed against his body to the movement of his hands.

“Six-five.” He released her breast to run his fingers through her hair. He clasped the nape of her neck and leaned down to graze her lips with his.

“Weight?” she murmured into his mouth.

“About two-ten.

“And your cock. How big is it?”

Griff’s eyes flashed to hers. He read them. Cold, implacable. So much for small talk, he thought. He slowly reached under his shirttail, unfastened the button of his waistband, and lowered the zipper. Sloan nibbled her lip and slid her hands over his hips, never taking her eyes from his. He felt his fly being opened wide and the elastic of his boxer briefs pulled away from his skin.

A cool hand dipped inside the warmth and curled around his erection. His stomach lurched with a jolt. Slender fingers took the measure of his shaft, methodically moving up and down its length, gripping and re-gripping. He felt his cock grow even harder in her grasp. A long growl rose from deep in his chest as fingernails nicked his glans and a second set of fingers rolled his testicles between them.

A familiar pressure had begun to build deep in his abdomen. His balls ached and his heart hammered at his chest. Her head was settled under his chin now, ragged breath heating the skin beneath his shirt. She returned her attention to his column, gripping it firmly; first one hand, then two. Completing her assessment, she shifted his cock upright against his belly. He wanted to thank her for the adjustment. She carefully removed her hands from his underwear leaving him partly exposed above the waistband of his briefs.

“Where?” she asked hoarsely.


Griff turned the key and the barn-style doors to the boathouse swung open. Sloan stepped forward when the lights flicked on. Hanging lamps and recessed spotlights cast a golden glow upon the glossy, pine paneled walls and ceiling. Half a dozen sailboats were suspended from cables above their heads. With another flip of a finger, submerged lights illuminated two watery bays protected from the open water by lowered overhead doors.

“What do you think?”

Sloan was staring at her reflection in the polished mahogany hull of an antique launch, water gently lapping its sides. She looked back at Griff.

“She’s gorgeous.”

“1952 Chris Craft. She was one of my first assignments.”

He moved in close and held her hips as she bent over to smooth a hand over the gunwale. Her body warmed at the gentle strength of his grip.

He turned her around to face him when she stood up straight. He pulled her close and wrapped an arm securely around her waist while her hands slid up his back to hook his shoulders. He smelled clean and masculine. Feeling hard muscle beneath the soft flannel shirt, she felt a rush of adrenaline. She was about to fuck this raw specimen for all he was worth.

Sloan had known that one day she would take a lover. It made good sense to her. She would marry Brock. Shepherd his career. Perhaps even love him. But at twenty six she was too young to concede to a lifetime of sexual monotony. Brock was attentive and eager to please her; she’d made sure of that. But she knew the day would come when she needed more. She didn’t expect that day to come so soon.

“You don’t like me.”

“No,” he answered, hesitating before adding, “Sorry.”

He sounded sincere. He feels badly about hating me, she thought. That’s fine, she decided. It really was better that way. She wanted his body, his penis in particular, not his heart.


“Yeah. ‘But’... Exactly.” He hooked his hands under her arms and raised her effortlessly off the floor.

Sloan’s head and back slammed against a hand-hewn timber, knocking the breath out of her. Griff slid an arm under her ass and clamped a hand on the back of her neck. Before she caught her breath, a warm, wet mouth mashed onto hers. This was no romantic kiss; no tender, exploratory touch. It was predation.

Sloan’s dress slid up her thighs and her legs hooked below Griff’s butt as each open mouth tried to devour the other. He offered his tongue and she sucked it hard, feeding off the power and intensity of his assault. Her hands moved frantically over his shoulders and down the deep groove of his back. They writhed and groaned, unable to get enough of each other.

Suddenly, she plunged her fingers into his thick hair and jerked his head back violently. Their mouths separated with a loud smack, both of them gasping for air.

“Jesus fuck, Sloan,” he panted. “What was that for?”

“Suh… sorry,” she puffed. “Couldn’t breathe.”

She grabbed his face with two hands and the mauling continued, tongues wrestling, hands searching desperately for skin.

Finally, he cradled a hand on her face and slowly broke away, his lower lip snapping back into place when she reluctantly let it go. He stepped away from the column and supported her back.

“Unbutton my shirt.” She felt his ribs expand and contract with his breath.

She looked at him uncertainly before squeezing her legs tighter and leaning back in his hands. She shakily slipped the first button through the little slit. Her chest was heaving and she felt tiny and weightless in his hands. His aftershave and natural musk combined to create a heady cocktail that made her dizzy with arousal. Fumbling vainly with the next button, she was defeated by the narrow eyelet.

“Faster, Sloan,” he said quietly.

Griff had found her zipper and lowered it to the small of her back. A chill ran down her spine and goose bumps lit up her flesh. Frustrated and unable to concentrate on her task, she grabbed the material in her hands and pulled them apart, sending the remaining buttons arcing toward the floor.

He fixed her with an amused look. “C’mon.”

He swung her body around and caught her legs in his arm. He carried her up the dozen or so steps to a richly appointed loft that overlooked the boats behind a glass wall. Exotic woods and eclectic décor from distant ports of call filled the clubby space.

He set her down in front of a buttery brown leather sofa and pulled the damaged shirt off his shoulders, balling it up and tossing it backhanded to the side.

“Get your clothes off.”

He leaned his butt against a massive billiards table and gripped the solid mahogany frame, causing his triceps flare outward. He waited.

She stared back at him and blinked, not sure she had heard him correctly. She had been thinking about the way his bare chest looked and the size of the tent in the red, stretchy material underneath his partially zipped jeans. Did he say…?

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her evenly, with barely a hint of a smile.

“The dress, Sloan. Take it off?”

For the first time she saw it: the harsh light in his eyes. A flush of heat came over her suddenly and she knew her face must be crimson. She didn’t know what to do. No one had ever ordered her to undress before. No one. Slap him in the face and walk out of here, she told herself, then walk back in and slap him again.

She didn’t leave. Her hands infuriated her by trembling as she let the delicate, grey patterned material drop to her feet. Griff kicked off his flip flops and observed her coolly.

“There. Happy?” She wanted to be glib but instead the syllables came out sounding tight and forced.

Griff pushed the faded denim over his butt and crossed a leg over his thigh to pull the material over his foot. She saw his eyes drop to her crotch and was relieved that she had decided to wear some expensive underwear. She glanced down at the lacy Brazilian brief and her heart nearly stopped. Her juices had leaked through her panties and spread in little glistening streaks on her soft skin.

“Take everything off,” he said quietly, no hint of joking. “Then get on your knees.”

Sloan’s head was spinning. His words caused her to leak freely and she knew he could plainly see it. He was so collected, so fucking sure of himself. She tried to bend gracefully as she slipped off the sopping panties and worked the straps of her platform wedges but her knees knocked together clumsily.

She was consumed with excitement, embarrassment, lust… God knows what else. She didn’t understand the control he was able to exercise over her. It wasn’t that she felt threatened. There was just something in his calm air of command, his callous eyes. The fucking body.

Griff was standing behind her by the time she began to fumble hopelessly with the catch on her strapless bra. She was in a panic, not knowing why. Naked from the waist down, she felt awkward. He was probably looking at her ass right now. Did he like what he saw?

“Relax, Sloan.” His hands moved over hers. “Let me help you.”

Relief and, oddly, gratitude. She felt a tug and then a release of pressure on her back. She held the satin cups to her breast and heard movement behind her. He’s taking off his underwear, she thought. Her heart began to flutter. She dropped the bra to the floor and waited.

A pang struck the pit of her stomach when two sets of fingers lifted her nipples and began to roll them. She had always been self conscious about how long they grew when aroused and by her markedly puffy areolas. But somehow she wanted him to see everything, to examine every inch of her body. He took his time with the sweet torture, nibbling her neck while his fingers stroked and plucked. She felt a current run from her engorged tips, through her stomach, and into her pussy.

“On your knees now, Sloan, facing me,” he breathed into her ear. She felt the sear of his cock on her back.

She turned around and took in his rangy form. In shorts and a light tennis shirt he had been impressive. Naked, he was the imposing embodiment of male sexuality: wide, sloping shoulders, narrow hips, carved muscles and a long sex organ ready to penetrate her. She felt like a teenager again, wishing that her tits were larger and her ass rounder.

She slowly sank to the carpet. His dark pink helmet swayed in front of her, pointing directly at her eyes. She’d held the cock in her hands just moments ago but seeing it now for the first time produced an empty ache between her legs that she badly needed to fill. She mused that she had a new understanding of the term alpha-male.

He reached down, cupped her chin, and stroked her cheek with a finger. His other hand brought his penis to her lips.

“I want you to put this in your mouth while I talk to you.”

She looked up at his handsome, tanned face, the chocolate irises. His expression gave nothing away. She bowed her head, took the cock in her hand, and first sucked the sweet, sticky liquid that dripped from his slit. Her tongue circled his glans lavishly, memorizing its shape and girth, covering it with saliva. Lifting his shaft, she licked and kissed the sensitive delta beneath the head, a sharp twitch in her hand registering his pleasure.

Taking her time gliding up and down his length, her mouth watered at the meaty taste of him and she reveled in his earthy male scent. Finally, she dipped her head and slid her lips over the mushroom-shaped head.

“Fold your hands behind your back, Sloan.”

Her eyes shot upward in surprise. She had not sucked many cocks. She had always preferred that her men do the pleasing. This request, not really a request, she realized, was beyond her experience. Slowly, she drew her arms back, lacing her fingers together. The position forced her shoulders back and pushed up her chest. He combed her short, silky hair with one hand and bounced her soft breasts with the other. She felt subservient and exposed.

“Take some more now.” His erection slid deeper. “Try to listen to me.”

It was hard to hear his quiet tone over the sloppy, wet noises coming from her mouth. It was hard to concentrate on words with the long, thick cock sliding over her palate. She moved her head in time with the slow roll of his hips, loving the feel of the silky, rock-hard shaft riding along her tongue and into her inexperienced mouth. As he spoke, his voice sounded distant.

“You need to understand how it is between us.” His voice was suddenly clear. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”

He put his hands on the back of her head and pressed his pelvis forward.

“Take it deeper.” His cock pushed into her throat and depressed the back of her tongue.

Sloan was beginning to lose herself. Her eyes welled with water and a tear streaked her face. She fought the strong impulse to gag, desperately wanting to give him this pleasure. Her brain begged Griff to let his thick cream fill her mouth and run down her throat. She was bursting with desire, wishing she could drive her fingers into her cunt and rub her clit but she didn’t dare. Instead, her hands dug deeply into the crack of her ass.

“Okay, that’s enough, baby.” Griff slowly withdrew the long, slimy member from her mouth. “You did really well.”

He knelt down in front of her and wiped away her tears with his thumb. She knew her face must be a mess but didn’t care. He reached around her slender body to bring her hands to his lips. She was surprised when he gently kissed them.

“Lie down now, baby.”


Griff knelt upright between Sloan’s legs, her feet resting on his hips. He spread her knees to take in the damp, tawny fur between her legs and the crooked smile of her dark, swollen labia. He wondered why it is that beautiful women become irresistible when the illusion of perfection is peeled away. Every freckle and mole, her boyish hips and slightly bowed legs, the faint blue veins beneath the milky pallor of her smallish breasts, it all made his cock want to burst out of its skin.

He breathed her female smell, the animal smell of arousal, and saw that her eyes were locked on his rigid column. The arrogant, perfectly turned out debutante had disappeared. Looking at the girl on the floor, he could imagine her in short cutoffs, nestled against him in his pickup singing along with Luke Bryan on the radio.

“C’mere.” Griff hooked his hands over her thighs and pulled her closer.

Sloan planted her feet on either side of him and raised her hips high, her shoulders resting in the deep pile of the carpet. He ran a calloused hand along her flat belly and caressed her soft bottom as their genitals met. Sloan let out a low moan at the first long draw of his heavy cock along her slippery channel.

The engorged head pushed aside the tender flesh of her lips as it plowed upward, tripping over the hard clit. She set her feet farther apart and opened herself wide, no modesty now, grinding against the underside of the thick tool. Splashy sounds accompanied the slick friction of their most private parts.

“I need you inside me.”

“You’re a horny little bitch, aren’t you?” He lifted the corner of his mouth, rocking his pelvis in time with the rise and fall of her hips.

She let out a long groan when he squeezed the swollen outer lips near the top of her slit and rubbed them between his fingers.

“And you’re a fucking tease.”

Griff chuckled appreciatively and tucked his pelvis, dragging the dome of his cock down to her opening. Her wet, puffy folds cradled the bulbous invader as it centered her. He held her hips and pressed forward, feeling the exquisite resistance he loved so much. He fought the impulse to thrust, instead applying steady pressure as he sank into her. Sloan’s muscles tensed and her back bent into a deep arc.

Sloan sighed as his head popped through and he drove his cock upward. He could feel the wonderful, textured walls with his shaft as he stretched her out, slippery muscles resisting and then yielding to its passage.

“ Ohhhhhhh, God…” she said softly. Sloan’s eyes were closed and her thumbs crushed her nipples with slow, circular movements. “…. Yes. You’re so… ohhh.”

The angle of their bodies drove his cock across her front wall before penetrating deep inside her. He pushed until he reached her limits and then withdrew, feeling her body shudder with the movement. His penis moved in and out to the music of her moans.

He pressed a hand on her belly just above her curly muff. The other gripped her cheeks as he ripped into her harder and faster. She uttered curses and moved up and down, changing the angle of his thrusts. Perspiration had broken across her body and Griff could feel her legs begin to quiver with exhaustion.


He gently pushed down on her hips and leaned over her as she lowered her ass onto the floor and let her legs fall open. Griff planted his hands below her outstretched arms and lowered his mouth to hers while he raked her with long steady strokes.

“Ohhh, your cock feels so good,” she half whispered against his lips, pulling her knees upward.

Hot breath rushed across his throat. He held his thick shaft inside her, enjoying her tiny spasms.

Griff lifted his chest and hooked his arms behind her bent legs before replanting his hands on the floor. He leaned forward, folding her in half and pulling her ass upward. He looked down at her sweaty body, a locket of hair plastered to her forehead, ribs poking through her skin.

He drove downward, forcing a grunt out of her lungs. His cock felt like hot steel as it pistoned in and out of her body. Her hands clawed at his rocklike arms and the powerful muscles in her legs stiffened an instant before strong contractions gripped his penis. Her face was a picture of deep red agony; eyes squeezed shut, colorless lips stretched across her teeth.

“God, FUCK!”


Her chest was still heaving when she opened her eyes and saw that he was watching her. Had it been seconds? Minutes? He looked hungry, like some kind of big cat ready to feed. She already missed the feeling of fullness and the friction of his cock rubbing and expanding the walls of her pussy. She lowered her gaze to the penis that swayed over her, fluid dripping from its tip.

“You didn’t come?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me.”

He crinkled his eyes and smiled. That killer smile, she thought. She wondered why she hadn’t really noticed those full eyebrows before. Lightened by the sun, they made his russet eyes appear darker, warmer.

“Do… do you want…”


He surprised her by taking her by the hips and twisting them. In an instant, Sloan found herself on her stomach.

“Grab that cushion and put it under your hips, Sloan.”

Anything to get that cock back inside me, she thought. She reached for a red plaid throw pillow on the sofa, wondering if doggy was his favorite position. Sliding the pillow in place, ass pushed high, she contemplated getting to know all his appetites. She found herself enjoying the feeling of vulnerability in his strong and confident hands. How often could she manage to see him? She wondered. How long after the wedding must she wait?

Griff spread her legs with his knees and Sloan prepared herself for another good fucking. Suddenly, she felt something unexpected. Griff’s mouth was on her pussy, lapping and sucking. She had never been eaten out in this position and she squirmed with anticipation. But soon he began to run his tongue up and down her perineum, getting closer and closer to her anus. She tensed, wondering if he would go there. No one had ever touched that most private area before.

“Relax, Sloan, you’re too tense.” He tugged her by the hips, lifting her ass higher.

Then she felt it. Something warm and wet circled her little, tight button. She felt dirty and embarrassed but she had to admit that it also felt good. He licked and probed and pressed the tip of his tongue on her tiny opening. He seemed to like licking her there so she began to relax, allowing her sphincter to gradually loosen, enjoying the new sensations.

Griff removed his mouth and dipped a finger into Sloan’s dripping pussy. She knew what was coming but concentrated on remaining calm. The finger brought a trail of lubrication to her anus, circling it several times before slipping inside to the first knuckle.

“How’s that feel?” He twisted and wiggled his finger inside her.

“Oh… okay,” she breathed. “Good.”

“Alright, let’s try something bigger.”

She felt his thumb slip between her folds and into her wet vagina. It felt nice when he twisted it around before removing it. He again circled her button while Sloan struggled to keep from tensing her tight ring. She felt a little pop as it entered. The feeling was uncomfortable until Griff pushed a little deeper, past the thick band of muscle.

“You okay?”

She realized she had been holding her breath when he slowly removed his thumb.


His hands moved to her cheeks, slowly pushing them together and pulling them apart. The tension began to melt away little by little. She pushed her butt higher when she again felt his tongue on her puckered hole. Is this really happening? She asked herself.

Griff shifted behind her and straightened her legs on the floor. He straddled her thighs and lowered himself onto her. She moved her knees apart when she felt the long, delicious glide of his cock into her pussy. She slid her hands forward and groaned into the carpet as he held himself deep inside her. She rolled her hips, feeling every inch of his invading cock.

Slowly, he withdrew.

“Stay relaxed, Sloan.” She felt him kneel over her and rub his slimy glans over her anus. “Just breathe.”

He held his cock to her opening and began to push. Feeling the pressure grow, Sloan fought to the urge to clench.


She felt a white-hot stab when his slickened head, followed by an inch of rigid bone forced open the tight pucker of her sphincter.

“Too big…”

“Breathe. You’re fine.”

The feeling was foreign and painful, yet thrilling. Griff pushed a little more and suddenly she felt as if her butt had swallowed the head and sucked the cock right into her. She blew out a long breath while Griff held his stiff column motionless.

“Good girl.” Griff tilted his body upward. “Now slide back to me onto your knees.”

With a thick penis in her rectum, Sloan’s only thought was to comply with every instruction. She pushed her chest off the floor with her arms and carefully folded backward, bending her knees and raising her bottom. Griff held her hips and straightened his back as she slowly impaled herself on his unyielding phallus. She could actually feel the wide profile of his head as it moved deeper.

Once on her hands and knees, Griff sunk into her with deliberate care. By the time his testicles dangled against her pussy, she felt as if she was on a spit. Muscles she never knew she had contracted randomly and uncontrollably over the invading column and she found herself short of breath.

She felt wildly wanton and wicked, having anal sex for the very first time with a near stranger… on a boathouse floor no less. Yet she couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else. She had never expected it to feel like this. She never expected to even try it. She lowered her head and shoulders back onto the floor, rubbing her pussy with the flat of her fingers. Griff pulled nearly all the way out of her and then re-entered with an exquisite single stroke. The pressure and feeling of fullness was like nothing she had ever felt.

“God, I’m gonna come again.”

Griff rubbed her back and squeezed her cheeks as Sloan writhed around his cock and began to tremble. He smoothly stroked into her depths again and again.

As the first wave broke over her, she felt the powerful pulse of his cock as it pumped his hot seed into her ass. Something primitive and unexplainable made her feel that she belonged to him. For the first time in her life she let go and allowed herself to be carried away by something she couldn’t control. She heard a voice scream his name. It sounded like hers.


Night had fallen some time ago. A silent cruiser coasted past the mouth of the stone breakwater, a single lamp on its bow. He felt her settle into the crook of the arm that stretched along the back of the bench. It was cooler now and the long, pale tendril of the moon reached across the black water.

“You won’t say anything?” she asked. “To Nick, I mean?”

He bent his arm and stroked her cheek for the final time.

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“Can… can I call you sometime?”

“I don’t think so, Sloan.” He turned to her and smiled warmly.

She tugged at his button-less shirt before standing up.

“Better get some decent clothes.”

She turned and headed up the path.

Looking out across the sound as the white crown of the moon began to appear, he thought of all the days spent on those waters and the nights spent on this very spot.

He thought about Olivia and the way she made him feel. Decent, better than the man he was. She’d trusted him with her secrets and her dreams. And there was a part of him that only she had ever seen. If you had half a brain and a girl like that would have you, you didn’t ask any questions. You just forgot everything else and built your world around her.

No, he’d never be good enough for Olivia, he thought. Tonight was more proof of that.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright 2013-2014 Gerard L. Johnston All rights reserved.

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