Break Free (Smart Girl Mafia Series: Book 1)

By Amiee Smith

It wasn’t supposed to be this hot.
I didn’t expect her to be this fun.
I didn’t plan to feel this strongly... this quickly.
She’s a nerd I knew way back when.
Now just an acquaintance I see at gatherings.
Why am I turning my life upside down to be with her?

Standalone. Steamy romance from the world of the Smart Girl Mafia Series. Thirtysomethings living in California. Always happily-ever-after. Expect laughs, lite kink, cannabis usage, and a hookup that becomes more than just a fling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amiee Smith
• Release date: Apr 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463575536

Amiee Smith

So, I love the art of writing romance fiction. I’m a character-driven author. My stories are contemporary romance with steam, humor, and diversity. I run my business from my living room. When I am not writing and telling people about my books, I run another online business. Read lots and lots. Watch tons of TV series. Drink coffee and wine. Listen to music. Cook comforting vegetarian meals. Say prayers, meditate, and light candles. Text with my girlfriends. And try to squeeze in a walk and a shower. My sexy little stories are my attempt at making someone’s night. May you always feel loved, seen, and heard. Books 1-4 of the Smart Girl Mafia Series currently available. Find me at: AmieeSmith.com and @amieesmithbooks on all the socials. -Amiee

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COPYRIGHT

AMY Publishing

California

Break Free

Copyright 2018 by Amiee Smith

www.amieesmith.com

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

DEDICATION

For all the dirty flirty ladies who dare to dream.

Welcome to the world of the Smart Girl Mafia.

CHAPTER 1

LYNN SCOTT

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We should fuck, Nick says.

Sugar Ray’s Fly streams from the speakers in the backyard a decibel louder than the muffled voices at the party. Jon’s thirty-third birthday celebration, in full swing.

Nick and I are sharing a cigarette in front of our friends’ expansive Craftsman house in the most exclusive neighborhood in Pasadena. The big tree above our heads is decorated in thousands of white lights, illuminating our faces.

Elation. Excitement. Joy forms at the corners of my mouth, but my eyes narrow as I receive the cigarette from his olive-skinned hand.

Excuse me? I ask.

You heard me, Lynn.

The American Spirit dangles from my brown fingers. Taking the cigarette from me, Nick’s hazel green eyes meet mine. My heart races.

Nick Willingham was my high school crush. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen (like, really). He was the leading man in my schoolgirl fantasies. I taught myself to masturbate using his eleventh grade yearbook photo.

Back then, we hung out in different cliques. Three years ago, his best friend, Jon, married my best friend, Jen. Since their wedding reception, he and I always share a cigarette during a J + J organized event.

During each encounter, we’re cordial. Polite. Responsive in the way friends of friends are, but never anything more... until tonight. In the fifteen years since graduation, I’ve had many dreams come true. But never one as thrilling as the athletic man standing in front of me, initiating a hook-up.

When? I whisper.

Nick comes within inches of my face. He’s at least a foot taller than me. I lick my lips. The need to lean into his mouth is intense. I will my hands to stay by my side, fighting the desire to caress his jawline. I can almost feel the dark stubble against my fingertips.

Now, Nick says.

Withholding a moan, I long to wrap my arms around his neck and rub my body against his muscular torso. I resist the arousal rooting and sprouting throughout my body— an urge as natural, wild, and organic as bright orange California poppies.

I’m not having sex with you in the house. And I can’t leave. I have cake duty, I say, battling every desire within.

J + J assigned all their closest friends a job to do tonight. I can’t skip out on my commitment, even if my impulsive mind would prefer being naked with super-hot Nick Willingham.

I’m on cake duty too. We have forty-five minutes. How about the back seat of my car? Nick asks.

An early autumn breeze rustles the leaves in the tree above our heads. The sound beckons my body to proceed. I’ve lost fifty pounds over the last seven months, abstaining from hook-ups to stay focused on my goal.

Three weeks ago, I saw my dream number on the scale. I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to relaunch my dirty flirty life with my smaller, fitter body. And he is beyond perfect.

Hooking up with Nick Willingham on a Friday night is a dream come true.

Let’s go, I say.

CHAPTER 2

NICK WILLINGHAM

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Lynn said yes?

Before she changes her mind, I toss the half-finished cigarette in the mason jar ashtray. (Neither she nor I really smoke. We just pass it back and forth.) Placing my hand on the small of her back, I direct her down the block to my car.

Over the last three years, I’ve admired Lynn. She’s warm, with a sweet smile and a knack for witty banter. I’m always mesmerized by her petite figure and full tits, but I’ve resisted making a move. She lives in San Francisco. And I don’t do long-distance relationships. Also, she never seemed interested. Lynn has a way of getting this gaze that is neither here nor there.

We arrive at my silver Mercedes G550 SUV. I open the door, motioning her inside. Lynn pauses, peering up at me with eyes the color of milk chocolate. She’s not wearing her nerdy dark-framed glasses.

Her full lips are making it hard... to think about anything but sucking and biting. I want to bend down to kiss her, but she’s quiet. Too quiet. Is she hesitating?

She probably isn’t used to hooking up. I’m not into hook-ups either, but tonight will be an exception. Lynn’s a nice, smart woman. I’d even describe her as shy. I’m into shy girls. I’ve been with enough to know they need more time than forty-five minutes.

Lynn, we can wait until after the party and go back to my place, I say.

No. I don’t want to spend the next three hours counting the minutes in wet panties.

I groan inwardly. Lynn is already wet for me?

She smiles and climbs into the car, I follow.

It’s the first time I’ve been in the back seat of my SUV. The dark tint on the rear windows provides the privacy we need. When I bought the car, I had the option of bucket seats, but I selected the bench. And I’m glad I did. I’m 6’3, but Lynn is small, so our accommodations are the perfect fit.

The door closes and her soft hands cradle either side of my face. Fingertips caress my jawline. Lynn’s lush lips capture mine in a carnal, urgent, dirty kiss. I shift a bit, wrapping my arms around her slender waist.

I want to slow down. Be a gentleman. Savor this. But Lynn is in control— her mouth, slanting over mine with a hungry, skilled fire.

Damn, this woman can kiss.

I’m undone. My hands move in a frenzy, pushing up the hem of her blouse and palming her tits through the lacy fabric of her bra. Lynn moans into my mouth. Her nipples turn pebble-hard. I break the kiss, lifting the white top over her head.

In the dim glow of the street light, Lynn is radiant. Like me, she’s thirty-three (Jen threw us each a party this year), but her skin is as smooth as that of a much younger woman. Dark curly hair hangs below her shoulders and her voluptuous tits overflow the cups of her lacy black and white bra.

Lynn could be a sexy coed on Tumblr. I wish I had pics of her in my library. The vision of jacking off to images of her naked on my tablet or phone makes me yearn to be inside of her.

Take off your jeans, I say.

Delight paints her face. She acts quickly, kicking off her tan Tory Burch flats before unbuttoning her dark jeans and sliding them over her slim hips. She settles back into the seat.

Using my index and middle fingers, I rub her pussy lips through her matching panties. I can’t help it. I need to know she’s wet for me. Lynn leans her head back and drops an Oh, Nick. Her nipples strain against the fabric of her bra, causing my mouth to pucker.

I’m a tits guy and Lynn’s plump breasts are a rare all-natural treat. Dipping my head, I nip one of her peaks with my teeth through her bra. Lynn moans, lifting her hips off the seat and grinding against my hand. My fingers slip past the edge of her panties and into her center.

I gotta be inside this woman.

I want to be on top, Lynn says, reading my mind.

I retract my wet fingers and lift my sweater and undershirt over my head. After retrieving a condom from my wallet, I shove my jeans and boxers to my ankles. Rolling the rubber down, my dick is at full attention.

Lynn doesn’t hesitate, removing her panties and straddling my legs. Her shapely bottom rests against my thighs. A long, thin, silver chain with a jagged stone the color of Himalayan sea salt hangs between her tits. I palm the stone, our eyes meet.

What’s this? I ask.

Rose quartz. I use it for luck, she says.

Does it work?

Oh, yes. I get to do this.

Lynn places her small hands on my shoulders and lifts her hips, covering my dick with her liquid gold. Eyes closed, she eases up and down. I hold my breath. I’m in heaven. Her breathy moans fill the car.

Damn, she’s tight.

Nick, you’re so big. This is amazing. I want more.

Her hips move in rhythmic circles, increasing in speed. I’m lost in the rapid motion of her heat against my erection. My body throbs from my head to my toes. If I don’t slow her down, our quickie will be over too soon.

I grip her hips, holding her steady. Her eyes fly open, yearning all over her sweet face. I wish we were at my house, in my bed, and that I had all night to be buried between her legs.

I’ve waited three years to see your tits. Show me, I say, trying to gain some control.

Lynn’s slender, purple manicured fingers lower the cups of her bra. Dark nipples tumble out. My mouth salivates, sucking a peaked tip. I praise her breasts with my tongue.

Her sultry moans turn to desperate whimpers. Lynn tries to grind against my cock, but I hold her in place. I’m still not in control and the slightest rock of her hips may send me into climax.

Lynn leans back and thrusts her hips forward. My dick slips deeper inside of her. Groaning loudly, my mouth abandons her nipple.

I watch her. A sexy, vixen-grin covers her face. She licks her top lip. Her hand runs down the center of her body to where we are joined. Lynn rubs her two middle fingers over her clit several times. She brings her fingers to her mouth, sucking the tips before returning to her clit.

I’m entranced. This pixie woman is getting herself off in a swift, circular motion while I’m halted inside her.

My eyes narrow. My cock twitches.

My mind blown.

Lynn isn’t shy at all.

My sweet, smart woman knows how to fuck.

CHAPTER 3

LYNN SCOTT

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The need to come is overwhelming.

I rapidly strum my clit. Nick is trying to slow down our hook-up. I appreciate his self-control, but I haven’t had sex in like, forever. And my vibrators, all top-of-the-line, can’t compete with the broad shaft filling me up.

So yes, I’m tempting him to get on with it, but I’m also shamelessly getting myself off. I moan, applying more pressure to my clit. My body shudders in sweet readiness.

Nick grips my ass, lifting me off his dick. (Dude is really that strong.) His hazel green stare, commanding attention.

Turn around, he says.

In the fog of my almost-orgasm, I’m slow to react.

Turn around. Sit on my lap. Straddle my thighs. I’ll guide you.

I reverse, moving into this new position is less awkward than I expect. I find his lap, resting my shins and knees on the soft leather seat. While I’m impressed with my flexibility, nervousness lurks at the edge of my desire.

I love the art of sex. My mind is an encyclopedia of sexual positions. While I’m aware of reverse cowgirl, I’ve never experienced it. What if I’m not into it? What if I can’t sustain the position until orgasm?

I breathe deeply, forcing myself to relax. This morning, before catching my flight to L.A., I ran to the top of Nob Hill. If I can move my body up and down one of the highest points in SF, I can ride Nick’s incredible cock until we both come.

Nick’s strong hands guide my hips over his dick. Excitement pushes my fears aside. I want this man inside me. This hook-up is a dream come true... he’s the man I measure all others against.

I rock my hips against him. Nick continues to hold my waist, stilling my natural impulse.

Please, Nick. I’m so ready.

My plea is a surrender of control. He rewards me with feathery kisses on my back.

Put your hands on the front seats.

I do as he says, my body angling forward. Nick slides my pussy down onto his shaft, moving in and out at a wildly decadent pace. My tits jiggle. My breathing heavy. He’s worshipping my glorious spot with his cock and my clit with his fingers.

Pleasure quakes throughout my body. Yes! This is so good. I tremble. Nick rubs my clit faster, applying the right amount of pressure.

This is why we changed positions. He wants to be the captain. I don’t mind. This is unbelievably good. My climax grows from my center, radiating sublime sensations. Euphoric. I don’t want him to stop again.

I’m so close, I say.

I am too, he groans.

The clench of my orgasm halts me in place. I cry out. Nick grips both my hips, pounding his way to release. I wish I could see him climax. The vision of his eyes closed, and his gorgeous face strained in satisfaction, sends me overboard.

I disappear into my imagination.

In my fantasy— Nick is my hero. I, his heroine. This is not a hook-up. Each grind is an act of love. This is not a quickie, but a declaration of togetherness. Our sex symbolizes the end of our magical and sometimes messy journey to happily-ever-after.

And just as the vision appears in my mind’s eye, it dissipates.

Nick thrusts his thighs forward and finds his own release. His deep, guttural moans are more stimulating than the act of fucking and I piggyback on his orgasm with another of my own. My core tightens and grips, and I come harder than I do with my vibrator. Our moans meet and crescendo into labored pants of exertion.

Holy Unicorn. I just had sex with Nick Willingham.

I slump against the passenger seat headrest. Nick plants kisses up and down my spine. My breathing and the sweet suckling of his lips against my skin is the only sound in the car. This moment between sex and returning to real life is sacred. I appreciate that he’s not in a rush to move on.

The Sencha ringtone ends our intimate moment. I follow the noise to Nick’s jeans bunched at his ankles.

I have the same tone set on my phone, I say.

Reaching between my legs, I hold the condom in place and lift. Our connection officially over. Shifting off his lap, Nick holds my hips steady. I sit next to him, but I’m in no rush to get dressed. With the dark tint on the windows, the SUV seems like a luxurious all-leather cocoon, coaxing me to stay still and enjoy my post-sex haze.

Cake duty alarm. We’ve got fifteen minutes, he says.

Nick retrieves his phone from his pants and silences the alarm. I observe him through unfocused eyes. He removes and ties the condom, resting it on the seat before pulling up his boxers and jeans. Retrieving his T-shirt and sweater from the floor, he pulls them over his head.

Nick moves with the gracefulness of a true athlete. He played water polo in high school and college, and even made the Olympic team.

Even after a decade, his body is still insane— golden skin covers rippling muscles and six pack abs. I wish we had another thirty minutes (or a whole night), because I’d give anything to kiss him... all over. My hook-up numbers are high in the double digits, but no man has been as attractive and satisfying as Nick Willingham.

I’m going to get something out of the back, he says, opening the door just enough to hop out.

I pull my bra into place. The memory of his mouth on my breasts is so intense I swear I can almost feel his tongue. Reaching for my blouse, I slip it on before scanning the posh back seat for my underwear.

Everything about Nick is expensive. The dark gray cashmere sweater hugging his muscular shoulders. His deep brown pompadour hairstyle. This silver G-series Mercedes SUV. The dark charcoal loafers on his feet.

Like him, I grew up affluent. My parents’ salaries and net worth are at the top end of the curve. I’ve netted several six-figure years, both when I was working for Google as a technical writer and in my now full-time gig as a romance author.

But Nick’s affluence is a whole different level of wealth. Unrestrained. Curated. Purposeful. Lavish. I’d love to know the inner workings of his mind. Our conversations over the years have been cigarette-brief, so I know very little about him. (I know he’s really fucking hot.)

I find my underwear on the floor. They’re still wet. I mentally debate whether to go commando all night. Nick comes back with a bottle of water and a travel pack of EO hand wipes.

I only had one bottle of water, so I hope it’s okay if we share, he says, wrapping the condom in a wipe.

You’re prepared, I say.

I’m probably not the only woman who has shared his back seat with him. Men like the great Nick Willingham do not lack or want for anything. He’s another number for me as much as I am for him.

I eat lunch in my car a lot, so these are more effective than hand sanitizer after I’ve been on a job site. Do you want one? he asks, passing the pack of wipes.

Arching a dark, neatly groomed eyebrow, his gaze drags over my half naked, thoroughly-sexed body.

Yes, thank you. Sorry. I’m overindulging in the quiet before we have to go back to the party.

You’re not a party person? he asks.

Nick drinks from the bottle of water and passes it to me.

Thanks for sharing. I love parties. It’s great seeing everyone, but I’m always equally as stoked to leave.

Sipping from the bottle, the lukewarm liquid is refreshing. I pass it back.

You’re lucky you live in San Francisco. Jen and Jon organize a gathering almost every week. I’ve learned to pick and choose what I attend.

I assumed you went to everything.

No. What’s your social life like in San Francisco?

I meet up with friends on the weekends. Lately, I’ve been more selective about what invitations I accept.

I forgo underwear and shimmy into my jeans. Nick graciously turns his head, giving me a bit of privacy.

No boyfriend? he asks.

No. No girlfriend right now? I ask, buttoning my jeans.

No. I’m not with anyone.

Over the last three years, I’ve seen him with more women than I can count or remember their names. They are always the same. Tall. Thin. Stunning. Smart enough not to be ditzy. No matter who Nick was dating, he’d always break away to share a cigarette with me. I guess none of those women saw me as a threat to their relationship. But I never flirt with Nick the way I do with most men. Never.

I slide on my shoes and slip my underwear into my back pocket. Catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I finger-comb my naturally wavy hair. My plum lipstick is long gone, but my eye makeup still looks great. Using a wipe, I blot away the post-sex shine. My purse is in the house, so I can’t touch up my lips. I never imagined when I went out for my only cigarette this month, I’d end up sexing in the back seat of Nick’s car.

(Smoking cigs isn’t really my thing anymore. Back in the day, it was an excuse to take a break from a crowded social setting. Now, I only keep a pack in my purse for my monthly smoke sesh with Nick.)

Nick’s glowing gaze meets mine.

Why no boyfriend?

If I had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t be able to hook-up with you, I say.

On impulse, I lean over, and I wipe off the purple traces of my lipstick from Nick’s chin and neck. He closes his eyes as if appreciating my touch. I resist the urge to kiss him and pull away.

We should probably head back, I say.

Nick gathers the used wipes, disposing of them in a small plastic bag in the center console.

We exit the car and stroll down the block, the music and party noise getting louder.

I imagine some guys would be cool with you hooking up, he says.

Would you be cool with it? I ask absently.

I’m mentally plotting how to get my purse and visit the bathroom before jumping back into the swirl of the party.

We arrive at the house. Before I can dash away, Nick places his hand on the curve of my hip and whispers in my ear. His lips are so close, my body tingles.

If you were my girlfriend, you’d still be in the party. Panties soaked and counting the minutes until I take you home.

Nick retrieves my underwear from my back pocket. The gesture is sexy and suggestive and oh so dirty. I don’t have time to react. Nick steps in front of me, opening the front door. He’s immediately greeted by a guy we went to high school with and starts the Hey, man. How you are doing? exchange.

Any minute, I too will be greeted by a person from my past I now only see in my Facebook feed. I need to freshen up, so I’m prepared. Bypassing them, I head toward the guest bedroom where I left my purse. I sneak a glance behind me. Nick slides my underwear into his pocket, while congratulating dude on the birth of his first child. His signature smile appears.

The same smile from his yearbook photo.

I spend the rest of the night doing the Hey, how ya been? routine, while wishing I were counting the minutes, in wet panties, waiting for my super-hot boyfriend to take me home.

CHAPTER 4

NICK WILLINGHAM

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I want to see Lynn.

Two hours after our car sex, the party is ending. I never stick around this long, but I want to ask her out on a date.

There were two cake stations. One inside, assigned to Lynn. One outside, assigned to me. In between long-time-no-see conversations and a professional fireworks show (Jen goes all-out), I thought Lynn would come to me. I tried to seek her out when I went to the bathroom, but I couldn’t find her.

Would she leave?

I help the wait staff throw away cake plates before moving inside. Only a handful of people remain. I scan the house, but no Lynn. After saying goodbye to J + J, I head toward the door.

Maybe she’s out front?

Hey, bro.

Unlike all the other dudes who greeted me this way tonight, this is my actual brother.

Hey, Alex. How long you been here?

He’s in a dark suit, white dress shirt and no tie. Standing a few inches shorter than me, his dark curly hair is cut conservatively low and his aqua eyes are covered with titanium semi-rimless glasses.

Not long. I had a client dinner. I’m going with some of Jen’s friends to a bar in Downtown L.A. Wanna roll with?

Which friends? I ask.

Brit. Dana and the one who lives in San Francisco.

I hear San Francisco and excitement surges in my chest. I’m ready to go home, but I’m willing to venture to DTLA to hang out with Lynn.

I’ll roll, I say.

Outside, Lynn and her friends are huddled up at the edge of the driveway. Walking the stretch of concrete in their direction, I feel as if I just tossed the winning goal.

She didn’t leave.

Before I reach the group, a Prius parks at the curb.

Here’s my Uber. I’ll see you guys Sunday, Lynn says to her friends.

My winning goal blocked as time runs out.

Are you sure you don’t want to go? Brit says.

I’m totally sure. I’ve had a long day. I love you guys, Lynn says, getting into the back seat. (I’d love to be in the back seat with her again, even in a leg-cramping Prius.)

I watch the car pull away. Brit approaches us decked out in a black couture cocktail dress.

So, it’s just going to be Dana and me, she says to my brother.

Cool. My brother is going to come too, he replies.

I didn’t know they knew each other, but J + J house parties have a way of turning the most unlikely people into friends. And sometimes more than friends.

Alex, I’m actually going to head home. I’ve got an early day tomorrow, I say.

Okay, man. I’ll see you Sunday at the Club.

I walk to my car. Defeat hangs around my shoulders. I envision the bright green nugs of OG Kush waiting for me at home and my mood lifts a bit. I’ll go home, get stoned out of my mind, and try to forget Lynn’s vixen-grin, perfect tits, and superb pussy.

Opening the car door, I smell lavender, coconut, and sex. My mind is slammed with Lynn’s all-natural-no-show moans, her naughty smile as she fingered her clit, and the wet, lush, tightness of being inside her. She’s intoxicating.

My twenty-minute drive to the Mount Washington area of L.A. is consumed with thoughts of how I can see her again this weekend. With each mile, I debate calling Jon to ask for her phone number. But every time I think to tell Siri to dial him, my mind offers a counter. I don’t want Jen and Jon in my business. They’re good people, but they like to talk. While it’s no secret I’ve been with lots of women, I’m not ready to go public with my hook-up with Lynn.

I love beautiful women. Tall. Flexibly thin. Smart enough to get by. Lynn is girl-next-door cute. She’s the girl you’d want to be your study partner in college because she’s nice, funny, and takes great notes. The girl you’d expect to be married, posting videos of her kid’s first steps on Facebook. The girl you’d expect to say no when you ask her to fuck in the middle of a party.

But Lynn didn’t say no. At first, I thought she was doing it for the thrill. A nerdy-girl-gone-wild thing. I expected her to be overly eager, a bit clumsy, and super polite. But in the dark cove of my back seat, she became a sexy vixen. Confident. Skilled. She knew what she wanted, how to get it, and had a hip roll that made me come in record time.

I pull into my driveway. My house sits on a hill facing Downtown L.A. The night is unusually clear and city lights twinkle and pop below.

I’ll call my brother. He’s with Lynn’s friends, they’ll have her number. But I can’t think of a reason to tell them why I would need to reach her.

I want to see her this weekend. Lynn only comes into town once a month. I don’t want to spend another thirty days questioning this spark between us.

Last month, we all did an overnight at Jen’s Malibu house. I watched Lynn drift around the sand in a white bathing suit and braided pigtails. (She was fuckably adorable.) I considered making a move while we stood on the curb of Pacific Coast Highway sharing a cigarette. But Lynn seemed shy and unaware, fidgeting and stepping