Dreamy Distraction: Quest for Love, #1

By Emily J. Wright

Brandon Bryce has forgotten himself. The memories of his past are lost. But in this obscurity, he remembers someone. A woman he doesn't know much about but know enough that he wants to be with her. Will he get what he wants?

A worn-out sex swing in the sex dungeon of my penthouse.

A room with thousands of hours of porn, the walls of which lights up like a Christmas tree under black light.

A Jacuzzi that smells like sex and has a pair of bra and panties floating in it.

These are the remnants of my past.

As for the present, all I have left is my name—Brandon Bryce.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

I thought so too until a woman from my neighborhood threw her shoe at me just after another one tried to scratch my face. It has been brought to my attention that behind this pretty face of mine lies a certifiable a**hole.

I have so far worked on the strategy of hit it and quit it, resulting in me hurting many women. But now that I have escaped death by the skin of my teeth, things are going to be a lot different. I have decided to make amends to those who I have hurt all the while trying to find her.

I saw her once, not sure where, and now I see her everywhere. Blonde hair that fell to her shoulder in waves, smoldering blue eyes putting the ocean to shame, cherry red lips that one must have, and those tempting curves crafted by God himself. How can one forget someone like her?

She is a dream that keeps me awake at night. A distraction that fazes me through the day. She is my Dreamy Distraction.

Have a Slice of Cake or Two. Grab a Picher of Coffee. And Buckle Up.

Because this one is not an Insta Love Story.

Our utterly obsessed hero will wear his heart on his sleeve and trigger a spectrum of emotions within you as he takes you along on a wild ride full of humor, romance, and with a little bit of suspense on the top.

Happy Reading!!!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily J. Wright
• Release date: Jul 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393700791

Book preview

Chapter 1

IT’S THE STROKE OF midnight. I am cooking something special.

No, I am not an exhausted chef. I am not an underpaid fry cook either.

I am just a man, hopelessly in love.

In case you haven’t noticed yet, I am in the kitchen of my four bedrooms, three bath home.

I know what you are thinking.

At midnight? Why?

Well—I have to.

It’s the happiest day of my life, my first wedding anniversary. And I can’t wait until morning to surprise my wife with her favorite molten lava cake.

I am already finished here. Come on, follow me upstairs. Let me introduce you to my wife. If you are lucky, your eyes won’t pop out of your socket after seeing her.

Do you see that blonde woman in my bed wearing nothing but my UCLA sweatshirt?

That’s my wife.

Jealous much?

I know you are.

You can say it. I won’t mind; I am used to it.

If you are thinking she is out of my league, then you are absolutely right.

She is.

I mean, look at her. Even sleeping, she appears to be posing for Victoria Secret’s catalog. An ethereal beauty like her belongs in the arms of an oil tycoon or is destined to be the trophy wife of a rich tech nerd.

And I am neither of them.

But she is here.

In my bed.

Warming it up with her body heat.

I cup her face in my hands and behold the shine of her angelic beauty for a couple of seconds. She is looking so peaceful. It’s adorable. I can see her for hours without blinking.

But I have to wake her up. Her surprise is waiting downstairs.

Honey . . .

I lightly brush my palm against her cheeks, lovingly try to wake her up. But she just moans and turns to the other side, ignoring me.

I then lean down and nibble on her earlobe, which makes her burst into a giggle.

Please wake up, I seductively whisper in her ear, caressing it with my breath.

She answers me in her sleepy voice. "Do I have to?"

Yes. I kiss her on the side of her neck. It’s her soft spot, which gets her going in no time.

I pester her neck with my kisses until she turns back again.

And there it is.

The gateway to heaven.

She gazes at me through her big, blue sparkling eyes—no less than fountains of alcohol that can make anyone drunk in her love. Which reminds me how lucky I am to have her.

What is it? Is everything all right? she asks.

Never been better, I say in a choked-up voice. Even a year after marriage, she still takes my breath away. I stroke her hair, feeling proud of my fortune. I have something to show you downstairs.

She looks at the clock on the nightstand. "Right now? It’s quarter past midnight."

Yes . . . I slip my hands under her legs and back and lift her up off the bed.

She smiles and encircles her arms around my neck. So, you are going to carry me too from now on?

Absolutely. Till the end of time, I say, moving towards the door.

"You don’t let me do anything around here. You cook, you clean, you shop while I just sit on my ass all day. I feel completely useless."

Useless! Honey, you have the most important job in the world.

And what would that be?

She looks into my eyes searching for an answer. She is clueless. She doesn’t realize the importance of the task at her hand.

Look fabulous and rule my world. And you are very good at it. No complaints.

She is pleased with my answer.

How do I know? 

See—how she is biting her lips, her cheeks are turning red, and her smile is getting wider.

But she strangely devoid me from the pleasure of prison of her arms, only to shower her love by sinking her fingers in my hair and gently combing them.

And then she rewards me for the right answer by putting her luscious lips on mine.

It slows me down in the middle of the staircase; she has that effect on me. When her rose breath takes over, she becomes too hot and heavy for me to handle.

I don’t know how she does it. She never has the case of bad breath. One time, I kissed her after she had just thrown up due to stomach flu.

Gross, you say. Not for me. I vowed to love her in sickness and health.

Anyway, her breath was still the same. Like a thousand blooming roses.

Who knows she might have been sneaking out at night to feast on neighbors’ flowers? I think it’s only a matter of time before she asks me to plant some in our own front yard.

Besides, who am I to say no to her for anything? I never have any option but to concede to her every wish. And most definitely not when I am under the spell of her plump lips.

Lost in her magic spell, I find the way ahead through the corner of my eye. Every step to the kitchen is getting harder to take. I can lift a boulder if I have to, but now I feel like going weak at the knees to even carry my light as a feather wife.

I reach kitchen with my tongue tangled to hers and gently sit her on the kitchen counter.

Did I mention she rules my world?

You have no idea how much restraint it takes to get out of the hold of her lips. I try a few times to pull my face away from her, but all in vain. I blame her more for it rather than my half-hearted try. Once she has her tongue shoved deep in my mouth, the game is over for me. I am practically at her mercy then.

I hold her face tight in my hands and finally does the unthinkable. With a pop, I remove my lips from hers. It takes a lot of willpower—I can tell you that.

Honey . . . I hand over a plate full of molten lava cake to her.

Her eyes widen. Stomach grumbles. And a look of sheer joy floats on her face.

This is my favorite.

I know. That’s why I made it.

"You made it?"

Of course. It was not easy though. It took a couple of days of practice, but I finally got the hang of it.

Why did you go through all that trouble? You should have bought one from the bakery.

I could have at any other day . . . She digs the fork in the cake, ready to relish a slice of sweetness. . . . but not today. Not on our special day.

She stops mid-way before the cake could infuse the sweetness of my love in her mouth. She is looking at me with surprise as if she doesn’t know what I am talking about.

Classic!

Happy Anniversary! I kiss her forehead, feeling proud of my life’s biggest achievement. This day trumps every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every holiday there is. It’s so important to me.

I am overwhelmed with joy and excitement, but her face has turned pale. I have never ever seen her flustered like that. Even at my uncle’s funeral, her face radiated of life. It always does.

She put the plate back on the counter and hides her face with her hands.

What happened? I ask.

I shouldn’t have woken her up in the middle of the night. What was I thinking? Surprising her with a piece of molten lava cake?! How stupid of me? She is way better than this. I should have brought her a diamond bracelet, or earrings, or at least a pendant. I am so ashamed of myself.

I forgot. I forgot our anniversary, she says, pressing her eyes with the heels of her palms.

I am not going to lie; it hurts. How can she forget our wedding anniversary? Our first one, nonetheless. But what can I do about it? She is already apologetic enough. Can you not see her struggling to muster up the courage to look me in the eyes? She is on the verge of crying.

I gently pull her hands down. She is looking down, feeling ashamed.

I lift her chin up, jerking her head upwards to my eye level. Can you not deny me the privilege to look in your eyes while talking to you?

She resists but finally glances at me through her wet eyes. Her eyes say it all. She is so sorry.

I cup her precious face in my hands, and with my thumbs, wipe her lashes, which are getting damp by her tears. It’s enough to immerse me into the sea of emotions. Oh, please don’t cry. You know I can’t bear that sight.

I once saw a cute puppy getting crushed under an SUV. I took a few snaps of that accident for my blog post and was on my merry way.

I play the bloodiest and most graphic video games without any concern of what it will do to my brain in the long run.

I have seen some of the bloodiest cage fights in history without my stomach even turning.

You get the point. I am an emotionless beast.

But when it comes down to her, I just melt away. I cannot see her cry. It’s the worst feeling in the world for me. Just awful.

I wrap my arms around her and caress her back to calm her down. I gotta say something to pacify her. It doesn’t matter that you forgot. It’s not a big deal, anyway. I tell you what, next year, I promise I’ll forget it, and you’ll get to remind me. We will be even then.

Not that I would ever forget my wedding anniversary even in my dreams.

As we un-hug, caressing my face, she asks, What have I ever done to deserve you?

Is she serious? What humility?

I lean forward, the tip of my nose brushing hers, my breath mingling with hers to become one. I ask myself the same question every day, but it’s really the other way round. You must be the answer to my lifetime of prayers.

I plant a kiss on her lips, which have already broadened into a smile. Now, can you please take a bite of this cake? I put a lot of effort into it.

I grab the plate from the kitchen counter and hand her the same, waiting anxiously for her approval as she takes the first bite.

Her gloried review is what I thrive for. It’s better than a Micheline star and certainly better than the remarks of judges on the reality cooking shows.

Be honest. Don’t hold back. If you don’t like it, I won’t mind.

She chews it thoroughly, loudly moaning all the way, gesturing deep-thinking nods. I am thinking what should I get you for the anniversary that could remotely match this. She takes a big gulp down and rolls her tongue in her mouth to savor the taste of chocolate. "Seriously, it’s so good."

Bravo! I give an imaginary pat on my back to congratulate me.

You don’t have to get me anything; you gave yourself to me. That’s the greatest gift of all that covers you for life.

I think my remark has made her famished as she stuffs herself with another large piece of cake.

She offers me a small piece of cake, and says, I am sorry. I know it’s our anniversary, and it’s only fair I should share this cake with you, you so meticulously prepared, but I can only spare a bite.

She likes it so much that she could only spare a bite for me. If that’s not a job well done, I don’t know what is.

That’s very generous of you, but you should have it too. I catch hold of her hand and feed the piece of cake back to her. Besides, I have something else in my mind to eat.

What is it?

I grab her hips and moves her a little closer. You . . .

I finger walk on her smooth bare thighs and gently slide my hand under her sweatshirt to reach her pussy. She closes her eyes, bites her bottom lip, and let out a soft moan on getting her pussy stroked through her panty.

While she runs her fingers through my hair, I kneel down and plant kisses on her knees, dawdling on the way up, leaving behind a trail of wet kisses on her strong sexy thighs. But as I am getting closer to the pink valley, her gentle toying with my hair, now turned into intense hair pulling, is making me hornier.

I dunk my head under her sweatshirt and kiss her pussy through her soft panty. I have already got her juices flowing; she is totally wet.

I take a good whiff of her love juice and smell peaches—same as always.

It’s hypnotizing, really. Would it be wrong to say I was craving for it?

She pushes her hips slightly up, and I bite on her black lacy panty in my mouth and pull it down her legs and on to the floor in no time.

Wait! She closes her legs.

Are you kidding me?

She interrupted me at the worst moment possible when my tongue was inches away from her coochie.

I love her, no doubt, but that is completely unacceptable. I don’t like to be disturbed during my playtime.

Honey, I gave you something sweet to eat. It’s only fair I get something sweet of my choice too.

I agree, but I am on the kitchen counter. Isn’t this . . . unsanitary?

Unsanitary?! Baby, with your ass cheeks on this kitchen counter, it’s cleaner than any sanatorium in the world.

I don’t engage in any more conversation and dunk my head back again under her shirt before she could change my mind to take the show in the bedroom.

OH. MY. GOD. That’s her loud moan a couple of seconds later when my fingers are deep in her pussy, which is getting polished alongside with my wet mouth.

I hate to brag, but I am very good at oral sex.

Oh, who am I kidding? I love to gloat about my sexual conquests. I have eaten enough pussies in my days until I chose this one.

It’s perfect—extremely tight and smells like peaches.

And the cream pie tasted nothing but sweet.

I have never tasted elixir, but it can’t be sweeter than her pussy juice, which is very much like it in its own right.

When I think about it, I feel immortal, invincible, and stronger than I have ever been.

Whatever the case may be, I have no shame in admitting that I am pussy-whipped.

Yeah, I said it.

She is well aware of the power she holds over me, but still, she never abuses it. That’s commendable if you ask me.

Anyhow, I think she is close. She pushes my head down, burying it between her legs—that’s her way of saying it.

But I deny her orgasm so soon.

Sensually moving my tongue in perfect circles, I sometimes tease her with just a lick and then stop suddenly before giving it another lick.

She suddenly brings her legs closer, capturing my head between her inner thighs. She couldn’t take the teasing anymore and thrusts forward, humping my face.

I can surely get used to face humping—I am rock hard—only if she doesn’t crush my head right now for punishing her throbbing vagina.

I never doubted that she can do it. Remember, when I told you about her job of looking fabulous? She is very committed to it. Yoga in the morning, spin class in the afternoon, and kickboxing in the evening.

How else do you think she could smash the walnut by keeping it between her ass cheeks? It’s not her superpower; it’s the power of her toned gluteal muscles.

I push her legs apart to free my head and take a couple of deep breaths, filling my lungs with her scent.

Don’t stop! Don’t stop!! She is begging—literally.

The lady shall get what the lady wants.

I get down to business to attend some last-minute details. Her pussy lips swell further, and honey nectar drips as I suck on to her clit in my mouth.

God! I love you so much, I say, latching on to her cunt, eating her out, and lapping up that sweet cunt juice.

She is moaning and chanting my name again and again. I can’t blame her for being a fan; I am a superstar down there,