Chapter 2 #3
His teeth grazed her inner thigh. He nipped gently, making her squeak. All the while, his fingers continued to plunge, coaxing the orgasm from her until she was within an inch of her sanity, her head thrashing wildly on the bed, pleas for more spilling from her lips.
“Fuck me!” she demanded, knowing she wasn’t going to last much longer but also knowing she wanted more than just his head buried between her legs. She wanted all of him buried there.
He gave one final sweep up between her folds with that masterful tongue of his and then reared up like a proud lion ready to pounce; his big, muscular arms bulged with the weight of him on either side of her head.
“Are you drunk?” she asked, not quite wondering why she felt the need to inquire about his sobriety, but somehow feeling it was pertinent information at the moment. The moment where the head of his cock was getting ready to impale her.
“Yes,” he said gruffly, the strain and frustration of not being inside her evident in his tone. “But no beer goggles. I’d fuck you sober, too.” And then she wasn’t allowed to talk anymore. His mouth found hers again as he sank balls-deep inside.
He was a big, feral force within her, pushing her body to the edge, only to churn his hips just right and pull her back before she tumbled over the ledge, riding that paper-thin line for what felt like forever.
Her nails raked down his thick, hard back.
She relished the way he shivered when she squeezed his flexing butt cheeks.
The man was pure muscle, rock beneath her fingertips.
Brock the Rock. His teeth fell to her neck and shoulders.
He began to bite and lick. His lips found her nipple; he suckled, bit, and she lost it.
The climax raced through her. She clenched around him, savoring every charge and quivering on every draw as he slid his thick length across her sensitive channel. She was lost to the sensation of it all, lost to his passion, lost to the way he made her feel.
Guttural moans filled her ear as he found his own release, clamping down hard onto her swollen and needy breast, flicking the bud with his tongue as his hips continued to thrust and punish.
He was heavy on top of her, not frighteningly so, which was surprising, given his size. But as the euphoria of her climax slowly dissolved, she realized that she was tired and wanted nothing more than to go pee and then curl up into bed.
Reading her mind, Brock pulled out, helped her to her feet and pointed to the bathroom. A man of few words but a multitude of talents elsewhere.
When she came back out, he had gotten her a glass of water and pulled the sheets and duvet down.
She didn’t even bother looking for her underwear.
She just drained her glass, wiped the back of her wrist across her mouth and snuggled into his pillow.
She was asleep almost instantly to the scrumptious smell of him, his warm body inches from hers across the bed.
The next morning, Krista woke to the sound of a bear, or perhaps a dragon, roaring in her ear while a big, thick, hairy tree trunk lay draped across her stomach and beer-scented wind ruffled the hair on the back of her neck.
Afraid to open her eyes, she grimaced as the memories of last night came flooding back.
She knew what she’d done.
Knew where she was.
She’d gone home with Brock. They’d had incredible sex and then subsequently passed out. But she just wasn’t ready to see it. To see the reality of her sad, drunken choice.
Who was a fan of the walk of shame?
No one.
It was called the walk of shame for a reason.
The words “for shame” screamed at her in her mind, competing with the headache.
She’d done it once or twice before, the walk of shame, and it was always embarrassing.
At least this time she had worn running shoes and not strappy hooker shoes.
Slowly, quietly, she pried open her eyes, only to come face-to-face with the man who’d rocked her world and then some just a few hours earlier.
His eyes were closed and his mouth partially open, giving him almost a childlike look.
Devastatingly handsome, and now rugged too with a five o’clock shadow of sexy scruff.
And it was the first time he didn’t look on edge or high alert.
The lines in his forehead had relaxed, and his eyebrows were no longer pinched. He was at ease, at peace.
She studied his face a little bit longer; small white scars dotted his chin along the left side, most likely where stitches or staples had been at one point, while another, redder scar in the shape of a sickle and about the size of a raisin ran up into his right eyebrow.
How old was he? It was hard to tell. She glanced down at his arm as it draped across her belly.
Soft, dark hair covered freckles, while a big, calloused hand gripped her ribs.
He made a noise as if he was about to wake up, and she braced herself for the awkward morning chit-chat.
Instead he just rolled over, leaving her devoid of his touch and, for some strange reason, melancholy because of the loss.
But she took her opening and silently slid out of bed, tracked down her clothes and then, like a stealthy ninja, left his house, hoping to God that it wasn’t pouring rain outside.