Chapter 3 Bree
Bree
The kiss doesn’t stop.
I mean it literally doesn’t stop.
We’re kissing and he’s backing me against the wall next to my pathetic excuse for an entryway and his hands are everywhere. My waist, my hips, sliding up my ribs to cup my breasts through the borrowed dress that Sora is going to kill me for wrinkling.
“Nico,” I breathe, and I’m not even sure if it’s a warning or permission.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes absolutely wrecked, and says, “Tell me to stop.”
There it is.
The exit.
I should take it.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I say instead.
His mouth crashes back onto mine and I’m done.
His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress.
I hear the slow rasp as he pulls it down, feel the fabric loosening around my body.
The dress pools at my feet and I’m standing there in my nude bra and matching underwear that I definitely didn’t choose this morning thinking I’d be having sex tonight.
He’s staring at me like I’m something precious, or at least worth cataloging. It makes me want to cross my arms over my chest, but before I can, he drops to his knees.
Right there on my floor.
“What are you—” I start.
He kisses my stomach. Just above my belly button. Then lower. Then his mouth is on my hip bone, and his hands are spanning my waist, and oh god his thumbs are tracing the stretch marks I’ve had since puberty decided to be extra generous with my curves.
I try to step back. Try to put some distance between his mouth and the parts of me I don’t love. “The lights. I should—”
“Don’t.” His voice is rough. Almost angry. He catches my wrist before I can reach for the switch. “I want to see you.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, like he can read my mind. Like he knows exactly what I was about to say and he’s cutting me off before I can finish the thought.
Then his mouth is on my thigh, kissing a path upward, and I forget how to form complete sentences.
Jesus Christ the man has a mouth.
“Nico,” I manage. It comes out like a whimper.
“Yeah?” He looks up at me from his knees and the view is absolutely devastating. Dark eyes, messy hair, that scar pulling at the corner of his mouth in a way that should make him look dangerous but instead just makes him look hungry.
For me.
“I don’t—I mean I do but—”
Articulate as always.
“Spread your legs,” he says.
It’s not a question. It’s a command.
And I obey before my brain can catch up because apparently I’m the kind of person who melts when a hot stranger tells me what to do.
Who knew?
His fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear and he pulls them down ever so slowly. Like he’s unwrapping a present he’s been waiting for.
I step out of them and he tosses them somewhere behind him, and then I’m standing there completely exposed except for my bra while he’s still fully dressed on his knees in front of me.
“Hold onto me,” he says.
I grab his shoulders just as his mouth finds me and oh fuck that’s good.
I mean really, truly, devastatingly good. The kind of good that makes your knees buckle and your vision blur and your internal monologue completely shut down because higher brain functions are no longer readily available.
He’s relentless. One hand grips my hip to keep me still, the other slides up to join his mouth, and I’m making sounds I didn’t know I was capable of making.
“Nico, I’m going to—”
“Good,” he growls against me. “Do it. Cum all over my fucking face.”
And I do. Right there against my wall, with his mouth on me and my fingers tangled in his hair and my brain completely offline.
When I come back to myself, I’m shaking and he’s still there, kissing my thigh, my hip, my stomach. Working his way back up my body like he has all the time in the world.
“That was—” I try.
“Just the first one,” he says.
The first one.
Oh.
Oh good.
He stands, and suddenly I’m reminded exactly how much taller he is than me. I’m barefoot now so the difference is even more pronounced. He literally towers over me, all broad shoulders and barely contained intensity, and I feel small and delicate in comparison.
Then he’s kissing me again and I can taste myself on his tongue and that should be weird but instead it’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Bedroom?” he murmurs against my mouth.
I gesture vaguely toward the only other room in my four-hundred-fifty-square-foot studio. “There.”
He glances over and I watch his eyes take in my entire life in one sweep.
The bed with the thrifted frame and the white linens I make every morning.
The small bookshelf crammed with grad school textbooks and romance novels I’m not embarrassed about.
The desk by the window with my color-coded filing system.
“Perfect,” he says.
Liar.
But he’s already moving, guiding me backward toward the bed with his hands on my waist, and I’m too far gone to argue.
We stop at the edge of the mattress and he finally starts undressing.
The jacket comes off first. Then he’s unbuttoning his shirt and oh sweet mother of god.
He’s all lean muscle and controlled strength. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The defined V of his hips disappearing into his pants. A light dusting of hair across his chest that I suddenly have very specific plans for.
And his cock... because he just unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants... his cock is thick and heavy and...
Absolutely perfect.
My breath catches.
He notices. Of course he notices. The corner of his mouth kicks up in a devastating almost-smile and he wraps one hand around himself, stroking slowly while maintaining eye contact. A pearl of pre-cum beads and the swollen tip.
“You see that?” he says. Not really a question. More like a demand for acknowledgment.
I nod because words have abandoned me entirely.
“That’s for you,” he replies as I swallow hungrily.
He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a condom, and tears it open dramatically with his teeth. I watch him roll it on, watch his jaw clench with control, watch the way his hand moves over himself once, twice.
Oh God I am in so, so much trouble.
Then he’s on me. Over me. In me.
All at once.
The stretch is intense. Almost too much. I gasp and his hand covers my mouth, muffling the sound against my thin walls because apparently he’s thinking about my neighbors even while he’s currently inside me.
“Shh,” he murmurs against my ear.
Then starts moving.
Oh.
This is—
I arch into him.
“Good girl,” he breathes. “Just like that.”
The praise sends another shock of heat through me. I’ve never been particularly into dirty talk but apparently my body didn’t get that memo because those two words make me clench around him so hard he groans.
“Fuck, Bree,” he moans. “Do that again.”
I don’t even know what I did but I try anyway, and he rewards me by shifting his angle and hitting something inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
“There?” he asks, doing it again.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I mutter. “God, yes! Don’t stop!”
“Not planning on it.”
He’s relentless. Driving into me with a focused intensity that suggests he’s got a goal in mind and he’s not stopping until he reaches it. My second orgasm builds fast, cresting before I can catch my breath, and I’m biting my own lip now to keep from screaming.
He’s still pounding me, but he pauses as he feels me shuddering repeatedly beneath him.
His lips curl into a dark grin and he presses his mouth against my neck.
“That’s two,” he says against my throat. “Give me one more.”
One more. He wants one more. I don’t think I—
He starts pounding again, building me up. I can’t think. Can’t move. My back arches involuntarily.
Yes—
Yes—
Yes—
His hand slides between us, finding exactly the right spot, and apparently I can.
The third one breaks me apart. I’m shaking and sobbing and clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in the universe. My pussy clenches violently around his cock, trying to milk it for everything it’s worth.
His relentless rhythm falters as his control finally slips. He buries his face in my neck and cums with a low groan that I feel vibrate throughout my chest. Then he collapses on top of me.
We stay like that for a long moment. Both breathing hard. Both trembling slightly. Both trying to process what the hell just happened.
Finally he rolls off me, disposes of the condom in the trash can next to my bed, and pulls me against his side.
We lie there in silence. My hand on his chest. His fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder.
“So,” I say eventually. “So much for using the bathroom, huh?”
He laughs.
“I did use it,” he points out. “Before... this.”
“Fair point.” I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. In the dim light, his scar is less angry. Softer somehow. “Can I ask you something?”
He considers. “Depends on the question.”
I trace the twisted tissue along his jawline with one finger. He goes very still under my touch.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly. “Still?”
“No.” His voice is rough. “Not physically. Not anymore.”
“And... non-physically?” I press.
He catches my hand, pressing my palm flat against his cheek. “Every. Single. Day.”
The honesty in that answer steals my breath.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” He turns his head to kiss my palm. “It made me who I am. For better or worse.”
“I think better,” I say before I can stop myself.
His expression flashes between vulnerable and surprised and almost pained, all in the span of a second. And then he’s pulling me down for another kiss, and this one is different. Slower. Softer. More tender.
When we break apart, he says, “You’re ticklish.”
I frown. “What? I am not.”
His fingers find my ribs and I dissolve into completely undignified giggles that I try to muffle against his chest.
“Liar,” he says, grinning now.
“Okay fine,” I say. “Maybe a little! But if you tell anyone—”
“Who would I tell?” His expression shifts. “I don’t even know your last name.”
Right.
“Dawson,” I say. “Bree Dawson.”
“Briana?”