Chapter 4 Brooks #2
"I'm going to worship every inch of your beautiful curves. Show you exactly how much I want you." My hands find her wide hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin where the shirt has ridden up. "And I'm not taking anything for myself. Not yet. Not until you're ready to give it."
Her breathing goes shallow. "Why?"
"Because you deserve to know this isn't just physical for me." I cup her face, forcing her to hold my gaze. "You deserve to understand how much I want you without any pressure to give back. Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
The certainty in her voice undoes me. I kiss her slowly and deeply, pouring everything I can't say into the press of our mouths. She opens for me, her hands sliding into my hair. When I pull back, we're both gasping.
My hands find the hem of the shirt, my shirt on her body. Possessive heat floods my cock, primal and consuming. Mine. She's wearing my clothes, smelling like me, trusting me with her softness.
"Can I?" I ask, fingers curling into the fabric.
She nods, breathless, and I lift it over her head in one smooth motion.
Bare beneath. Soft curves and warm skin, all mine.
The urge to mark her surges so hard I have to grip the counter edge behind her for control. My knuckles go white, but I force myself still. Force myself just to look. To memorize every beautiful, soft inch of her.
"You're staring," she says, and there's vulnerability in her voice now. Her hands move to cover herself.
"Don't." I catch her wrists gently, pulling them away. "I can't help it. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
Before she can doubt, I capture her mouth again. My hands slide up her sides deliberately slow, cataloging every curve, every soft place. When I finally cup her tits, she gasps into my mouth. They’re the perfect, soft weight. Her nipples harden against my palms.
I break the kiss and trail down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. Taking my time. Tasting her skin. Learning what makes her breathing change. When I reach her tits again, I pause and look up.
Her eyes are dark, pupils wide. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. Watching me. Waiting.
I lower my mouth to her nipple and circle it with my tongue, slow and deliberate.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. I close my lips around the peak and suck, and her back arches toward me.
The taste of her skin floods my senses, salt and vanilla and something darker underneath that makes my jaw ache.
I use my teeth with gentle pressure, then sharper when she gasps my name.
Her hands slide into my hair, pulling, and the sting makes me groan against her skin.
I switch to her other tit, giving it the same attention.
Slow. Thorough. Learning what she likes.
She trembles in my arms. When I suck, she moans my name.
Every sound she makes gets cataloged, stored away.
My hands map her tits and curves while my mouth works. The soft roundness of her stomach. The fullness of her hips. The strength in her thick thighs where they grip my waist. She's all softness and give, where I'm hard edges and sharp angles. The contrast makes primal hunger roar through me.
Mine.
I kiss her soft stomach, and her muscles jump under my mouth. My hands slide to her thighs, spreading them wider, and she understands what I'm asking. What I need.
"You don't have to—" she says.
"I want to." I look up at her, making sure she sees the truth in my eyes. "I need to taste you again. Need to watch you come apart for me. Will you let me?"
She nods, and the trust in that gesture makes certainty anchor in my ribs.
I drop to my knees between her spread thighs. The sight of her hits me like a punch, pink, glistening, swollen for me. She’s so wet she’s dripping, and the raw evidence that I did this to her makes something feral uncage in my chest.
I don’t tease this time. I spread her wider with my thumbs, open her up completely, and drag my tongue through her pussy in one long and slow motion from slit to clit. She jerks, a broken sound tearing out of her, and I do it again, harder, licking up every drop like I’ll die if I miss one.
“Brooks—” It’s half sob, half prayer.
I slide two thick fingers into her without warning.
She’s so wet they sink to the knuckle on the first push.
She clenches hard, fluttering around me, and I curl them instantly, stroking that spot I mapped last night until her hips start rolling helplessly.
My mouth seals over her clit, sucking in the exact pressure she needs while my tongue flicks fast and relentlessly.
Christ, she tastes like sin. Sweet, salty, addictive.
I can’t get enough. I tongue-fuck her alongside my fingers, pumping faster, curling harder, feeling her get impossibly wetter, the slick sounds filthy in the quiet kitchen.
My cock is a steel bar in my jeans, grinding against the zipper, but the ache only drives me to give her more.
Her thighs start shaking against my shoulders.
I wedge them wider, hook one leg over my back so she’s split open, nothing hidden.
I add a third finger, stretching her, and she cries out sharp and desperate.
Her hands fist in my hair, yanking hard enough that my scalp burns.
I growl against her clit, letting the vibration wreck her.
“Come on my tongue, Elorie. Let me feel it.”
I suck her clit hard, flicking it in quick, merciless strokes while my fingers hammer that spot inside her.
She breaks. Her back arches, thighs clamping around my head as she comes with a raw, hoarse cry.
Her pussy spasms around my fingers in long, milking pulses, flooding my mouth, and I keep licking, keep stroking, drawing it out until she’s shaking with aftershocks and gasping my name like it’s the only word she knows.
Only then do I ease off, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to her trembling thighs and her swollen pussy, tasting the fresh rush of her orgasm. When I finally stand, my chin is wet with her, lips swollen, chest heaving.
She’s wrecked, eyes glassy, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. I slide my arms under her and lift her off the counter like she’s made of air. She wraps her limp arms around my neck and burrows into me as I carry her to the couch.
I sit with her straddling my lap, her damp heat pressed against the ridge of my cock still trapped in denim. She whimpers at the contact and hides her face in my neck.
I band my arms around her, one hand splayed across her back, the other cradling her head.
“You okay, sweetheart?” I ask, my voice rough as gravel.
She makes a soft, incoherent sound and nods against my throat.
I smile into her hair and hold her tighter, letting her aftershocks ripple through both of us while my own heartbeat thunders with the three words I haven’t said yet.
Soon.
Her hand slides down my chest, down my stomach, stopping where I'm hard and straining against my jeans. She cups me through the denim, and I catch her wrist gently.
"Not yet," I say.
"But—" She pulls back to look at me, confusion and concern warring in her expression. "Brooks, don't you want me? Because if you don't—"
"Stop." I grasp her hand and kiss it. "I want you so badly I'm afraid I'll take too much. I'm afraid I'll rush this and ruin it." The confession scrapes out of me, raw and honest. "You deserve better than that. You deserve to know this matters to me. That you matter."
She studies my face like she's trying to understand a language she doesn't speak. Finally, she nods and nestles back into my chest.
Morning light shines through the windows. She smells like me now, a combination that makes peace I didn't expect fill my chest. Mine. She's mine. And soon, everyone's going to know it.
That evening, I pick her up at six.
When she opens the door in a top that hugs every curve, my lungs forget how to work. The fabric skims her body in ways that should be illegal. Her hair is loose, framing her face, and she's wearing lip gloss that makes me want to kiss it off immediately.
"You look beautiful," I say.
"Thank you." She grabs a jacket, and I help her into it, letting my hands linger on her shoulders.
The drive to Maggie’s Place in town stretches comfortably. My hand stays on her thigh the whole way, a possessive touch that's become automatic. She doesn't pull away. Just covers my hand with hers and squeezes gently.
The diner is busy when we arrive. It has a classic checkered floor, and something with a downtempo beat plays on the jukebox in the corner. I guide her inside with my hand on her lower back, and heads turn.
Sophie sits in a corner booth with Carla, another bookstore employee, and their eyes widen when they see us. Carla motions to Sophie, and they both lean in, whispering. Across the diner, I spot Elijah with Javi Mendoza, a mechanic close to his age from the base motor pool. He waves, grinning.
Good. Let them see. Let everyone know she's mine.
Elorie and I slide into a red leather booth. It’s cozy, and our knees touch underneath. "I love it here," she says, glancing around.
"You deserve to be surrounded by things you love." I reach across the table and take her hand. "You deserve everything."
Pink rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't pull away. Just laces her fingers through mine and smiles.
We order the diner’s famous Ridgeburgers and fries. Elorie tells me about the bookstore: Sophie’s plans to expand the patio, the new herb garden she's planting out front, the regulars who've formed a book club. Small dreams taking root. Building something real.
Halfway through dinner, a local named Linda appears at our table. She’s dated half the fire and rescue squad, but she’s not my type. Her smile is warm, but her eyes are sharp with curiosity.
"Brooks Maddox, I didn't know you were seeing anyone," she says, and there's a question underneath the statement.
"Linda." I nod to her, but I don't let go of Elorie's hand. "This is Elorie. She works at The Reading Nook."
"Oh, I know who she is." Linda's smile widens. "We just didn't realize you two were… together."
Elorie's hand tenses in mine, and I squeeze gently. Reassuring.
"We are," I say. My voice leaves no room for interpretation. "Very much together."
Linda's eyebrows rise, but she's pleased. "Well. Good for you both. You make a lovely couple." She pats my shoulder and heads back to her table, where Margaret, another serial dater, is practically vibrating with excitement.
Elorie exhales slowly. "That was—"
"Inevitable." I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. "Small town. Everyone knows everyone's business."
"Does it bother you? People knowing?"
"No." The answer comes without hesitation. "I want everyone here to know you're mine."
Her breath catches. "They can probably tell."
"Good." I lean forward, closing the distance between us. "Because you are. Mine. And I'm yours. And I'm done pretending otherwise."
She smiles, soft and sure and beautiful. "I'm not pretending either."
Certainty anchors in my ribs. This is real. This is happening. And I'm not running.
When we leave the diner, I keep my hand on her lower back. Linda and Margaret wave as we pass, and I nod to them. Let them talk. Let the whole town know. I don't care. All I care about is the curvy woman beside me who fits against my side like she was made to be there.
In the truck, I pull her across the console and kiss her. It’s deep and claiming and full of promise.
"Take me home," she whispers.
"Which home?" I ask because I need to know. Need to hear her say it.
"Yours." Her eyes hold mine, dark and certain. "Always yours."
I kiss her again, and the word echoes in my head with every heartbeat.
Mine. It’s all I can think about on the mountain roads home.
My phone buzzes between us the moment we pull into my driveway.
I ignore it and lean in to kiss her, but the buzz continues. Insistent. Wrong. Base emergency alert.
The screen lights up: STRUCTURAL FIRE. ALL UNITS RESPOND.
Her hand tightens on my arm. "Brooks—"
"I have to go. I don’t have time to drive you home." The words taste like ash, but I'm already starting the truck. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." She cups my face, and her eyes are steady. Trusting. "Go. I'll see you when you get back."
The certainty in her voice makes my chest ache. I kiss her once more, hard and desperate, then pull away.
"I'll call you," I promise.
"I know."
I watch her walk across my driveway, making sure she's inside safely before I drive away. The mountains loom dark against the sky, and the radio crackles with dispatch codes I know too well.
But for the first time in seven years, when I close my eyes, it's not Marcus's face I see.
It's hers.
And she's waiting for me to come home.