Chapter 7
HOPE
Is sleeping with Marshall a bad idea? Probably.
Am I going to do it anyway? Absolutely.
There’s a solid chance I’m going to hate myself a few days from now, after Hillary leaves and this fake relationship ends.
It’s been unbelievably nice to pretend someone wants me the way Marshall does.
I’m sure after we sleep together a couple of times, he’ll move on and leave me a little shattered.
But that’s Future Hope’s problem.
Right now, Present Hope wants to get good and laid.
We barely make it inside the house before we’re stripping each other of our clothes. A wicked part of me hopes Hillary makes it back early and discovers a trail of clothing from my front door to my bedroom. For whatever reason, my sister just cannot seem to fathom that Marshall wants me.
Our lips fuse together as hands roam, and we shuffle our way through my Christmas-décor filled house to my bedroom.
When we collapse onto my bed, Marshall’s on top of me, wrapped around me like he’s protecting something precious. I’m still in my panties as I wind my legs around his lower back and grind against his hard cock without shame.
“God you’re beautiful, Hope,” he says, kissing me harder as his fingers work the clasp of my bra. He tosses it to the side, and it catches on my lampshade. We both look at the bra, then at each other, and laugh.
“Oops.” I say in a giggle.
The easy laughter turns heated once again, and Marshall grips my breast greedily as his mouth returns to mine. We grind against one another, like horny teenagers. It feels so damn good.
“Oh my God, Marshall,” I cry out, alarmingly close to the edge. How did that happen so fast? When I’m going the DIY route, it takes forever for me to finish. But with Marshall, I’m on verge of exploding in seconds of contact.
“Come for me, Hope.”
“I don’t want to yet—”
He kisses me hard once, then locks that hazel gaze with mine. “It’s cute that you think you’re only coming once.”
I shatter at that declaration. He grips my ass tight, holding me against his erection as my body convulses. The delicious friction nearly makes me go blind.
When I finally still, Marshall slides down my body, peeling away my panties. He tugs me down, until my knees hook over the edge of the bed, and he kneels. When his mouth makes contact with my sensitive pussy, I buck into his face.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he says, the vibration of his words sending me into another dimension. It’s as though I haven’t fully come down from my first orgasm, and a second is threatening to hit me any second. I grip his hair and shove his face hard into me, desperate for his mouth on me.
Then I think twice and release the death grip on his head.
He looks up from between my legs. “You don’t have to be gentle with me, Hope. Suffocate me with your sweet pussy. I want you to.”
I nearly come from his dirty words.
I always thought I wanted a nice Hallmark man who’d say all the right things.
But that was before I heard Marshall McCray dirty talking to me.
I fist my hand in his hair and lift my hips to his face.
The man shows me no mercy as his mouth and tongue destroy me in the best way possible.
I come apart so hard I nearly shoot off the bed.
I don’t hold back my cries, not giving two shits if Hillary can hear me all the way from the spa.
I’ve never experienced pleasure like this before.
It’s like something out of the romance novels Kelsey writes.
Too good to be true, yet somehow, very true.
Have I really wasted all this time resisting Marshall when I could’ve been having the best orgasms of my life all along?
“You’ve always been the sexiest woman in the room,” Marshall says, crawling up my body once more. “But watching you come is the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
I’ve never felt so desired in all my life.
“Get those boxers off, and you can watch me come again.” A tiny thrill rushes through me at the heated look in Marshall’s eyes. I did that. I lift my hips, rubbing against his hard length and a smug smile crosses my lips. I also did that.
“I don’t have a condom—”
There’s a careless, lusty-brained part of me that wants to say fuck it. Forget the condom. But the grounded, logical voice whispers just loud enough for me to hear. It reminds me Marshall has something of a reputation, and a condom would be the safest bet.
“I’m clean, Hope. But if you want to wait—”
“I have one.” I bite down on my bottom lip. “Just not in here. Be right back.”
I expect Marshall to wait on the bed, sans boxers. Instead, he trots after me like Gram would. “I knew you had a secret sex dungeon,” he says as I unlock the door at the end of the hall.
“It’s not a sex dungeon.” I twist the knob, but hesitate opening it. I haven’t let many people see this room, and I’m not sure I’m ready for Marshall to see it either. He might decide I’m the furthest thing from sexy when he does.
“Prove it.”
“I’d really rather not.”
“Do you have like jars of human teeth in there or something?” he teases.
“No.”
“Then show me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I still want to get laid.”
Marshall closes the distance between us, caging me against the door. He cups both my cheeks in his hands and draws me in for a kiss that leaves me breathless. “There is nothing you could hide behind that door that would make me change my mind about wanting to be inside you, Hope.”
“Not even a dead body?”
Marshall’s eyes widen for a beat, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s just the sliver of bravery I need to share my secret room.
I open the door and walk in, searching for the box of condoms I used for a drawing inspiration last week. If I stay busy, I don’t have to take in Marshall’s reaction to my art studio.
“Hope, this is amazing.”
“Come again?”
“You’re an artist.”
“I guess. They’re just coloring pages—”
“You drew all these?”
“Yeah. They’re not that special or anything.” I turned the largest spare bedroom into my design studio when I moved into the house, long before I knew it would be a viable business. It’s a creative space that gets the best light in the house. “They’re mostly inspirational quotes—”
“That one looks very inspirational,” Marshall says, pointing to a drawing of a box of condoms with an alien standing off to the side. The caption—I cum in peace—takes up most of the picture.
“My art is a little…different,” I admit.
“You really like the word fuck, don’t you?” Marshall asks, examining the area I have come to call my I don’t give a fuck corner.
“Yeah, I do. Speaking of fucking…do you still want to? You know, now that you’ve seen my secret room?”
Marshall turns, his steel rod nearly taking out a cup of markers on the counter. He gestures to his boxers. “Does this answer your question?”