23. Ember #3
“Say it, Emmy. Keep saying it.”
He doesn’t slow down.
He works his tongue against my clit harder, his fingers bottoming out inside me until I’m completely breathless, my thighs shaking violently against his shoulders.
“I’m—I’m sorry!” I yell, my back arching off the sofa. “I’m sorry, damn you! You’re not a prick!”
He hits that exact spot one more time, his fingers driving in deep, and the tension snaps with a violent shudder that takes the air right out of my lungs.
My whole body dissolves, my muscles clamping down tight around his fingers as I come hard against his mouth, my hips bucking helplessly as the waves of pleasure crash through me.
When he finally pulls back, his gray eyes are wide and dark, dilated with a raw, primal intensity that makes my breath hitch. He stands up, his chest heaving, his skin slick.
His gaze locks onto mine as if he’s trying to memorize the way I look right now. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a clean handkerchief, and instead of just wiping his own face, he leans over me.
He wraps the cloth around his hand, gently parting my legs further. He wipes the wetness from my inner thighs and the lower curve of my stomach with slow, firm, and surprisingly tender strokes.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and grounding, stripped of the intensity from a moment ago. He keeps his eyes on mine, checking for any sign of discomfort. “Tell me if the pressure is too much. I want to make sure you’re alright.”
I nod and he lets out a soft breath.
It’s a level of intimacy that feels deeper, somehow, than the pleasure itself. He moves with a quiet, focused care and when I finally meet his gaze, he smiles—a genuine, soft expression that reaches his eyes.
“There she is,” he whispers. The words come out almost reverent, like he’s more affected by my pleasure than he expected to be.
Then he sets the damp handkerchief on the side table and picks up my shorts and underwear, dropping them lightly onto my stomach. “We’re not doing the rest tonight.”
I blink up at him. “We’re not?”
“No,” he says, a dark smirk tugging at his mouth. “Tonight was just to prove a point. You keep underestimating me, Emmy. I wanted you to know I can take care of you properly.”
“A point?” I challenge, my voice still breathless but bubbling with amusement.
I pull the shorts over my hips, sitting up and giving him a cheeky, lopsided grin.
“That’s a hell of a lot of work for a point, hot neighbor.
And for the record, your apology technique is honestly a little dramatic. Very theatrical.”
“I’m a hard worker, Emmy. You know that.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to the tip of my nose.
I huff, letting my head fall back against the sofa cushions. “Hard worker? Please. That was purely for your own amusement.”
Brooks lets out a low, rumbling laugh. He shifts his weight, his fingers tracing the curve of my side, his expression softening as he studies my face.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
I blink at him, feeling a flush of genuine affection hit me. “I’m good, Brooks. Honestly. Didn’t you hear me? I think I made it pretty clear I was enjoying myself.”
He tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Oh, I heard you. I just like to be thorough.”
I roll my eyes, though I can’t stop the smile from breaking across my face. “Thorough? I’m honestly a little disappointed that you didn’t just lose your mind and cum in your pants the second you saw me. I expected a little more collapse-on-the-spot energy from you.”
Brooks lets out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Oh, trust me. I almost did. I’ve been holding on by a thread since I walked through that door. Don’t think for a second that just because I kept my head, it wasn’t a struggle.”
I smirk, satisfied, and give his shirt a playful tug. “Glad to know I’m not the only one feeling a little unraveled.”
His expression shifts then, the playful banter fading into something quiet and earnest. “Look, all jokes aside—I mean it. If I’m ever doing something that isn’t working for you, you tell me. I just want to make sure you’re actually enjoying it.”
“I’m enjoying it, Brooks. I promise,” I say, meeting his gaze.
He nods, seemingly satisfied with that. He pulls back just enough to check his watch, and his face pulls into a grimace. “Damn it.”
“Shift?”
“Shift,” he confirms, letting out a heavy sigh as he stands up. “Five hours until I have to be at the station. If I don’t get some sleep, the whole department is going to be wondering why I’m staring blankly at the pump controls instead of doing my job.”
“God forbid the town burns down because you were busy being a menace at my house,” I say, though I’m already feeling the sudden, cold hollow his absence leaves behind.
He pauses at the edge of the parlor, looking back at me with a look that’s equal parts frustrated and fond.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says, his voice firm. “And sleep. That’s an order, city girl.”
“Or what?” I tease. “You’ll come back and make me apologize again?”
He grins—a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. “You know I would.”