Chapter 13 #2
Nah—today’s got a rhythm. A soft one. A weirdly good one.
We play with Leon on the carpet, Brielle laughing every time he tries to chew on whatever toy isn’t meant to be chewed on.
She makes lunch like it’s nothing, humming under her breath, moving around my kitchen like it’s already hers.
And somehow, instead of getting twitchy about it, I like it.
I like the sound. I like the smell. I like seeing her there.
We all eat together at the little kitchen table, sunlight pouring in, Leon’s legs kicking like he’s trying to run a marathon in midair.
Brielle’s slowly been introducing him to solids, which has been… chaos. Cute chaos, but still chaos. Today she’s got this bowl of pureed chicken and carrots, with these tiny little bits of broccoli cut so small I’m shocked she didn’t need a microscope to do it.
I’m eating a slice of chicken pot pie she made—golden crust, creamy filling, smells like actual heaven—and Leon’s over there in his high chair absolutely destroying himself and the tray in front of him.
“Buddy,” I say, watching him smear orange mush all over his chin. “You’re supposed to eat the food, not become it.”
Brielle laughs. “He’s experimenting. Let him explore.”
“Pretty sure he’s exploring how to repaint my kitchen in carrot,” I mutter.
Leon slaps both hands into the puree and squeals like he’s just solved world peace.
Brielle grins, wiping a little smear off his cheek with a baby cloth. “He’s doing great.”
“Is he?” I raise a brow. “Because he looks like he lost a fight with a pumpkin.”
She snorts, biting into her pot pie. “Your child is an artist, Desmond. Respect the process.”
“He’s finger-painting in chicken,” I deadpan.
“And doing a wonderful job.”
Leon slams his fist again, this time flinging a chunk of broccoli directly onto my plate.
I blink at it.
Brielle tries—fails miserably—not to laugh. “He shared.”
“Oh yeah, so generous,” I say, side-eyeing her. “Tell him next time to share the part that isn’t green.”
She nudges my knee with her foot under the table, smiling at me like she’s trying not to fall for something she already fell for. “He just wants to include you.”
I look at the broccoli. Then at Leon, who is proudly chewing on something I’m very sure isn’t edible.
“Great,” I sigh. “My one-year-old thinks I need more vegetables.”
“And he’s right,” she teases.
“Keep talkin’ like that and I’m putting you in the high chair next,” I shoot back.
She blushes—blushes—and her eyes flick away, but she’s smiling. Soft. Warm.
The kind of smile that makes even a messy Sunday afternoon feel like something I didn’t know I wanted until it was right in front of me.
Once Leon’s finally down for his afternoon nap—after two stories, a bottle, and five straight minutes of him staring at me like he’s deciding whether he’s actually tired—we make it maybe half an hour before Brielle’s climbing into my lap like it’s where she’s been heading all damn day.
And the second she settles there?
It’s over for me.
She straddles me on the couch, knees bracketing my hips, her tank top slipping off one shoulder, her hair wild from running her hands through it while laughing earlier.
But now she’s quiet. Focused. Breath warm on my mouth as she lines herself up on my cock and sinks down in one slow, devastating glide.
“Oh… god…” she whispers, voice already breaking.
And her hips—fuck—her hips start moving with this confident snap, this hungry little grind that tells me the shyness from the first time? Gone. What she likes? She knows now. What I like? She’s testing.
She’s bold.
And it’s hot as hell.
I grip her thighs, fingers digging in just enough to hold her steady, and she rides me like she’s chasing something sharp.
Not the soft rocking from earlier—this is hunger.
Something deeper. A little reckless. Her rhythm has weight behind it, her body slapping down onto mine with this wet, sweet sound that shoots straight through me.
Her hands slide into my hair, tugging—hard enough to make me groan into her neck.
She gasps at the sound, like she didn’t expect it. Like it turns her on.
And I realize something I should have figured out from the first time I kissed her pressed against that Walmart aisle:
This girl? She likes the heat. The grip. The bite. The weight.
What she doesn’t like is cruelty.
Shouting.
Hatred disguised as dominance.
But rough with care? Rough with want? Rough because my body can’t not touch hers with everything I’ve got?
That’s her sweet spot.
And right now? She’s sitting on my lap and taking me exactly the way she wants it.
Her hands slide down my chest as she bounces harder, head tipping back, mouth falling open in a helpless moan. Her tits move with every slam of her hips, soft and perfect, nipples hard and begging for my mouth.
I grab her ass in both hands—full, warm handfuls—and start guiding her down faster, deeper, meeting her hips with sharp, upward thrusts that make her yelp into my mouth.
“Des—oh fuck—Desmond—” she chokes, fingers digging into my shoulders as I hammer up into her.
“Yeah?” I growl against her jaw, biting it, letting my teeth scrape enough to make her shudder. “That what you want? You want it like this, sweetheart?”
She nods—fast, frantic—and drags her nails down my chest, leaving faint red lines I know I’ll feel in the shower later.
“Harder,” she gasps. “You can—harder—”
I curse under my breath and grab a fistful of her hair, tugging her head back so I can see every inch of that pretty, wrecked face.
Her eyes flutter.
Her lips part.
Her pussy clenches around me so tight I have to grit my teeth to stay in control.
“You sure?” I ask, voice low, gravel thickening every word.
She bites her lip, breath shaking.
“Desmond,” she whispers—pleads, really—“don’t hold back.”
So I don’t.
I lift her off my cock just enough to slam her back down on it, burying myself so deep she cries out, her whole body jolting against mine. She claps a hand over her mouth, remembering Leon’s asleep down the hall.
“Shhh,” I murmur, grabbing her hips, fucking up into her in hard, controlled drives that make the couch creak. “Quiet now, baby. Ride me without waking him.”
She whimpers into her palm—broken, desperate, perfect—and her hips circle in this wild, messy grind that drags a groan out of me that shakes through both of us.
Her forehead falls to mine, sweat beading at her hairline, breath coming in hot little gasps across my lips.
“I like you like this,” I rasp, grabbing her ass again, pulling her flush against me as I thrust up deep enough to make her whole body seize around me. “Taking it. Not afraid of the rough. Just needing someone who knows the difference between fucking hard and fucking mean.”
She moans—quiet, shaky—but it’s agreement. It’s relief. It’s want.
And she rides me harder.
Oh, she rides me like she’s starving.
Like her body’s trying to tell mine something her mouth can’t keep up with.
Her movements get erratic—hips stuttering, nails digging into my shoulders, her pussy tightening around me in frantic pulses—and I know she’s close again, already soaked, already trembling.
“Come on,” I growl, lips brushing her ear. “Give it to me. Come on this cock, baby.”
She breaks.
Silently—because she’s biting her fist, whole body shaking, hips grinding down in these sharp little bursts as she falls apart in my lap.
Her walls clamp around me, tight enough to make my breath hitch, and I hold her through it, fucking her through every little tremor, every helpless tremor of her thighs.
And as she comes undone—messy, beautiful, ruined in my hands—I catch her around the waist with one arm, cradling her close so she doesn’t collapse backward.
Because rough doesn’t mean reckless.
Because she can have all the fire she wants from me—but never the harm.
And as she sinks into my chest, panting, lips trembling against my throat…
Yeah.
I know it.
I’d give her this every damn day.
Also Brielle is… so damn sweet it knocks something loose in me I didn’t even know was still there.
Take right now for instance.
End of the night, house quiet except for the low murmur of the game on TV. I’m sunk into my couch, one leg stretched out, cold beer sweating in my hand. The whole place smells like pot pie and fabric softener and the warm baby smell that clings to Leon’s hair.
I should be winding down, brain going static after a long day.
But she’s across from me—no, with me—curled into the corner of the couch with Leon asleep on her chest like he belongs nowhere else.
One of his little hands is fisted in her tank top, holding on like she’s the only safe thing he knows.
His cheek is smushed right against her breast, and he’s drooling.
She doesn’t move him. Doesn’t even flinch.
She just smooths his hair, soft little circles, her fingers careful around his cowlick.
And she keeps asking me these gentle-as-hell questions—voice low so she doesn’t wake him, tone warm and honestly curious—like she wants to know me, not interrogate me.
Not dig.
Not pry.
Just… be here.
She glances at the screen, then at me, her hair falling in her face until she tucks it behind her ear.
“Is your team playing?” she asks, soft as a sigh.
And damn— hat simple sweetness hits harder than anything else today.
I look at her—really look—and it’s stupid how much that question hits me in the chest.
How long since someone asked about my night that didn’t involve bills or schedules or shit that needed fixing?
How long since someone talked to me like I was a person, not a problem to solve or a machine that doesn’t break?
Her eyes flick to mine, curious. Gentle. Like she likes hearing me talk. Like she wants to know what matters to me.
My team.
The damn game.
Something no one’s cared about in years.
I clear my throat, rub the back of my neck, suddenly aware I probably sound like a kid about to talk about his favorite toy. “Yeah,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “They’re in the red jerseys.”