“You, pressuring me?” He punctuates the statement with a low laugh. “Babe, there is no such thing as you pressuring me. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
His body is big and warm and wrapped around my naked flesh, more calming than sensual.
Ready or not, here we are…
His breathing is labored, like it was when he got out of the elevator tonight. Like it was the day he walked out of the stairwell. Like he sounds after he’s been out for a run. In and out, breathing hard, breath hitting my belly as his hands stroke my spine.
Fingers pressing into my flesh, wanting but controlled. Big, strong hands, fingers calloused from utilizing technical pencils at work. Working hands. Skilled hands that create buildings and communities and jobs.
Smart men turn me on.
Clever, sarcastic men turn me on.
Sweet, considerate Brooks is turning me on…
In one motion, he’s standing, sweeping me up, hoisting me by the hips, hauling me over his shoulder and starting toward the bedroom.
I gasp, startled. “Brooks, what are you doing?”
“Taking you to the bedroom.”
“But I didn’t get to do my striptease or my lap dance.”
“Sorry, babe, but you suck at sexy seduction.”
Babe, babe, babe.
This is the second time he’s called me babe, and I blush, basking in it.
“I just need practice,” I tell him, just as he unceremoniously dumps me in the center of his bed. I fall in a heap onto a dark down comforter.
“You don’t need practice, you need to stick to being sweet and sassy—you don’t have to get naked to turn me on.”
He’s pulling at the hem of his hooded sweatshirt, yanking it up over his head and tossing it to the ground. His chest is broad and smooth, sculpted from hours of working out at the gym with his buddies.
I lean back on the mattress, admiring his pecs and wide shoulders—two of my favorite male body parts besides the pleasure trail leading down to the dick.
“You think having sex is a good idea?” I raise a brow, making room for him on the bed as he strips out of his low-slung pants.
“No, I think it’s a horrible idea.” Naked Brooks is a sight, lean and fit but not perfect. A surgery scar cuts across his abdomen, marring his skin. “If you want me to go down on you, I will—we don’t have to have sex.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” I laugh. “We’re having sex.”
“You’re the boss.” Brooks is crawling up my body, trailing kisses over my calves. My knee. The tender skin of my inner thigh, making me shiver. “Cold?”
Yes. “Warm me up.”
With two hands, he spreads my legs, elbowing them apart. Settles himself in, blowing puffs of air at the apex before planting a kiss on my pussy. Thumbs the folds apart before licking, tongue tentative.
I prop myself up on my elbows, no intention of missing the show.
There’s something about seeing a man’s head between your legs that’s as seductive as the act itself. An aphrodisiac. Sexy.
Erotic.
Brooks licks. Sucks. Runs the scruff from his unshaved beard stubble against my clit until I throw my head back, letting my body relax against the pillows.
I spread my legs wider, propping a foot on his shoulder, ass lifting off the mattress.
Squirm.
Moan.
“F…fuck me.” I want him inside me.
He sucks harder, ignoring me.
“Brooks.” I run my fingers through his dark hair, tugging. “I need you inside me.” Pause. “Please.”
I’m nothing if not polite; that’s the way I was raised.
Sucks and sucks and sucks some more until I whimper. The sound of my groan has his head pulling back, and I see him lick his lips. He bends again, this time kissing my pelvis with a soaking-wet mouth.
“You taste so good.” He kisses my belly. Sternum. “I could live down there.”
And I’d let him, forever and ever, amen.
“Slide in slow,” I demand when he’s braced above me, one arm on each side of my head. It’s going to be easy for him to penetrate me; I’m soaked. Giddy and excited.
“I don’t know if I’ll last ninety seconds,” he jokes, voice hoarse when the tip of his cock brushes against my pussy. I reach up and run my palms down his arms, clasping his firm forearms.
They’re quivering, slightly unsteady.
I can’t see his eyes; he has them squeezed shut, brows furrowed into a deep line of concentration. He looks serious and stern—not the cavalier Brooks I’m used to.
And then…
…he slips in.
Slowly, a little bit at a time, killing us both.
We moan in tandem, tortured. His dick is gloriously snug as it stretches me; I feel full.
“Jesus. Christ.” He’s panting now, pausing for a break. “I’m never going to last—you’re so fucking tight.”
“Are you going to start dripping sweat all over me?”
Brooks laughs, head bowing so I can kiss his forehead.
“Fuck, Abbott,” he curses again. “I’ve fucking dreamt about this.”
He has? When?
I don’t ask, can’t get the words out, suffocated by the sensation of his body against mine. By my breasts brushing against his chest, our pelvises connecting, his thrusting in and out.
I want to remember this moment forever. Not sure if I’ll have it with him again.
When I imagined myself having sex with Brooks, it was fast and hot and heated, not the slow and methodical reality—the kind of sex you have when you’re not just having sex. It’s the kind of sex you have when you’re making love.
He’s watching my face as he moves in and out. He’s kissing my lips. Kissing the sensitive skin in the corner of my eye.
Burying his nose in my neck as if memorizing the way I smell. Stroking my hip with his palm as he strokes me on the inside. Saying my name, repeating it like a prayer.
“Abbott…Jesus, Abbott…” Low and gravelly. Hoarse.
My hands caress his back while he moves above me, grazing his skin, and I marvel at how smooth and soft it is. If I could touch him like this all night, I would.
My eyes trail down the length of his torso, the sight of our bodies connected fueling me on. I flex my Kegels. Flex my ass. Run my hands down his backside and squeeze his rear-end, pulling him up and in so he’s deeper.
His body is beautiful. The perfect balance between fit and normal, Brooks is no superhero. He’s not too hard and not too soft.
I come before he does, moaning out his name when the quivers rack my ovaries, lifting my head so I can kiss the center of his chest. Turning my head so I can press my mouth against his bicep as I whimper.
I’m not a screamer. Not a loud moaner. Not the theatrical type of girl in bed. I’m silent, with just enough noise to let the person I’m with know I’m climaxing so he knows he can come, too.
“I’m gonna come too, baby.” He pumps in and pushes, circling his pelvis round and round, and I grip his ass tighter.
“Yes, come,” I tell him, giving him the permission he needs.
“Where do you want it?” he asks frantically. “Where do you want me to come?”
Uh. Well, ideally? Inside me.
But we didn’t put on a condom, just started having sex without the conversation—which I just now realized.