Glad he finds this amusing.
“I thought I’d find you in here,” Brig says, coming through the front door of the Parlor. “Is the kitchen clean? I want to make sure Reid did a good job.”
Standing behind the register counter, I nod. “Everything is good.”
“Good.” He locks the door behind him and shuts off the lights, leaving only the backlight to the kitchen on, illuminating me from behind.
The evening went as expected: me burning up inside every time I made eye contact with Brig and then avoiding him every chance I got until he finally caught me with Rylee. From there, things went downhill. I was so embarrassed by Rylee’s confessions, that I took myself over to the Parlor to clean and pack up leftover food.
And that’s where I’ve been since. I have to say, I’m still in awe. Surrounded by my new venture, I feel so proud. The boys captured the sense of decadence and fun I wanted, with little input from me. But I know now that Brig ensured every placement, every detail was just as I’d designed it. And that means the world to me. As does the man in front of me with a look of resolution and purpose in his eyes.
Determination in his stride, he cuts the space between us and comes up right in front of me, pinning me against the counter, hands on either side of my body.
The air between us seems to shrink as he stares down at me.
Irritation.
Fascination.
Lust . . .
It’s all there, swimming in his features.
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” he says, his breath tickling my neck as he brings his face close to mine.
“Brig, I really think we should—”
“You’ve done enough talking,” he says, that anger returning. I feel his body tense and then he pushes off the counter, gripping his styled hair. The suit jacket he was wearing is gone, and instead it’s just his button-up shirt tucked into his dress pants. The sleeves are rolled and the top two buttons are undone, giving me a peek of a sprinkling of hair. “You should have told me,” he says, looking me in the eye.
“It wasn’t that easy, Brig.”
“Seems pretty easy. All you had to do was tap me on the shoulder and say, hey, I like you. Lord knows, you’ve had plenty of opportunities.”
“You never would have given me a second look.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “You can’t say that about me. You have no fucking clue how I would have reacted.”
“Are you really mad right now?” I ask, growing irritated.
“Yeah, I am. Do you know how many people at the party knew about you liking me? Almost all of them.”
“Jesus, Brig, what did you do, take a tally?”
“Doesn’t matter what I did. What matters is that you didn’t tell me.”
“Why does it matter so much to you?” I ask, my voice rising. “Do you really think you would have done something about it? I practically propositioned you with my breasts. I held your hand and showed you more affection than ever before. And you didn’t react. That showed me that you weren’t interested in me. So, how can you say that I should have said anything when it was clear you weren’t seeing me as more than a friend? Do you think you would have reacted or done anything differently?”
His eyes sharpen, and before I can take another breath, he’s lifting me up on the counter, spreading my legs, and pressing his body against mine as his hand snakes to the back of my neck.
“I sure as fuck would have done something about it,” he says right before his mouth crashes down on mine.
Need rushes through my bones, weakening my muscles, and softening my resolve. It takes all but two seconds before I give in to the demands of his mouth. I press my hands to his chest, exploring the thick contours of his pecs, the way they slope perfectly with his body, thick and strong.
My thumbs stroke across his hardened nipples, and he groans into my mouth, pulling me flush against him, my center meeting his pelvis.
And, oh God . . .
I lose my breath, gasp against his mouth, his erection sparking something deep within me that’s felt darkened for years.
My fingers sift through his hair, pulling, tugging, my voice a distant whisper when I speak. “Brig . . .”
“Fuck,” he mumbles against my jaw, moving his lips down to my neck as his hands travel over my torso to my thighs. His large hands span the width of them, his thumbs dragging deliciously toward the center.
Higher
And higher.
Until they are under my skirt, at my hipbone, pressing against the string of my thong. His thumbs loop under, pulling, tugging, indicating his intentions.
Heat envelops me, common sense is thrown out the window, and I lift my hips, using his strong body to help me, and he tugs on my thong, pulling it over my ass and then down my legs. I watch as he bundles it up and sticks it in his back pocket.
When he looks back up at me, our eyes connect—our heated gazes collide—and the air erupts with sexual hunger as he charges forward again. This time, he pushes my legs even farther apart, completely exposing me.
Carnal desire drips off him as his mouth finds mine again, his tongue lashing at mine, his hands gripping my face with such intensity that I have no other option than to succumb to his demands.
His thumbs move my jaw, widening my mouth, making way for his unhinged fervor. Like waves crashing into the harbor rocks, desire beats into my chest, constricting my lungs, causing my mind to float somewhere else, somewhere dreamlike. A place where all you do is feel and listen.
His grunts permeate my ears as his tongue dives and slides against mine.
The air pumps between our bodies, licking against the blaze between my legs.
The shift of his dress pants is like a dozen feathers rubbing along my inner thighs.
Sexual need beats through me like a pulse, seeking release it hasn’t felt from a man in a long time.
As if he can sense how ramped up I am, he takes my hands from the back of his head and places them on the counter behind me. Then he kisses my jaw, my chin, my neck . . . my collarbone.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Brig . . .”
He doesn’t answer. He dips lower, rubs my legs with his strong hands, lifts the skirt of my dress, and then he groans.
Eyes heady, he glances at me briefly, as if looking for permission. When I don’t stop him, he bends forward and brings his mouth to my inner thigh.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes as my head falls back, my gaze focusing on the ceiling as Brig directs his mouth right to my center.
Mouth falls open.
Legs spread even wider.
A zip of electricity bolts up my spine as Brig’s tongue swipes across my swollen clit.
“Oh fuck, Brig.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m hard,” he says, looking up at me. “And you taste so fucking good, Ruthie. Shit. You taste good.”
And then his mouth is back on me, sucking.
His tongue peeks up, flicking.
His breath hums against my clit, warm.
He brings his thumbs to both sides of my pussy and then parts me even wider, only for his tongue to flatten against my clit and pulse.
“Jesus,” I moan. My entire body is on fire. The feeling of falling off the counter threatens the gravity holding me down. My legs shake, nothing to anchor on to. “I can’t hold on,” I say, his tongue performing long, languid strokes.