At my words, he bucked his hips so forcefully, I nearly went flying. His torso knifed up, his arm clamped around me, and he whipped me to my back. His hips driving into mine, his thumb still at my clit, he captured my mouth in a searing hot kiss and didn’t let go even as I whimpered the warning of my fast-approaching orgasm into his mouth.
And he still didn’t let go as one of my arms convulsed around his back, the other hand drove into his hair and fisted, my feet planted themselves in his bed, my hips surged up, and I exploded with a sharp cry against his tongue.
Still coming, Brock’s thumb disappeared and both his hands yanked my legs up and around his hips. He gave me his weight, then both hands went to my ass and he jerked my hips up, deepening his pounding thrusts. His mouth finally released mine in order for his to grunt. Each noise he made throbbed into the walls of my sex and the subsiding wave built and, to my shock, started crashing in again.
“Brock.” His name came from somewhere deep, breathy with surprise and low with pleasure as the second orgasm rolled over me.
My nails dragged his back and my neck started to arch but one of his hands left my hip and slid into my hair, fingers fisting and holding my head steady so he could watch.
The wave receded again just as his thrusts lost their rhythm but increased their violence then, still driving deep, I watched his head tilt back and listened to his release.
When it stopped being vocal and his thrusts regained a rhythm, this one slower and starting to gentle, I lifted my head and pressed my lips against his throat.
He let me do this but when my head dropped back to the bed, his face moved to my neck and, still gliding slowly in and out, his hands started to roam over the silk at my sides.
I held him tight in three limbs, my hand in his thick hair sliding through repeatedly as both our heart rates slowed, our breath evened, and finally he stopped stroking and stayed planted inside me.
Against my skin, with a gentle tug on the material at one side, he asked, “To sleep, you gotta change outta this into a normal nightie?”
I laughed softly and stopped stroking his hair to wind my arm around his shoulders.
After dinner and snickerdoodles, he took me to his bedroom where we fooled around on his bed until we were fooling around partially unclothed then we were seriously fooling around because we were totally naked. He took his time, I took mine and only at the end when it was skin against skin and breathing was so labored there were no whispered words that it got wild and energetic.
This, of course, totally blew out of the water the plan I came up with while kickboxing. Undeterred, after we were done, when I hit his bathroom to take out my contacts and prepare for bed, I slid on the short, deep-lavender nightie with slits up the sides, thick edges of delicate black lace, and a pair of black lace panties, all of which cost a fortune because it was pure silk and the lace was extraordinary.
In glasses and wearing what I thought was an in-joke, I walked into Brock’s bedroom only to find Brock didn’t think my nightie was funny. I knew this when his eyes hit me, his whole face got dark, the air in the room became so sweltering it felt like it was pressing against my skin, and the minute I got close to the bed, he moved. Lunging toward me, his arm hooked me at the waist and he yanked me into the bed, pulled off my glasses, tossed them unheeded on the nightstand, and we started up again. This time, from start to finish, it was wild and energetic. No pleasant exploration, no lazy caresses. It was hot, heavy, and completely abandoned.
I answered his question with, “Actually, it’s kinda comfy.”
His head came up and he looked down at me. “Good, ’cause I like it.”
I grinned at him and whispered, “I kinda got that.”
He grinned back and his head descended so his mouth could touch mine then it slid down my cheek to work at my neck, slow, lazy, and sweet.
His hips moved slightly as he pulled out gently and I drew in a soft breath at the feel of it and the fact I didn’t like the loss of him. My arms gave him a squeeze as my head turned.
In his ear, I whispered, “I have to go get cleaned up.”
His head came up, his sated eyes caught mine, and he whispered back, “All right, baby.”
His face dipped to my throat, his lips touched me there, and he rolled off.
I rolled the other way, got off the bed, snatched up my panties, and headed to his bathroom.
The good news was, his bathroom was clean, though he could use new towels since he clearly bought his in the same year he bought his pickup and his furniture. Not to mention, the bathroom had been installed before The Brady Bunch was in reruns.
Still, it wasn’t icky, which was what I decided to focus on.
I did my thing, slid on my panties, and bent over the basin to look at myself in the mirror.
Hair wild, face flushed, lips swollen, nipples still hard against the silk, I stared and for the first time in my entire life, taking in my reflection, I thought I might be a little bit of all right.
Then I grinned, turned out the light, and walked back into the bedroom.
Brock was leaning across the bed and turning off the light at my side. As I joined him, he was faced the other way and turning off the light at his.
When he was done, he reached out to me, gathered me in his arms, pulled my front close to his, tangled his long legs with mine, and his arm slanted up my back so his hand was in my hair, pulled me deeper as he pushed my face against his chest.
I turned it so I was resting my cheek there and slid an arm around his waist.
“Thanks for dinner,” I whispered against his chest.
“Best part about it was dessert,” he whispered back and I smiled.
Then I sighed.
Then I told him, “I like your family.”
His fingers tensed against my scalp before he murmured, “Good.”
It was then, keeping it real, which was the only way I knew how to do it, I shared, “Just FYI, and I’ll preface this by saying this is not an act of a psycho woman invading your life but a rescue effort, I’m buying you new towels and, uh… new dishtowels as a priority-one mission.”
His voice held a smile when he asked, “A rescue effort?”
“Someone needs to put yours out of their misery.”
There was a short, deep chuckle I not only heard but also felt before. “Sweetness, I got an ex who cleaned me out seven years ago, a job that means I’m rarely home and this includes me bein’ under deep cover on an assignment that lasted a year and a half, a year of that where I had zero contact with family, even my kids, and I got two boys who are at an age they don’t give a shit about anything but the fact the TV works and food is in the fridge. Considering they’re boys, they’ll probably never be at an age where they give a shit about anything but TV and food. Towels are not a priority and dishtowels are definitely not a priority.”
My head tipped back to look at his shadowed jaw in the dark room. “You didn’t see your kids or family for a year?”
His head tipped down and I felt his eyes on my face. “I didn’t see it taking that long but it did, so another, bigger reason for my Statue of Liberty play with Darla.”
“Oh,” I whispered, thinking that now definitely made sense and it made sense before. It was just that now it made more sense. Then I asked, “Does that happen often?”
“I’d had to take undercover work before, not often but it happened, and it was another reason Olivia made my life a misery.”
This, I had to admit, made sense too.
“She didn’t like your job?”
“Olivia likes attention and if she doesn’t get it, she wants other shit to make up for it and that other shit costs money, lots of it, far more than I made. She also isn’t real big on bein’ a mom so bearin’ the brunt of raising two sons was not her favorite pastime and she regards it as a pastime, no joke. So she wasn’t doin’ cartwheels that she didn’t have a man dancing attendance on her and she didn’t have what she felt was restitution for being denie
d that.”
Oh man. This didn’t sound good. Any of it, but especially the part about Olivia not big on being a mom.
“But what you do is important,” I stated.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“And dangerous,” I added and his arm gave me a squeeze.
“Yeah,” he repeated.
I tipped my head down and pressed my cheek against his chest processing the fact that he had a job that meant he might disappear. I was also wondering if I’d be like Olivia, not too happy about that, acting out when it happened, and thinking, uncomfortably, since I knew from experience I’d miss him if he was gone, I might.
“Lease is up on this place next month and I’m already lookin’,” he announced into my thoughts and my head tipped back again.
“Sorry?”
“Things are hot for me here. Last job before the Heller gig exposed me to some folks I don’t wanna know where I work but now they know where I work. This cripples what I do for the DEA, which means deskwork, which means, since I’m a field man and deskwork would be like certain death, I put in for a job with the DPD. I interviewed, got it, and resigned from the DEA three weeks ago. I start at the DPD in the homicide unit in a week. This means more stability, total exposure, and if some slimeball follows me home and home happens to be a decent place, they won’t ask questions. So, I’m lookin’ for a new place.”
I was blinking and processing this new information but having difficulty with it.
Therefore, the only word I could force out was, “Really?”
His voice again held a smile when he replied, “Really. Which means, after years of livin’ with one foot in the underbelly of Denver, I step outta that into a stable day-to-day with that underbelly leaking in in a controlled way, not being what I breathe 24/7. My woman hightailing her ass to Kentucky would not be good.”
“I’m currently reconsidering my plans to hightail my ass to Kentucky,” I informed him and received an arm squeeze and a chuckle then he capped it with his lips touching my forehead before he settled back into the pillows.
Then he said, “Tomorrow, before putting my towels outta their misery, job one for you is callin’ your real estate agent and gettin’ that fuckin’ sign outta your front yard.”
“Okay,” I agreed instantly, got another arm squeeze and chuckle but, alas, no kiss on the forehead.
I pressed my cheek to his chest again thinking stupidly but hopefully and oh so pleasantly that Ellie would look cute in a pink flower girl dress.
“Sweetness?” he called into my replete gathering drowsiness.
“Mm?”
His hand slid from my head down my neck and farther, down the silk at my spine. “You got any more nighties like this?”
“Uh, no, and I have to sell a hundred and fifty cupcakes to afford another one.”
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“It was worth it,” I muttered back.
“Damn straight,” he agreed, still muttering.
I let out a soft giggle.
His hand kept sliding down, rounded my waist, and settled curled around my hip against the bed so he was holding me tucked super close to his warm, hard body.
Then he murmured, “Sleep, baby.”
“All right, honey. ’Night.”
“ ’Night, Tess.”
I drew in a breath and let it go. Then I pressed my cheek deep and held tight to Brock.
My body relaxed and I fell asleep.
CHAPTER TEN
You Baked a Cake?
One month later…
“UH… AREN’T WE just gonna eat that?” Joel asked and I looked from piping a border of cream cheese frosting on the cinnamon carrot cake I was decorating to him and his brother sitting at their dad’s bar.
Update: The last month had been busy.
First, Brock had made two moves.
The first was from his job at the DEA to his job at the DPD.
The second was from his shabby, somewhat scary, definitely taking your life in your hands to ascend the outside staircase apartment to a very not shabby, not at all scary, having no outside staircase rented condo. It was in a small, well-landscaped, quiet, L-shaped layout of condos. The only drawback was he had two parking spaces and the entire complex of twelve units had only three visitor spots, which were around the bend of the L from Brock’s place. So, if his family were around, which was somewhat often, considering he was available, they were close-knit, and still in the throes of emotional turmoil, parking could become a problem.
The rest of it was awesome. A fenced-in front patio that was a sun trap and thus, if the sun was shining (as it had a tendency to do a lot in Denver) the minute you opened the wooden gate, you entered warmth even though it was November. Inside the front door was a big living room with fireplace and two-story slanted ceiling. Up a shortish flight of stairs to the right was a humungous master bedroom with bath. In that was a new king-sized bed with new sheets and comforter.
The bed Brock bought. The sheets and comforter I picked out, not with Brock, who flatly refused to go shopping for sheets and bought the first bed he laid eyes on which, luckily, was a nice one. But instead I went with Elvira, Gwen, and Martha, the former two throwing themselves into this errand with scary abandon and the latter doing it under obvious protest, for she still was waiting for Brock to expose the dickhead within.
In his condo, next to the up flight was a down flight that led to a door that took you down to a full basement with laundry. The lower level above the basement had two smaller rooms separated by a full bath. Beyond the up and down staircase was another short staircase, this only five steps that led to an elevated kitchen that had a railing facing the living room, a small dining area, and a bar that separated a somewhat compact but modern and relatively luxurious (for a rental) kitchen.
As threatened, I had bought Brock new towels and dishtowels and when he moved I added more sets for the boys’ bathroom.
As I would learn, considering they were more meddling, nosy, and intrusive than even Elvira, without his knowledge and using the key he’d given his mother, Fern, Laura and Brock’s other sister Jill commandeered his ratty-assed furniture and delivered it to places unknown that were so covert even a DEA agent couldn’t track them down (and he tried). They then filled the space with a large fantastic, masculine, comfortable sectional, new square coffee table, a handsome upright chest that held his flat-screen TV, stereo, DVD player, PS3 (for the boys) and DVDs, shelves that held CDs and books, and a new dining room set.
Oh, and three new standing lamps and coasters for the living room as well as placemats and an unusual but appealing wrought-iron fat candleholder (with candles scented in “ocean”) to sit on his dining room table.
Unfortunately, they were not finished illicitly rearranging Brock’s new décor and even more unfortunately I was with him when he walked into his new space.
He took one look at it and the air in the room went abrasive as he lost his ever-lovin’ mind.
Also unfortunately, all members of the Lucas family shared the trait of their mood invading the room. These three women had attitude, knew Brock since his life began (except Laura, who was five years younger than him), were not afraid of him, and gave back as good as they got.
Thus began a shouting match that was loud, long, surprising, intriguing, but also a little scary.
I could see that Brock was a man, all man, and his space was his space, his shit was his shit, and he did not appreciate the intrusion and that intrusion signifying a trio of women taking care of a forty-five-year-old man.
And that was all I could see because even though I kept my mouth shut and hung in the kitchen while they shouted it out (though his new furniture was awesome), I agreed with Brock that they were out of line.
This went on for a while and when I say that I mean a long while.
I had the sense they did this not because of new furniture and unwelcome intrusions but more deep-seated issues all of them were dancing around.
It go
t to the point where I feared things that could not be unsaid would be said. Therefore, I was going to have to step outside my status of new girlfriend, and thus person who really shouldn’t get involved, and wade in when Fern pulled out the big (and arguably emotionally manipulative) guns, as it was my experience that mothers on the whole were wont to do.
“If we all haven’t learned something with what’s happening with Cob, Slim, then we’re in trouble!” she shouted.
I watched with some despair as Brock’s torso jerked like he’d been struck and the stony look he had frozen on his face as Fern went on.
“Life is too darned short. Too darned short. I’m a year younger than your father and it is not lost on me that I’m next. So, I’ve decided that my kids are gonna enjoy me and what I can give them while I can watch. Jill and Laura kicked in a little but most of this is from me. This means you won’t get a big inheritance but you weren’t going to get that anyway. It also means I can see my grandsons lazing around on nice furniture in a decent place and I know you don’t think that’s important, but I do. That’s what I want and that’s what I’m going to have.”
She stopped speaking and when no one broke the silence she continued but did it quieter. However, the words she delivered next packed an even bigger punch.
“My girl endured a nightmare,” she said.
My body got tense, Brock’s eyes sliced to his sister, to me then back to his mother when she kept speaking.
“I know you pulled in every favor owed to you and I know you ended up owing more to make sure that man paid for what he did to my girl. I saw what that did to her and I saw it eat at you, you and my other babies. But you were the only one in the position to do something about it and you didn’t rest until that was done for her. I watched my son exhaust himself to make it so his sister could have some peace after that nightmare. And if Laura and I want to say thank you for it then, Slim, you’re damn well going to let us say thank you and keep your mouth shut about it.”
These words, regrettably, had as profound an effect on me, learning this about Brock, as they had on the familial combatants in the living room.