"Fuck yes. Just like this."
He pulled me backward by the hips and I grabbed onto the edge of the counter, pushing back against him as I bent over the counter. I swallowed hard and gasped in pleasure as his massive cock filled my tight pussy. God, oh god. So good. So fucking good, the way he felt. His hands slid up my body to cup my boobs, and now, with his dick inside me and at the edge of orgasm, my nipples were more sensitive than ever, and my nips were always insanely sensitive.
He met my eyes in the mirror. "Fuck me, Claire. You do it. Show me how you like to be fucked."
I closed my eyes momentarily, relishing the ache of his cock inside me, stretching to a burning throb, and then opened them, meeting his eyes. And then I did what he said: I showed him how I like to be fucked. I used the counter for leverage, shoving my ass back against him, taking him deep and then twerking away to slide him out. Starting slow, I built up speed steadily until I was undulating against Brock as hard and fast as I could. His hands clutched my tits the whole time, and yet he didn't move with me. He just let me fuck him.
And then, as I neared the edge all over again and felt him shuddering and heard him gasping, he grabbed my hips and halted me. "Wait," he murmured.
"What?" I demanded. "I was close."
"Me too." He growled as he pulled away from me.
"Then what are you doing?" I felt desperate, needing in this moment at least that connection with him, to keep at bay all the shit I was refusing to think about.
"Making you wait."
"Why?"
He just smiled at me, a secret, amused, thoughtful little smile. He pulled out of me completely, spun me around, and brought my hand to his cock. I slid my fist around him, eying him. "You wanna come on my tits? Is that it?"
"Could be fun."
He was up to something.
"How about my face?" I remembered yesterday's drunken admissions all too well; maybe that's what this was about. I dropped to my knees and stroked his cock with both hands. "You wanna shoot your load all over my face?"
He let me touch him, but he didn't answer. And I was losing the edge of my orgasm; this wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to be touched, to be fucked, to be held, to be taken, to have Brock all around me, blocking out the world.
"Is this what you want, Claire?" he asked, almost as if he could read my mind.
I kept stroking him with both hands and didn't answer.
"Is it?" he repeated.
"No."
He lifted me to my feet, grabbed my wrists to slow my touch. His other hand went between my legs, and he touched me. I widened my stance so he could access my clit, and access it he did, flicking and stroking until I was at the verge again, involuntarily squeezing and stroking his cock as I flexed my hips with the rhythm of his flicking fingers.
"What do you want, Claire?" he asked, slowing until I started to lose the edge.
"Don't stop, Brock, please."
"Then tell me what you want." With one hand he gripped my wrists, keeping me from caressing his length, and with the other he teased me, edging me, keeping me from coming but always near the edge.
"Tell you what I want?" I leaned back against the edge of the counter. "Why?"
"I want to know."
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I want this to be more than just good fucking, Claire. I want this be real. And if you never tell me what you really want, then it can't ever be real."
Oh god. Oh god. I was so close, and I had an image of what I wanted, but the words were stuck. He would hate it. He would think it was stupid, and embarrassing. He wouldn't do it. He would call me a freak, a slut.
"Tell me, Claire."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you won't want to do it. And you'll--"
"Try me. Have I judged you for anything yet?"
"No, but--"
"Then try me, Claire." Three fingers then, finger-fucking me, giving it to me hard and fast, squelching in and out wetly, curling just so, pushing me to the edge of what I was sure was going to be an actual squirting orgasm, and he knew it, too, because that's exactly what he was going for.
"I'm scared to tell you," I whispered.
"Why?"
I couldn't answer. Didn't answer.
He leaned against me, sucked my breast into his mouth, flicked his tongue against my nipple, rocking his hand against me so his fingers fucked me and the heel of his palm struck my clit just the way I needed it.
"Why, Claire?"
I felt it break over me, then, and I couldn't help answering, the words were just ripped out of me as the climax battered through me like a tornado. "Because I'm afraid of falling in love with you, goddammit!" I shouted. "And I'm afraid if you know the things I want, you'll leave me!"
I felt myself break open on his hand, everything inside me clamping and clenching as a wall of blasting heat crashed through me, and I felt my orgasm wrench something free, something wet that I was afraid was pee squirting out of me beyond my control. I sank my teeth into Brock's shoulder to muffle a scream as I came like a lightning bolt searing through me, and he didn't relent, but kept driving me through the orgasm, kept me in it, weltering in the primal, coruscating ecstasy of an orgasm like no other.
"Tell me what you want, Claire," he murmured, his lips nuzzling my ear.
"Open the curtains and press me up against the window and fuck me," I whispered. "Fuck me as hard as you can. Fuck me until you come inside me, bare, and then force me down to my knees and watch me lick your cock clean."
"Holy shit," he breathed.
"Yeah. I told you, I like--"
He put his hand over my mouth, and his fingers smelled like my pussy. "Claire? Shut up."
He whirled me around and gave me a surprisingly forceful shove toward the window.
HOLY SHIT.
Oh my god, holy shit, and kill me dead--he was going to do it? No way, no way, no way.
Yes way.
I reached the window, and he shoved the curtains aside. Below, the city was waking up, a few early risers passing back and forth on their way to work. My heart was crashing in my chest, and not just from the intensity of the orgasm. I was still shuddering from it, and it would only take the slightest touch to set me off again.
The window was huge; nearly floor to ceiling, and our room was on the second floor.
He pressed me up against the glass, my tits smashing flat against the cold window. I reached up to hold the frame, and then lost my ability to breathe as Brock slid himself into me, grinding deep, impaled to the hilt inside me. Oh...fuck.
This was real. Up against a window, in broad daylight. Brock behind me, the city before me, a wakening city full of lots of wealthy people--this was Birmingham, after all, one of the wealthiest towns in Michigan. His cock drilled into me, and I groaned in bliss.
"Like this?" he demanded, pounding into me.
"Fuck yeah, god yes, Brock, just like this."
He reached up, took both of my hands in his without missing a beat, and pinned my wrists behind my back with one of his strong hands, using the leverage of my arms to press me harder against the window, and then pulled me a few steps away from the window so I was bent forward against it, just my face and tits against the cold glass. He grabbed my hip at the crease and pulled me backward into his thrusts, keeping my hands pinned hard. Not painful, but firm, and with no chance I could get away.
Oh, Jesus.
I whimpered as he fucked me, and the whimpers became shrieks, and then the shrieks became outright screams. Because he was fucking me so good, so hard, harder than he'd ever fucked me, and he was doing it up against a window.
"Brock!" I screamed.
"You like this, Claire?"
"So fucking much."
"You gonna come again for me?"
"Oh yeah, baby, I'm gonna come again, so hard..."
"Look out there," he murmured. "All the people walking by. What if someone looks up right now?"
I groaned, the i
mage turning me on even more.
"Oh god, oh god--oh fuck," I groaned, and I felt it shear through me, another blistering, boiling orgasm. "Brock, keep fucking me. Come with me!"
I felt his grip tighten and his thrusts took on renewed power, and then he released my hands and I immediately reached up to grab his hair, and his hands cupped my breasts, and then one slid down to my pussy, and his touch was unnecessary but incredible, pushing me past mere orgasm into something else, into a screaming paroxysm I couldn't control, and he was grunting in my ear, snarling, fucking me with relentless fury, pounding into me so hard our slapping flesh was audible even over my screams and his hoarse grunts.
And then I felt him come, felt him drive into me with sudden grinding power unlike anything before from him, and I felt his come shoot into me, flood through me, and he fucked me again with another spurt of wetness and heat, and again, and again. He lifted my thigh, sliding his touch down to behind my knee as he raised my leg up, and he braced my foot against the window frame, and kept fucking me, twice more, three times, grunting in my ear.
"Pull out, Brock," I breathed.
He bent at the knees, drawing himself out of me, and I stood like that, one foot braced on the window frame, and Brock's come dripping out of me.
And then Brock put his hands on my shoulders and pressed me down to my knees. Brock: naked, cock still hard and jutting up, rigid and glistening wet, his abs furrowed and his chest broad, his shoulders round, his biceps carved from marble, his face out of a magazine, his hair messy. I stared up at him, saw him like that, and I nearly came again, just looking at him. He was, very literally, a god, or an angel. Fucking gorgeous beyond belief. So beautiful my breath caught.
I cupped his heavy balls in both hands and licked him from root to tip, tasting his musky come and my own tart, smoky scent. I took him into my mouth, and then backed away, and licked him again. A bead of come seeped out of him and slid down the side of his dick, and I licked that away, too.
I knelt in front of him and tilted his cock forward, and I took him all the way into my mouth, looking up at him.
He met my eyes, and then wrapped a palm around my ass and jerked me up against him, smashing me hard against his muscular body. "Was that what you wanted?"
I searched his eyes. "Yes," I said, not seeing judgment or anger, only satisfaction and lust...and something else, something hot and possessive and thoughtful and intense. "You?"
"That was new for me," he said. "But it was hot as fuck."
"It was new for me, too. That's why I wanted it."
His lips met mine, and now he tasted our mingled essences, transferred from his cock to my lips to his mouth. The kiss was demanding, deep and drowning, until my breath left me.
"Brock..." I gasped.
"What, babe?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Everything," I said. "For--"
I broke off, realizing I'd been hearing something for a while now. A buzzing sound. I glanced over at the bedside table, and caught the end of my phone's on-silent vibration pattern. Who would be calling me before seven in the morning?
Oh.
Right.
Brock fetched my phone and brought it to me without looking at it. Respecting my privacy, the wonderful, crazy, absurd gentleman.
My heart scudded in my chest as I thumbed through the barrage of notifications filling the screen: Missed call: Tabitha (4); Missed Call: Hayley (5); Missed Call: Mom (2); Message: Hayley: Dad took a major turn for the worse this morning. Come see him now!; Message: Tabitha: Dad is going to go today. PLEASE PLEASE PLEAASE come.
"Fuck." I breathed the word.
"Your dad?"
I nodded. "They're saying he's going to go soon. They're begging me to come."
"Go get dressed, and we'll head over to the hospital."
I rinsed off in the shower as fast as I could and pulled some clothes on, and the irony wasn't lost on me that, yet again, I was going to the hospital with Brock's come still seeping out of me. I wondered if there was a meaning in that, somewhere.
Probably not.
And if there was, I don't think I'd like what it said about me very much.
Why was I going? To watch him die? Or because, deep down, I still wanted him to, just once, tell me he loved me, that he was sorry? I don't know. But I was going, and I didn't want to go, but I couldn't help it--I knew I had to, like it or not. I thought about my little sisters and knew I was doing this as much for them as I was for any other reason.
I was going. I had to.
Thank god Brock was at my side.
Chapter 5
Brock
Like last time, Claire stood outside the hospital room, hand on the door, hesitating. This time she sucked in a deep breath and, after only a moment's hesitation, she pushed in. I wasn't sure if I should go in with her, especially with such a deeply personal thing happening, but Claire had my hand in a death grip and she wasn't letting go, so I followed her in.
Connor was there on the bed, but his eyes were closed, and his chest was barely rising and falling. The heart rate monitor beeped very slowly: beep......beep......beep. So slow. Too slow.
Tabitha rushed across the room to her sister. "Claire, thank you for coming, thank god--thank god you're here." She hugged her sister tightly and sniffled against Claire's shirt. "I don't think he's going to last much longer."
Hayley came over and the three girls hugged, both Hayley and Tabitha crying, while Claire remained stoic and dry-eyed, but I could tell she was glad to be with her sisters. Her mother was sitting next to the bed, her forehead pressed to Connor's hand, her shoulders heaving.
The beeping slowed even more.
Tabitha let out a deep breath, sniffled, and then grabbed Claire's shoulders. "I know you and Dad--" Her voice shook and then broke, and she started over. "Please say goodbye, Claire. Tell him you're here. Tell him you forgive him."
Moira lifted her head to peer at her daughter through tear-hazed eyes. "Last night he just kept repeating, 'I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.'"
Connor coughed, a slow deep rattle, and the beeping slowed even more.
I put my lips to Claire's ear. "Say goodbye, honey. Let him know you're here."
She shook her head. "I can't...I can't--"
But she took a tentative step forward, toward the bed, releasing my hand only reluctantly. Another step. She was visibly shaking, and her hands were trembling like dry leaves in a cold fall wind. She sat in the chair and took her father's hand. "I'm here, Dad," she whispered. "I'm...here."
It was all she could manage before her voice gave out.
"Tell him," Moira said.
Claire glanced at her mother. "Tell him what?"
"That you forgive him. It's what he's waiting for, Claire."
"What if--what if I don't forgive him? What if I can't?"
Moira shuddered as if Claire's words physically hurt her. "You have to, Claire. Please. You have to." She stood up and circled around the bed, kneeling on the tile floor beside her daughter, clutching Claire's arm in supplication. "We made mistakes--he did, I did. You have every right to hate us. To hate me. You're right about everything you said yesterday. About him, about me, about how I was never there for you. And for those things I am deeply sorry. But...this is it, Claire. It's the end. Your father is about to--to--" She couldn't say the word. "Please...Claire. Please."
"Why is this all on me?" Claire demanded, her voice a desperate, agonized hiss. "I was the victim in all this, and yet I'm the one who has to forgive?"
"It's what God--" Moira started.
Connor gasped, coughed, and the heart rate monitor spiked, a sudden series of frantic beeps. "Unhhhh..." he moaned. "--Didn't...I didn't know..."
Claire sobbed at the sound of her father's faint words, and she clutched his hand. "Dad, I'm here."
His eyes fluttered. He tried to open them and I was sure he wanted to look Claire in the face and give her his last words of forgiveness.
> But he was too weak. It was all he could do to take a breath.
The beeping slowed--beep.........beep.........beep...
Claire's shoulders shook as she clutched her father's hand in both of hers. Her words were nearly inaudible, meant only for Connor. "I...forgive you, Dad."
Connor sucked in a deep breath, and his lips moved, but no sound emerged. I stood behind Claire, my hands on her shoulders and I was certain she understood what he was trying to say.
Moira sobbed, and Hayley and Tabitha clustered around her, all of them clinging together.
The tense, throbbing silence was punctuated by an isolated beep now and then, irregular and very slow.
And then the silence changed, altered by the soft steady tone of the sound of a flatline.
Moira went to her husband and laid her head on his chest, sobbing, and Hayley and Tabitha hovered behind her, each crying silent tears, their shoulders shaking.
Claire let out a soft breath. I squeezed her shoulders, and her head bent forward, her chin dipping to her chest.
She stood up, breathing slowly, her thin shoulders rising and falling, her spine straight, and her head high. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the scene before her--the still form of her father, her grieving mother and sisters.
And then Claire turned around, and she gazed steadily at me for a moment, her eyes clear and serene. "Let's go, Brock."
I wasn't sure what to say, to her, or to her mother and sisters, so I said nothing. I simply took Claire's outstretched hand and led her toward the door.
"Will you stay for the funeral?" Tabitha asked.
Turning to Tabitha, Claire said, "I'll stay in town until then, Tab. Lynch and Sons, right?"
"Yes," Moira said, her voice tear-thick. "He's going to be buried at Rosewood."
"Just text me with the details."
"A text message, Claire? Do you have no heart?" Moira asked.
"No, I don't," Claire snapped. "I lost it six years ago."
Despite the anger in her voice, she opened the door softly and closed it just as gently behind her. She said nothing as we made our way to the elevator, and her eyes were dry and distant.
On the elevator, I turned to her. "Claire, I'm--"
"Don't, Brock," she interrupted. "Please, just don't. I don't want apologies or condolences or sympathies. I just want to go back to the hotel and go to bed."
I kept silent, holding her hand as we walked from the elevator to the car. She grabbed my hand again in a vise-grip as soon as we were seated in the car and she didn't let go or relax the strength of her grip all the way from the hospital to our room at the Townsend. As soon as we were in the room, she put out the "Do not disturb" sign, locked the door, and pulled all the drapes closed so the room was darkened.
Badd to the Bone Page 6
