This experience with Rhett is totally different. He’s focused on me. He’s not touching me to get something out of it. He’s wanting to bring me pleasure, and oh God, he so is. I know it shouldn’t feel like this with Rhett. I should be cold and indifferent. Thinking ahead, calculating my next move. Land him in bed, make him fall in love with me, get in good with his family, fuck them all over…and especially destroy my bitch of a mother.
That’s what I need to remember. Getting back at my mother is my ultimate goal, the thing that drives me above all else. Rhett is just a small piece of the far more complicated puzzle.
Yet all thoughts of the future and my end goal fly out of my brain when his hands slip under my shirt and connect with my bare skin. His touch sizzles, causing me to squirm, and he pulls away from my neck to watch me, his heated gaze meeting mine.
“We can continue this against the door,” he says, his voice a hoarse rasp that sends a chill down my spine. “Or we can find a more comfortable spot.”
I’m tempted to keep us right here, to let him take me against the door. But it would end up a frenzied moment, desperate and quick, and I want him to savor me.
Truthfully? I want to savor him too.
“My room,” I whisper, inclining my head toward the short hallway, “is over there.”
Rhett tightens his hold on me before he turns and carries me to the bedroom, my legs still wound around him, his hands gripping my butt. The room is dark and I direct him over to the right side of the bed, where I lean over and snap the lamp on.
“You do want the lights on, right?” I ask, sending him a cautious look. I want to see every bit of Rhett’s body. No way do I only want to imagine it as I stroke him in the dark.
“Oh yeah,” he says with a giant grin right before he deposits me on the bed. He drops me so hard, I bounce a little on the mattress, and I glare up at him, shoving my hair away from my face, but he just shakes his head with a chuckle. “You’re pretty damn cute when you’re mad.”
You have no idea, I want to tell him, but my lips remain shut as I watch him with breathless anticipation. He toes off his shoes and kicks them aside, unbuttons and then shrugs out of his shirt, offering me a glimpse of his smooth, well-muscled chest and abs. I stare at him in silence, entranced by his exposed naked skin, and then he’s right there in front of me on the bed, slowly guiding me so I fall backward, my head hitting the pillows as he takes my mouth once more.
The doubts creep in immediately, even while he’s kissing me. I probably shouldn’t move so fast. Allowing him in my bed after only our second date is going to give him the wrong idea. That I’m fast and loose and forgettable. He goes through girls fairly quickly, from what I’ve observed. I let him get this far this early in the game, and he’ll most likely forget about me too.
I brace my hands against his chest, ready to push him away from me, but then he shifts down, his mouth at my neck, his hands on my waist, fingers slipping beneath my shirt. He nudges the fabric up, exposing my stomach, and then he’s moved down even farther, his mouth trailing kisses on my bare skin.
I imagine pushing Rhett away from me. Telling him no. But at first contact of his mouth on my flesh, I go weak. Instead, I grab hold of his broad shoulders, just so I can have something to hold on to, and as he draws closer, my hands slide up into his hair. I clutch at the soft, dark strands as his mouth blazes a trail up my stomach to just below my bra.
He tugs on my shirt and I lift up, letting him help me take my shirt off. It’s gone in an instant, his mouth returning to my stomach, delivering delicate kisses that make me shiver, make me restless. I shift beneath him, wishing he was kissing even more sensitive places just as he reaches behind me to unhook my bra.
“Let’s take this off,” he whispers, tugging the straps down until the bra falls away. I drop it over the side of the bed, practically thrusting my chest in his face. Walking around topless for months has made me a lot less shy than I used to be. My butt is kind of flat and my thighs are a little flabby, but there is no shame in my boob game.
Rhett doesn’t seem too disgusted by them either. He stares at my chest in utter reverence, gathering both of them in his hands and pulling them close together. His thumbs drift over my nipples, back and forth, back and forth, and I hiss in a sharp breath.
“You like that?” he asks, his gaze lifting to mine.
I nod. “They’re—sensitive.”
“Hmm.” His pleasurable hum vibrates against my skin as he dips down and draws one nipple into his mouth, sucking lightly before he releases it. “What about that? Did you like it?”
Another nod, a little cry accompanying it when he pulls the other nipple into his mouth and sucks harder this time. He caresses my breasts, his fingers light, almost tickling me, his mouth wet and hot as he sucks and sucks. My nipples are tight, pointing at the sky and wet from his mouth as he moves up to take my lips once again, his tongue diving deep. I spread my legs wide to accommodate his big body against mine, and I can feel his erection brush against the very center of me.
There is no doubt that it is very large and very long.
Giving in to my impulses, I reach down and touch him, my fingers curling around his length, testing him out. Am I too bold? Or is this what he wants? The agonized moan that rips from deep in his chest tells me he likes it, so I continue my exploration. Stroking and caressing, working him into a near fever, and we don’t even have his pants off yet.
That’s exactly what I don’t want. Frenzied fucking with our clothes half-hanging onto our bodies. This needs to be a complete reveal. My clothes and his are coming all the way off, until we’re naked and vulnerable in front of each other.
Yes. Vulnerable. That’s what I need to remember. Most guys like you broken, because then they feel like they can fix you, and so many of them are fixers. They want to be your hero, your savior, but you can’t be too broken, though. There’s a certain point where they give up, where they consider you beyond fixing. Me? I need to find that fine line and straddle it.
“Wait.” I drop my hand from his dick and scoot up the bed and over, as if I’m trying to get away from Rhett. He rolls over and away from me, his features drawn, his mouth turned upside down in a beautiful frown. The man is just too damn good-looking. “Let me catch my breath.”
“Am I—” He pants for three heartbeats, like he’s desperate to catch his breath. “—moving too fast for you?”
I hesitate. Like I really have to think about it. “A little. Not that I don’t want it to happen,” I tell him in a rush when I see the wary look on his face, as if he’s going to potentially remove himself from the situation. His expression turns shuttered, his body language shifting into flight position. Like he might leap away from my bed and shoot straight out of my house, never to be seen again. “I want you. I just need to, I don’t know, slow down for a little bit?” I phrase the last bit like a question, as if I’m unsure.
“Ah. Well, I can do that.” He sounds like the perfect, understanding boyfriend. I bet he would be a perfect, understanding boyfriend, if he actually settled down for once.
As he stretches out beside me on the bed, his arm going around my shoulders to pull me in closer to him, I wonder again if Rhett Montgomery is too good to be true. If what he shows me is nothing but smoke and mirrors with a sprinkle of magic, and the minute shit gets tough, he’ll reveal his true self. And his true self will be a complete asshole.
I almost wish that would happen. I want to see the cracks in his surface, see him be real and ugly and awful.
Then I’d feel like we have more in common.
“I hope you’re not mad at me.” I sound contrite, and the slightest bit sad. I need him to believe I’m sincere.
Truly, my body is buzzing with desire. If he reached between my legs right now and gave me one firm stroke of his fingers, I’d probably explode like a shaken-up bottle of champagne. But considering no man has ever made me come before—yes, I know, I’ve been with some real selfish assholes—I have ser
ious doubts when it comes to his potential skills.
So far, what he’s shown me has been impressive. But I’m still not fully convinced.
“I could never be mad at you.” I can feel his lips move against my forehead as he speaks, and he presses a kiss there, chaste and sweet. I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotion that threatens to wash over me. He makes me feel good. He’s…kind. Yes, I think he’s putting on some sort of perfection front, but what if he’s not? What if he really is like this?
Then I’m screwed.
We lay together on my bed for at least fifteen minutes, our legs entwined, our hands occasionally wandering. We talk about nothing, but we’re thinking about everything. I know I am, and I can feel that he is too.
He’s probably afraid to make another move, and I can’t blame him, since I’m the one who asked to slow down so I can “catch my breath.”
That sounds so lame. I wonder if he believed me. All I can think about is when can I feel his hands on me again. My blood runs hot and I’m restless, my legs rubbing against his, my hands aching to reach out and touch him, really touch him.
Deciding I’m ready to make my first move, I press my face against his bare chest and breathe deep, inhaling his scent. His skin is so warm and smooth, and incredibly hot. His heart races; I press my palm where it beats, and I purse my lips, kissing him there.
An agonized groan sounds from deep in his chest as I continue to kiss him. His pecs, the center of his chest, his rib cage, his stomach. I kiss him everywhere, the smattering of hair tickling my lips, the salty taste of his skin making my mouth water. I lick around his belly button and he shivers. I curl my fingers around the denim waistband of his jeans, my knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath, and his hips twitch. Silently begging me to delve under the denim and touch him where he really wants me.
“You don’t have to—” he starts when I unbutton his jeans and I lift my head to meet his gaze, sending him a look. Is he for real? Is he actually going to say that? He swallows his words with a simple press of his lips, his gaze never leaving mine.
“I want to,” I say firmly, pulling the zipper down slowly to reveal black cotton boxer briefs, his erection straining against the fabric. I drift my index finger down the length of him, noting how his cock jumps beneath my touch.
My entire body goes tight as he lifts his hips, allowing me to pull his jeans off. I swiftly remove them so he’s lying in the center of my bed clad in only the black boxer briefs, and I shift away from him, fully taking him in.
He’s got a beautiful body. All lean muscle and sinew, he has the start of a six-pack, his legs thick and strong-looking, and I’m tempted to pounce on him.
But I don’t. Instead, I move slowly and deliberately. I drift my fingers along his thigh, then back up until I’m at his hips. I tease him with my fingertips, dipping them beneath his underwear, stroking there. He’s so hot and so big, and finally, my patience gets the best of me.
I tug his boxer briefs down until they’re around his thighs, and his cock springs free. I grab hold of him, wrap my fingers tight around the base as I stroke up. Down. Establishing a rhythm, I’m focused solely on his pleasure, on what he’s getting out of it versus what he can do for me.
His pleasured groans, the way he twitches and shifts, his eager hips lifting the faster I get, it’s all driving me on. But my mind wanders as it usually does when I’m having sex. I can’t help it. It’s like I get—bored or something.
A thought flickers in my mind, murky at first, until it grabs hold and doesn’t go away. Is it my own guilt that’s making me do this? I can give him an orgasm and…what? Does that absolve me from what I plan on doing to him in the future? I study his face, his flushed cheeks, his glazed eyes, and when our gazes suddenly meet, I shift down, brushing my lips across the very tip of him.
Another moan escapes him as I draw him deep into my mouth. The sounds he makes as I continue to lick and suck him electrifies me. Urges me to suck harder, tease the tip of him with my tongue, stroke the base of him with a firm grip of my fingers…
“Hell no,” he practically growls, sitting up so fast I startle away from him. “I don’t want to come that way.”
I stare silently at him, a gasp escaping me when he pushes me backward until I’m sprawled across the bed. He undresses me with ruthless efficiency, until I’m clad in a wispy pair of black-lace panties and nothing else. His hands and mouth move all over my body, his fingers sliding beneath my panties, and I part my legs, letting him test me.
“So damn wet,” he whispers right before he tugs my underwear down, and then his face is between my thighs, his tongue licking, searching, and eventually finding my clit. His skillful precision is intense, making me feel like I’m about to come out of my skin and I strain against him, my eyes tightly closed, my muscles clenched. He knows exactly where to touch me, but I want more.
“Higher,” I whisper and he does as I ask, shifting higher. “Faster,” I gasp, a cry leaving me when his tongue picks up speed.
And just like that, I come quickly, my orgasm slamming into me out of nowhere. My entire body shakes, a harsh cry escaping past my lips as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me, electrified jolts wracking my body. When I’m finally spent, my limbs are shaking so hard, it’s like I just ran a marathon in record time.
Again with the clichés, but seriously. No man has ever made me come like that. No man has ever made me come, period. I breathe deeply, trying to regulate my racing heart, and when I finally crack my eyes open, I see the satisfied gleam in Rhett’s eyes as he watches me. That look tells me he’s proud of what he just did to me, and I’m half-tempted to tell him to get that smug look off his face. But I’m too weak to even speak.
He slowly shakes his head, his gaze drifting over me, making me warm. “Damn woman, you came hard.”
I say nothing, the sound of my harsh pants filling the room. I watch as he climbs off the bed and grabs his jeans from the floor, pulling a condom out of his wallet. Unwrapping it, he goes to stand next to the side of the bed closest to me and slowly rolls the condom on. My gaze drops to his erection, and even though I just climaxed, my body clenches, already eager for more.
Without saying a word, he comes to me, climbing onto the bed so he can kiss me deep before he positions himself above me and thrusts his cock inside with one swift movement. I’m wet and loose after that massive orgasm, so he enters me easily, filling me right up. I go completely still, savoring the sensation of him buried deep, how his cock throbs in time like a heartbeat.
Reaching up, I tentatively brush my hands down his back, searching the muscles there. His eyes close as I touch him, and he braces his palms on the mattress before he starts to move. Slowly at first, his hips flexing, pushing, deeper and deeper. I grab hold of his shoulders and cling to him, wrapping my legs around his waist, sending him deeper, making us both groan in unison.
With every thrust, he drives me deeper into the mattress, all the while telling me how good I feel, how I’m so wet and tight, his constant stream of words conjuring dirtier and dirtier images in my brain. I wish I had a mirror so I could see how good we look together right now. So I could watch his butt and leg muscles flex with every push inside my body. He fucks better than any guy I’ve ever been with before, and I can feel it coming again. That subtle tingle in my belly, that hopeful rise within my body, taking me closer and closer to the edge…
Until I’m coming again, the orgasm like a giant wave of relief as it moves through me. He’s coming too—I can tell by the way he goes still, his body tightening and then releasing. He shudders as he moans my name, his movements becoming wild, totally out of control.
No one has ever moaned my name before. Not Jennifer or Jensen or even Jen. I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotions that grabs hold of me and refuses to let go. The guilt and the shame and the pleasure and the tiny glimmer of happiness I’m experiencing all at once. What just happened felt so good, so right.
B
ut it isn’t right. It shouldn’t feel right. What we just did, is wrong. He’s really my stepbrother.
My mother turned me into this. I’m a slut, a whore, a user, a manipulator, a woman bent on revenge. All because of her.
Rhett collapses on top of me, his heavy weight keeping me pinned in place, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. No, in fact it’s the total opposite. I like how he feels, our sweaty, sticky bodies entwined, the scent of sex and sweat lingering in the air. His mouth is on my collarbone, damp and warm as he murmurs against my skin, and I can tell his cock has already softened inside of me. I turn my head, my mouth on his temple as I breathe him in deep, and he flexes his hips. That one subtle movement makes my entire body tingle, and I can tell his cock is getting hard again too.
“Hmm, fuck, Jensen, I want you again,” he whispers just before he cups my cheek and kisses me, his tongue doing a thorough exploration of my mouth.
And I let him. I let him lead round two completely. I do nothing but take it, let him use me and fuck me until I can’t think straight. He doesn’t notice how passive I’ve become. It’s either he doesn’t realize or he really doesn’t care, because I’m putting zero effort into this now. It’s like I can’t function.
More like I don’t want to function. I’d rather feel him completely take over my body. I want him to derive as much pleasure from it as I can give. He sucks my nipples and licks my belly and eats my pussy and strokes me deep with one, two, three fingers at a time. He’s feasting on me, making me come again and again, and I am mindless. Helpless.
Vulnerable in the worst possible way.
“What the hell is wrong with you? It’s like you’ve never walked in high heels before,” Savannah cracks, a dirty laugh escaping her when she witnesses me twisting my ankle yet again as I make my way toward the bar. Is that the fourth time I’ve twisted it tonight, or the fifth? I can’t keep track.
All I know is that I’m a walking, talking disaster at the club, and I think Don is seriously considering firing me. He’s yelled at me countless times, threatening that he’s going to send me home early, but I just ignore him, trying my best to focus. But it’s like I can’t. I’m wobbly in my heels, I keep messing up drink orders and pissing off customers. Oh, and my entire body aches in the most delicious way.
Her Defiant Heart - Monica Murphy Page 8
