by Kati Wilde
I draw in a shaky breath as an unexpected pang strikes my heart, piercing the veil of pretend.
I don’t ever want him done with me. But after what happened today, I’d be foolish not to be done with him.
I should push him away right now. I should stay away from him until the Riders’ drug deal is complete and I can go home. I should tell him never to come into Reggie’s again.
But the thought of doing just one of those things hurts too much. And the thought of doing all three…which I know I should do?
I just want to keep pretending, instead.
Maybe he sees the shadows in my eyes. Suddenly his own darken and every trace of humor vanishes from his face. His fingers tighten on my thighs and all at once he’s pushing me farther onto the bed and coming down over me. His mouth claims mine and there’s a new urgent edge to his kiss, as if he means to chase away my doubt with overwhelming need, as if he doesn’t intend to give me even a moment to think.
And I can’t. I can’t do anything but desperately kiss him back, my hands roaming all over his beautiful tattooed skin. He’s hot against me, flesh to flesh, the rough hair on his chest an abrasive tease to my aching nipples.
Weight braced on his left elbow, his right hand slips higher between my thighs. We both groan when his broad fingers slide through my wetness.
His mouth tears from mine and he stares into my eyes as his fingers delve deeper, slicking through my folds before returning to circle my clit.
I’m panting, hips pinned by his weight. Waiting.
His name leaves my lips on a gasping sigh when his broad finger pushes inside the tight grip of my pussy. Immediately my inner muscles clench around him, welcoming the gentle intrusion.
Groaning, he lowers his head. Hot kisses press to my throat, lower, and I’m bombarded with sensation. His hot mouth moving over my breast. His finger stroking through my clinging inner walls. His thumb slipping over my clit. His tongue flicking the taut peak of my nipple. The rumble of his groan. His skin warm and sweaty against mine. His woodsy smell and the lingering flavor of peach and the soft texture of the quilt against my back.
Sucking my nipple to a throbbing point, his cheeks hollow. His eyes are on me, watching each response. I keep meeting his gaze and then losing focus as pleasure tears through me.
My fingers slide over his heavy shoulders. Through his hair. My feet frantically rub against the back of his thighs, up over his ass before linking around his waist again.
He pushes another finger inside me and I think I’m going to—
There’s no thinking. I just do. The orgasm isn’t there and then suddenly it is, blasting through me, tossing my body against him like I’m trying to buck him off but my hands are gripping him tighter, tighter. I cry out his name and he groans mine in return, grinding between my thighs as if watching me come is pushing him to the edge and he can’t stop his own response.
He rises up to kiss me again as I float down from the high, but instead of sinking into the kiss he leaves me—sliding down my body, his destination unmistakable.
Hands trembling, I reach for his retreating shoulders. “But I already came.”
“You think I didn’t feel your pussy squeezing my fingers? How much wetter coming made you?” The look he gives me sears my skin with his hunger. “Now I get to taste all those sweet juices.”
He kneels beside the bed and drags me to the edge. His blue eyes lock with mine as he pushes my legs apart. He holds my gaze as his lips press to the inside of my thigh.
My muscles tremble with the aftershocks of my orgasm and new anticipation.
“You smell so fucking good.” His chest lifts on a deep breath. As if in sheer ecstasy, his eyelids fall to half mast. “I just want to rub my face all—”
All over me. Because he stops talking and simply does it, his beard sweeping my inner thighs. Burying his face against my pussy, he inhales again.
I cry out and squirm but not trying to get away. I’m panting his name and embarrassed and I love it, love how he’s wallowing in my scent. The way I want to be covered in his.
“I’m just going to eat this creamy pussy right up.” His voice deepens. “Tell me to finish my dessert, Sara.”
Pulse racing, I whisper huskily, “Finish your dessert, Bull.”
Oh, he does. But he isn’t in a rush, dipping his head for a long, slow taste up the length of my slit. Moaning, I tip my hips forward, seeking the touch of his tongue over my clit.
A wicked glint in his blue eyes, he swirls lightly around the aching bud, a cruel tease before licking his way back down. It feels good, so good, but he’s killing me and I’m dying. His strong fingers press into the soft flesh of my inner thighs, holding me open for another devastatingly cruel slide of his tongue that feels so incredibly good and not quite good enough.
And he doesn’t stop.
Sobbing little breaths start building through my chest. Spine arched, I cover my face with my hands because I don’t know what I’m doing, can’t seem to control anything. My body’s a live wire, electric and jittery and burning, with an ache that’s growing and growing—centered right over the clitoris that he’s barely touching, yet the ache is spreading outward, my pussy clenching and my thighs shaking and everything taut and waiting.
For another hot lick. For the thrust of his tongue inside me. My flesh is so sensitive that I can feel his every whisker, every whisper of his breath, every scrape of his teeth. All the sounds wind me tighter, the slick wetness of my arousal, his pleasured groans, the smack of his lips.
And the noises I’m making. My head whips from side to side, my teeth clenched on the heel of my hand trying to hold the sounds in. I don’t know if they’re whimpers or screams but he’s dragging them out of me with each slow thrust and slide of his tongue.
Then suddenly he decides to stop torturing me, his lips closing over my clitoris and his tongue flicking and his mouth sucking, but it’s not mercy. I’m wound so tight that the direct touch is erotic agony. My entire body goes rigid, caught between pain and ecstasy.
His groan and the rough slide of his tongue push me over, the ecstasy shattering through me. And it’s a scream that’s been building and building, it’s his name that I cry out as my pussy clenches uncontrollably.
Still he doesn’t finish but slowly licks me as clean as he did his fork after devouring my peach tart. Although I’m completely spent, my body shudders with every new pass of his tongue.
Finally he rises over me again. Reaching for him, I draw his lips to mine, taste the mingling of our flavors.
But I want to taste more. “My mouth,” I tell him. “Let me make you come, too.”
He groans but shakes his head, his hands working between us. Unzipping, freeing his cock, and I feel him hot and hard against the folds of my pussy.
“Like this,” he grits out, his face tense. “While I’m still tasting you.”
Tasting my mouth. And he feels so good against me, his weight braced on his elbows, his hands buried in my hair. His hips rock between my thighs and I moan when his long shaft glides endlessly over my over-sensitized clit. He shudders when I suck on the tip of his tongue and when my teeth pinch his lower lip, then lick my way back into his mouth again.
Abruptly he rocks back too far and his shaft slips down the length of my slit. The broad head nudges at my entrance, and we both freeze, our mouths open together.
On a shaky breath, I whisper, “Your stupid, clumsy dick is about to fall in?”
“Not so stupid.” A shudder wracks his giant frame. “It knows what it wants. To fill you up.”
“With a big hairy baby?”
Which is supposed to be a joke. But it doesn’t emerge like one. There’s too much longing and tension in my voice.
That savage look is back in his eyes. “It wants what I want,” he says gruffly.
Not just inside me. Coming inside me. Making me pregnant.
Making a future.
The sharp edge of temptation pierces me. I want that,
too. So much. And if I let him in, if a baby became a possibility, it would be an excuse to keep coming back to him. To inextricably intertwine my life with his.
It would be so wrong to use a child as an excuse to stay with him. Yet the thought of him thrusting deep into my pussy, of being filled with his cum makes me ache with need, and I can’t get a word out. Instead my inner muscles clench, my sensitive flesh pulsing against his thick cock as if trying to draw him in. His gaze darkens, possessive and feral, and for a breathless instant I think he’s just going to do it, to fuck deep into me and take everything he wants.
And I don’t want to stop him.
Then his eyes close and he groans, “Fuck.”
Making a decision. Because in the next moment he lowers his head and his tongue penetrates my lips again, his kiss slow and deep, and the pressure increases against my slick entrance. But he doesn’t push inside me, just moves subtly in time with the thrust of his tongue against mine, until I’m writhing and trying to tilt my hips, to take him in, but he draws back every time my need-swollen flesh begins to stretch around the thick head of his cock.
All at once he breaks the kiss and rides the full length of his cock through my drenched folds and over my clit. Head thrown back, neck taut with strain, he thrusts hard against me again. Abruptly his big body stiffens, his shaft pulsing between us, hot cum spilling onto my belly.
Our chests heaving together, Bull’s mouth finds mine again. Still kissing me, he rolls to his side, my legs tangled with his, his thick cock wet between my thighs, my every muscle still trembling.
His big hands cup my face. His gaze searches mine. “All right?”
Overwhelmed by his sudden gentleness, by the emotions rioting through me, I nod wordlessly.
His fingers stroke through my hair. It’s fallen out of the messy bun I put it up in after my shower. I’m not sure when that happened.
A broad grin suddenly widens his mouth. “Damn condoms,” he says.
I laugh. “We managed okay without them.”
“Yeah, we did.” His eyes take on a wicked gleam. “Though there was a second there when I wasn’t sure whether my little head or my big head was going to win.”
“Which one’s your big head?”
He kisses me for that, his mouth smiling against mine. And when he pulls away I can’t stop myself from saying, “I’m surprised you don’t have any here.”
“Any what?”
“Rubbers.”
“I’d have to bring a woman here first. But I’ve never done that.” All the humor fades from his eyes. “And there’s been no one since I met you.”
That’s what I was fishing for—half afraid of what he’d say. Yet even though what he says is what I hoped to hear, it still hurts.
When I don’t answer right away, he adds, “I was gonna pick some up on the way to your place tonight. But that didn’t work out.”
No, it didn’t. My heart feels raw when I tell him, “I bought some. After work, I went and picked up a box. But then—”
But then I was thrown into a trunk. But then I heard Bull arranging a time to buy a shitload of drugs. But then I got railroaded into a silence that I’d have kept anyway.
Tears suddenly burn in my eyes. He sees them. I know he does because his face whitens and his hands tighten in my hair.
“Sara—“ he says but I’m already slapping at him, my palms thumping into his solid chest, not trying to hurt him or get away but needing to fight something because I can’t fight the pain tearing through me.
Because this isn’t pretend. How much I like him. How desperately I want him.
How deeply I could love him.
After all these months, maybe I already do. And he had to go and ruin it.
“Why did you have to do this?” My tears spill over and I thump his shoulder. “Does getting that meth mean so fucking much to you?”
Eyes tortured, Bull shakes his head. “The meth doesn’t mean anything.”
“And apparently I mean less.” A ragged sob breaks from me and I weakly hit him again. “We could have been so good together.”
“I know.” His voice is hoarse. “We still can.”
“How?”
He doesn’t have an answer. He just pulls me closer and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, burying my face in his neck. His big hand strokes down my back.
And he holds me as I cry myself to sleep.
11
Bull
Around three in the morning, Sara stirs against me—her soft breasts pressing into my side, her hand lying on my chest, her legs tangled up with mine. Waking up every day as early as she does, her body’s internal alarm clock is probably set to this hour.
Just like mine is—though tonight, I haven’t slept even a minute. Not with my chest aching like it is. Because ever since I met her, I wanted to hold her through the night with the taste of her pussy on my lips.
I just never imagined that when I did, it’d be after she fell asleep crying.
But she’s not crying now. I don’t even think she realizes I’m awake. She doesn’t shift away or untangle our legs. Instead she softly sighs, her head pillowed on my shoulder. My arm went numb hours ago but I’d have willingly sacrificed the whole damn limb to hold her like this.
Especially after she absently begins trailing her fingernails through the hair on my chest.
Petting me, exploring me, I’m not sure. And although I’d love to know what’s going through her head, the last thing I want is her pulling away from me, so I keep still. My dick doesn’t stay still, but at least the night’s dark enough to hide the tentpole my cock’s making under the quilt.
I could have stayed like this forever. But three-thirty on the dot, an electronic beep trills through the room and she stiffens beside me.
The daily alarm on my phone. Shit.
I have to let her go to roll over and silence it on the nightstand. When I turn back, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling the buttonless sides of her shirt together.
“Are you going to town this morning?” she asks without looking back at me.
“To the gym? No.” And I’m not sorry for it. Lifting weights and running on a treadmill is about as fun as stacking wood—but the time in the gym is necessary. Not just because I’ve been acting as the Riders’ enforcer, though that’s a big part of it.
But I’ve never been as dedicated as I have been since Sara came to town. Used to be, I’d drag myself in to the gym three mornings a week. Now I’m there every day she’s working at Reggie’s, and putting more time in. The past few months I’ve packed on more muscle, shed some soft inches—despite eating everything she’s been setting in front of me at breakfast and at lunch.
The way she looked at me last night, I’m glad I’ve been taking the time.
But skipping the gym these three days won’t hurt—especially since I’ve got a pile of wood that needs chopping.
“What time does your dad eat breakfast?”
“About six, maybe,” I tell her and the reason why she’s asking hits me. “You aren’t getting up now to make it, are you? You ought to sleep in.”
She stands. “I will. But it’s almost dawn and I’ve got to…” Her explanation trails off to nothing as she heads for the bathroom attached to my room, scooping up her clothes along the way.
The door closes behind her, and I flop back against my pillow, rubbing my hands over my face. Shit. I don’t know what’s happening but it seems like she’s running. She doesn’t need her clothes to piss.
And if she’s planning to sleep in late, why the hell is she bathing? The shower comes on and I sit up, the quilt falling around my hips.
A shower, but the fastest one I ever heard of. The water’s off a minute later.
After a few more minutes, she comes out fully dressed, dry hair piled in a bun on top of her head.
My chest tightens. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” she says. “I just had to wash. Because, you know”—her hand waves t
oward me, the bed—“I couldn’t make normal wudu.”
I don’t have a clue what that is but her saying she’s not taking off eases the tension in me. I watch as she seems to hesitate, looking around, then heads back into the bathroom. She returns a short time later carrying a folded towel and with her hair covered—in my pop’s undershirt, I realize. She wrapped and neatly tucked it so the cotton looks like a scarf over her head.
“Which way is east?” she asks.
I point and she spreads out the towel facing that direction, her back to me.
Rolling onto my side, I watch her pray. I suppose the way my dick responds to her elegant movements as she bends and kneels is blasphemous as fuck, but at least I don’t stroke myself while she does. I’m going to hell, I figure, but I won’t disrespect her while I’m heading there.
She finishes up, kneeling and turning her head from side to side before getting to her feet. She comes back to the bed, shedding her jeans and the makeshift scarf as she does.
In her white lace panties and sparkly T-shirt, she slides beneath the quilt, mirroring my posture—on my side, head propped on my hand, elbow braced against the mattress.
Her wary eyes search my face.
Quietly I ask, “What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.” Her shrug makes her tits lift and fall beneath her shirt. Her nipples are rounded like cherries against the black cotton and my mouth is already watering for another taste. “Maybe you being uncomfortable with who I am.”
“Not even a bit.” There’s nothing about her that makes me uncomfortable. Hell, I’m just glad that it matters to her—that she wants me comfortable. That means I matter, too.
But it also makes me wonder why she had to ask. “You have any problems since you’ve moved to Pine Valley?”
It’s a small town that leans toward the conservative. Most people are decent. But there’s assholes everywhere, I figure.
She sinks down onto her pillow, turns onto her back. “Yes and no.”
Tension grips me. Even knowing there’s some assholes in town, I didn’t figure she’d necessarily run into them.
