Broody Brit: A Hero Club Novel

by Naima Simone

His cock branding my belly.

  And still it’s not nearly enough.

  Hooking a leg around his muscular calf, I heave myself higher up his body, so his dick is notched closer to where I need it. Closer, but not there. Not riding my clit, spreading my folds. But just shortening the distance sends pleasure spiraling through me, ripping a moan from me. Has my sex clenching. As if it senses what it needs is just within its reach.

  A large palm cups my ass, hauls me up, and oh God. My eyes damn near travel to the back of my head as that thick, long, fucking huge cock rubs over my pussy. I couldn’t hold in the sob that trips out of me if I tried. And I don’t even try. As a matter of fact, I might have muttered a prayer of thanks to him for giving this to me.

  “This what you need, pet?” he damn near purrs, treating me to another rough roll of his hips. And another. And another. His dick drags over me, that thick head nudging then sliding over my clit through his sweatpants and my pajamas. “This? And this?”

  I shudder, almost tipping over the edge with the added stimulation of his voice and his nasty grind. My pussy is no doubt dripping, turning the cotton pants into a soaked mess, and all I can do is nod, sinking me teeth into my bottom lip. And like he did yesterday, he thumbs it loose, soothing the flesh with his tongue instead of his finger.

  “What else you need from me?” he rumbles against my mouth. “I’ll give it to you. Anything, pet. Ask it.”

  That should be a demand, but it’s almost as if he’s begging me to do this for him. To request this of him so he can offer it to him. And it’s a plea I can’t deny.

  “Slide your fingers under the straps of my top,” I whisper, my eyes meeting his without wavering. It takes courage to do both—to not avoid that cerulean, piercing stare and to demand what I want. The latter more than the former. I’m not used to taking for myself, to asking for my needs to be satisfied. But with Axel, I sense that he’s the mythical unicorn—the man who receives pleasure in giving it.

  Abandoning my hair, he slowly lowers his hands to my shoulders and slips his fingers under my tank top’s straps.

  “Push them down my arms.”

  He follows my directions, gliding them down, his calloused fingertips grazing my skin, causing nerve endings to stand at strict attention and salute. I lift my arms and as the top lowers, baring my breasts, his eyes don’t leave mine, and an odd twinge pinches my chest. But I ignore it, choosing to focus on the cool air brushing my flesh, beading my nipples to just-shy-of-painful points.

  “Look at me,” I whisper, hating the catch in my voice. Hating more that constriction behind my sternum that has yet to go away.

  But only then does he drop his gaze, and my breath stalls in my lungs at the hunger that tautens the skin over his slashing cheekbones, at the hiss of greed that escapes his swollen, carnal lips. He flicks a look up at me, and if he reminded me of a Viking before, then it’s Odin standing before me now, with lightning bolts flashing in his eyes. And the mere mortal that I am, I’m shaking, ready to kneel before him in total surrender and supplication.

  When his scrutiny returns to my breasts, I breathe, “Kiss me. Suck me.” A whimper that comes from a sharp wrench in my belly. “And don’t be gentle.”

  He takes me at my word. He’s not gentle. He’s voracious. His big palms cup me, lifting me to his mouth, pushing my breasts together so he doesn’t have to choose. He latches on to both nipples, sucking so hard I feel the pull high and deep in my pussy. My cry rebounds off the kitchen walls, rebounding and encamping around us. His tongue works the tips, lashing, circling, stabbing, flicking… Oh fuck, I can’t keep up. I’m writhing like a mindless thing against him, arching, attempting to get closer. My fingernails scrape over his scalp, and he grunts, shoving his hips harder between my legs. He doesn’t just use his mouth and hands to pleasure me. His whole body is a tool, a conduit, an instrument devoted to me.

  “Axel,” I whine. Yes, honest-to-God whine, and I don’t care. Because that’s how far I’ve regressed. I’ll beg, plead, freaking kill for what he’s giving me. No one’s ever touched me with so much starvation before. So much need.

  So much reverence.

  “What else?” he growls, delivering one last suckle to my nipples then lifts his head, his thumbs rubbing circles over the beaded, wet peaks. “Tell me.”

  “Let me down.”

  He backs up, easing me off the counter and to the floor. It hits me that I should possess even the barest shreds of modesty as I sink to my knees in front of him, half-naked, shirt bunched around my waist. But I would be lying. I only feel reckless. Free. And for the first time in longer than I can remember… myself.

  “I want you,” I murmur, hooking my fingers in the band of his sweatpants and tugging them down to the tops of his thighs.

  His cock bobs free, slapping his ridged abdomen. Dark blue veins rope his thick, long length, and my tongue aches with the desire to trace those pathways. I shamelessly moan and fist the wide base.

  “Fuck,” he barks, his voice dark, low, dangerous. “Zenobia, you don’t…”

  “I want you,” I repeat, pumping the wider, lower half of him, slowly, my fingertips barely touching. I don’t want to hear his sweet considerations telling me I don’t have to do this for him. I know that already. It’s what I need to do. No. What I hunger to do. “In my mouth. Down my throat.”

  His face hardens, an almost cruel slant curling one corner of his mouth. “Okay, pet.” He buries his fingers in my curls, tugging my head back. “Open.”

  Eagerly, I obey. Although I asked for this, it’s my will, my pleasure to acquiesce. To surrender. And he doesn’t make me wait. Covering my hands with one of his, he arrows his dick toward my mouth and feeds me his length. I rest my hands to his rigid, straining thighs and let him take over.

  Inch by inch, he slides into me, pausing, waiting to see if he’s too much. I shut my eyes. Because I didn’t want this… tenderness. But he’s giving it to me anyway. And damn, it’s what I need. He knows me, understands what I need even when I don’t. If he’s taking my mouth like this, how will he be with my pussy? The thought sends a pulse of pure fire between my thighs, and I squeeze my thighs. But that only worsens the ache, the pleasure that borders on sexual agony.

  “Jesus Christ, I almost can’t look at you,” he mutters, and my lashes lift, my gazing flying up to him. His is trained on my mouth, leaving me to stare at the expression that veers close to pain twisting his face. As if feeling my scrutiny, his eyes flick to mine, and his mouth quirks in a humorless grimace. “Watching you take my cock like a good, greedy little girl is going to unman me, pet,” he murmurs. His hips pulse, pushing more of himself inside me until the head nudges the entrance to my throat. Then another little thrust that breaches it. “Fuck.”

  He withdraws, bending over me, crushing a hard kiss to my mouth. His hand wraps around the front of my throat, his thumb massaging it.

  “Not enough,” I gasp against his lips, unable to remain still. Not with unrelenting claws of desire digging into me, demanding more of him. “Use me.”

  Electric bolts of light flare in his eyes and he jackknifes over me, clasping my head between his palms and without warning, thrusting between my lips, over and over. Using me. Taking me. Fucking me.

  I grab onto his hips, holding on as I suck at him, lick and exalt in this fury that he’s unleashed on me. If his control has snapped, then I’ve taken the reins of it. I’m his master of his pleasure. I’m his keeper, even though I’m the one on my knees. And as he penetrates my throat, snarling with the possession, I capitulate but also hold the power. Breathing is a theory. Hanging on, a survival instinct.

  Only when he stiffens, my name a roar that careens around the room, his seed filling my mouth, my throat, do we both surrender. That huge body wilts over me, cradling my shoulders, shaking, vulnerable. But just for a moment. In the very next, I’m off the floor, in his arms, and the kitchen is in my peripheral vision. The garage speeds past me, and suddenly I’m in his apartment, the do
or slamming behind us, my back meeting the mattress, his woodsy and sex scent filling my nostrils.

  I don’t have time to even inhale a breath or call his name before my pajama pants are dragged down my legs and he’s between them, his head buried in my pussy.

  “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.” My hands fly to his hair, tangling, clutching.

  He eats me like he kisses me. Undisciplined. Wild. Like a starving, desperate man. I can’t… Jesus. My back arches under the electric pulses of pleasure that strike me over and over, so fast, so violently, that part of me fears snapping in two under the pressure.

  His tongue laps at my clit, stroking and seducing it even as he tortures it. Tortures me. I want to cry uncle, but the bit of me that remains sane, threatens to slap the shit out of myself if I dare. Axel is… relentless. It’s as if my pleasure is his one goal in life, his one purpose for existing, and he’s pursuing it with a God-almighty fervor that’s inspiring and a little frightening.

  Unable to not watch, I stare down my torso and have a front seat to him trailing that beautiful mouth through my folds, licking at them, nipping at them. He gives every part of my pussy due attention, worshipping me. And in this moment, I feel like a deity. Powerful and vulnerable. Strong and delicate.

  He does this to me. Only him.

  Palming my thighs, he spreads me wide and dips he head lower, sliding his tongue into my entrance… into my pussy. My lashes flutter, unable to stay open as a wave of lust rolls over me. A whimper escapes my throat and I thrust my hips up, silently but loudly demanding that mouth and a deeper, harder caress. And because he’s Axel, because he can read me better than myself, he shifts a hand between my legs and buries two fingers inside me.

  “Oh God,” I cry out, twisting, curling into that touch. “Please,” I beg. “Please, Axel.”

  “Whatever you want, pet,” he promises, and proceeds to finger fuck me until I’m babbling praises, demands and pleas.

  At some point, he must add another finger, because I’m fuller, it’s a tighter fit and there’s a burning, a stretching. And I’m so close to an orgasm, I might go crazy. Not letting up, he continues to pound into me, and the wet clap of his fist meeting my pussy, the flat of his tongue over my clit and the curl of his fingertips on that mystical place high up inside me answers every one of my prayers.

  I splinter.

  My scream razes my throat, but I can’t stop as I explode into pieces. Rasps fill my ears as I return to myself, and it’s then I realize that they don’t just belong to me, but to Axel, too. He lies over me, his body covering me. We’re both shaking so hard the bed quivers beneath us.

  “Inside me,” I manage, though my voice is so hoarse, I barely recognize it. “I need you inside me.”

  God, I do. Even though I just had the orgasm to end all orgasms, I still feel empty inside. I’ve never had his cock in my pussy, but I instinctively know, only he can fill this hollow ache.

  Axel pushes off me, stripping his sweatpants from his body as he crosses to the dresser. Tugging open the top drawer, he removes a condom and, in record time, sheathes himself. Without tearing my eyes from the magnificent sight of him, I roll my poor tank top down my hips and legs, toss it to the side, and spread my legs. Welcoming him back.

  He accepts, crawling onto the bed, his hair falling in a tangled waterfall of gold over his shoulders and into his face. He’s a warrior god, and I’m his goddess. In here, in his bed, he’s never treated me differently. And even as he crouches over me, the ends of his hair tickling my face and mingling with my darker curls, I’m… cherished.

  Stupid. So stupid to interject any softer feelings other than lust and need into this room, into this fuck between friends. We’re scratching an itch, just like my text said. No strings, no complications. And when it’s over, it’s over. He goes his way back to England, and I go mine back to my apartment across town.

  Expecting more—even thinking about more—is just inviting trouble and needless heartache.

  “Take me in, then,” he orders, his lips brushing mine, his crystal gaze on mine.

  Snaking a hand between us, I don’t break our visual connection as I circle the base of his cock and guide him to my entrance. With my other hand, I cup a muscular ass cheek and press, notching him just inside me. Then, raising both arms above my head, I flatten my palms against his headboard and buck my hips, taking more of him.

  I hiss, my eyes closing. His fingers had stretched me, prepared me, but dammit, they weren’t his dick. His lips caress my forehead, cheekbones, arch of my nose, lips, chin. All the while, his hips pulse, much like when he fucked my mouth, gradually claiming my pussy.

  He pauses, granting me time to become accustomed to the possession. Then, he gently thrusts again, pushing more of his dick inside me, stretching me. Branding me.

  How long he repeats this erotic dance, I have no idea. At some point, I curl my arms around his wide shoulders, holding on, letting him completely fill me. And when he’s fully seated within me, both of our pants break on air.

  Part of me is afraid to move. Unsure if I will shatter. Can I withstand this pressure? And the other part? That part just doesn’t want this to end. I’ve never been so connected to another person. Is this how God meant sex to be? Where not only bodies are intertwined, but souls? His heart beats against my chest, and I swear, mine follows the same rhythm; my breath mimics his pattern. Tears sting my eyes, and I pray I’m strong enough not to allow them to fall.

  He can’t suspect that I already violated the terms of the arrangement I stated in the text. He can’t know that this suddenly isn’t just sex for me.

  “Look at me,” he demands, voice gravel and silk.

  But this time I can’t obey. I shake my head, before pressing my face to the crook between his throat and shoulder. Maybe he senses not to push me—again, he’s Axel—because he cradles the back of my head, brushing a kiss over my hair. Holding me close, he moves. Withdrawing until I’m almost empty except for just the head of his cock is lodged inside of my entrance. Then, I’m full of him again, his length marking every part of me, my muscles quivering around him. With his weight on me, I can’t rock my hips, can’t meet his strokes. All I can do is receive.

  And he gives. God, does he give.

  He fucks me with his whole body. His fingers fist my hair and gently, but firmly, tug my head back and he takes my mouth. His chest rubs over my nipples, taunting them with caresses that tighten them into firm points. Strong, powerful thighs spread mine wide, and each thrust grinds the base of his cock against my clit even as his length prods that spot that no man has reached before. Only him. Only Axel.

  Why do I fear that’s going to become a mantra for me?

  Grabbing my hands, he tangles our fingers together, pressing them to either side of my head.

  “Look at me,” he orders again.

  And this time, this time, I do. And whatever he sees there triggers something in him. His head jerks back, almost as if he recoils from it. But then, his mouth firms, flattens and he lowers his face over mine. “Give it to me, Zenobia. And don’t you fucking hold back.”

  He releases one of my hands, grips my thigh, and hikes it higher, powering into me—harder, faster, all the while his eyes on me. Searching out whatever he demanded from me.

  “Axel,” I breathe. Or I try to. Drawing breath into my lungs is an exercise, a wish.

  “Give. It. To. Me,” he orders again.

  And this time, I obey. The orgasm rips through me like a backdraft of ecstasy, incinerating me. My lips part, but unlike the first release, no sound emerges. I’m past that. Past sound. Past sight. Past feeling anything, being anything but pure pleasure.

  At some point, Axel broke me.

  And remade me into someone who I don’t even recognize.

  And as he shudders above me, pouring into the condom, and growling his release into my ear, I have just enough awareness left to be terrified.

  Chapter Twelve

  Axel

  “If you’d hav
e told me when I woke up this morning that I would be eating eggs, sausage, and toast hours later, I probably would’ve given you both fingers. No,” Zenobia says, pinching one eye shut and holding up her fork, “I would’ve first christened the toilet and then given you the fingers.”

  I stare at her, sitting with her legs crossed in the middle of my bed in a nest of tangled sheets and blankets that still holds the scent of our sex. Plate balanced on her thighs, she scoops up more scrambled eggs that I cooked for her and slips them between her lips. It probably makes me a bit of a caveman that pride balloons in my chest as I watch her eat food that I cooked for her. Or that I’m more concerned with her hunger being satisfied than cleaning my plate. But I can’t deny the truth. I want her full, content. Wanting for nothing.

  “Here.” I pick up her cup of coffee of the bedside table and pass it to her.

  She sets down her fork and eagerly accepts it, humming. Her lashes lower as she sips, but they snap back open, surprise flaring in the golden-brown depths.

  “Three creams and one sugar,” she murmurs. “Just the way I take it. You paid attention.”

  I don’t answer, but of course, I did. There isn’t much about her that I haven’t noticed. Like the small, faint, sickle-shaped scar that runs under her jaw. Or that when she’s trying not to smile, her throat works likes she’s physically swallowing laughter. Or when she finds something incredibly idiotic, she quietly mouths, wow.

  And when she comes, her tight pussy clamps down on my dick like one of my table vises, and her eyes go from golden to the darkest amber.

  She’s fucking gorgeous.

  And even more so, now that I know the greedy sounds she makes as she swallows my dick; the scent of her skin, damp from twisting under me; that stunning, thick body begging for more of me. Now that I know this hungry, relentless craving inside me isn’t one-sided.

  When I received that text from her last night, I’d thought she’d had me right up the garden path and had waited for a follow up message with the punch line. But no other text had arrived, and as I read it over—and over and over—again, lust crawled through me, gaining power, speed, and strength until I stalked to the kitchen, ready to take her up on her offer. Willing to enter into another doomed, temporary whatever-the-fuck-it-is knowing she would walk away, and in some way, I would fail or disappoint her.