by Naima Simone
Another of those sharp laughs. “You know what the shitty part of all this is? Michael didn’t want to attend the club opening that night. I convinced him to go with me. He would’ve been home, safe rather than on the road, driving in the rain because I left him to go ride a woman whose name and face I can’t even remember. Considering my friend was dying in a burning heap of metal, that should’ve been the best screw of my life, but I can’t picture her.” Movements jerky, he turned back to the bottle of liquor and poured a healthy amount into the tumbler. “If I hadn’t dragged him out that night. If I’d ridden with him. If I—”
The torment in his voice melted the deep freeze holding her captive. Before she could analyze her actions, she rushed across the room. The suffering, the shame…Jesus, how had he borne it all this time? It scraped over her skin, weighed on her chest. How had he lived with such a weight? A needless weight. Anger sparked to life inside her, quickly gathering heat and flaring into a bonfire.
A damn ridiculous weight.
“Stop it,” she snapped, covering and squeezing the hand lifting the glass to his mouth, forcing him to set it back down on the bar. “That’s the most self-serving, self-absorbed shit I’ve ever heard.”
His fingers flexed beneath hers, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
“You just said Michael was no better than a sheep, following mindlessly behind you with no will of his own. My brother wasn’t weak; if he didn’t want to go to some party, he would’ve told you no. He was unfailingly kind, but he wasn’t spineless. Hell, he’d essentially told our parents to take their plans and shove them; telling you no would’ve been a cake walk.” She scoffed. “And he knew you better than any person alive, including your family. Do you really believe he didn’t consider there was a probability he’d end up leaving that party alone? I believe ‘Niall will nail anything that moves’ was his summation of your love life. He loved you even knowing you often failed to keep your dick in your pants. It wasn’t the first time you two had gone out together and left separately. Niall,” she breathed, the fury leaking out of her like air escaping a pierced balloon.
Murmuring his name again, she cradled his lean cheek in her palm. He stiffened beneath her hand, but she didn’t lower her arm. Refused to take the slight rejection personally. Not when desperation darkened his eyes like a turbulent storm.
“Let it go,” she implored softly, sweeping her thumb over the proud jut of his cheekbone. “Michael’s death was a horrible, tragic accident. My parents grieved hard when he died, and I don’t doubt they lashed out at you because they couldn’t take it out on the person they’re really angry with—Michael. That’s too hard for them to admit, and so you make a very convenient scapegoat because you’re alive, and he isn’t. But,” she lifted her other hand to his face, and cupped it, “this guilt isn’t your burden to bear. And Michael would hate that you’re carrying it. If not for yourself, then for him—let it go.”
His thick lashes lowered, concealing his gaze from her. But not before she caught the desolate need in it. The need to do as she asked and release the shame. The need to accept.
The need to believe.
“Niall,” she whispered, then unable to resist touching him any longer, rose on tiptoe and brushed her mouth across his. And just because she wanted to, did it again.
He went rigid, even more so than after she’d caressed his cheek. Such tension invaded his body, one overzealous current from the central air could’ve cracked him in two. Still she flicked her tongue over his bottom lip, then the top, paying special attention to the intriguing, sexy dip in the middle.
With no warning, he snapped. A hard hand gripped her hip. Demanding fingers drove through her hair, tangling and tugging her head back.
A hungry mouth crushed over hers.
She couldn’t contain her moan as he penetrated her lips with a forceful, bone-melting thrust. He didn’t ask for her acquiescence. Didn’t seek her permission. He took, as if assured of her submission. Took as if her surrender was a forgone conclusion.
And it was.
Somewhere a part of her raged at how quickly she always capitulated to his every touch, his kiss. But that part was lassoed and tied by the far larger, neglected section of her that craved everything this man did to her. And only this man could do.
Tunneling her fingers into his dark waves, she pressed herself against his solid chest, tilted her head to the side, and opened her mouth wider. She met him stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust in a sensual mimicry of what the suddenly damp flesh between her legs pulsed and ached for. Every lick, ever sensuous suckle reverberated in her clit as if his tongue caressed her there. If a man could make a woman come from a simple—or not so simple—kiss, then it was Niall. He was that damn gifted.
With a final nip to her bottom lip, he lowered his mouth to her jaw, pausing to trace it before traveling to her neck. She shivered, leaning her head back, granting him access to—whatever. Whatever he wanted. Just as long as he didn’t stop.
Mistake, her mind blinked in huge red cautionary letters. They’d been down this trail already, and after an emotional upheaval. Sex with him could only lead to more confusion and disaster. Yet, even as the warning echoed in her head, he shoved the cowl neck of her sweater to the side and bit the tender, sensitive crook where throat and shoulder met. She groaned, hips bucking and meeting the hard ridge of his erection. The punch of lust effectively obliterated that nagging voice into silence.
He swung her around, pressed her into the bar. Cupping the back of her knee, he hiked her leg around his hip, and ground against her. His erection rode her denim-covered sex, rolled over her pulsing clit. Mouth once more worshiping hers, he hiked her thigh higher, opened her further. Stroked harder. She whimpered. It’d been so long. Too long. Already the tell-tale tingle and pressure built, coalescing into a ball that had only one end. Explosion.
“Niall.” Her hands fell to his shoulders, and she clung because one more surge of his hips…One more slide of his cock, and…
He bent his knees and slowly straightened. Dragging the rigid length of him up her folds. Circled over the too sensitive bundle of nerves cresting her sex.
And she detonated.
Pleasure radiated from her core throughout her body, shaking her like a leaf on a tempestuous wind. She cried out, rendered weak by the tight, volcanic orgasm that satisfied yet still left her hungry, hurting.
Holy shit. And he hadn’t even removed one article of clothing. Not one.
“Goddamn, baby,” he growled in her ear. “You have more to give me. I barely touched you.” The words rang in her ears, ominous and heavy with promise. He dropped her leg and, grasping the bottom of her sweater, whipped it over her head. “How long has it been, Khloe?” he asked, unbuttoning her jeans and sliding down the zipper. “When was the last time you came for a man?” he pressed, teasing the patch of her skin revealed by her loosened jeans with a fingertip. “Was it me? Was I the last man to make this pussy wet?”
She should deny, deny, deny. But need stole her voice. Hell, her breath. She couldn’t answer, but then she didn’t have to. Knowledge glinted in his hooded gaze. He knew. He knew that no other man had touched her, made her explode like a damn cannon in three years.
“Yeah, I was,” he rumbled, hooking his fingers into the waist of her jeans and tugging them down her hips and legs. Seconds later, he’d removed her boots and pants, leaving her standing, trembling, in front of him, with only her bra and panties barely concealing her. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest. Silly considering he’d seen her naked before, and her underwear was soaked from her orgasm.
But old insecurities surged like unwelcome visitors, and those sibilant whispers reminded her that her breasts weren’t a perfect handful, her belly wasn’t concave, and her hips weren’t slender. She enjoyed hamburgers not salads, and it showed in her body.
“Don’t hide from me.” She opened eyes she didn’t remembering closing, meeting Niall’s gaze. He knelt at her feet, his la
rge hands spanning her waist, and stole her breath like a clever thief. “Don’t ever hide from me,” he ordered, voice hard. “I want to see you. Every fucking, gorgeous inch of you.” He lowered his head, branded her skin right above the band of her panties with a hot, open-mouth kiss. “Taste you,” he murmured. “Damn, I want to taste you.”
And he did.
Oh God, he did.
He tongued her through her lacy underwear, tracing the swollen folds the delicate material couldn’t hide or protect. With a ravenous snarl, he crowded closer, lodging his shoulder under her thigh. Canting his head to the side, he sucked her flesh into his mouth, feasting, nibbling, savoring. Fiery lust incinerated her anxiety and insecurities. They didn’t stand a chance under the determined, erotic lash of his tongue over her sex.
“Not enough,” he muttered before yanking the offending panties down her legs and tossing them aside. “Damn, you’re so beautiful. I’ve dreamed…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he’d thought it better not to. Maybe he was too damn hungry. Probably a mixture of both, because he dived between her thighs again and latched onto her clit, curling around the nub and lapping at it like a man starved.
“Niall.” She groaned, long and deep, and grasping the edge of the bar with one hand and clutching his hair with the other, all she could do was hold on like a leaf swirled and tossed on churning rapids. She sympathized with that leaf, swept along, battered with the forceful torrents of pleasure. Just as she almost cried “uncle”, he plunged a thick finger in her core and catapulted her into oblivion.
When she floated back to reality he continued to lick and sip at her, and wearily, she pushed at his head, whimpering a feeble protest. Her flesh jerked and quivered beneath his mouth and slowly pumping finger.
“I can’t,” she weakly protested. “Too much.”
“Fuck that,” he growled, rising to his feet. It didn’t escape her notice that he remained fully clothed while she stood damn near naked. The difference only heightened the eroticism they shared. “It’s not enough.”
He swept her into his arms, and she cried out. The I’m-too-heavy stuttered and died a quick death on her lips as he claimed her mouth in a burning kiss. The taste of herself on his lips and tongue should’ve been abhorrent, but instead it flared to life a searing heat that should’ve been banked by her orgasms moments ago. He’d devoured her as if she were a sumptuous, delicious meal, and he a man who hadn’t tasted food in years. The act hadn’t been a chore, but rather a delight to him—she’d been a delight to him. And that was sexy as hell.
Her back met the thick cover on the bed, and he released her mouth. Straightening, he yanked his sweater over his head, exposing yards of taut skin and tight muscle. Lean but strong, he was like a jungle cat. Dark, sleek, toned, predatory. Except she yearned to be taken down by this male animal. Longed to be consumed by him.
His ridged abdomen flexed as he stripped free of his jeans. No underwear. The boxers or briefs argument was moot with him. He stood before her, allowing her to look her fill. Corded shoulders and arms. Wide, hard chest. Slim hips. Hard, delineated thighs.
Long, thick cock.
She swallowed, riveted. Aching as if she hadn’t already come two times within the last hour. The veined, broad column speared upward, the swollen, flushed cap nudging his navel. His big hand wrapped around the staff, stroking up, up, up until the head disappeared in his fist, reappearing seconds later as he pulled the skin taut on the down stroke. Again, he touched himself, one hand lowering to cup and tug on the sac below. Oh God. He was such a beautiful, male animal. So primal and stripped of the polished veneer he wore with ease and confidence. Now, though, he granted her an erotic, raw show for one. And she was an enraptured audience.
“Take the bra off,” he ordered, his voice a rough caress over her skin. With fumbling fingers, she followed his instructions. This time, self-doubts didn’t enter her head. Modesty was a thing of the past. It had no place in this room, in this bed with her body humming, her sex spasming and throbbing for the flesh he teased her with.
He didn’t shift his steady perusal away from her as he reached into the top drawer of the bedside dresser and removed a small, square package. He took his time opening the foil and rolling the condom down his length. She skimmed her tongue over her lips, imagining him thrusting between her lips, stretching her mouth wide. A low hum vibrated in her chest. The flavor of him. She hadn’t forgotten it. Could almost taste it on her tongue.
“Damn it, Khloe,” he snapped, and then he was crouched over her. Pressing her into the mattress. His tongue mimicking the possession she’d just been envisioning. Disappointment over not being able to realize the fantasy flared inside her even as his kiss tossed kerosene on an already raging fire. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, lightly nipping her lip. “And if I didn’t want inside you so goddamn bad I’d have you on your knees sucking my cock until I came down your throat.” She loosed a soft whine as he painted the lascivious picture, and a grim, forced smile curled his mouth, but did nothing to soften the carnal, harsh cast of his face. “Later,” he promised, his hooded gaze trailing down between their bodies. “Right now, I want your pussy wrapped around me, squeezing me.”
He balanced his weight on one palm, gripped the base of his cock with the other, and sank inside her.
Air rushed from her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut, dug her fingernails into the taut skin of his shoulders as pleasure vied against a discomfort that teetered on pain as he thrust his hard length into her sensitive tissue. Too much. There was too much of him. Her flesh fought to accommodate his width, quivering and rippling around him.
“Shh,” he soothed, planting small, reassuring kisses to her chin, mouth, cheeks, closed lids. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe and relax. You can take all of me. Just like before.”
All of him. Shit, there was more?
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmured. Soft licks to her breasts. “Hot. Tight. So damn wet.” Hard, insistent tugs on her nipples by impatient lips. Electric pulses traveled from the tips down her belly and to her sex. She contracted around him, and he groaned. “That’s it. Take me in.”
Capturing her mouth, he withdrew from her body and slowly, deliberately surged forward. The discomfort ebbed until it became negligible, swamped by the pleasure. Murmuring encouragement and praise against her lips, he urged her to meet him. Fuck him.
Her world narrowed to his hard flesh shuttling in and out of her flesh in languid, measured thrusts. Contracted to the graze of his chest over her nipples. Tapered to the sweat misting their bodies, and the sensual sounds of her sex grasping and releasing him.
Soon, the unhurried glides in and out of her quickened. Hardened. The face above her became fiercer. The hands on her hips, firmer. The words more raw, explicit.
Cries tumbled from her lips, pleas for more. Take me harder. Give me more. Fuck me. Fuck me.
He fell forward, his palms flattened on the headboard. His hips lifted, surged, ground against her. He buried himself inside her over and over, driving her toward a cataclysmic end she wasn’t too certain she could survive. Not that she had any choice. Relentless, merciless, he rode her, his hooded stare demanding she come, she surrender. Commanding her ultimate submission.
And once more, she gave it to him.
Ecstasy broke her. Imploded. Scattered her just before it sucked her deep and exploded again. She shook for him. Screamed for him.
Flew for him.
He’d done it again.
Khloe swept her hand over the place where Niall had been lying when she’d fallen to sleep. A place that had long lost its warmth.
Damn it. She surged up from the sheets, dragging her tangle of hair back before scrubbing her hands down her face. How could she have been so stupid? She’d been in this position—naked, sweaty, thoroughly sexed, and tingling—three years earlier. Then she’d woken alone, abandoned. And it seemed as if she had willingly signed up for a repeat performance.
Like scroung
ing through the refrigerator for the last piece of red velvet cake and scarfing it down even knowing it was hell on the hips.
Swallowing back a groan, she threw back the bedcovers and launched herself from the bed. Humiliation and anger coursed through her. She’d obtained a Bachelor of Science in computer science from Boston College in three years instead of four, and a Masters in the same from MIT. She designed and wrote software for a small Fortune 500 company. She could troubleshoot and correct code with an efficiency that had earned her two promotions in as many years. So she was a fairly smart woman.
Then why in the hell had she ended up in this predicament again?
Get dressed and get the hell out of here, she urged herself. Locating her bra, she shrugged into it and scanned the room for… Oh damn. Niall had stripped them off in the living room…when he’d knelt and put his mouth on her. No! Don’t think about that. Clothes, for godsakes. Stay focused on the…clothes.
Like the jeans and cream knit sweater neatly draped over the arm of a chair tucked into a corner of the bedroom. Her boots stood at attention beside it.
She gasped, pressing her palm to her stomach as if it could contain the hurt churning there. The garments were like a calling card. Here’re your clothes; get the hell out. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she slipped into her clothing and exited the room on bare feet. Spotting her coat over the back of the couch, she headed for it.
Then drew up hard.
He hadn’t left.
Niall stood at the large bay window. Torso and feet bare, dark jeans hanging low around his lean hips.
Heat unfurled in her belly, spreading its sultry warmth to all points south and north. Just one glance at him after having exploded in orgasmic bliss three times, and yet, she still wanted him. Un. Believe. Able.
Slowly, he turned and met her, no doubt, hungry gaze. In that moment, as she stared at the regret in his eyes and the hard lines of his face, she hated herself. No, he hadn’t vacated the premises this time, but he’d still deserted her. What woman enjoyed waking up in a bed with cold sheets after having given herself to a man? Enjoyed the subtle reminder that she’d overstayed her welcome?
