by Jenika Snow
He groaned.
I moaned.
Our bodies became sweatier the longer we made out, the more he kissed me, licking me, nipping my lips and tongue.
I wanted—needed—to have him deep inside of me, tearing through my hymen, making it his, only his.
Always his.
He stilled above me, his muscles strained, taut.
“I’m ready for you. So ready, Braxton.”
“God, baby girl. I’m yours.” Before I could say anything in response, he was pushing his cock into me.
I felt the stretch and burn fill me, consume me.
Right now there was only us.
“More,” I said, meaning it, needing it.
He thrust his hips forward, pushing another inch into me.
“So tight. So wet.” He stared right at me. “So mine.”
My inner muscles clenched on their own, trying to pull him in deeper.
He rested his forehead against mine, and we breathed the same air. “You feel so good.” And then he was buried fully in me.
“Yes, so fucking good.”
I dug my nails farther into his arms.
He started moving in and out of me, faster and harder. The sound of flesh slapping together filled the room, made me feel drunk from it all.
I knew if he kept this up, I could get off on the sound alone.
The root of his cock rubbed against my clit every time he slammed into me, driving me higher to the precipice of going off the cliff and never hitting ground.
He pushed fully into me, stilled, and rotated his hips. It stole my breath, made me light-headed, dizzy with sensation.
“You’re so tight, so fucking hot and wet for me.” Sweat beaded his brow, and the sound that left him was almost animalistic. He pulled out and then slammed into me especially hard.
“God. Yes.”
“I want to see you get off. I want to feel you shake for me, come undone for me.”
Yes.
“Then touch me.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that out loud.
He groaned right before he reached between us and pressed his thumb to my clit. And when he started rubbing that little engorged bud, my body arched on its own, my breasts pressing farther toward him.
I knew he was close to getting off, too. There was no way he couldn’t be right at the precipice of going over the edge like me.
“You’re mine,” he said so low, his voice distorted, crazy almost.
“Yes,” I said loudly, not caring if the whole hotel could hear me.
He thrust into me again, at the same time applying more pressure to my clit.
“I want to hear you say it again,” he demanded, his voice breathless.
I didn’t need him to elaborate to know what he meant, what he wanted me to say.
“I’m yours.”
“Yeah, that’s it, my sweet girl. That’s so fucking it.”
He thrust in and out of me faster, harder.
I was breathing so harsh, hyperventilating with my arousal. “Yes, Braxton,” I gasped when he slammed into me so hard I moved up an inch on the bed. “I’ll only ever be yours.”
He pushed into me again and again, never stopping, never relenting. The pain only heightened my pleasure.
“Come for me. Do it now. Give it to me.”
And I got off for him. Just like that.
I cried out at the pleasure, at how good this moment felt. He thrust deep into my body and stilled, his huge body tense above me, his muscles rigid, defined.
The sound of his breathing was haggard, rough, just like the man I’d fallen in love with.
And then I could feel him come deep in my body. The way he pumped into me, filled me with his cum … made me his. He rested his big body on mine, his warm breath skating along my damp flesh.
“I’ll always take care of you, always,” he seemed to say to himself. “I love you, Moira. I love you so fucking much it hurts my heart at times.”
My breath hitched at his words. “I love you too, have for longer than I can even admit.”
When several moments passed, he opened his eyes and looked at me. I could see the beads of perspiration lining his brow. And then he leaned down and kissed me, the salty yet sweet flavor of his kiss making me drunk. When he pulled back, I felt dizzy.
“Are you okay, baby girl?”
I nodded. “I’m more than okay.” And I was, more than I could ever put into words.
He held me tightly and I knew everything would be good and right, that this was where I was supposed to be.
“I can’t leave you, not after all of this.”
I pulled back and looked into his face.
“I’ll switch my meetings to the city. I have to be close to you, have to be here as we really get to know each other.”
Of course I’d known him seemingly my whole life, but I knew he meant knowing me in this romantic aspect. I wanted that too.
“We’ll need to let your father know.”
“Let him know?” I was curious, interested in what he meant.
He cupped my cheek, looking serious. “I need him to know that I love you, and no matter what, I’m not letting you go.”
And just like that I was lost, gone for this man whom I loved more than anything else. No matter what, I knew we’d get through it. No obstacle would stand in our way. Neither of us would let that happen. I knew that as deeply as I knew Braxton was here with me right now.
Braxton
One month later
The weeks had flown by, but when someone was happy, it tended to do that. I leaned back in the chair and stared at where Moira and her father stood by the grill.
“You’re going to burn the steaks,” Moira said, pushing her father gently out of the way and taking over. They both had smiles on their faces.
We had told Moira’s father right away about our relationship, and although he had been concerned about the age difference at first, the fact remained I wasn’t about to back down. I wasn’t going to let her go. Moira was mine, and that was the end of it.
I’d bend for her, not the other way around. She wanted to stay here and finish school, and I would transfer all my accounts so I could be closer to her. I wasn’t going to continue with my business trips when I had Moira back here waiting for me.
She glanced at me and smiled, and the way she made me feel with that one expression, that gentle look, could have dropped me to my knees. I’d do anything for that woman. Anything.
About twenty minutes later she came back over to me, and I immediately embraced her, bringing her down so she sat beside me. Truth was I wanted her on my lap, wanted to keep her close, keep her right up against me. But I respected the fact that her father was here and most likely wouldn’t want to see his daughter in such an intimate embrace, no matter who she was with.
“Things are going surprisingly well.”
I knew she was referring to her father’s girlfriend acting mature and not being drama seeking. I’d heard enough stories about the young woman my good friend was involved with to know she was materialistic, vain, and loved the attention on her. But Charles was happy, he knew what he was involved with, and I didn’t see him falling into some mindless situation where she drained him dry.
No, Charles was smarter than I was when it came to holdings and finances. Hell, he hadn’t made all his money by being an idiot.
“He’s an old man and living a little excitement. It won’t last, but let him ride it out.” I chuckled at the look Moira gave me. “I didn’t mean to give you a visual of Charles and—”
“No, the look I gave you was in reference to you saying he was an old man. You’re the same age and in your prime.”
My cock stirred at the sound of her saying I was in my prime. Truth was, no woman had ever made me feel the way Moira did. Yeah, I was old enough to be her father, but she was an adult, knew what she wanted, and I was willing to give her the world.
I tamed the fucker down. Now was not the time or place, but tonight …
tonight I’d be ravishing her body, taking care of her in the way a real man did with the woman he loved. And when I thought she was ready, when I didn’t think I was rushing her or making her feel pressured, I’d be asking this woman, who made my heart skip a beat every time I thought about her, to marry me.
And if she said yes, I’d spend the rest of my life showing her exactly how happy I could make her.
Epilogue One
Braxton
Two years later
I knew she would be mine the moment I realized what she meant to me. It had been two years ago when I saw her at the restaurant, no longer the young woman I needed to look after because she was my best friend’s daughter. She was a woman, not just beautiful on the outside but on the inside as well.
For as much as I’d wanted this over the last two years, I couldn’t believe this was happening right now. My heart was thundering, my breath starting to come in fast, hard intervals.
But I would have waited until the end of time, until my girl was ready. She’d wanted to finish school, and she had. She’d excelled at it, even though I’d had no doubts about it.
I knew I was a hard man to love, a jealous, possessive bastard at the best of times. But any sane person would want to protect the prize they held most dear, the one thing they’d die for.
Nothing in this life meant more to me than the woman I was soon to marry.
And then the music started playing, the traditional “Wedding March” that had my heart stalling. Everything and everyone faded away.
The guests turned to focus on the entrance. I did the same, nothing else about to take my attention from my bride coming down the aisle.
And then she was walking toward me. Her father was on her other side, about to give her away to me.
Emotions consumed every single part of me.
The next few moments happened in a blur. Her father gave her away, and then we were saying our vows.
I wanted to pull her in and kiss her, stake my claim in front of everyone in the most primal way.
“I do,” she said softly, tears in her eyes.
I waited for my part, but really I wanted to shout my feelings out to the whole fucking world.
“I do,” I managed to say in a civil way.
I slid a piece of hair behind her ear, the pad of my finger skimming along her skin, and she shivered for me. I stared into her eyes, knowing I had my world right in front of me.
“I told you you’d be mine,” I whispered. I might have said the words too low for anyone else to hear, but I didn’t care if the whole fucking world heard my declaration to the woman I loved.
“And I’ll always be yours, the same as you’ll always be mine,” she said softly, smiling.
“Always,” I said, my heart full.
I was hers, and nothing would ever change that.
Epilogue Two
Moira
Five years later
I carried in the last shopping bag, set it in the kitchen, and headed out to the living room. I could hear Braxton in there talking with Olivia, our three-year-old daughter. Olivia had started taking an interest in dressing her father up like a princess these days.
I stood in the entranceway for several seconds, watching the man I loved play rainbows and princess with our daughter.
I could have watched them all day long.
And when Braxton turned around and smiled at me, my heart jumped in my throat.
“Landon is in bed, napping.”
I nodded, smiling at the knowledge that our one-year-old son was sleeping.
“Ready for naptime, sweetheart?”
“No,” Olivia said as she rubbed her eyes.
Braxton chuckled and picked her up, carrying her into her bedroom. Once she was in bed and sleeping, he came back out and joined me in the living room. We sat on the couch, Braxton’s arm around me, my body curled up close to his. We sat there for long seconds, neither speaking nor moving.
There was nothing but the beautiful silence that surrounded us, and the love of my life holding me close.
Over the last five years we’d accomplished a lot. We’d bought a home together, had two beautiful children, and I was still working part-time. I loved being outside of the home, working with numbers, interacting with people. But I missed my children and didn’t want to be away from them that long. I also didn’t have to work, not with what Braxton earned, but I needed some independence too.
As the years progressed, our lives had changed for the better.
Sure, Braxton was older than me and had been my father’s good friend. But in the end Braxton was my husband, the father of my children, and the love of my life.
Our relationship might not have been typical or conventional, but it was honest and real.
At the end of the day nothing else mattered but our lives and if we were happy.
What was important was that he loved me and I loved him. My father supported us, had from the very beginning, and even though we’d been together for years now, this still felt like the first day of the rest of my life.
And I knew it always would.
The End
The HIS Collection
What does it mean to be HIS? From baby making to babygirls, you'll find a bit of whatever melts your panties in this ode to Father's Day. From five of your favorite steamy, safe authors (and one hot newbie) come a group of six stand alone books dedicated to Daddy's everywhere. You will get your fill of everything from alpha men focused on securing a baby in their woman to filthy Daddy Doms who know how to care for their princesses. So, hold Daddy's hand and see what's in store!
Complete series now out!
Find out more on the collection HERE!
About the Author
Newsletter Sign-Up Here
www.JenikaSnow.com
[email protected]
Excerpt: Mine (A Real Man, 13)
Jana
“Well, let me bring Mr. Savage in here to go over your résumé.”
I stared at the woman whose name was Poppy or Pippy or something equally fake sounding. I just nodded, not about to be a smart-ass and ask why I needed to speak with the owner of the club when I was applying to strip for them. Did he need to know where I’d gone to school before I took my clothes off?
Pippy or Poppy, or whatever the hell her name was, got up and left me in the swanky office alone. I had to give the place credit; it was high-class, like men had to fork over a shitload of money just to get into the VIP room.
I started picking at lint on my shirt. Although there probably was nothing there, I felt my nerves grow higher. The seconds moved at an agonizing rate. And then I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
The room became hotter, the air thicker. My skin felt tight, and despite facing the desk and not hearing anyone enter, I knew someone had come into the room.
I turned around in my chair, and there he was, this imposing figure over six feet tall, wearing a dark three-piece suit, and having authority written all over him. His hair was coal colored, short. His eyes were this deep blue, so dark they almost could've been black. And I could see tattoos peeking out from under the collar of his shirt and jacket and creeping down his hands.
But it was his expression, his focus on me that had me sitting up straighter.
He walked closer, not saying anything, never taking his gaze off me. He sat behind the desk, finally looking away from me and staring down at the folder with my résumé.
For long moments he did nothing but look at those forms, at my qualifications. I didn't know what he was trying to figure out, seeing as I was here to take my clothes off.
“I’m Cole Savage, the owner of the club. Tell me, Miss Banks, why would you want to work here?”
Was he serious? Did he want some long, drawn-out explanation of why I wanted to stand in front of a roomful of men, their gazes raking over my partially nude body, right before I twisted around on a silver pole?
Instead of lying and making up some excuse on
why I needed the money, I just told him the truth.
“I used to dance.” When all he did was stare at me, I continued. “I did ballet, but I hurt my ankle and wasn't able to do it anymore. Instead of working a dead-end job, cleaning tables or serving people their food, I figured the fastest way for me to pay off my debts is to strip.”
He didn't say anything, just leaned back in the leather chair, his arms folded over his broad chest, his gaze intense.
I shifted on my seat, feeling this uncomfortable tightness in my whole body. I didn’t know what it was about this man. Having him only five feet from me, his expression making me feel like he could see right through me, knew my every secret, made me feel unhinged.
He closed the folder, blocking out my résumé, making me feel like this was the end of the story. Maybe he didn't like what he saw? I wasn't well-endowed in the chest department, didn't have curves that went on for miles. I certainly wasn’t made like the women I saw dancing at his club.
I was a ballet dancer down to my very core, even if I was sitting in front of a strip club owner asking him to give me a job to get naked in front of strangers. I was graceful, thin. But I knew I danced beautifully.
If he wanted me to demonstrate what I had to offer, I'd be more than willing to give him a show he’d never forget.
He leaned forward then, his hands clasped on the table. I stared at his fingers, how long and strong they were. The backs of his hands had tattoos, his knuckles sporting the same ink. How much of this man was covered? How much of his golden, hard skin was painted in abstract, seemingly dangerous lines of black?
Strangely enough, I wanted to know that. I wanted to see for myself.
I don't know what it was about him, but he made me feel like I walked on a tightrope, the ground beneath me an endless void of the unknown.
