Smoke: A Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  “So why didn’t you tell me after?”

  After you decided you wanted more from us, I think, heart butting against my ribs. After you decided I was worth more than your arrogance.

  “Because I wanted our . . .” He swallows again. “Talking about this stuff is hard for me, Darla.”

  “I know,” I reply. “But I want to know.”

  He talks quickly, pushing out the words: “Because I wanted our relationship to develop naturally without any hero worshipping. That’s why. When you looked at me, I wanted you to see me, not the man who saved you.”

  “So before we started falling for each other, you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me falling for you. And after, you didn’t tell me because you wanted me to fall for the real you.”

  “When you put it like that, it sounds pretty ridiculous, don’t it?”

  “Not at all.” I shake my head, reaching out to him with my hands. “Come here. Please.”

  He sinks onto the couch next to me and takes my hands. He feels warm, as though he’s burning up, as though his passion is setting him on fire.

  “Brody,” I say.

  “Yes?” he replies, not looking me in the eye.

  I reach out, touch his chin, and turn his gaze so that he’s looking at me.

  “I’m glad to see you again,” I say. “You can’t know how glad.”

  He falls forward, spreading his arms, embracing me. “I’m glad to see you, too,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

  But I can’t deny that I see you differently, I think. If only a little bit. Before, you were the jerk asshole. Now you’re the man who pulled me from a fire and was too modest to say anything about it!

  I think about his strong arms, lifting me from the flames, and all at once I forget about the madness of the day, forget about my tiredness. I’m overcome with hunger. Hunger for the man who saved me, the man who protected me.

  I kiss him, hard, on the lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Darla

  One week of pent-up passion sparks between us as we kiss.

  Each touch, each brush of the lips, our clashing tongues, all of it is charged with an electric energy. He leans over me, pressing his face closer to mine, and I let out a long moan through the kiss. He moans in return. And now he’ll pounce on me, I think. Now he’ll ravish me. It’s the same every time we have sex. It’s like his moan is a starting pistol. As soon as it sounds, he jumps on me and we lose ourselves in the pleasure. Hard, animalistic, mad, frantic. He’ll tear at my clothes, lift me off my feet, spank me and fuck me.

  My body buzzes with anticipation. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted him until now. But after the moan, his hands don’t dart to my clothes, tearing at them. Instead, he leans closer and we kiss for longer, moaning together. We kiss slowly, enjoying the pleasure of it. I bring my hands to his face, cupping his cheeks, and I feel the heat of him. He’s burning up, a thousand degrees, and getting hotter. I hold his face hard, my fingernails pricking his skin. If it causes him any pain, he shows no sign.

  He breaks the kiss off for a moment, looking at me with a startled expression. “This is different,” he says, voice awed, looking at me as though seeing me for the first time.

  “It is,” I agree.

  Of course it is, I think. Before, we were two people eager to fuck. Now I know you’ve saved my life. You took care of me with gentleness I never expected from you. You showed a side of yourself I never dreamt I’d see. Brody, how could it not be different? I don’t say any of this, but judging from the look in his hazel eyes, he reads the message on my face. A small smile touches his lips, he leans in, and again we are lost to the world.

  We kiss for an age. Eternity. Hands roaming, slowly and without desperation, over each other’s bodies. When I move my hand down to his groin, grasp onto his cock, he lets out a long groan, stifled by the kiss.

  “I need you,” he says, stroking my hair. “I need you. Now.”

  “Then take me,” I moan.

  He’s full of surprises tonight, I think, as he gently pulls down my pants. They are baggy and loose and come away easily. He tugs at the boxer briefs and pulls them down to my ankles. Then he stares at my naked lower half, eyes wide. “Why did I wait so long to see you again?” he mutters in disbelief, but he’s talking to himself, not me. I can hear it in his tone. “I’ll never wait so long again.”

  I slide my hand through his hair, warm and damp with sweat. “You better not,” I say.

  I lean in. He leans in. We kiss again. Then he moves his hand up my bare thigh—electric charges sparking from each fingertip against my skin—and up to my pussy. Usually, he clamps his hand down hard on my pussy, so hard it’s almost like he wants to break it. And I love the ferocity of it. I can’t deny that. But this time it’s different. He tenderly brings his middle finger to my clit, touching it so softly it’s like a blade of grass tickling it. I cry out with pleasure. It’s a teasing pleasure, a sensation which causes my body to go into overdrive, hungry for more.

  He rubs my clit softly, all the while kissing me on the lips. He brushes his finger against it. Slowly, he rubs it harder, but never frantically, not like before. He’s taking his time, I think, wondering. He’s never taken his time before. Not that he’s been a rushed lover before now. It’s more that we’ve both been so horny neither of us has had the restraint to go slowly, to savor it. Before, we fucked. What we’re doing now is more like making love.

  He rubs my clit until I’m so wet the wetness touches his palm. He groans, breaks off the kiss, and stands up. He takes off his pants and underwear quickly, kicking them away. Then he leans over me, reaches down, and guides his cock. He braces himself with one arm and I grab it, feeling his massive muscles, the well-defined bulk of his arm.

  He stares directly into my eyes before he thrusts inside of me. I stare back. It’s comfortable, enhances the anticipation. This is completely at odds with Charley, or any other man for that matter. Eye contact during sex normally makes me self-conscious. But with Brody it is different.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says.

  Then he thrusts. I close my eyes. Gasp. His cock fills me, slides in easily, opening me up and thrusting all the way to the spot that makes me shiver.

  I open my eyes. He’s staring at me, directly into my eyes, as though he’s looking inside of me.

  As he slides out of me, I watch his face, his strong, handsome face; I watch how it twists in pleasure, his lips pursed, his eyes wide and pleasure-filled.

  “You’re so goddamn beautiful, Darla,” he moans.

  “Make love to me,” I moan in reply. I reach up and grab his shoulder muscles, pulling on them, as though I can pull him inside of me. “Make love to me, Brody.”

  “Make love . . .” He trails off, watching me, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Perhaps make love is a scary term for guys. Hell, I know it is. But then he nods and his face softens. It doesn’t become soft—I don’t think Brody’s face ever could—but it becomes softer than it was. “Yes,” he moans, leaning down and kissing me on the cheek. “Yes, yes.”

  He slides into me, slowly, gently. I tug on his shoulders and moan into his neck. He kisses my skin over and over as he thrusts inside of me. I feel close to him, closer than I’ve ever felt to any man during sex. He thrusts again and I feel something I’ve only read about in books before. He’s so slow, so gentle, and yet so filled with passion that each time he slides inside of me I feel as though we are one entity.

  Don’t be silly, a voice whispers. But he thrusts into me again, deeper, and when I throw my head back in pleasure, he’s staring directly at me. He feels it too, I think, excitement sweeping over me. Oh my god, he feels it too!

  “Darla,” he moans. “Darla, Darla, Darla . . .”

  “Brody . . .”

  The thrusts get quicker, but not desperate. I move my hips in time with him and bring my hands to his face, holding his cheeks as we make love. Make love. Because that’s what this i
s, I reflect. Something between us has changed.

  We stare into each other’s eyes for the rest of our lovemaking. I see emotion and passion and heat in Brody’s expression and I’m sure he must see the same thing in mine.

  “Oh, oh, oh . . .”

  The orgasm sneaks up on me. Steady thrusts, slow, deep, pressing deep inside. Before I know it, the orgasm is built high like a wall and ready to tumble. One more thrust, I think, one more thrust and each brick will topple and I’ll be hurled into a world of pleasure. I don’t close my eyes as I normally would when an orgasm hits me. I watch Brody, thinking: This is Brody. This is the man you wanted for a long time. This is a man who’s fucked you like an animal every chance he’s got. And now he’s showing a gentler side and he’s making love to you. Look into his eyes. Look at the passion. Look how much he wants this. But he doesn’t just want your body, Lila. He wants all of you. He’s hungry for it. He’s hungry for every last piece of you . . .

  I gasp, drawing in a deep breath. The wall crumbles. The orgasm unleashes.

  He fucks me faster, but not rough. I feel every tiny sensation. I feel my pussy go tighter around his cock. I feel my belly seize up. I feel my heart hammering in my chest. I feel the sweat that coats my skin. And most of all I feel the euphoric release that speeds through me, as though my body is a mountain face and the bricks are tumbling down me, each one triggering another explosion of pleasure. I moan and Brody kisses me. I moan through the kiss as the pleasure pours out of me.

  Finally, the pleasure passes, leaving me ragged and worn-out. I lean back, panting, but somewhere I find the energy to bring my hands to Brody’s face. I feel his features, knotted in pleasure.

  When he comes inside of me, the muscles in his face tighten and fix. He presses his face into my neck and groans for a long time, his breath warm on my skin.

  And then he rolls away from me, onto the couch, and looks at me with the expression of a man who has just discovered something for the first time.

  That makes two of us, I think, looking back at him. I never knew sex could be so . . . close, tender, so . . .

  “Perfect,” I mutter, smiling at him. “Brody, it was perfect.”

  “Yes,” he says, moving up the couch so that our legs are touching. “That’s the word for it, I think.”

  He kisses me on the nose, sending tingles all over my body.

  Perfect, I think.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Brody

  Goddamn . . .

  I look at Darla and I’m sure my face must be as shocked as I feel. I’ve never fucked like that. Fucked, ha! That’s a bullshit term for what we just did, make no mistake. It’s almost like we were—but I can’t think like that. That’s not the sort of guy I am. I’m not a make-love kind of guy. Never have been, not since . . .

  But I can’t deny that when I look at Darla, perched on the edge of the couch and watching TV, I feel different. More different than I’ve ever felt with any woman. I hooked into her eyes, we had slow, passionate sex. That’s not me. Not ever. And yet we did it and it was incredible.

  I shuffle along the couch and wrap my arm around her. She leans into me, nuzzling into my chest. It feels so natural. I feel so at ease.

  “Darla,” I say.

  “Hmm?”

  “Tell me something about yourself.” It’s like I hear myself say the words instead of actually say them. I would never say something like that to a woman, I reason. A man like me never asks questions that intimate. But I can’t deny that I am interested and I do want to know.

  She turns away from the TV, suddenly awake. I don’t flinch away from her searching gaze. I welcome it. I feel as though a bridge has been laid between us. We understand each other better than we did before. I find myself wanting to fill in the blanks of her past.

  “What do you want to know?” she asks.

  “Anything you want to tell me,” I say, stroking her hair.

  She shrugs. “I could tell you about Charles.”

  “Charles?”

  “My ex-boyfriend.” She quickly adds: “But of course you don’t want to hear about that—”

  “I do,” I interrupt, surprised to find that I genuinely am interested. “Tell me.”

  She swallows, and then nods. Disentangling herself from my grip, she lays her hand upon my knee. “Do you really want to know?” she asks uncertainly.

  “I want to know about you,” I say, honestly. “I really do.”

  She looks at me once again with an uncertain expression, and then she takes a deep breath, as though readying herself. “Okay,” she says. “But only if you really want to.”

  I nod.

  “Okay . . .” She takes another breath.

  She tells me about an ass named Charles, who threw temper tantrums if she called him Charley. She tells me how he was loving and kind at the beginning and how he turned into something else when she was in too deep. She tells me about the countless times he criticized her appearance. I feel a pang of guilt, deep within my chest, when she tells me how he used to pick at every little thing about her. She was wearing too much makeup; she wasn’t wearing enough. Her skirt was too short; it was too long. She frowned too often; she appeared too happy. Then she tells me how this asshole flirted with her friend right in front of her.

  “I don’t think he expected me to break up with him, ever,” she says. Anger underlies her voice and her cheeks flare red. “He didn’t think I had it in me. It’d been so long, Brody. He’d treated me like shit and I’d just taken it. He never expected me to have the guts to end it. He took me for granted. He treated me like a piece of furniture, always assuming I’d be there, and when I finally broke it off, he acted all surprised. Like it was a surprise!” She throws her hands up in frustration. “The only surprising thing, when I look back, is that I waited so long to break it off with him. I mean, what the hell was wrong with me? Why would I take it for so long?”

  Her hands flutter in the air as she talks. I reach out and take them, bring them to my chest, hold them so close she must be able to feel the heavy beating of my heart.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Sorry?” She tilts her head at me. “What for?”

  “For criticizing you, when we first started talking. I never would’ve done it if I’d known . . .” I shake my head. “I was a prick, Darla. That’s the truth. I’m always a damn prick.”

  She giggles. “Well, that’s true.”

  “Oh, is it, now?” I leap at her, tickling her belly.

  She squeals, darting away from me. When she’s escaped to the other end of the couch, she says: “Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Yes, your turn to tell me about your past. It’s only fair.”

  She grins wickedly at me.

  Can I? I wonder. Can I peel back the armor which has encased me for so long? Can I open myself to this woman? Can I share?

  “Really?” I ask.

  “If I come back down there, you’re not going to attack me again, are you?”

  I laugh. “No, I’ll give you a break.”

  She joins me at my end of the couch, resting her hands atop mine. “Tell me, Brody,” she says. “I know it’s not easy. But I’ve just shared the most humiliating aspect of my life.”

  “Yeah, I guess you have,” I say. I grit my teeth, wondering if I can really share a part of myself I’ve spent most of my adult life crushing. I know that, if it were anybody but Darla sitting beside me, the answer would be no. Most likely preceded by a hell. But Darla is different. Our sex—our lovemaking—has proved that.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll let you take a peek at my black heart.”

  I grin and she shoves me playfully. “Spill the beans,” she says.

  I take a deep breath, a readying breath, just as she did before she told me about Charles.

  “If you really want to know . . .”

  I tell her about Julia. I start at high school and tell her that I was such a damn fool I thought that, as
teenagers, Julia and I were truly in love. I tell her how we talked endlessly about what we would do when school was over. I tell her about Julia going to a college close by so that we didn’t have to separate. I tell her about our plans to get married and one day have children. And then I tell her about the night I returned home to find her bent over my favorite armchair, the kid from one of her classes behind her, both of them stark naked and moaning.

  I stop. I’m squeezing my knees so hard pain lances up my thighs. “That was hard,” I admit. “That was damn hard.”