by Lia Riley
He sits back on his knees. His hands slide up my legs, under my skirt, and—bang—there goes my underwear, just like that. Wait. Crap. I forgot to shave my legs this morning, didn’t—
“Fuck.” A muscle tics deep in his jaw. His cat eyes fix on me, my exposed sex.
Okay, okay, be cool. How would a normal, more experienced girl react to this situation? My brain peeks through invisible fingers and shrugs. It’s got nothing.
“Oh, Talia.” His voice gentles, almost prayerful. He leans in and kisses me—there—and within three toe-curling seconds all my worry dissolves in a warm pool of holy-shit-goodness.
I once read in a magazine that a guy should go down on a girl like they’re writing the alphabet with their tongue. Bran composes a sonnet. I’m consumed. My secret places alight as a fierce ache gathers in my belly, quakes through my limbs. I pull him closer, shameless in my need. He pins my hips and anchors my body to the mattress. His thrumming moan vibrates to my core. His mouth demands everything, so I give it. It doesn’t take long. My thighs clench, unclench in cadence to the spasms rocking me from the inside out.
Afterward, he holds me close, gently rubs circles across my lower back as I return to myself.
“Um…” My voice is hoarse, like I’ve been screaming. Oh God, did I scream?
“Yeah.” He kisses the center of my forehead.
“That was—”
“Incredible.”
“Implausible.”
“You’re perfect.” His heart beats a hard rhythm against my cheek.
“Sadly, no.”
“Perfect for me, then,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re only perfect for me.”
There’s no way he can miss my tremble. I’ve always felt out of place, the odd duck waddling behind Pippa the Swan. I close my eyes and increase my grip on his shoulders. I’ve been shut tight for so long, but every lock has a key, right?
Maybe Bran fits me.
Maybe I fit him.
I trace his lips. That mouth earned a gold star. “You feeling lucky?” My whisper is husky with all the words I’m unable to say.
“Fuck, yes.”
I grin at his fervency. “Let me amend the question. You want to get lucky? I can’t be selfish, right?”
He rearranges us so that I straddle his hips. His brown hair is mussed, boyish, in sharp contrast to the fierce, hypnotic heat in his green eyes.
His hardness drives into my thigh. A full, pulsing ache spreads between my legs. Wait, I just came so hard. I can’t be ready to go again this quick, right?
“You’re nervous.” He frowns, noticing my shiver. “Talia. Are you a virgin?”
Wow, I’m putting out all the sexpot signals.
“No.” I bite my lip and still. “That’s okay, right?”
“This ain’t the sixteenth century, Captain.” He pokes my navel. “I’m not negotiating with your father, twelve goats for a hymen.”
“Sick. Don’t ever use the words father and hymen in the same sentence again.” I tweak one of his nipples through his shirt and he clamps me harder on his lap. I’m not wearing any underwear and he’s rigid beneath his jeans. My laughter fades, amusement replaced by growing urgency. “This is crazy.”
“What?” He sounds hoarse.
“Don’t you think? You? Me? Like this?”
“Crazy good.” He pulls off my shirt, explores my stomach’s geography. I can’t believe he’s done so much to me and I’m still wearing my bra. Well, not for long. He opens the clasp with one hand and I gasp—loudly—when air brushes my bare skin, like I’m being strangled. I’m not sure it’s attractive, but I don’t really have a choice. My entire body is almost unbearably sensitive.
“Got to say”—he circles my nipple, watches it harden into a tight button—“I’m digging those little noises.”
“You are?” I try to hold on, not pass out.
“They’re cute as hell.” He moves on to my other breast. “Like you, actually. Too fucking adorable for your own good.”
“Are we going to…”
He arches a brow.
I arch mine back and wiggle it a little, hoping humor can mask my nervousness. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“Come on, don’t make me be an idiot.” I fold my arms, blocking my breasts from his veiled gaze.
“Will we have sex?” He chews the side of his lip. “Not sure. I kinda don’t want to mess this up.”
“Sex will mess us up?” I don’t ask my other question—Is there an us?
“I don’t know.” He presses my lower back, gathering me closer, until we lie hip to hip.
“So what to do, right?”
His lazy smile makes me light-headed. “Do you make those cute sounds whenever you get off?”
My cheeks must turn five shades of red. “Negative.”
“Don’t believe you.” He drags a finger down the valley between my breasts and grins at the way my stomach hitches.
“I don’t make noises. For anyone. Ever. Only…you.” I rub my knee against his. “You’re the first guy who’s ever made me come.”
A deep rumble sounds in his throat. His eyes flash in a primal way I don’t quite understand. “You fucking slay me, you know that, sweetheart?”
I’m flipped onto my back and his clever tongue traces my breasts, my belly, and lower until I’m a goner.
* * *
I wake to discover Bran facing me. We somehow drifted off, nose to nose, in a midday siesta. A dark lock of hair tumbles over his closed eyes and in sleep he appears younger, sweetly innocent. I sort of want to trace my thumb over his spiky eyelashes before kissing the corner of his mouth where the dimple hides.
“It’s creepy to stare at someone sleeping,” he mutters, his lids tightening.
I stare cross-eyed, tongue poking out until he dares a peek.
“You goon,” he chuckles, burying his face in the pillow.
I throw my leg over his, realizing he’s still dressed and I’m totally naked. “And what is that exactly? Like a brat?” I trail my hand over his chest. He’s gone down on me twice and I’ve hardly touched him. That situation needs to be rectified.
“You’re getting warmer.”
“Am I?”
He kisses the tip of my nose before cradling my head into his hard chest muscles. Bran’s a cuddler, who knew? We stop talking and hold each other—it’s pretty much the best way I’ve ever spent five minutes. On the wall above the futon is an art poster; the image is familiar, a lonely man in strange armor, on a tired horse in the bleak outback. It’s the same picture I bought as a postcard at the museum gift shop. Maybe he can tell me what—
“You asked me before, why I live here, with people like Miles,” he mutters. “About my dad. His money.”
The art history chat will have to wait. “I shouldn’t have said anything. None of it’s my business. You don’t owe me a single explanation.”
“But I want to tell you.”
“Really?” This moment feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done so far. Bran’s actually going to talk—about himself. Any second the sky will probably start falling.
“His wealth is tainted.”
“Embezzled?” I whisper the word.
The creases in his forehead lighten. “No, nothing like that. His blood money comes from perfectly legal means. He invests in primary industries, mostly mining, destroying Aboriginal land in western Australia, desecrating pristine beaches, and occasionally dabbling in the Africa diamond trade—which produces child soldiers and bloody civil wars as a by-product. At nineteen, I joined an activist conservation group, engaged in direct action against one of his best mate’s timber companies by padlocking myself to a bulldozer.”
“Jesus.”
“A national newspaper was on the scene and snapped a dramatic photo that received front page treatment—Brandon Lockhart, only son of Bryce Lockhart, president of Lockhart Industries. Dad went ballistic and I couldn’t take his dirty money anymore. Not if
I wanted a prayer of looking at myself in the mirror. So I took out school loans, lived cheap, taught surf lessons near Jazza’s house during the uni holidays. Got a scholarship for an honors year after finishing my bachelor’s, a way to fast-track into a PhD.”
“Doctor Lockhart…it has a certain ring.”
He traces my mouth. “I want to investigate climate change—the single biggest environmental threat our planet faces. My family’s made a killing plundering the earth. One of us needs to play for the good guys. Reset the karmic balance.”
“But you’re not in a PhD program, right? Don’t you work for the Wilderness League, tutor at the uni?”
“I fucked up.” His expression darkens and his gaze locks on the ceiling. “I’m still trying to find my way back.”
I wait a few beats but nothing more is offered. Of course, I’m wildly curious but don’t want to pry into unwelcome territory. God knows I have my own secrets.
“Come on, Captain.” He slides from the sheets and hands me one of the T-shirts crumpled on the end of his bed. “Let’s go shower, see if we can get any dirtier.”
Chapter Twelve
Talia
Bran’s small bathroom is cluttered by a motley assortment of well-used towels, soap, toothpaste tubes, and shampoo bottles.
“How many people live here?” I ask, inventorying the lavender body gel and pink razor on the tub side.
“Three, give or take, depending on the week.” He peels his old T-shirt up and over my head, licks my clavicle. “Seriously, sweetheart, how’d you get so bloody cute?”
He traces the undersides of my breasts and my next breath is forgotten. Forget any witty comebacks. I forget to suck in my stomach to look hotter. I forget my own name.
His grin is wicked. “You like that.” It’s not a question; he sees that I do.
I nod, hesitant.
“I want to know everything about you.”
“Yeah, those are famous last words.” My smile can’t quite hide the discomfort undercutting my tone.
“Doubt it.” He keeps up his lazy explorations.
I hear his words again, from before. “You’re perfect. You’re only perfect for me.”
What if this is the start of something bigger, like a song that opens one way, but gradually veers in an unpredictable direction, building to a crescendo? This could be just such a moment.
A moment where everything changes.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “What else do you like?”
“Um…” I lick my lips, no idea what to ask for. In my limited prior hookups, I haven’t enjoyed much. “Why don’t you surprise me?”
My eyes close as he skims the sides of my breasts.
“You’re sensitive here?”
“I…I guess so, yeah. I like it.” I arch deeper into his touch. I don’t know why Bran’s different, but every time his fingers pose a question, my body answers in the affirmative. Yes. Oh, yes. Uh-huh. Yep. Okay, okay, wow, yeah, yes.
He drops his head to my nipple, gives a quick nip, and then slides his tongue across the skin to intensify the ache. I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.
He inches his fingers between my legs and we both groan.
“Jee-sus.” His voice is gruff and we both look down between us. His fingers are lost inside me. “You’re so wet, it’s unreal.” He circles my clit. My ache is impossibly sweet. I dig my fingers into his shoulders.
“Fuck, Talia.” He steps back and fists his shirt over his back. He sports a tattoo, right on his heart. At first I think it’s a circle but realize the ink forms a serpent, eating its own tail. He fumbles with his belt. I’m unable to tear my eyes away from his dick when he jerks his boxers down.
Tanner was a decent size, more than decent. But this…
“What?” He hesitates as something approaching uncertainty crosses his face.
I wave my hands helplessly. “I had no idea you had all of that going on.”
His eyes darken. “You. In the shower.”
The warm spray hits my back as I reach to take him in hand. His silky hardness jerks against my palm. He makes a desperate sound that I need to hear again. I don’t know—and don’t really want to discover—how many girls Bran has been with. His moves are solid; I’m willing to bet the number is high. How can I compete? Eclipse their memory. Make my name choke from his lips, brand on his brain. Inspiration strikes and I grab a bottle of his housemate’s body gel, flip the cap, and squeeze the contents over my shoulder. Cool, creamy gel slides down my lower back.
“What are you—”
I stop him with a finger to his beautiful mouth and shake my head once before turning around to nestle the small of my back against his abs. My ass is positioned right in his hardness. He’s not a ton taller, so our fit works. I slide my arms backward, taking a second to explore the cut muscles bookending his abdomen, enjoying when he flexes from the attention. I lock him to me and rub the cleft of my ass against him. The slippery shower gel eases the friction. His dick jolts. His hands reach to anchor on my breasts. Up and down I grind until his breathing is erratic and his lips fasten on the crook of my neck. I increase my speed and pressure until he bites my skin.
“Talia.” He groans my name in a way that’s almost violent as fire shoots over my skin, the liquid hotter than the shower water.
I turn to loop my arms around his shoulders.
“Hey.”
His lips part. The way his hair flops on his forehead makes him look surprisingly vulnerable. “Hey.”
“So…um…was that oka—”
His fierce kiss is an eloquent reply.
* * *
Bran bends to tie his shoes, providing me a nice view of his surf-hardened lats. He grabs a blue toothbrush from the medicine cabinet, squeezes paste on, and shoves it in his mouth. “I want to call in sick.”
Watching Bran be normal is fascinating. Especially when he’s shirtless.
He catches me checking him out from my perch up on the sink counter, spits, rinses his mouth, and steps between my legs.
I hike my legs around his waist and press my palm against his forehead. “You look awful.”
“I do, do I?” He kisses the tip of my nose.
“Coming down with a bad cold, no wait, pneumonia. You’ll be bedridden for a week.”
“That would be a tolerable prescription if you were to play nurse.” His mouth runs a trail from my clavicle to the base of my throat, right at the sensitive place he’d discovered earlier.
I arch against him. “Did you ever think this would happen?”
“What?”
“I don’t know, this, us, hooking up or whatever.”
“Not going to lie, I thought about it heaps.”
“You did?”
“You drive me mad.”
“In a good way?
“Look at you fishing. Yes, Captain.” His lips cover mine and he punctuates each word with a kiss. “In the best kind of way.” His tongue finds mine and minutes pass before he finally pulls free. “Fuck. I need to go, have to tutor and then take part in a phone meeting. I’m trying to regain my honors placement down in Hobart, at the University of Tasmania.”
“Tasmania?” Hobart is the capital of Tasmania, the island state below Melbourne, across the Bass Strait. I’ve seen the ferry, Spirit of Tasmania, docked at the port. And there’s the Tasmanian devil. And that pretty much sums up my breadth of knowledge regarding the place.
“Yeah, there’s a project going with a climate change study, modeling ice sheet trends in the Antarctic. My old supervisor is willing to give me another shot—which is cool seeing as I bailed before at the last minute.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a dickhead sometimes. If the call goes well, I’m going to head down and talk things over in person. My uncle lives there; I can crash with him. He might share my dad’s DNA but he’s cool.”
This information is helpful in point of fact. Bran and I have a fleeting amount of time, can’t afford to get
overly involved. I’m leaving; he’s leaving. That’s the situation.
Hear that, brain? Don’t get attached.
My heart runs in circles, saying, Nananananana, I can’t hear you.
Yeah, that’s so not helping.
“You share your dad’s DNA too.” I push his hair back from his face, troubled by his shadowed expression. “And I think you’re kind of an all right person.”
“Kind of?” He kisses the corner of my chin.
“In a roundabout way.” I inhale sharply as his lips return to the hollow in my neck.
“Oh shit.” He freezes.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
My heart pounds harder. “Seriously, what?”
He tilts my head to face the mirror. Beneath my ear is a quarter-sized hickey. “Oh shit.” I echo him and prod the purple mark.
“I didn’t mean to.”
I laugh despite myself. “Guess who’s wearing scarves the rest of the week?”
“You’re mad?”
I should be irritated. But I’m a little turned on. The hickey will be a temporary reminder when I’m back alone in my room that this afternoon actually happened.
“Not your fault.” I smooth away the worry lines creasing his brow. “I bruise easily. Anyway, that’s great. About the interview, Hobart and all.” I plaster on what I hope passes for an imitation smile. Apparently our time is shorter than I originally envisioned.
“You think so?” He catches my chin, eyes searching.
I forgot Bran’s uncanny abilities to get a read on me. I lean to distract him with a kiss that turns out to sidetrack me as well. “I should leave, let you get going,” I murmur at last into his mouth.
“Don’t want to.” His grasp tightens around my neck.
“Think of your future.”
He releases his hands only to slide his palms down my body’s outline. “All I can think of is making you give one of those little moans.”
