He’d told himself he wouldn’t say anything else about how damn beautiful she was, but he broke, barely minutes after making that mental promise.
“You’ve got excellent tits, Shawntelle.”
She shivered, licking her lips.
“Thank you. You’ve got excellent hands. Please put them on me.”
He complied, shrugging away his satisfaction that she hadn’t quipped back some comment about how he probably complimented the tits on every woman he slept with.
Straddling her thighs, he plumped her breasts together and bent low, sucking one nipple deep, then the other, until she was thrashing under him, her nails digging into his arms while she twisted her hips and moved against him.
She let go of one arm and reached down.
Just as her fingers brushed against his cock, he pulled back.
“Where are the condoms?”
She made a moue but gestured toward the nightstand. “Top drawer. New box. Plan on staying a while.”
He got the box, tore it open with hands that actually shook. He fucked for a living—or had—and now this woman was making him shake.
Tearing one rubber off the strip, he stood.
As he eased his boxers down over his cock, Shawntelle sat up. She moved with more speed than he would have anticipated, plucking the condom out from between his teeth.
“My turn,” she said, eying him with a dare in her gaze.
“Fine by me, sugar.” He still wore his jeans. They settled below his hips but all she did was nudge them a little lower before leaning in, holding the condom in one hand.
She bent to brush her mouth over the head of his cock.
He fisted a hand in her hair.
“No can do, sugar. Not without the rubber.”
She eyed him. “Bit of a stickler for the rules, huh?”
“Have to be.” Although the thought of her putting her mouth on him, nothing between them, made his balls draw in so tightly it almost hurt.
She huffed out a breath and tore open the rubber. “That takes all the fun out of it.” She cocked her head to the side, staring at him through her lashes. “Is there a reason you’re so careful?”
“I know what I am—or was. So do you. You should be the one pushing the rules. I’m clean. But that doesn’t matter.” He recalled how he’d hated it every time Shame drove home what they were, recalled how he’d driven to the doctor he used in Louisville for the monthly blood tests—he hated needles, hated doctors, hated anything remotely medical related, but he’d done it. Because damn it, he was a stickler for the rules. And it pissed him off a little to think that she might be careless. He was about to call her on it when she began to sheath him with the rubber, making a taunting, teasing caress out of the entire thing.
“Maybe I should be careful,” she said in a raw whisper when she finished. “But I still want to take your cock in my mouth.”
He started to tell her to go ahead.
But she looked up at him. “But I don’t like the taste of latex.”
She boosted herself farther back onto the bed and slid a hand down her belly. “Come here.”
He wasn’t going to wait for a second invitation.
He paused just long enough to grab the thin strips of fabric at her hips, dragging her panties down.
Once that was done, he caught her ankles and tugged her thighs apart, kneeling between her calves to stare at her.
She squirmed, sliding one hand down as if to shield herself, but he grabbed her wrist. “I want to see you,” he said. “If you think you want to feel my cock in your mouth, you’ve got no idea how bad I want to taste you.”
A ragged noise escaped her as he reached down and cupped her.
She was already wet and when he pushed one finger inside her pussy, her swollen tissues closed around him—tight and snug. She cried out and rose to meet him. “More,” she demanded.
But he just continued that slow, lazy rhythm. When she groaned in frustration and tried to reach for him, he placed his free hand on her belly.
The dark curls that shielded her cunt were neatly trimmed and the flesh that stretched out around his fingers was soft, glistening and damp. He wanted to drive his cock so deep inside her, she’d feel him inside her for always.
It was a crazy thought. But Con wasn’t afraid of impulse.
He was just afraid of losing…everything.
So he pushed the thought aside and focused on one thing—making her come.
Pleasuring a woman was something he did very well, so it wasn’t long before she was arching up under his hand, her fingers gripping his wrists as she worked herself against him.
She was still panting, face glowing, when he covered her body.
She was shuddering when he pressed the head of his cock against her entrance.
And when he started to sink inside her, forcing himself to go slowly, the muscles of her pussy were still contracting, tightening around him and milking him every inch of the way.
He made it halfway, then stopped and began to withdraw.
“Don’t…” It was a broken, hungry moan.
She clung to him, her knees gripping his hips, her arms wrapped around his shoulders.
He shook his head, uncertain what he was saying no to. He pulled back until just the head of his cock was inside her, then he started his invasion all over again.
She was whimpering, pleading with him by the time he’d completely buried his dick inside her.
He was ready to plead and whimper, too.
But he wasn’t going to slam inside her and end this that quickly.
His gaze on hers, he started to ride her slowly, grabbing her left leg behind the knee and dragging it up, opening her more completely. Then, as he filled her, he ground his hips against her each time.
She went rigid, her eyes going blank and opaque.
He stopped, lodged to the balls inside her cunt. “Don’t you dare come already,” he said, pressing his lips to her neck.
“I… Damn it, Con, please…”
He trailed his fingers up her side. “Don’t come. Fight it.”
“I can’t!”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
She shivered and those little pulsing sensations happened inside as well as outside. “Fine…just…please…move.”
He did—slow and easy—and each time she edged closer, he’d stop.
After the third time, she shoved her hands against his chest, forcing him upright. “Damn it, you sadist. Let me…please!”
He drove in deep, hard. Fast.
Again. Then again.
Shawntelle came with a ragged cry that he knew he’d remember for a very, very long time.
He could even hear the echo of it over the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears, as he finally gave in and climaxed.
Chapter Seven
It was almost three in the morning when he unlocked the door that led up to his apartment.
The light was on and he eyed the steps between him and the landing with dread. They looked as if they stretched out for a mile.
He was drained in every possible way.
He might even be dehydrated.
They’d used up six of the condoms and if he’d stayed there until morning, or whenever Shawntelle woke, he thought they might have used a couple more.
He hadn’t ever gotten off that many times in such a short period of time.
He’d be happy to do it all over again…if she hadn’t spent the night turning away from him every damn time they’d finished.
If she hadn’t continued to look at him with a mix of secrets, veiled anger and desire in her eyes.
He had no idea what in the hell he’d done to make a woman he didn’t even know look at him like that.
But he didn’t like it.
He doubted she had any idea he could read her so well, suspected she’d hate it if she knew.
Nobody, save for Shame and maybe Charli, had any idea just how easily he could read people. Riley sure
as hell didn’t. His mother had, but then again, he’d gotten it from her. His mother had called him her little charmer, and she had been the one who’d charmed their surly, sullen father.
But charming people as easily as he did didn’t happen just like that. It happened because one had the ability to see below the surface, to pick up on subtle tensions.
Like that hidden anger that Shawntelle kept tucked deep inside.
No, she wouldn’t like it if she knew. Personally, he didn’t much like knowing what he knew, either.
And something he liked even less? The fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Dragging himself up the steps, he knew it was his own damn fault and now that he’d finally gotten a taste of her, maybe he could get over her.
“Get over who?”
The low voice coming out of the dimness had him tensing. He froze for a moment as his eyes tried to adjust, but his instincts had already done the job, feeding him the information he needed. “Shit, Shame. What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting on you, dumb-ass,” his friend responded. Shame pushed his back against the wall and shoved upward as Con approached. “Who are you needing to get over?”
Con frowned at him for a few seconds, then realized he must have been talking out loud. Wasn’t that just perfect?
As he came to a stop in front of Shame, Shame braced his shoulder against the wall. The men eyed each other with the insight of two people who’d known one another a very long time.
“You should have called,” Con said bluntly. He already knew why Shame was there. Sometimes Shame’s demons came out in force. Once when they’d gotten that bad, he’d tried to kill himself.
Con had been the one to find him, had been the one wrap his hands around Shame’s wrists and hold on as he waited for the paramedics to show up, and he’d prayed they’d do it before Shame bled out.
After that, he’d told Shame that if he needed to die that badly, Tell me for fuck’s sake. I’ll just shoot you and save us both the misery, because I can’t do that again.
Shame had gotten it then. He didn’t do emotion very well, but he got loyalty and he knew he’d hurt Con.
He’d promised he wouldn’t try to end it again, no matter how dark things got.
Call me instead. Con had made him promise. And Shame had.
“It wasn’t that bad. I managed.” Shame jerked up a shoulder, staring past him now. “Besides, you’re not my babysitter.”
Shoving him gently, Con said, “No, I’m your best friend. I’m the one who’ll pound you around when you need it. That’s what friends do.”
“I pound you,” Shame said with a faint smile. Then his eyes sharpened. “You know, unless you’ve started wearing perfume, you got lucky tonight.”
“Shit.” Shoving past Shame, he headed for the door to his apartment. He unlocked it and let Shame come in, then went to the fridge to get some water. He drank straight from the pitcher he had in there, half-draining it before he looked over at Shame. “Are you okay?”
“You know me.” Shame shrugged, prowling restlessly around the room like a caged tiger.
His eyes glinted in the dim light when he shot a look at Con. “You know, Riley is going to kill you when he finds out you’ve been fucking her.”
“She quit.” Con smirked. “Or so she says. She’s also apparently leaving. Says she didn’t get the story so there’s no reason to linger.”
“I take it she’s the one you need to get over then.”
Con didn’t bother answering. He drank more water, although he still felt like he’d spent a month in the desert. After refilling the pitcher and returning it to the fridge, he looked over at Shame. “Speaking of getting lucky…” He gestured to Shame’s shirt and the placket of buttons, currently askew. “You hooked up.”
That was when something very strange happened.
Shame went red in the face.
Con had been pulling a beer out of the fridge when he noticed it. Hand frozen mid-motion, he stopped and just gaped.
Now he noticed that several things were not exactly normal, and if Con’s head was anywhere close to where it should be, he would have already taken those things into account.
But half of his brain power was still currently focused on Shawntelle. A quarter of the rest was mostly asleep. So he had very little to focus on everything going on around him.
What was left of his brain snapped to attention and he began to take in other details.
Details like the fact that Shame had a hicky on his neck.
Shame also had dirt on his jeans.
There were nail marks on his arms, disappearing up under the sleeves of his shirt, which had been pushed up to his elbows.
Yeah, he’d gotten lucky, all right—in a rough sort of way. But that wasn’t what really had Con so unsettled. Shame rarely spent more than a few nights a week alone. The demons inside his head just got too loud if he was left to himself.
What really had Con feeling so uneasy was the fact that whoever Shame had been with was somebody Shame had allowed…close. Shame was blunt and upfront with the women he’d taken on as clients. He didn’t turn down anybody. If a woman wanted some kink, particularly to be tied up, he was all in.
But he didn’t like to be touched.
He was absolutely perfect for the clients they’d picked up who wanted something a little less vanilla, and those who were looking for somebody with an edge—or more—of danger.
Con was staring at proof that Shame hadn’t just let somebody touch him.
He’d let somebody put their hands and mouth on him—and leave marks.
And he was blushing.
Shame didn’t blush. He was kind of known for that sort of thing. He was Shame, for crying out loud.
But as Con stared at him, Shame looked away, his tanned cheeks still burning a dull red and his gaze bouncing around, refusing to land on any one thing.
Con could recognize the cues for embarrassment easily enough. And he could think of only one reason that might cause Shame to be embarrassed around him.
“You slept with Charli.”
Shame whipped his head around, staring at Con. Fire leaped into his eyes, only to die a few seconds later.
He sagged, leaning back against the table behind him.
“Fuck…shit, Con. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Con held up a hand. He needed a minute. This was the last thing he’d ever seen happening. Not because he didn’t want Shame near his little sister. Charli would be the best thing that ever happened to Shame, if he let it. But the question was…would Shame let anything happen between them?
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he finally said. “Charli is a big girl. She makes her own decisions.”
“She’s your little sister. There are some lines friends just don’t cross.”
“Fuck that.” He glared at Shame. “It’s not like you would ever hurt her.”
Shame started to say something, and it would have been ugly, Con already knew. But he snapped his jaw shut. “Just having a piece of shit like me put his hands on her is enough. She deserves better.”
“Charli is a smart girl, Shame. She can decide what she wants, and what she deserves.” Then he crossed the floor and reached out. Shame froze, but when Con hooked a hand around his neck and hauled him in for a hug, the other man didn’t resist. Pressing his brow to Shame’s, he stared into his best friend’s pale eyes. For once, there was real emotion in that blue gaze. But none of those emotions were happy. If anything, Shame’s demons were howling louder than ever. “You are not a piece of shit, Shame. Next to Riley, you’re the best man I know. You’re my best friend and I’m sick of hearing you dog yourself the way you do.”
Shame pulled back, shaking his head. “Bullshit. You know what—”
“Shut up.” Con pointed his finger at Shame, anger flaring, hot and bright as the sun. “That’s the spawn of Satan who fathered you talking—this is about him and what he did to you. It’s his messe
d-up issues that are to blame. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong, Shame.”
Shame knocked Con’s hand out of his face with a violence that sent pain streaking up Con’s arm. Slowly, Shame advanced, eyes going cold and lethal. “You don’t know shit about this sort of thing, son. You had a perfect, happy life until your mama and daddy died. You never lived in hell, don’t know what kind of monster it can turn you into. So don’t go telling me who I am and who I’m not.”
“I damn well will.” Con curled his lip. “You are Max Schaffer. You’re my best friend and have been since we were kids. You were the one who waded in and pulled two bullies off of me in sixth grade. You were the one who snuck in the house the day I found out my parents died. You were the one who snuck in week after week while Riley was busting his ass to make sure we always had groceries, and you did it for years. You were the one who paid off book rental, who came in and left money on the counter right before Charli had a field trip coming up, or when she needed to pay for another one of her braniac tests.”
Shame’s jaw went tight. Con had never called him on those things—there’d been no reason and Con’s pride wouldn’t let him, but he’d known.
All of them had known.
“Don’t fucking lie and say it wasn’t you,” he warned when Shame finally looked away. “You’ve been taking care of her for years—shit, you’ve been taking care of me for years, you stupid prick. You’re not a monster, Shame.”
Con moved forward, knowing that Shame’s mood was still toxic and he might be risking a punch to the gut, or the jaw.
He’d risk it. If a knock-down, dirty fight was what Shame needed to cleanse himself, then Con would be the punching bag.
“You’re not a monster,” he said again. “It’s just easier for you to see yourself that way. After all, if you’re a monster, it’s easier to understand why that sick fuck hurt you the way he did.”
Shame swung out.
Con took the punch to the face and stumbled back a couple of feet before he steadied.
His head spinning in dizzying circles, he shook it in an attempt to clear it as he eyed the other man, wondering if he needed to brace for another one.
F*ck Club: Con Page 5
