by Cox, Whitley
“No, no!” she protested, having had enough one-night stands in her day to know that oral sex was not always expected in this sort of situation. It was a bump-uglies, scratch-an-itch kind of situation, right?
But he just grunted and flicked out his tongue, hitting her clit in just the right spot, which caused her leg to jerk and practically knee him in the skull. He chuckled diabolically but didn’t lift his head or stop his delicious torment. Instead he spread her wide with his big fingers and dove in deeper. Lips, tongue, nose and fingers all brought her insane pleasure, coaxing and thrusting, lapping and kissing. She was wild for him, wild for an orgasm, but as he continued and the tequila seeped deeper into her body, she knew she’d only be able to manage one climax for the night, so it had to be a good one.
“Oh God … ” she moaned, grinding up into his face. She caressed her breasts, tugging on her hard, achy nipples. Unlike earlier, when she was chilled to the bone, now she was scorching hot. Her hands moved down her body to rest on top of his head. His hair was soft. A bit of a longer buzz cut, but he pulled it off. It tickled her inner thighs as his head continued to bob up and down, his mouth doing despicably wonderful things. In drunken curiosity, she continued to explore his head, traced the outer shell of his ear with her fingers, felt the muscles of his forehead and brow pinched in complete and utter concentration. Damn, even a blind woman would know this man was sexy.
His teeth grazed her inner thigh. He nipped gently, making her squeak. All the while, his fingers continued to plunge, coaxing the orgasm from her until she was within an inch of her sanity, her head thrashing wildly on the bed, pleas for more spilling from her lips.
“Fuck me!” she demanded, knowing she wasn’t going to last much longer but also knowing she wanted more than just his head buried between her legs. She wanted all of him buried there.
He gave one final sweep up between her folds with that masterful tongue of his and then reared up like a proud lion ready to pounce; his big, muscular arms bulged with the weight of him on either side of her head.
“Are you drunk?” she asked, not quite wondering why she felt the need to inquire about his sobriety, but somehow feeling it was pertinent information at the moment. The moment where the head of his cock was getting ready to impale her.
“Yes,” he said gruffly, the strain and frustration of not being inside her evident in his tone. “But no beer goggles. I’d fuck you sober, too.” And then she wasn’t allowed to talk anymore. His mouth found hers again as he sank balls-deep inside.
He was a big, feral force within her, pushing her body to the edge, only to churn his hips just right and pull her back before she tumbled over the ledge, riding that paper-thin line for what felt like forever. Her nails raked down his thick, hard back. She relished the way he shivered when she squeezed his flexing butt cheeks. The man was pure muscle, rock beneath her fingertips. Brock the Rock. His teeth fell to her neck and shoulders. He began to bite and lick. His lips found her nipple; he suckled, bit, and she lost it.
The climax raced through her. She clenched around him, savoring every charge and quivering on every draw as he slid his thick length across her sensitive channel. She was lost to the sensation of it all, lost to his passion, lost to the way he made her feel.
Guttural moans filled her ear as he found his own release, clamping down hard onto her swollen and needy breast, flicking the bud with his tongue as his hips continued to thrust and punish.
He was heavy on top of her, not frighteningly so, which was surprising, given his size. But as the euphoria of her climax slowly dissolved, she realized that she was tired and wanted nothing more than to go pee and then curl up into bed.
Reading her mind, Brock pulled out, helped her to her feet and pointed to the bathroom. A man of few words but a multitude of talents elsewhere.
When she came back out, he had gotten her a glass of water and pulled the sheets and duvet down. She didn’t even bother looking for her underwear. She just drained her glass, wiped the back of her wrist across her mouth and snuggled into his pillow. She was asleep almost instantly to the scrumptious smell of him, his warm body inches from hers across the bed.
* * *
The next morning, Krista woke to the sound of a bear, or perhaps a dragon, roaring in her ear while a big, thick, hairy tree trunk lay draped across her stomach and beer-scented wind ruffled the hair on the back of her neck. Afraid to open her eyes, she grimaced as the memories of last night came flooding back.
She knew what she’d done.
Knew where she was.
She’d gone home with Brock. They’d had incredible sex and then subsequently passed out. But she just wasn’t ready to see it. To see the reality of her sad, drunken choice.
Who was a fan of the walk of shame?
No one.
It was called the walk of shame for a reason.
The words “for shame” screamed at her in her mind, competing with the headache.
She’d done it once or twice before, the walk of shame, and it was always embarrassing. At least this time she had worn running shoes and not strappy hooker shoes. Slowly, quietly, she pried open her eyes, only to come face-to-face with the man who’d rocked her world and then some just a few hours earlier. His eyes were closed and his mouth partially open, giving him almost a childlike look. Devastatingly handsome, and now rugged too with a five o’clock shadow of sexy scruff. And it was the first time he didn’t look on edge or high alert. The lines in his forehead had relaxed, and his eyebrows were no longer pinched. He was at ease, at peace.
She studied his face a little bit longer; small white scars dotted his chin along the left side, most likely where stitches or staples had been at one point, while another, redder scar in the shape of a sickle and about the size of a raisin ran up into his right eyebrow. How old was he? It was hard to tell. She glanced down at his arm as it draped across her belly. Soft, dark hair covered freckles, while a big, calloused hand gripped her ribs.
He made a noise as if he was about to wake up, and she braced herself for the awkward morning chit-chat. Instead he just rolled over, leaving her devoid of his touch and, for some strange reason, melancholy because of the loss. But she took her opening and silently slid out of bed, tracked down her clothes and then, like a stealthy ninja, left his house, hoping to God that it wasn’t pouring rain outside.
Chapter Three
5 weeks later …
On nasty days, which were in abundance in November, it was a blessing that the police station had an in-house gym, a place where cops could go and work out before or after shift with top-notch machines and equipment without ever having to leave the comfort of work. So when she couldn’t get a run in because Mother Nature was having a temper tantrum and thrashing the wind and rain around Fern Valley, Krista headed to work a few hours early and hit the gym. Started the day off right, with a clear head. Got the endorphins pumping.
It was four thirty in the morning, and the station gym was dead quiet. She’d woken up feeling queasy, but rather than think too hard about it, Krista just chalked it up to the idea of having to work with Myles all day. That was enough to make anyone nauseous. So instead, she went about her morning routine at home, ignoring her roiling stomach, and pounded back her raspberry and spinach smoothie as she made her way out the door. A run always made her feel better. A run would set her day right before she had to deal with Myles.
But when she stepped onto the treadmill and started to run, she couldn’t. Her boobs hurt. Like crazy hurt. An average C-cup and accustomed to wearing pretty tight sports bras for exercise, the girls were not normally an issue. But today running was absolute torture. And her stomach was not feeling better at all. Could almond milk go bad?
Without giving it too much thought, she hopped onto the elliptical instead, only that made her boobs hurt too, and it also made her want to barf.
What was going on?
Not wanting to completely waste her morning, she lifted a few weights and did some squats, but eve
ry movement had her seeing spots. And whenever she’d lift her arms over her head, she felt like she was going to pass out.
Was she getting the flu?
Praying that this wasn’t an omen for a shitty day to come, she gave up and hit the showers, deciding instead to run out and grab a bite. Even though the thought of food made her ill, she had to eat before work.
A hangry cop was a scary cop.
She was just leaving the locker room to head to her car when Myles blocked her path.
“Hey, Matthews, ready to go?” He grinned, winking like he was God’s gift to women and she should be grateful he was her mentor.
“I guess.” She shrugged. “I’m going to run and grab some food and then I’ll be back.” And before he could insinuate himself into her errand, she reached for the nearest door, opened it and stepped inside.
Fuck, it was a bloody broom closet!
* * *
Perusing the produce section of the grocery store ten minutes later, the bin of bright green limes on sale quickly brought her thoughts to Brock. She’d been thinking about him a lot over the weeks. And yet, she deliberately avoided going back to that bar, so much so that when she went for a run or drove anywhere, she took the long way. Just in case he was in the area, she avoided both his house—because now she knew where he lived—and the bar. And he hadn’t bothered to get in touch with her, either, so apparently, they were both of the understanding that it had been one night of drunken fun, with no strings and no expectations. So then why was she kind of disappointed that he hadn’t called?
Maybe because you didn’t give him your number and then snuck out the following morning, you dummy!
With time to kill before her shift, she continued to wander aimlessly around the grocery store. But nothing looked good. Nothing even remotely made her salivate or caused her stomach to rumble. In fact, everything, even the roasted red pepper soup in a tetra-pack, which she pretty much lived off, sounded disgusting. But if she headed back to the station, she’d have to see Myles, so instead she strolled up and down the aisles until she found herself in the tampon section.
Did she need any?
She couldn’t remember.
Her period was never regular, and she wasn’t on the pill; she just got it when she got it. She’d tried going on the pill, but the hormones had made her crazy and gain weight. She’d always used condoms with boyfriends. A calendar flashed into her head and she began to do the math.
When was her last period?
How long had it been?
Was she late?
She felt off.
Out of sorts.
Was that PMS?
Was that why she felt sick and her boobs hurt? Her boobs had never hurt before when she was PMSing.
A gasp took her breath away when the calendar finally synced in her brain and she realized she hadn’t had her period since before that night with Brock. Well before that night with Brock. Had they used protection? They had to have, right? But she couldn’t remember. They—particularly her—had been incredibly drunk and so caught up in the moment, in the passion.
Holy crap.
Locating the pregnancy test section, she grabbed a box off the shelf and read the back as her heart raced inside her chest and her sweaty hands slid across the shiny cardboard of the box. It fell to the floor with a thunderous thunk, or at least it was thunderous to Krista. Now the whole store probably knew what she was doing, what she was thinking. She looked around. The aisle was thankfully empty, so hastily, she grabbed two boxes of different brands, a chocolate bar and a box of tampons—wishful thinking—and headed to the checkout.
It felt as if she were wandering around with two hot bricks in each of her coat pockets as she made her way to her car, having stupidly refused a plastic bag.
Could she wait until her shift was over to take the test at home?
Twelve hours was a long time to wait.
Should she go back to the bar and find Brock so they could take the test together?
Was she being a hypochondriac, fretting about nothing?
Probably.
But a baby wasn’t nothing. A baby was a huge something. A huge something with tiny feet and tiny hands that altered your life forever.
A million thoughts ran through her mind as she drove back to the station, the paranoia setting in and feeling like a bowling ball in her belly. Meanwhile something else, someone else could be growing in there, too.
She had to know.
Krista couldn’t go an entire shift, half a bloody day not knowing if there was a human inside her. At least then, if she knew, she would know.
Brilliant logic, Krista. You receive your invitation from Mensa yet?
Once back at the station, she locked herself in a bathroom stall in the women’s locker room.
The instructions said to pee on the stick midstream and then wait three to five minutes.
The longest goddamn three minutes of her life.
Six minutes later, she walked out of the bathroom stall, her heart beating rapidly inside her chest.
What was she going to do?
The word screwup was on repeat in her head as she splashed cold water on her face and stared into the mirror. She looked sickly. Did morning sickness happen that fast?
“All I wanted to do was prove myself,” she said to the woman staring back at her. “Prove that I’m not a screwup and that I can … that I am a good cop.” Her throat grew tight from the fight to keep her emotions in check.
No. Not now. She wasn’t going to cry now. She had a job to do. A job she was good at. She’d cry later when she was alone.
A banging on the bathroom door made her jump. “Come on, Matthews. Wipe and get a move on.”
God, Myles was a disgusting pig.
She bit the inside of her cheek until the pain replaced the ache in her throat, then she threw her shoulders back and pushed open the bathroom door.
“Ready to go?” Myles asked, skipping up behind her and winding up to try to slap her butt again.
Only this time, with ninja reflexes and fire in her belly, she turned around and faced him square on, baring her teeth like a mother bear. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
“Whoa,” he said, rearing back and putting his hands up in fake surrender. All the while a sinister smile that said he wasn’t apologetic at all danced across his face like The Joker or Jack from The Shining. “Jesus Christ, Matthews, what crawled up your ass and died today? You on the rag or something?”
Sexist prick.
Yes, because the moment a woman asserts herself and tells you to back the fuck off, she has her period.
Fuck. She did not need this right now.
“Just leave me alone, Slade,” she said quietly, venom in her tone but no longer in her heart. She had bigger fish to fry, bigger, more important, more life-altering things on her mind than that sexist pig.
He rolled his eyes and just flashed that same big, creepy, wily, wolfish grin, one that showed his canines like he was some kind of mangy, starving, would-chew-off-his-own-leg-if-he-had-to-but-would-rather-chew-off-yours hyena. “We’ve got a call on another domestic. You ready?”
She nodded, swallowed and pushed everything into the back of her mind for later. “In a minute. I just have to grab my badge.”
* * *
Krista’s gut was still in knots as she pulled into the parking lot of the bar later that night. The domestic assault they’d been called out on early that morning had been disturbing, and in the last few weeks, she’d been to some doozies. But this particular one had been worse than ever and forced her to focus intently on her gag reflex to suppress the hell out of it, while wrangling in every ounce of self-control and training she had.
If it were up to her, and laws be damned, she’d have shot the bastard on sight. He’d beaten his girlfriend almost to death. He’d come home drunk after having lost his job and had taken it out on her until she’d passed out. A friend had found her the following morning and called the police. In the
end, after they’d taken the victim to the hospital for her injuries, which were plentiful, they found out she’d been pregnant and the assault had caused a miscarriage. It was all Krista could do not to shed multiple tears along with her. The woman cradled her flat and bruised abdomen and wept for hours on Krista’s shoulder as Krista’s hand discreetly snaked down to her own stomach and hugged the inconvenient little miracle inside.
With a wince, a sigh and a stomach in tight knots, she pushed open the big, well-worn wooden door of the bar and was immediately hit with a wave of déjà vu: loud music, boisterous laughter, the clink of utensils against plates and beer steins being plunked back down on the tables. A cacophony of Friday-night fun in a country biker bar with just a tinge of underlying fear or perhaps threat percolating around the edges. She knew that if things got just the least bit out of hand, or the wrong thing was said to the wrong person, all hell would break lose in an instant, and Santa Claus behind the bar—she never did learn his name—would be bringing out his shotgun to maintain order.
But she wasn’t afraid. She’d grown up in a small town. The local barkeep was her uncle, and she’d waitressed in a place very similar every summer when she’d come home from college. She could banter and joke with the best of them. And one thing that had served her well waitressing all those summers—and was continuing to do so in her new career choice—was to look past the exterior. Just because someone looked rough around the edges and ready for a knife fight didn’t necessarily mean they were. Appearances can be deceiving, and it was better to go with your gut. Take Myles, for example. He was clean-cut and friendly, but Krista would rather spend every waking hour of the rest of her life with the bearded man in the corner wearing a leather vest half buttoned up, showing off his giant skull tattoo on his hairy chest, than an extra five minutes with Myles. To her this was normal. This was welcoming. This was home.
