by Cox, Whitley
“Now?” he asked, the strain she felt in her own body equally evident in his tone.
She nodded, rising up on her knees and pulling him from her. He grabbed his shaft and held it firm. With her free hand, she grabbed the bottle of lube next to her leg and quickly squirted some on to his length, moving it around the soft, shiny crown with the tip of her finger.
A groan escaped him, and suddenly she ached to take him in her mouth. But they were on a different mission tonight. That desire would have to wait until tomorrow. Tossing the lube to the side, she lifted up again, making sure he was in position.
Gently, ever so slowly, Krista lowered her body. Her breathing relaxed as she pushed out again with her muscles. He entered her, and then there was that initial slight pinch of pain. It’d been a while since she’d indulged in such deplorable decadence, so the snap of pain was expected. She shut her eyes and pushed past the discomfort.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice thick with the effort of having to hold off his orgasm.
Despite the moment, a chuckle bubbled up in Krista’s chest. Of the two of them, he was in far more discomfort than she was, she was sure of it. “I should be asking you that. You about ready to explode?”
He grunted. “Yes.”
“Just a second.” She sank down a little deeper, taking him all the way. And then she began to move, starting off slow at first, just bobbing up and down, her body tight around his, and then picking up the pace when her own climax began to brew and threatened to unleash.
“P-pinch my clit,” she panted, angling over his body so that they were face to face.
He did as he was told, his other hand coming up to tweak and twist her nipples, but the combination of it all was just too much. His hands on her body, his cock in her ass, filling her, splitting her, taking her, and when she dared to look up and catch his eyes, the way he was looking at her, with so much … possession, so much awe, she was a goner. Finding his shoulder, she bit down hard and gave over to the demand of her body. Unleashing the pleasure and letting it take over.
His shoulder muffled her pleas as she convulsed around him, every cell in her body on fire as the climax ripped through her in unyielding waves. White lights flashed behind her closed eyes, and the sounds of Brock’s release filled her ears. She milked his cock and watched him as he gradually came down from his release, shuddering as the last of it drained him of all his energy.
When he finally opened his eyes, his beauty momentarily winded her. Especially since as soon as he saw her, he smiled. It was a boyish smile. A smile of thanks and gratitude. But also with the subtle lip tilt of a cocky bugger who’d just accomplished the unthinkable.
Tears burned behind Krista’s eyes when the realization hit her like an anvil to the chest. Holy crap, she loved this man. She barely knew a thing about him, but what she did know, she loved.
They did the awkward post-coital dance and shuffle, and she tiptoed off to the bathroom, leaving him naked and possibly passed out in front of the fire.
When she returned, he had thoughtfully grabbed them each a glass of water and placed Krista’s on the hearth. She took a greedy sip, not caring at all that a fair percentage of it dripped down her bare chest. Brock ducked off to the washroom and was back moments later. Then they went to the task of getting dressed and pulling up the covers. The fire had died down to a soft burnt orange glow, and the clock in the dining room said it was well past midnight.
As her head hit the pillow, she was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. This entire night had been a whirlwind.
“So … can I ask how in your thirty-six sexy years you’ve never managed to have anal sex?” she finally asked after they’d lain there for a few minutes, quietly listening to the fire sizzle and pop and cast shadows on the far wall.
“Opportunity just never came up. I haven’t been with that many women, you know.”
Holy hell, were they going to have the numbers conversation? “How many have you been with?”
“Fourteen.”
“Oh, that’s not very many. You’re right. Several long-term relationships then?” Was he not going to ask her how many people she’d been with?
“No. Maybe one or two, but as you may have noticed, I’m not exactly … ”
She snorted. “Friendly?”
His body shook with quiet laughter. “I was going to say a people person, but friendly fits. A few one-night stands, a few relationships, a few fuck buddies.”
“Oh.” They were quiet for a while again. Was he seriously not going to ask her her number? “You want to know my number?”
“Only if you want to share it.”
She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly grateful that they were both staring at the ceiling and he couldn’t see her face and she couldn’t see his. “I’ve been with eight.”
Maybe it was her imagination, but she could have sworn she heard an exhale of relief. But to Krista, eight was high. She came from a town where most girls married their high school sweetheart, so their fuck number was one. So with a number like eight, Krista was a trollop in Tanner Ridge.
“Eight guys are not very many at all,” he finally said. “The way you were breathing heavily just now had me thinking you were going to be in the triple digits.”
She bit her lip again. “Uh … eight people.”
He turned over onto his side, propping his head in his hand. “You’ve been with women?”
She nodded, deliberately not turning to face him. The ceiling was much easier to look at. “Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Was it … ?”
“One was in a threesome. One was just the two of us.” Finally, because she couldn’t take it any longer, she shifted and faced him. “Does this change your opinion of me?”
Slowly his head bobbed in a nod.
Oh shit.
“I think it’s hot.”
“You do?”
He nodded more emphatically this time. “Yeah. Was it like an experimental thing? Or did you date this girl for a while?”
She mirrored him and propped her head in her hand. “It was when I went traveling. She’s from Poland. We met in Guatemala and started traveling together, and one thing led to another and we had a couple of fun weeks together.”
“So are you bisexual?”
Krista lifted one shoulder casually. “Maybe. I don’t really know.”
His hand came up, and he cupped her cheek. He tugged her in for a kiss on the lips that was more than peck. Seconds later he pulled away but didn’t release her. “Bisexual, hetero whatever, I’m just glad you’re in my bed now.”
Reveling in the warmth and safety of his touch, she leaned her face into his palm. “Who are you, Brock Hart? I can’t figure you out. I’m having a baby with you, share your bed and yet I know very little about you. And you know very little about me … because you don’t ask. Tonight is the first time we’ve ever really talked about ourselves and it’s been so nice. I want to know more. And I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about me. You just have to ask.”
His brows knitted together for a second, and he studied her so intensely that she squirmed. Had the man even blinked? And then, all of a sudden, he changed again. The scowl returned, the walls or fence or whatever was back up, the mask was firmly on, and his eyes flitted to the clock on the mantel.
“It’s getting late,” he said gruffly. “We should go to sleep.” Without waiting for her to respond, he pulled his hand away and rolled over.
Leaving her staring at the back of his head with a crushed heart and wondering what the hell had just happened.
Chapter Twelve
The two days before Christmas had been spent in court. More prosecutions, more details, more horrible recounts of horrible events. So by Christmas Eve, which had been fairly uneventful, Krista was exhausted and with nary a flying fuck to give about flying men in red jumpsuits with presents, toys and reindeer. She’d been graciously given, by some holida
y miracle, Christmas Day off but would be back working come Boxing Day.
After sipping peppermint mochas at Starbucks with Allie and the two of them exchanging equally corny gag gifts, she headed home. She was eager to shower, throw on her red and white striped candy cane flannel pajamas and settle down in front of a crackling fire with her ratty copy of Little Women as she sipped apple cider and nibbled on gingerbread.
She was crouched down and getting ready to build a fire in the hearth when the front door slammed and Brock stomped up the stairs.
Seemed they were on par with each another that evening. Both miserable. Both wanting to find a bearded man in a red jumpsuit to throat-punch. That made her quickly think of Mickey at the bar and how he was probably dressing up as Santa Claus for his grandchildren. She didn’t want to throat-punch him, but she did want one of his burgers. Her stomach grumbled at the thought.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone speaking volumes about just what kind of a mood he was in.
“Rhythmic gymnastics,” she snapped, too tired for pleasantries. “What the hell does it look like?”
He shook his head. “Go pack a bag and let’s go.”
Krista stood up and gave him a dumbfounded look. It was threatening snow, and whatever harebrained overnight, wilderness Christmas campout he might have had planned, she was not going. She didn’t even want to go out to her car and grab his Christmas present, which she’d stupidly left in the backseat. “Why?”
“We’re going over to my mum’s. It’s a Christmas tradition. Come on, let’s go.” He headed down the hallway to his bedroom to start packing.
She chased after him. “What?”
As if elaborating was going to cause him some kind of physical discomfort, he rolled his eyes and scowled. “It’s a Christmas tradition. We go over to my mum’s house, play board games, eat pizza and drink rum and eggnog. Spend the night and then wake up and have Christmas morning. Been doing it for years. Now go pack. We’re already late. Traffic was insane.”
“I-I’m invited?”
He gave her another irritated look. “You think I’m going to let the mother of my child spend Christmas alone? Especially when her family is in another town? Besides, you’ve already met the Three Stooges, and my mum will love you. GO PACK!” And then, just to drive the point home even further, he came up behind her and shooed her out of his room, across the hall and into her room. “And don’t bother changing out of your pajamas. That’s pretty much the party attire anyway,” he called back as he returned to his own room to finish packing.
* * *
It was a huge risk.
He knew that.
Bringing Krista to his mother’s house. He’d rather have a bath with a toaster. But what else could he do? He’d be the king of assholes to leave her at home all alone on Christmas, and yet bringing her meant that the baby can of worms might get popped open before they were ready. Not to mention the woman he was confused as hell about would be given access to the only four people in the entire world who knew a damn thing about him, and what she uncovered, she might not necessarily like. He’d tried so hard to keep his distance, keep his walls up. But bringing her to his mother’s could end all of that.
What other choice did he have, though?
“Have you told your family about the baby yet?” Krista whispered as they wandered up the cobblestone path to his mother’s front door.
“No, not yet. Have you told yours?”
She glanced down at her feet. “No.”
He didn’t bother knocking and just opened the door. “We’ll tell them tomorrow, and you can tell your parents tomorrow when you call them, okay?” He reached for her hand and pulled her inside. Better to just rip off the bandage and get it all over with. Almost eighteen weeks, the baby bump was still hideable beneath her baggy pajamas. Maybe they could wait until tomorrow … or at least after dinner tonight to spill the baby beans.
The house was toasty warm and smelled the way you think Christmas should.
The big fake Christmas tree he’d helped his mother buy a few years ago took center stage in front of the giant bow window, while stockings and garland dressed the fireplace and a Christmas village among fake fluffy snow took up the coffee table.
The three other big black Chevy trucks in the driveway and on the side of the road told him that his brothers were already there. Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest, as he’d nicknamed them. Not that they were actually stupid; on the contrary, but they were younger than him and at times certainly acted like it.
But if it hadn’t been for the Chevy dealership out front, the booming loud voices emanating from the kitchen easily gave them all away. Sudden laughter, followed by a “fuck off, you twat!” and then more laughter.
Brock took Krista’s coat from her and instructed her to kick her ankle boots into the hall closet. She was doing just that as he hung up their coats when the voice of his mother and a red velour leisure suit came whizzing around the corner.
“You’re late!” she chastised. Brock rolled his eyes. “Oh well, at least you made it. Was traffic a bitch?” She lifted up onto her tippy toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. She weighed next to nothing. But unlike Heath, the goofball, he didn’t pick her up. Instead, he contorted himself and nearly bent double to hug her back, his body engulfing her small frame until she practically disappeared. She smelled like shortbread and baby powder, and he closed his eyes for half a second, squeezing her just a fraction harder.
Her breath hitched next to his ear.
She’d spotted Krista. Brock released his mother and spun around. Krista was practically cowering in the corner like a lost kitten. His chest tightened, and he fought the urge to wrap a protective arm around her. She was a strong, stubborn woman, though, and would probably bat his arm away.
“Wh-who?” Brock’s mother stammered. Reluctantly, her eyes left Krista and zeroed in on Brock’s.
Shit. Maybe he should have told his mother he was bringing a guest.
“Mum … uh, this is Krista.” He moved out of the way as best he could in the tiny foyer.
“Hi,” Krista said softly, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hart. You have a lovely home.”
Brock’s mother’s midnight-blue eyes, the same shade as Heath and Rex’s, went wide with surprise as they flitted back and forth between Brock and his Christmas Eve surprise. And then suddenly, as if being smacked by an invisible hand, she snapped out of it, took Krista’s hand and gave her a big smile.
Brock sighed inwardly. Not that his mother wouldn’t have ever been anything but kind, cordial and delightful to Krista, but he was still nervous.
“Well, isn’t this a wonderful surprise. Brock didn’t tell us he was bringing anyone. Or that he was seeing anyone. Lovely to meet you, my dear.” Instead of releasing her hand, she pulled Krista close and brought her in for a hug.
The voices from the kitchen grew louder, and soon three enormous bodies took up the living room, all with rum and eggnog in one hand and cookies in the other.
Heath appeared to have a stack of cookies in his palm. “You came!” he cheered, a big, stupid, cookie-filled grin on his face.
Their mother spun around. “You’ve met her?”
“We all have,” Rex added. “Bumped into Krista at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago and had the proper introductions. Right?”
Krista simply nodded, giving each of the brothers, including Brock, a steely glare before returning to their mother and tossing on a big smile. “That’s right!” She eyed the boys again. “I was just coming off work, and who should be following me around the grocery store but three of the Harty Boys.”
Heath snorted. “I like that … the Harty Boys.”
They made their way into the living room and sat down. Rex brought Krista and Brock each a rum and eggnog, and Brock’s mother, who had yet to stop grinning at Krista, decided to shove her son to the side and squeeze in between him and Krista on the love seat.
Oh, this was going to bl
ow up so badly in his face. He just knew it.
“So, Krista, how long have you and Brock been seeing each other?” She laced her fingers through Krista’s.
“I, um … ” Krista looked at Brock for help. Fuck, he didn’t know. Were they seeing each other? She shrugged and turned back to his mother. “A few months, I guess. September, maybe?”
Brock had to keep himself from snorting.
“But it’s serious?” his mother asked.
Krista shrugged again. “Maybe.”
He had to hand it to Krista. She was playing it cool. They hadn’t even discussed what they were yet. Which was stupid, but every time she tried to get him to talk, fear gripped his chest and he shut down. He never talked about himself, ever. It was just easier that way. Emotions muddled the fuck out of things. Facts were easier. When you had the facts, you could be responsible and get shit done.
Emotions were tools of the procrastinator.
His mother patted Krista’s hand. “Well, he’s never brought a girl home for Christmas before, so it must be.”
Brock took a sip of his eggnog. The instant hit of rum to his brain immediately helped take off the edge. Heath always knew how to make a good rum and egg nog. Three parts rum to one part nog.
Krista did the same, but it must have occurred to the both of them at the same time, because just as Brock coughed and reached forward to take away the glass, Krista spat the contents back in. Four sets of eyes around the room looked on curiously.
“Dude,” Rex said with a snort. “Control freak much?”
Brock glared at his brother.
“I, um … ” Krista trailed off, looking at him imploringly.
“Too hot?” his mother asked.
