by Cox, Whitley
Without even bothering to open her eyes, she spread her legs for him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her softness, a soft hum buzzing from the back of her throat, making his dick harder than granite. Fuck, she was a sexy little thing without even trying.
Brock was just about to slip his dick inside when he stopped and glanced down between them. The bump was visible, and it gave him pause.
Krista’s eyes slowly blinked open. “What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily.
He grunted. “Your, uh … your belly is kind of in the way.”
Her eyes widened, and she followed his gaze. Then she rolled those baby blues. An act he’d love to take her over his knee for. “Barely,” she said with lack of interest. “I’m fine. Now are we going to fuck? Or can I close my eyes and legs and go back to sleep?”
Brock grunted again. “I don’t want to hurt the baby.”
Another eye roll. Oh, she was on thin ice now. “You won’t.” A little hip shimmy beneath him caused her center to swipe wet heat against the head of his cock. A groan built at the back of his throat.
But he wasn’t having any of it. Doctor’s assurance or not, he wasn’t crushing his kid. Brock rolled to the side. “You were on top earlier. You want to go on top again?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m too exhausted to do the work.”
He snorted, followed by a chuckle.
“Let’s spoon,” he said with a grunt of approval before he tucked himself behind her and helped her roll onto her side.
He was inside her in seconds, his hand snaking over her torso to caress her breasts, pulling and tweaking the nipples until she arched her back, squeezing her internal muscles around him as he pumped. It wouldn’t take him long. And from what he could tell, despite her numerous orgasms moments ago, it wouldn’t take her long, either.
“Come for me,” she panted, pushing her backside into him and squeezing tighter. “Feel that?” Oh yeah, he felt it. She had him in a vice grip. Even if he wanted to pull out, he wasn’t sure he could. “I want you to feel as good as you make me feel,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “Feel as full and complete. Take what you need from me. Take everything.”
If he wasn’t seconds away from coming, Brock would have halted and pondered her words a bit more. But he couldn’t. At the moment, her words just spurred him on, drew him closer to the edge. That sweet, luscious heat surrounded him, the wild and sweet scent of her hair, her rocking body. He was a goner. He inhaled deeply, burying his face in her hair, found her earlobe, nipped it and let loose. Not a second later, Krista cried out in front of him, her body going rigid and her pussy pulsing around him as she leapt off the cliff. Brock grabbed her hand and intertwined their fingers at the peak of his release. She gripped him tight, her knuckles going white as she rode out her climax.
When they both returned from the bathroom, she snuggled up under the covers, having made sure the distribution of the duvet was closer to fifty-fifty, and then pressed her butt into the crook of his body and reached for his hand.
“What are you doing?” he asked. Sexy time was over. It was sleepy time now. What was her angle?
She yawned. “Cuddling.”
“Oh.”
“Have you never cuddled before?” Her fingers laced with his, just like he’d initiated earlier. Only before they were in the throes of passion, mid-orgasm and mush-brained. The only thing he’d been thinking of was how could he get more of himself inside and on the woman whose scent and touch had gotten so deep down under his skin he found it difficult to breathe when she wasn’t around.
Yeah, no, he wasn’t a goner at all …
She placed his palm against her chest, and her entire body relaxed into him.
“Hmm?” she hummed. “Never cuddled before there, Hart?”
Brock grunted as he shifted behind her, trying to figure out where to put his bottom arm. “Yeah … I guess. We spooned that first night and then when the furnace broke.”
“Exactly.” She snuggled deeper into his warmth. “Tell me about your other relationships. What were they?”
He shifted again, but instead of rolling away, he pulled her tighter. “A girlfriend in high school. A girlfriend while I was in the navy. That didn’t last long. She thought I was cheating when I would go away.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“So what? You just pick up half-drunk girls in a bar who smell of cheap tequila and french fries? Buy them dinner and then fuck them silly?”
Brock grew quiet. How could he get out of this one unscathed? Yes, that was his MO. Though just because Krista was picked up and fucked just like any other woman he’d been with in the past eight or so years didn’t mean she wasn’t special. He hadn’t realized it, but his grip on her hand had tightened. He loosened it but didn’t let go.
“I don’t care, you know,” she said, breaking through the deafening silence that had fallen upon the room. His fault, of course. She’d asked him a question, and he’d yet to respond. She continued on, “I could have said no. And for the record, you’re not the first guy I’ve picked up in a bar either.”
“You were … are more than that. I told you I haven’t been with a lot of women, and although some have been picked up in a bar, you’re the only one I bought dinner or asked to move in with me.”
Her chuckle was raspy and dead fucking sexy.
He hoped that was the end of the third degree. He was tired and getting uncomfortable with her curiosity. Brock hated talking about himself, about his feelings and about his life in general.
“Tell me about your time in the navy,” she said with another yawn.
Oh fuck.
He let out a pained breath against her neck, allowing the scent of her hair to calm him.
It worked.
Kind of.
“I didn’t want to make a career of it, but I wanted to be a part of something. My dad had done a stint in the navy before deciding he wanted to be a cop instead, so I followed in his footsteps.”
“But you didn’t want to be a cop?”
“No. A retired naval officer buddy of mine recruited me to join his security and surveillance company instead. It’s more my thing, less politics.”
A snort rumbled her body. “That’s for sure. Politics up the wazoo. Mickey said you did some black ops stuff, too … ”
Brock grunted. Fucking Mickey. A pretty lady bats her lashes at him, and suddenly it’s as if he’s been vaccinated with a gramophone needle. Normally the guy was almost as tight-lipped as Brock. “He did, did he? That man has always been a sucker for a pretty face. Did he tell you his bank PIN, too?”
Krista giggled. “Mickey certainly is a talker.”
“Not normally,” Brock said blandly.
She hummed in response. “So, black ops?”
Damn it. He’d hoped she wouldn’t continue to pursue this vein of curiosity. Brock hated talking about his time with the Phoenix Fire Special Ops. Sure, he’d done a lot of good, took out a shit-ton of monsters, but those memories were not ones he wanted to relive—ever.
She squeezed his fingers, urging him on.
Fuck. He had to give her something. The woman was like a dog with a bone. “Yeah, all four of us have done special ops, or black ops.”
“What exactly do you do now with your security firm?”
Jesus, she was worse than Stewart’s granddaughter, Lily, with the constant questions. At least Lily had the attention span of a gnat and eventually got bored with him and moved on to someone more interesting. But no, not this woman. This woman was relentless.
He let out an exasperated sigh. “Anything and everything.” He’d almost been asleep, and happily so, then deep inside her, which had been great, but he was ready for that sleep thing again.
“Which is … ?”
“Surveillance, security. I’ve been a bodyguard or an escort for people who feel they are being threatened or in danger. I’ve installed and monitored security systems. We do a bit
of PI work now and again as well, though that’s more Stewart’s gig, not mine.”
“And your brothers are in on this too?”
He grunted, hoping she’d get the hint he was done talking.
“So getting them to run intel on me was just another day at the office then, eh?”
“Mhmm.”
Come on, woman, take a hint.
She nodded, her hair tickling his nose and causing him to fight back a sneeze. “And what did you do … you know, besides surveillance and security. Did you go to school for anything?”
He rubbed his hand over his whiskers. “I also have a biology degree. Thought about medicine, but … well, I don’t have the people skills.” Her giggle stirred heat in his belly. “I like what I do, and I’m good at it.”
“Have you ever thought of starting your own company? The Harty Boys, and getting your brothers to come and work with you?”
He snorted, his eyelids incredibly heavy and fighting to stay open. “Maybe one day. Stewart’s a great boss. Wants to retire. So maybe.”
She spun around in his arms to face him. She cupped his cheek, brushing his lips with hers. “Thank you for sharing with me. I know that talking about yourself … well, talking in general doesn’t come easy for you. I really appreciate it. I like this side of you.”
More heat, and this time just a tad too much, ignited inside him. His face was warm, his body even more so, and an itch at the back of his neck told him to get the fuck out of there.
He was a lone wolf, a bachelor, and he liked it that way. Now here he’d gone and invited this woman into his home, who also just happened to be pregnant with his child, and she was sharing his bed. That was all fine. But now she was asking him to share. Share parts of himself, his history, his feelings and emotions that nobody knew about.
It was too much sharing.
Way too much sharing.
Even his family was kept on a need-to-know basis. It was just easier that way. He was the fixer. He was the one everyone went to for help, not the other way around. And if no one knew his business, then they never knew when he needed help or fixing—which was never.
Fear, and some other unsettling feeling he couldn’t quite pin down, clawed at the back of his head like a hangover headache that just wouldn’t go away. He wasn’t ready for this. Not fatherhood, not a roommate and definitely not telling a complete stranger all his secrets.
Swallowing past a hard lump in his throat that felt more like a piece of jagged glass and half a dozen razor blades, he ground his molars together and rolled away from her, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s late. Thanks for the fuck. Goodnight.” Then he rolled away from her completely and stared at the wall for what felt like hours.
* * *
Brock was down in the home gym when Krista woke up that morning. She could hear the subtle pounding of the punching bag and manly grunts coming up through the vents. It was probably for the better she didn’t see him. She needed time to pack.
After he’d shut down and turned away from her last night, she spent the better portion of what should have been sleep time mulling over their conversation. She mulled over their entire whirlwind, unconventional, accidental relationship.
But even after all that mulling, she came up with bupkis. What had caused him to do such a complete one-eighty all of sudden? What had she said? What had she done? One minute they were having a nice post-fuck cuddle, complete with pillow talk, and the next minute he was giving her the coldest shoulder in the history of cold shoulders, thanking her for the fuck and wishing her a goodnight, as if she were some hooker and not his roommate, bedmate and carrying his child.
All she could do was wonder what the heck she had gotten herself into. Who was the man she was about to have a baby with? Who was the man in her (his) bed?
He was sweet and kind and sensitive one minute, catering to her every need, including needs she didn’t even know she had. He’d painted and built a nursery, for crying out loud, and yet when she tried to find out who he was or thanked him for opening up, he put up mile-high fences around himself, shut down completely, and they were back to being strangers—sometimes for days.
She was tired of it. Tired of not knowing who she was living with or who she was going to “get” when she asked a simple question. Was she going to get sweet Brock, the Brock who called her his girlfriend and painted a nursery for their happy little accident, or the Brock who clammed up for no good reason and made her feel like she should pack up her clothes and head back to her pimp?
Hell, she didn’t even know when his birthday was. Was he a Gemini? Was she dealing with a split personality? She was done trying to figure it out. If he wasn’t going to open up, she was going to send him a big fat message to either open up or move on. She could do the single parent thing if she had to. She didn’t want to, especially not after discovering how nice it was living with someone again, but she could do it. Because if she was going to live with someone, she wanted to know that person. If she was going to raise a child with someone, she wanted to know his goddamn birthday and a few other things, too.
She’d had enough. She’d asked him time and time again to open up. To let her in and help her get to know the father of her child, and when he’d give an inch, seconds later he’d pull away and back up an entire mile. She hauled her big suitcase from the closet up onto her bed and opened her drawers.
This thing between them obviously wasn’t going to work. They were just too different.
Sure, they were both stubborn, strong-willed control freaks, but it wasn’t enough. She was bending for him. Relinquishing control. For him. For them. But Brock wasn’t bending at all. At least not enough.
Her bed was scattered with clothes, personal paraphernalia and a snoozing Penelope on a pile of summer skirts when his voice behind her made her jump.
“What are you doing?”
She ignored him. She could put up walls too.
“What are you doing?” he asked again.
She didn’t bother to turn around, but she felt him take a couple of steps forward. Heat from his big body radiated off him in waves, causing her to practically sway where she stood. He smelled faintly of sweat, but it wasn’t off-putting. She knew he was going to look goddamn irresistible all jacked up with ripped muscles and glistening sweat, so she resisted the urge to look at him.
He was beside her now, and his big hand fell to hers, halting her efforts of packing up a pair of jeans. “What. Are. You. Doing?”
She pulled her hand from his and resumed her task. “I’m packing.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going home.”
He grabbed her hands again and tugged, forcing her to pull her gaze from her suitcase and finally take in his face. Confusion streaked across it. “This is your home.”
She shook her head. “I can’t live with someone I don’t know.”
“You know me.”
She shook her head again. Her throat burned and ached from how hard she was trying not to cry. Fucking hormones. “I don’t know you. I ask you about yourself all the time, but you only give me the bare minimum. I’m living with a closed book with glued pages. I can’t do it anymore.”
She pulled her hands from him and turned back to her suitcase. She folded up a shirt and placed it inside. He pulled it out and put it on the bed. She put in a sweater. He pulled it out, along with a pair of jeans, a tunic and three pairs of socks.
She let out an exasperated huff and turned to face him. “This isn’t funny.”
His face was stern. “I agree.”
“Then let me pack in peace, please.”
“You’re not leaving.”
Anger raced through her. She’d also had enough of the bossy fucker telling her what do to. She could bloody well leave if she wanted to. Her mouth pinched into a scowl, and she glowered at him. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”
He grabbed the suitcase and dumped everything onto the bed. “You’re not fucking leaving.”
/> Resisting the urge to haul off and deck him, she planted her hands on her hips. “I can’t figure you out! One minute you’re chatty and funny and sweet, and then the next minute, you’re throwing up walls and putting on a mask. I can’t do it. I can’t live and raise a baby with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hides-his-Emotions.”
He swallowed.
“You need to talk to me.”
His eyes fell to his feet. “I’m trying.”
She shook her head. “Not hard enough, Hart. Because when I see that you’re trying and thank you for opening up, it’s like one step forward and ten steps back. The moment I acknowledge your efforts, you shut down and pull away. What the fuck?”
The muscle along his jaw jiggled as he ground his molars together. “You were right, you know.”
She let out a huff of impatience. “Not very often that I’m not, but go on.”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “What you said to me in the truck, on the way to your Christmas party. About me wanting people to think I’m big and scary. You were right.”
“Of course I was right. But you don’t scare me, you just irritate the crap out of me.”
A snort rumbled through his nose, and a smile threatened again but ultimately failed. “I’m a different person when I’m with you,” he started. “I don’t recognize myself.” He scratched the back of his neck, and his eyes finally met hers. “I’m happy when I’m around you.”
“And is that a bad thing?”
“It … it’s a strange thing. A foreign thing.”
She nodded slowly.
“But I’m also really confused.”
She shook her head, her own confusion beginning to build. “About what?”
His lips pursed in thought for a moment before he continued. “When you thank me for opening up or ask me who I am, it makes me question who I am. Because I don’t know which one is the real me. The man who can’t stop thinking about you or smiling at the thought of you, or the man who keeps the world at arm’s length because it’s just easier that way. You scare the hell out of me. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
