Wild Man

by Kristen Ashley

  Brock didn’t reply. He just watched me closely.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I told him and I didn’t. I buried my head in the sand, sure, but I knew people did crazy shit, case in point my own husband raping me. But that, that was insane.

  “Nothin’ to say,” he told me.

  “Do you want her back?” I asked and he did a slow blink.

  Then he asked, “Come again?”

  “Do you want her back?” I repeated.

  “Do I want her back?”

  “Yeah, do you want her back?”

  His brows drew together and his fingers dug into my hips again before he asked, “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No,” I replied. “She’s beautiful. She’s the mother of your children. And you loved her once enough to marry her. I saw you outside holding her in your arms and I saw you when you got back into the house after that scene and you looked conflicted. Not annoyed, not angry, not frustrated, conflicted. So no, Brock, I haven’t lost my mind.”

  His mouth got tight then he said low, “Babe, I was holding her in my arms ’cause when the mother of your sons cries crocodile tears, your best play is to give her that play and then, soon as you can, walk away. That’s what I did. And when confronted, again, with the knowledge that my boys got a mom like they got, in other words, she’s the kind of woman who would walk into my house, see another woman in my kitchen, and lose her mind when she sees someone playin’ with what she considers her toy and scheme in preparation for makin’ a play in my mother’s motherfuckin’ front yard on motherfuckin’ Thanksgiving, that is gonna make me conflicted.”

  This, I had to admit, made sense.

  Brock kept speaking and making more sense.

  “And I’m conflicted because this means, with all that other shit I just laid out for you, I gotta look into attorneys and whatever else I gotta do to make certain my boys don’t spend the vast majority of their time suckin’ up whatever acid she leaks. Not to mention whatever-the-fuck her man is like, steppin’ out on their mom, if that’s even true, and at least try to give them somethin’ good for more than four fuckin’ days a month. Now, with this, I’ll ask you, what’s the priority? You and your motherfucker ex? My dad dyin’ and my family at each other’s throats? Or my boys in that viper’s den?”

  Hmm. This was a good question.

  And I had the uncomfortable feeling I’d been a bad girlfriend to my hot guy.

  Time to sort myself out.

  “Your boys in that viper’s den,” I told him. He did a slow blink again and I explained, “Damian does something, we’ll deal. Your family are all adults. They need to deal. Your sons are powerless and they need you to deal.”

  He stared up at me and I kept talking.

  “I’m sorry, my reaction was selfish. I should have thought of you and I’ll work on it but I’m a woman and women have this thing when their men have had women in their lives who are better looking than them.”

  This got another slow blink coupled with a finger squeeze at my hips but I was on a roll so I ignored these and stayed on that roll.

  “You’re hot. I should have known she would be beautiful but just how beautiful she is took me by surprise. Like I said, I’ll work on that and try to get over it. But, in my defense, it’s my experience that not a lot of men say no to a woman like her and, even if it didn’t work out in the end, at one time you were one of them.”

  “Tess—” he started but I talked over him.

  “And, just to say, you were able to talk your brother back into the house and I know you have a full plate, but once some of this other stuff is sorted, you need to carve time out to have more words with him. Not about your dad or about me. He needs to sort himself out about your dad and I’ll win him over eventually. So, if you’re worried about that too, then you need to stop doing it. But about Lenore. She’s in love with him. She’s a good person. She’s sweet. And if he isn’t into her he needs to cut her loose. He also needs to get his head out of his ass because if he’s breaking hearts like that all through Denver, that isn’t cool.”

  When I stopped talking, Brock remained silent and stared up at me.

  When the silence stretched for a while, he asked, “Are you done?”

  “Well,” I started, “yeah.”

  Then he asked, “You think Olivia is better looking than you?”

  My brows drew together and I repeated, “Well… yeah.”

  He was silent again while staring at me.

  “Brock—” I started but he cut me off.

  “Jesus, you haven’t, have you?”

  “I haven’t what?”

  “Ever played games.”

  I thought about it. Then I answered, “No.”

  He shook his head while his lips tipped up and his hands slid up my sides, pulling me to him at the same time. I put my hands to his chest as I got closer and Brock wrapped his arms around me.

  Then he spoke. When he did, he did it softly and I noticed the sweet hum in the room just as it hit me his eyes were amused.

  “Okay, sweetness, it shits me to do it but I’m gonna have to educate you.”

  Uh-oh.

  I tipped my head to the side as I felt my body tense and I asked cautiously, “About what?”

  “About the games a woman like Olivia plays. Specifically why she instigates a play.”

  Oh, well. That didn’t sound too bad. It actually sounded interesting.

  I relaxed against him and said, “Okay.”

  His lips tipped up more and he began, “Now, a woman like Olivia walks into my place and sees a woman in my kitchen who isn’t better lookin’ than her, she does not throw a shit fit. She does not make bitchy comments. She has no reaction at all. She’s content in the knowledge I’ve settled for somethin’ less and falls asleep smilin’, thinking I’m thinking I settled for second best.”

  I nodded when he quit speaking so he continued.

  “If she sees a woman who’s better lookin’ than her, her hackles rise and she gets pissed. Right at that moment it’s game on. Then she throws a shit fit and makes bitchy comments and she drives home thinkin’ about nothin’ but how to stake her claim. And she instigates a play to remind me of the Olivia she played me with, and, by the way, that was who was on my Mom’s lawn today. It was the first time I saw her since the last time Olivia wanted somethin’ from me. And she did this not because she wants me back. She did it in order to best you so she can go back to fallin’ asleep smilin’, content in the knowledge that she’s top of the heap, she’s taken you down, and she’s still got what it takes to manipulate me.”

  I stared into his eyes.

  Then I began, “I don’t—”

  His arms gave me a squeeze and he talked over me.

  “Tess, no lie. Olivia is beautiful but she is not better looking than you. No fuckin’ way. You think, she was, Levi would take one look at you and put you to the test?”

  Hmm. Interesting point.

  “But—” I started and got another arm squeeze.

  “Babe, seriously. I’m committed to my job and there were a lot of things about Darla that were foul, most especially the shit she snorted, injected, and inhaled into her body, but she wasn’t tough to look at. There were a lot of ways to make my play with you as a possible asset or suspect. The minute I saw you, it took me a split second to decide what play I was gonna make and”—another arm squeeze—“when I say the minute I saw you, I’m talkin’ your pictures in a file. The minute I saw you in person, babe, cast your mind back. How long was I in your shop before you said yes to me askin’ you out for a beer?”

  I cast my mind back but I didn’t have to. Meeting Brock slash Jake was burned in my brain.

  I was filling the display with fresh cupcakes, the bell over the door went, I looked up, and his eyes were on me. Then he smiled as he walked straight to me, ignoring the two counter girls, asked for half a dozen snickerdoodles and if I’d meet him for a beer.

  He was probably in my shop thirty seconds
before he asked me out.

  I thought it was the coolest move ever, no bullshit, cocky, confident, and self-assured.

  Not to mention he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

  So it wasn’t but five seconds later when I said yes (to my counter girls’ disbelief and delight).

  I stared at him.

  Then it hit me and I blurted, “You think I’m more beautiful than Olivia?”

  “Babe,” he muttered, grinned, gave me an arm squeeze but that was it.

  Whoa. He thought I was more beautiful than Olivia.

  “I think I need to spend some time perusing myself in the mirror,” I told him and his body started shaking with laughter as his arms separated. One went low, one went high so his hand could sift into my hair and pull my face closer to his.

  “How ’bout you peruse yourself in the mirror later,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to my lips.

  “Later?” I whispered, knowing what his eyes dropping to my lips meant because that had happened before but also the hum in the room changed to warm and close and I knew what was on his mind.

  “Yeah.” His eyes came to mine then his hand pushed my head closer to his but veered it to the side, so at my ear, he whispered, “I had maple buttermilk pie at dinner and chocolate cake during football but I still have a taste for somethin’ sweet. And the sweet I wanna eat right now is my Tess.”

  I felt tingles at my scalp, along my skin, and about three other places besides.

  “Okay,” I whispered, sliding my hands out from between us to wrap my arms around him and press my torso close to his.

  His lips slid down my neck and back up, making me roll my hips in his lap involuntarily and, back at my ear, he growled, “Fuckin’ love goin’ down on you, baby.”

  I shivered and I did this because I loved it too but almost (not quite) better was him growling it in my ear.

  “Brock,” I whispered.

  His arm slid up my back, wrapped around tight, and his fingers stroked light as a feather against the side of my breast as he went on. “Never had a sweeter cunt than yours, Tess. Not in my whole fuckin’ life.”

  I made a noise in my throat and pressed my lips against his neck right where his hair curled as my hips rolled against his lap again.

  “You wet for me?” he murmured against my neck.

  Oh yeah. Definitely.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Good, then you’re ready.”

  He moved his head and mine, crushed my lips down on his, invaded my mouth with his tongue, and surged off the couch, taking me with him.

  I wrapped my legs around his hips, my arm around his shoulders and slid the fingers of my other hand in his hair as he kissed me while he carried me to my bedroom.

  I gave Brock something sweet.

  After, he gave me something sweeter.

  Then we both gave each other something even sweeter.

  Then he tugged his tee and jeans back on, I pulled on a nightie, warm socks, and dug in his exploded bag that now had a permanent place in the corner of my bedroom and pulled on one of his flannels. He got a beer and poured me some red wine while I took out my contacts and slipped on my glasses. We curled on my couch in the basement and watched football.

  I zonked out with my head against his thigh and his fingers sifting through my hair.

  I reawakened when he set me in bed and only stayed that way until he pulled me deep into his body and tangled his legs with mine.

  My last thought before drifting back to sleep was that Thanksgiving, as with anything with Brock’s family, was interesting, to say the least.

  But Thanksgiving night with just Brock and me was fabulous.

  The best Thanksgiving night I ever had.

  Ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Errol Fucking Flynn

  ONE ARM WRAPPED around my back, one hand on my ass, Brock surged out then back inside me. I stifled my moan against his neck as my fingers fisted in his hair and the nails of my other hand dragged down his back.

  He growled in my ear because my man liked my nails on his back and then he surged out and thrust in again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I lifted my head and yanked his up by his hair, maneuvering his mouth to mine. I kissed him hard as he pounded inside.

  Then my nails dug in his back and my legs spasmed around his hips as my head jerked back and I whimpered, “Oh my God, honey, I’m gonna—”

  I didn’t finish. My eyes closed, my head fell back, he drove in faster and harder, and I gasped and held him tight as I came.

  “Eyes,” he growled and my eyes fluttered open and focused hazily on him. “I want your eyes when I come,” he ordered.

  “Okay, baby,” I whispered and held his eyes, held him tense in three limbs as one hand roamed. Gliding across his skin, up his back, around his side, my thumb rubbing his nipple hard then down his chest, his abs until it was at our wet connection and I was feeling him taking me from outside as well as in. “God, that’s beautiful.”

  “Tess,” he groaned.

  I touched my lips to his, held his eyes, and whispered, “Fucking beautiful, baby.”

  He slanted his head, took my mouth, and planted his cock, his grunt of release driving down my throat.

  Yeah. Beautiful.

  Since his mouth was on mine, when he recovered, he started gliding in and out as he kissed me, deep but soft and sweet and I wrapped him tight and kissed him back.

  Then his mouth released mine. He buried himself to the root as his lips glided down my cheek to my ear.

  His arms curved around me squeezed and he whispered in my ear as his hips pushed deep, “Sweetest fuckin’ cunt I ever had.”

  I shivered in his arms.

  Brock pulled out and pulled me off the vanity in his bathroom where he’d walked in when he heard me turn off the faucet after I brushed my teeth. He’d closed the door and instigated operation maximum physical contact in the only room in the house (possibly and hopefully) his sons couldn’t hear us having sex in. Thus, me ending up with my ass to the vanity, my arms and legs wrapped around Brock, and my first-ever orgasm in a bathroom.

  It was sublime.

  But when he dropped me to my feet, he surprised me when he stayed close and turned me to face the mirror. He pressed forward and fenced me in against the vanity, his hands moving slowly around my ribs, my belly, crossing over to go down to my hips.

  My surprised eyes went to the mirror and I saw his were already there, following the trail of his hands. I saw my hair was a mess, my cheeks pink, my eyes still hazy, and his hands were still moving over the amethyst-colored, simple, short silk nightie (another Neiman’s purchase, not the splurge of the first I got at Nordstrom’s, but also not cheap either) he’d fucked me in.

  I could tell looking at his face he liked it.

  Actually, I already knew this, considering I could tell by his face (and actions) last night when he first saw it that he liked it.

  Suffice it to say we’d broken the seal on having sex with his sons in the house. Last night, it was late, the boys definitely asleep but Brock still took care to muffle my noises with his mouth and his own with mine or my neck.

  This morning, the bathroom.

  “How many cupcakes you gotta sell to give me this, darlin’?” he asked and my eyes shifted from his hands moving on me to his in the mirror.

  “Less than the extravaganza I treated you to that first night at your apartment. More than the cotton-candy eyelet one,” I answered.

  He grinned at me. “Cotton-candy eyelet one?”

  “The one I wore our first night together.”

  “The pink one?”

  He remembered.

  Damn.

  He remembered.

  “Cotton candy,” I corrected softly.

  His grin became a smile and for some reason that smile settled in my belly.

  He thought I was funny. He thought I was beautiful. He got close anytime I was near. He
wanted to stand between me and roaring lions. He wanted to help me battle my ghosts. He had two fantastic sons, a screwy but loving family, a great body, an affectionate manner, and he remembered the color of the nightie I wore our first night together in my bed.

  I stared into his smiling, warm, quicksilver eyes in the mirror but I wasn’t smiling.

  I was searching.

  But it was gone.

  “It’s gone,” I whispered. His smile faded and his brows drew together as his arms convulsed tight around me in reaction to my tone.

  “What’s gone, baby?”

  “That poisonous thing in my belly.”

  I felt his body still against mine as his eyes locked on mine in the mirror. Then I was turned from the mirror and lifted up. Automatically, my limbs wrapped around him as he walked us out of the bathroom, into the bedroom, and he put a knee to the bed, twisted, and I had my head in the pillows and my man on me.

  He didn’t say a word but his eyes searched my face and I let them.

  My search was going to be multisensory.

  So my fingers went to his face and moved over his skin, his stubbled jaw and chin, his lips, his temples, his thick eyebrows. Then both hands glided down and wrapped around the sides of his neck where it met his shoulders and my eyes went back to his.

  “My wild man,” I whispered. “My snake charmer.”

  He closed his eyes and shoved his face in my neck, groaning, “Fuck, Tess.”

  I turned my head so my lips were at his ear and no lies, no masks, no bullshit, no games, I kept whispering when I told him, “I love you, Brock.”

  He growled against my skin then his head came up, his hands slid up the silk at my sides, over my armpits, forcing up my arms. They kept sliding up, up until his fingers laced with mine and he planted them in the pillow above my head.

  Then he asked, “My sweet fuckin’ Tess, what am I gonna do with you?”

  “I’m yours so… anything,” I answered.

  His fingers clenched mine then his head slanted and he kissed me hard and deep and wet and sweet and, most importantly, un-fucking-believably beautiful.

  I bucked my back. He let go of my hands, allowed me to roll him and we kept making out with him on bottom, me on top, his hands at my ass.