Dark Moon Falls: Volume 2

by Bella Roccaforte

  “And your mom?” he asks to be polite.

  My chest squeezes at the question and it takes me a second to respond. Just long enough of a pause to make him peek over his shoulder to make sure I’m okay.

  I shake my head in response. She’s dead too.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “And I heard about your dad a couple years ago. I didn’t know him, but I heard he was a good man.”

  “He was.” At least, toward the end of his life.

  Ugh. I definitely need more wine now.

  “Mine too,” he offers. “He’s gone and was a good man. Or so I’ve heard. He died when I was three.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  More silence.

  “You want some wine now?” I say with a chuckle. Not sure we intended for the conversation to get this heavy.

  “I’m good,” he says with polite dismissal. He then turns off all the burners on the stovetop and transfers the steaks onto plates and sets them on the counter to let them rest. “Want a taste?” he asks, pointing downward with his back turned.

  For a moment, I think he’s pointing to his junk, but I snap out of it when I realize he means the marinara.

  Jesus.

  Maybe no more wine.

  I slide off the stool and sidle up to him and he dips the end of the wooden spoon into the sauce and holds it up to my lips. I’m starving, at this point, after smelling his cooking for the past hour, so when my lips part and he dips the spoon into my mouth, the sauce exploding against my taste buds, and I can’t help but moan with closed eyes.

  “That good?” he teases.

  My eyes open to him towering over me, his body square with mine. The expression on his face, satisfaction mixed with something else…a little more serious despite his teasing, makes my body flush. His brown eyes are intense, and I swear I can feel his body heat rolling over me in waves.

  What changed?

  He was casual and relaxed, and now he’s expectant. He likes the sight of me enjoying his cooking, maybe. Enjoying him. His presence.

  And being in this intimate space with me, perhaps.

  “It’s amazing,” I finally reply, unsure what I’m referring to.

  I like being in this space with him, too. And I am enjoying watching him cook. His conversation. His…well, everything.

  “Good,” he says, voice raspier than before, and sets the spoon back in the pot. A muscle flickers along his jawline as he clears his throat.

  He won’t make a move, and it’s literally all he can do not to. I sense it.

  Gentleman.

  The thought of it—of him being so respectful despite the way he responds to giving me pleasure—is enough to completely undo me. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s him and the wine, or maybe it’s because it’s been so friggin’ long since I’ve felt a tight, hard body rocking against mine, but as he turns away, I grab him by the polka dot apron and pull him to face me again.

  Surprise colors his features, and then is replaced by that same intensity. Who knows what he’s seeing when he looks down at me, but I’m sure it’s a little something like a feral cat…

  I then raise on the balls of my feet and ignore the nagging in the back of my mind warning me this is too soon.

  She can shut it.

  I don’t quit tugging on the apron until his lips are fused to mine.

  6

  Shatter Me

  I pull him along by the apron until my back is against the island. His hands rest on the curves of my hips and grip me there, but they don’t move from that spot when our kiss deepens. As I rock my hips forward and into him, feeling his hardness through my dress, he releases a guttural sound against my lips. He wants me, but he’s letting me lead. So much power and strength beneath his touch, he’s one of the strongest beings alive, yet so gentle.

  What do I want in this moment? Just a hot, quick make-out session?

  That’s all I should allow. But he tastes so good. Feels so good against me.

  And this is with our clothes on.

  I reach up and snake my hands around his neck, pulling him in closer until my breasts mold against him. I can’t get close enough…

  His hands move down my hips but hesitate before he gets to my ass. He pulls back with hooded eyes. “Madison, are you sure?”

  There he goes again, with my full name.

  I can barely catch my breath. My heart pounds wildly. My sex is slick and aching for him, almost uncomfortably so.

  I need release, and I want him to be the one to give it to me. “Yes,” I rasp, nearly beg, and I devour his mouth again with mine. This is what I want.

  That’s all he needed—permission—because he then morphs into the animal I knew he was beneath all that gentle reverence. His hands splay across my ass and lift me up into him, our heads now the same level. I let out a sound of assent. At this angle, I can kiss him better, and my dress lifted with the movement. His jeans and a thin strip lace are the only things separating us from what we’re after, and I can’t help by grind against him again. These clothes need to go.

  He backs me up and sets me on the counter, the granite cold beneath my thighs. My fingers immediately fumble with his belt and zipper, and his pants drop around his ankles in no time. He kicks them to the side.

  I then tug down his boxers, and his cock springs free and falls thick and heavy into my hands as he works the plaid fabric the rest of the way down.

  I’m in awe for a moment at how big he is and give him the lightest squeeze.

  The sensation makes his dick jump, thighs flex, that guttural sound come roaring back and I run my thumb over the head.

  Something primal flashes in his eyes as he revels in my touch, like he’s ready to devour me whole. My nipples harden against my bra in response.

  He’s about as patient with foreplay as I am, then. He has none.

  “I need you,” I manage, and scoot back on the island, propping up on my elbows with legs spreading wide, so my sex is open and vulnerable to him. I need him inside me.

  His hands take all of two seconds to slide down my panties and fling them somewhere in the living room, and then he’s hoisting himself on the island and hovering over me, positioning himself so the hood of his cock is at the cusp of my opening.

  Before he pushes in, he makes sure to lock eyes. He wants to see my reaction.

  The first thrust is a sharp reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve had someone inside me, because even though he only goes halfway, it feels like I’m being stretched open for the very first time, and I gasp.

  He grunts in response, his head falling down and breaking eye contact.

  The tightness and wetness of my sex around him must be maddening. He has to go slow when he doesn’t want to.

  He pulls out again. Thrusts in, this time deeper. “Fuck,” he growls. “You’re so tight.”

  I then lay back all the way, my head dipping off the side of the island, my curled dark hair spilling over, and he pulls my dress up so he can see more of my torso. Runs a worshipful hand over the skin there, over my cesarean scar, leaving gooseflesh as he goes.

  I spread my legs wider, push my hips higher, goading him to fuck me harder. One hand grips the side of his shirt and fists the fabric for something to hold onto.

  He takes the invitation and slams in this time, reaching the end of me, and I cry out into the living room.

  He thrusts again and again, and then lowers down close to me, his elbows on either side of my head, abs pressed against me as our bodies rock together. His skin is hot and tight and smooth.

  “Yes!” I grit out at the sound of his skin slapping against mine; at the sound of his grunting and the smell of the air between us. Musk and sex. Yes. This is what I wanted. What I needed.

  His lips find the soft spot beneath my ear and kiss me there, then redirects to my earlobe to give me a quick nibble.

  The sensation of his mouth on my ear mingles deliciously with his hard and punishing thrusts make my sex tighten around him. His
cock hardens and lengthens inside me in response. “Come for me,” he says, right on time.

  He knows I’m close.

  I am.

  He fucks me harder, willing the release to shatter me… Kisses my neck again, soft and gentle in a rivaling sensation to his relentless fucking, and I finally unravel.

  The orgasm explodes through me, a cry bursting through my lips, body tensing beneath him as it rolls over me in waves. I lift my head to meet his eyes so we can share the moment, and what I find there is a man undone. Both vulnerable and in control. Strong, yet frayed. Beads of sweat have formed on his upper lip and his hair has fallen in an auburn sheet over his eyes, but his jaw clenches tight to keep from coming until I’ve gotten what I need from him.

  As I come back down, my sex pulsing around his shaft, he swoops back in to claim my mouth. And as soon as I start to relax beneath him, he lets out a, “Fuck,” body tensing, and his cock pulses as he finally empties inside me.

  7

  So Rude

  We lie there for the better part of a minute to gather ourselves. The moment hit us like a hurricane.

  Or rather, pent up sexual frustration hit us like a hurricane. All it had to do was get us all dressed up, alone, and relaxed. Throw in some food and wine.

  Not that either of us are complaining.

  “Well, that was a first,” he says, brushing a kiss on my lips before sliding off the kitchen island.

  “Fucking in a kitchen?”

  He flashes a sly smile and tugs on the apron. “Fucking with an apron on.”

  Oh, right.

  “That’s what did it, isn’t it?”

  I chuckle, prop up on my elbows. My head spins before settling. He fucked me dizzy. “Why do you think I had you put it on?”

  Still pant-less, he nods to himself and turns his attention back to the marinara. His rock-hard ass cheeks are a vision of perfection beneath the polka dot bow. “Guess I’ll just have to wear this every time I see you.”

  He’ll get no arguments from me.

  “Was a first for me too,” I say, and hop off to find my panties.

  “Fucking a guy with an apron on?”

  “No… well, yes, actually. But attacking you like that. I don’t usually sleep with someone on the first date.”

  He playfully hitches an eyebrow at me as he searches the cabinets for drinking glasses.

  “Above the sink.”

  He gets two down. “So…I’m your first?”

  My hands involuntarily press against my stomach. “Well, not my first, first.”

  “You have a kid, so I figured.”

  “But, yeah, now that I think about it. I don’t know I’ve ever slept with someone on a first date.”

  After spooning the pasta and marinara onto our plates, he then slides them onto the island where we just got it on and tugs on the apron again. “Totally the apron.”

  “Must’ve been,” I concede. I locate my panties and skitter off to the bedroom. “Be right back!” The upside to having sex in your own home—a quick clean-off and extra panties are only a room away.

  Thank God I bought more than one nice pair today.

  * * *

  We’re both ravaged with hunger, so our food doesn’t stand a chance. It helps that the man knows how to cook, each bite a revelation on my tongue.

  I think I groaned at least three times.

  “I don’t know which is better,” he says as we tidy up. “Watching how much you like my cooking or my cock.”

  My sex constricts at the memory and it’s all I can do not to moan again. I flash a satisfied smile. “I think we both know what you liked better.”

  A chuckle as he throws a dishtowel over his shoulder before doing the dishes. Yeah, he knows too.

  Eventually, we settle onto the couch and he brings me another glass of wine without my asking. “What planet are you from?” I whisper into the space between us. I was lucky if Spencer remembered to put the toilet seat down. That was the extent of his thoughtfulness.

  Well… he was pretty thoughtful and magnificent in bed. But, looks like it might be a wolf thing in general.

  He doesn’t answer, but I know he can hear me. He just plants himself on the couch at the opposite end—gently, so he doesn’t jostle my wine—and then pulls my feet into his lap and starts rubbing on the left arch. The tension eases there, and I groan again.

  “Blaze.” I meet his eyes. “You know you already have me hooked, right? You don’t have to keep showing out.”

  That elicits a laugh. “I like spoiling you.”

  I don’t argue, instead take another sip of wine and then tilt my head back as he works his hands up my calf. I have not one single regret for trading a night of Netflix and takeout for Blaze and his cooking and cock and hands.

  A yawn travels up my throat unbidden, and I fight it back. My eyes are heavier and more sluggish when I open them again. A full belly, wine, and relaxation are a triple threat for moms on Friday nights. I’m fighting a battle I’ll never win.

  He starts to work on my other foot, and I set the wine glass on the floor then scoot down further on the couch so I can prop my head on the armrest while he works.

  * * *

  I awake to a numb arm and slobber running onto my pillow and slowly roll to my back.

  Ugh.

  It’s so bright in here. Why is it so bright?

  I consult with the alarm clock on my bedside table. Eight o’clock. A smile lifts the corners of my mouth. I managed to sleep in for once. On the days Carson isn’t in school, he’s still up by seven. And the times he’s at Rhee’s, my body wakes instinctually.

  My tongue smacks against the roof of my dry mouth and I sit up, wiping the drool from my face. Circulation rushes back into my arm and makes that familiar, prickling feeling roll in behind it.

  What was different this time? I must have slept deeper. More peacefully.

  I look down to see I’m wearing a dress, and realization smacks me across the face.

  The date with Blaze.

  Dinner.

  Sex. Really good sex.

  How did I end up in bed? My last memory was relaxing on the couch with him rubbing my feet…

  Crap.

  I passed out on him. But how did I get here? He must have carried me.

  Oh, God. I’m rude. So, so rude.

  I hop out of bed and peek out into the living room. Empty.

  He left.

  My heart sinks into my stomach at the thought. All that effort he put into the date, into me, and I fell asleep. Like, into a coma kind of sleep, if I don’t even remember him putting me to bed.

  I sigh at the thought, then head to the bathroom to do my business and wash my face, my mascara smeared around my eyes. I manage to wrestle my matted hair into a bun and grimace at my puffy-eyed reflection before heading back into the bedroom. Sweet baby Moses, I must have slept hard.

  After changing into a tee and some fresh panties, I head to the kitchen for coffee. The air in the house still smells like fried steak with hints of garlic and rosemary. When I round the corner, a mountainous bare torso is hunched over the coffee maker and I bite back a yelp. I’m used to being alone, but once I realize it’s Blaze wearing nothing but his well-fitting jeans, I relax, relief flooding over me.

  He didn’t leave me last night.

  8

  Six, Maybe Seven

  He must sense my approach because he says, “Morning, beautiful,” before he turns around.

  I’ve already forgotten how horrible I look and reply, “Morning.” Or maybe I don’t care. Here I am in all my early morning glory. He can take it or leave it. “Sorry for ditching you last night.”

  The Keurig behind him hums with the noise of brewing coffee and the smell wafts over me. He smiles gloriously, eyes sweeping down to my bare legs. “No apologies needed. You…enjoyed yourself last night.”

  God, did I.

  The Keurig finishes the first cup, so he adds a splash of cream and hands the mug over. “Thank
you,” I say and take the first heavenly sip. Awfully bold of him to be around me again with hot coffee in the room. “And you?” I say with a quirked eyebrow.

  “I did too.” He sets another mug under the coffee maker and punches the brew button. “Hope you don’t mind that I slept on your couch.”

  I chuckle. “Was it big enough for you?” His feet had to have been hanging off.

  “Yeah,” he lies.

  I give him a look.

  “Okay, no. But I made do.”

  “You could have just gotten in bed with me.”

  He fetches his mug once the brew cycle is done from under the spout. “I wanted to give you space.”

  I fight a smile and lose. This man is asking for it again with his gentlemanly ways. And making me coffee. And looking all sexy with his bare chest (that does have tattoo artwork splayed across it, by the way), tight, faded jeans, and rumpled hair. “I’m always good with you getting into my space.”

  He laughs darkly, the intensity settling back into his eyes.

  My sex expands in reaction.

  “You might get your wish if you keep talking like that.”

  Without hesitation, I set my mug down on the kitchen island and walk up to him, then take his from his grasp. Set it beside mine. I run my hands up his sides and watch his head fall back at my touch. Plant a kiss on his tattooed chest. He’s so warm and smooth and perfect.

  When he meets my eyes again, I’ve ignited something inside him and his jaw tightens.

  He just needs my permission. Always so polite…

  “Want to get into my space again?” I ask, my voice low and full of need. One time won’t be enough for me this weekend.

  His strong hands grip my thighs and hoist me into his arms. He carries me into the bedroom.

  * * *

  We go slower this time. Really take our time with each other to explore. To take it all in, every square inch. And he makes me so comfortable, feel so dang irresistible, I don’t give my stretchmarks or cesarean scar a single thought. Not like I thought I would when another man got me naked. But really, what is there to be ashamed of? They’re proof that I grew a human inside me; that I’m miraculously capable of bearing life and bringing it into this world. They’re my roadmaps. My battle scars. Any man who has a problem with them wouldn’t deserve us anyway.