She was all grins as she hopped off the barstool. Did she not have a coat? It was freaking cold outside. All she seemed to have was a worn and weathered gray hoodie. The woman needed a coat.
She followed him to the door, which he held open for her. The wind hit them both in the face like a wet slap, and she immediately shivered, pulling her hood up and shielding her face with her hand.
Brock grabbed her other hand again and pulled her along, only to stop when they were shielded from the wind. He pulled off his leather jacket and held it out for her with nothing but a grunt. She slipped her slender arms into it and then, without a word, he grabbed her hand again and pulled her into the night and the wicked autumn weather.
It was like something out of a movie. He unlocked the door to his house, revealing nothing scary or remarkable, just your run-of-the-mill dark and cold foyer, with a shoe rack, a coat hook, and a bowl for keys. Then, before Krista knew it, he was on her. His hands in her hair, his warm, hard, delicious body pressing up against hers. Their lips and tongues danced and dueled as they furiously fought to relieve one another of clothes. It was their first kiss. They hadn’t said a word, or more likehehadn’t said a word on the ten-minute jog through the rain. It’d just been a series of grunts as he let her know which housewas his and fished his keys out of the massive leather jacket she was wearing.
But maybe that’s the way it was supposed to go. No pleasantries, no mindless chit-chat or get-to-know-you bullshit. Because she didn’t really care who this Brock guy was at the moment. All she cared about was that he was promising to help her forget her shitty day with orgasms, and that was good enough for Krista.
At least for tonight.
Moaning from how good he tasted, from the ferocity of his kiss, she leaped up and wrapped her legs around his hips. With a moan of his own, he stalked up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom. His tongue held power, thrusting in and out of her mouth, swirling and diving with such animalistic force, such primitive need, that all she wanted to do was bite him, every hard inch of him. Bite his lips, bite his chin, bite his pecs, bite his abs, bite his ass.
He tossed her onto his bed and then quickly started to strip, so she did the same. He’d already relieved her of his jacket and her hoodie on their way from the door to his room, so all that was left was her blue T-shirt, jeans, and underwear. She was down to her panties and bra in seconds, and when she glanced back up, there he stood. Godlike, but so very, very real. Not just a beautiful figment of her inebriated imagination. Big, hard, toned and so goddamn gorgeous all she could do was stare. The rain had ebbed on their jog over, the fierce wind pushing away the dark bulbous clouds. So now the moon was out, high and bright and peeking in through the blinds at them like a dirty voyeur. Its bright light cast his body and face into menacing shadows, forcing harsh angles to be chiseled even sharper, but they only made him look all the more handsome. Fearsome and mysterious. His square jaw was set into a determined scowl, and even in the moonlight she could tell his eyes were the fiercest emerald green she’d ever seen.
She reached for him. “Help me end my day right,” she purred. Hoping it sounded as sexy out loud as it did in her head.
His grin was salacious. Then slowly, ever so slowly, as though he thought he might crush her, he loweredhis body down onto hers. But his mouth wasn’t nearly as gentle. He plundered her. Took and took with his lips, teeth and tongue. Stole the air from her lungs and demanded moans from the back of her throat. Was he trying to make her come just from his kisses? Because with the way things were going, that wasn’t entirely off the table.
He tasted like beer, but she probably tasted like cheap tequila, and in the end, it didn’t matter. They both knew what this was. It was hot, sweaty, need-driven, make-each-other-feel-good drunk sex with a stranger. The fact that there was beer on his breath as his tongue massaged hers into passive submission only spurred her on, made her want him, made her want his body and this night even more. She wrapped her legs around his waist and bucked up into him, feeling the granite hard length of him press into her pelvis. She ached to touch it, to feel him in her palm, to watch his face as she brought him pleasure.
But she hardly had time to finish that thought before his mouth left hers and began traveling down her body. His hands roamed and unlatched the front clasp of her bra, allowing her breasts to spill out. Warm, wet kisses were dropped along her chest and nipples, her ribcage, her belly button, her mound, and then lower. His fingers made deft work of removing her panties.
“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 flexingbutt 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 thensubsequently passed out. But she just wasn’t ready to see it. To see the reality of her sad, drunken choice.
