Through the haze, I notice her backing into me, her whole spine arching to give me that extra depth. I hear the way her moans and grunts have turned needier, higher, more out of control than before. It’s the little, “Oh, gods” that hit me right in the gut. Or maybe the sudden clenching of her cunt around my shaft. It might be the way her front end collapses onto the bed, like she’s lost the use of her limbs, swamped in all this pleasure.
“That’s it,” I mumble, right into her ear, my lips so close as to almost—almost—be touching. “Take it. Come on my cock and take my seed. Fucking take every goddamn dro?—”
I lose it entirely as the orgasm hits. Pleasure that snaps and singes, burns out my inner wiring and shuts down essentialsynapses. My arms have wrapped all the way around her, pulled her up tight against my crotch, so she’s not on the bed at all anymore. I’m half standing, half-squatting, pulling her down onto my clenched thighs, fucking up into her, and I swear to god I lose some brain cells along with the load shooting deep inside her.
Each spurt comes out hot and hard and it takes every bit of my restraint not to reach down to cup where I’m planted inside her, to explore her, to feel where we’re connected. To stay like this. As deep as a man can get.
It’s too much. Toogoddamnmuch.
I’m groaning when my brain comes back online and I realize I’m disobeying at least one of her cardinal rules.
No Extraneous Touching. That’s the one. Not entirely broken, but cracked. I want to smash it to smithereens.
Rattled, I drop my knees to the mattress and let her settle there, push inside her one last time, and force myself to pull out.
I don’t wait to see how she’s doing. I don’t stop for anything. I tuck my aching dick inside my underwear, zip up, and pat my pocket to make sure the keycard’s inside before stumbling to the door. After one last inhale, I leave.
The door slams shut behind me.
I squint down the hall for one off-kilter moment, trying to get back my bearings, and finally go left.
That’s it, I decide in the elevator going down. No more breeding Miss Kitty. Twice was more than enough.
I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
13
Kit
It’s been a week. Well, six days. Tomorrow will be a week since I masturbated in a hotel room and waited in the dark for a man to come and fuck me.
And not just any man.Thatman, over there. Jake Brand. The guy my brother referred to as one of the best people he’s ever known. Hands down.
He’d trust Jake with his life, Franco said.
Loves him like a brother.
I can’t think about that right now.
I’m pretty deep in denial these days. Not exactly the best place to be, but certainly better than facing facts head-on.
Facts, as he reminded me the other night. Cold, hard facts, like the way his body felt inside mine. How he sounds when he comes, more animal than man.
They didn’t feel like facts when he said them in the dark, his voice rich and rough, wrapping right around my throat, leading me into a midnight dream of desire and a heap of other things I’m not allowed to have.
I cringe right here in the kitchen, thinking about how hard I came, how tense I got fighting it, how hopeless it was even trying. The man managed to do with words and that one bodily connection what no one has ever accomplished.
I never stood a chance against Jake Brand, with his filthy mouth and talented body and the way he looks at me even now across the line.
“How we doing on the shrimp?” I ask, as coolly as I can in an attempt to douse the flames eating me up inside.
“Two minutes,” he replies, his gaze snagging mine for a perfectly acceptable interval. He could look at anyone here for that long and it would seem normal. Yet, in that brief span, he manages to share something so raw, so explicit, that I can’t possibly be the only one who sees it.
Except, I realize when he turns to bark something to Frida about table twelve, it’s all one-sided. Me, imagining things that aren’t there.
Yeah. My imagination’s gone absolutely hog wild this week.
Reality? Totally normal. Like none of it ever happened.
