Brock extended his hand, and feeling dizzy, I placed mine in his. “Watch this movie with me? Then I’ll leave.”
Watch a movie with him? I . . . I could do that.
He tugged me down so I was lying stretched out on the couch beside him. He’d let go of my hand, so I was facing the TV. My back was against his front and there was the tiniest space between us.
It reminded me of other days, days long ago, when we’d lie like this at home. Touching but not. Several moments passed, and I felt his hand settle on my hip. I jerked at the touch and then bit down on my lip.
My heart pounded in rhythm with the gunfire echoing on the TV. His hand didn’t move, but his thumb did. It glided back and forth. My body zeroed in on it as I stared at the TV, not seeing what was on it. I started to move.
“Jillian,” he groaned, his hand flattening on my hip. “Lay still and watch the movie.”
Pouting, I exhaled heavily. I didn’t want to lay still. Not when he was here. Not when his body was long and warm and hard so near mine.
“Brock?” I turned my head so I could hear him.
“What, babe?”
I stared at the ceiling. “Is this . . . is this weird that we’re here, right now?”
“Weird?” I felt him shift, and then suddenly he was staring down at me. The flicker of the TV cast shadows over his face. “There’s nothing weird about this. If anything, it’s right.”
Right.
This was right.
My eyes searched his. “Did you . . . did you miss me this whole time?” I drew in a shallow breath. “I missed you.”
Brock’s gaze held mine. “Missed you every fucking day, Jillian, with every ounce of who I am.”
Chapter 17
I awoke to a dream.
That was the only explanation to why I was nestled up against a warm, male body—a body that I instinctively knew was Brock. It was his hand that was under the back of my top, flat against my lower back. It was his chest that my cheek was resting against, and his thick leg that was cradled under mine.
I awoke to a fire.
My body was overheated and lava had replaced the blood in my veins. The slow, sluggish pulse picked up, and my hips shifted, pressing the most intimate part of me against him. The friction was nearly immediate, like it was when I touched myself and thought of him. I moved against him, seeking release as my fingers curled into the material of his shirt.
I’d been dreaming of him—of his large body moving over mine and then in me, kissing and nipping at my naked flesh. The dream felt like now, and in the fog clouding my thoughts, I couldn’t make sense of what was then and what was now.
But now he tensed against me, his hand spasming against my back. “Jillian?”
His voice . . . it sounded so real that I moaned and I lifted my upper body. There was a flash of his face and then I was moving my hand from his chest to the rough line of his jaw. I kissed him—I kissed him as I rocked against him, seeking and searching.
The arm around my waist tightened and then he was kissing me back—hard and wet, and there was nothing artful or slow about it. Our teeth gnashed together. Our tongues tangled, and this—it’s not a dream, not a dream—didn’t feel real.
His mouth moved over mine as I twisted my hips against his leg. The tension was coiling into a knot, but it wasn’t enough, this wasn’t enough. I whimpered into his mouth, my movements becoming more frantic.
Brock seemed to know what I needed.
“I got you.” He pulled back, speaking in that deep, husky voice.
In a flurry of movement, he reached between us as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin under my ear, his nimble fingers catching the button on my pants, unhooking it. He worked the zipper down, loosening them. Not a dream. Not a dream. I was out of breath and my heart was pounding all over the place as his large, hot hand slipped into the opening of my pants and under the band of my panties.
The moment the tips of his fingers brushed over the tight oversensitive nerves, I cried out, throwing my head back. I didn’t care if this wasn’t a dream. I didn’t care what tomorrow would bring. “Please,” I begged, moving my hips against his hand. “Please, Brock . . .”
“Fuck,” he grunted, his mouth hot against my neck as I felt his finger sink deep into my wetness. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
My body was out of control. I gripped his arm, holding his hand to me as he pumped his finger in and out. My hips were moving faster and he did something with his hand, twisting his palm and it was everything—his mouth against my neck, his hand in my panties, between my thighs, his finger inside me—I clenched and then broke apart, crying out as sharp pleasure shattered my senses.
My body went lax as I slumped down, half on him and half against him. In my chest, my heart slowed and I was barely aware of his finger easing out of me. Sweat dotted my brow as I closed my eyes.
“Fuck,” I heard Brock say, and it was the last thing I heard.
* * *
I woke to my head throbbing and my left arm dead. I was also hot, like I’d been sleeping under a ton of blankets during the dead of summer.
Something furry brushed along the bottom of my foot, tickling me and causing me to jerk my leg. Confused, I pried open my eyes and immediately winced at the bright sunlight streaming into the living room. My head felt like a drummer had set up camp inside and my mouth felt like a desert and I . . .
I was not alone.
The first thing I saw was Rhage sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at me with his tail swishing back and forth. Slowly my gaze traveled up my leg and then got hung up on the very large hand resting on my hip. For several seconds I couldn’t process it, then I turned my head and saw Brock. His profile was relaxed, hair messy and lips slightly parted. The white button-down was wrinkled and half un-tucked, revealing an impossibly flat and ripped lower stomach. My gaze flew back to his face, and it all came crashing back—dinner last night, the two or three shots of whiskey on top of three glasses of wine, coming home and passing out next to Brock.