Boldly

by Elise Faber

  Like she was a goddess, and he was going to fall prostrate at her feet.

  Or, like she was going to be fucked within an inch of her life.

  Ho, Mama again.

  Because she really liked the second one.

  She heard stitches rip as he bunched her dress around her waist, exposing her pussy, and even in the dim light of the cab, she could see that the pale red lace was so wet it had darkened to crimson.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, reaching behind her to flick open her bra, dragging it down just enough that her nipples were exposed…to his mouth.

  He sucked and tongued her, rolled the sensitive bud over the roof of his mouth.

  “Oh God,” she breathed, yanking his coat wide, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and finally getting them open. Yes, thank sweet baby Jesus, that was exactly what she needed.

  Skin.

  Bare skin.

  And her mouth on that bare skin.

  The car turned and his arms tightened on her before she could fall out of his lap. She lost her connection with his fabulous chest, but she wasn’t worse for wear, not in the least. The arm he wound around her waist so she wouldn’t fall happened to have a hand attached to it.

  And that hand…

  It slid right between her thighs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Oliver

  She was wet and hot, and he was desperate to get inside her.

  Fuck, but her tits were there, nipples calling to his tongue.

  He had his fingers in her pussy, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. Needed—

  She pushed his hand away, his fingers sliding out of her on a wet sound, and moved down his body as she reached for the button of his slacks, flicking it open, tugging the zipper, yanking the material of his pants wide enough to free his cock.

  And then her mouth was on him.

  Sucking him deep, bobbing until he hit the back of her throat, her moans vibrating through his dick.

  Two strokes and he was ready to explode.

  With red creeping into the edges of his vision, his control shattered, his orgasm dangerously close, he tangled his fingers in her hair, lifted her head off him. She didn’t come easy, her lips tight, suction intense enough to push him even closer to the edge.

  An edge he wasn’t going to reach alone.

  Fingers tightening, he tugged her off, ignoring the pop of sound, how her reluctance to stop sucking him brought him so near coming that his toes were hanging off the cliff, threatening to drag him down into the abyss below.

  Her body was still bent over his, her hot breath on his cock.

  So easy.

  It would be so easy to grab on to those curls again, to yank her back down.

  But he needed inside her more than he needed her mouth on his cock.

  Using one arm to steady her, he brought his other up, used his fingers to rip the scrap of lace she called panties down her thighs, off one foot. Not bothering with the other, he coaxed her back on top of him, felt the brush of her wet heat against him, started to tug her down.

  Then remembered he needed to use a condom.

  Fuck.

  A bucking movement to extract his wallet, arm tight to keep her to him, fingers trembling as he tore through it, found the plastic square. He tossed his wallet on the seat, tore the condom open with his teeth, and it took him too fucking long to roll it down his length.

  And by too long, it was approximately zero-point-six milliseconds.

  Okay, so he was less focused on time than on the fact that Hazel was close and so wet he could see her pussy glistening in the streetlights that shone through the windows as they drove by. His fingers tightened, tugging her forward, trying to drag her down.

  “On my cock, babe,” he ordered when she didn’t do anything but move forward, drag her pussy over him.

  “Okay,” she murmured. And smiled.

  And…sank down.

  “Oh fuck,” he hissed.

  Tight. Hot. So wet he was immediately balls deep.

  “Oh,” she breathed, head falling back, her breasts bouncing as she ground down on him. Deep, so fucking deep. Forward and back. Up and down. Hips rocking, tits jiggling, hands gripping his shoulders tight.

  His slacks were still on, and he could feel them growing wetter every time she moved against him. Everyone would know exactly what they had been doing the moment they saw him, but he didn’t give a fuck.

  Because Hazel on him, his cock buried deep, his hands on her ass, holding her tight as they found their rhythm was the best fucking thing on the planet.

  Her hands found his face, and she kissed him until his lungs felt like they were going to explode, rocking against him, thrusting faster by the second, the car’s movement bouncing her against him in a way that would have him hard-pressed to disagree with anyone who said car sex was the best sex.

  She broke away from him, head dropping back, hips still moving, and he felt his orgasm cross that imaginary line in his mind, his body. The one that told him it was coming, there would be no stopping it, and he’d better hope to fuck that he got her there and soon because he’d be exploding, and there was no way to head it off.

  He wasn’t going to come alone.

  Luckily, the universe decided to throw him a bone, because just as he was thinking that, the car went over a bump and she jolted against him, voice breaking, “O-Oliver.”

  Fingers into the flesh of her ass, thumb to her clit. “Keep going, babe.”

  “I—”

  He thrust up into her, orgasm coiling at the base of his spine, threatening to explode outward. “Keep going, babe.”

  Please, for fuck’s sake, she had to keep going.

  She did. Thank fuck, but she did.

  And the universe threw him another solid because the car jolted again. Her breath caught. Her fingers clenched tight on his shoulders, her hips jerked, moans began tumbling out of her throat in rapid succession.

  He came.

  But even as pleasure shot through him, he dropped his head, his mouth going to her nipple, sucking hard, grazing his teeth over the rosy peak.

  “Oh God.”

  He pressed hard. Sucked harder.

  She bucked.

  And she was there.

  Tightening around him, squeezing tight, milking every last bit of pleasure out of him. Somehow, distantly, he managed to keep his grip on her hips, to continue thrusting into her, to keep moving her against him.

  Up. Down. Front. Back.

  She clenched hard.

  And came and came and came.

  It was the best fucking thing he’d ever seen, ever felt.

  Then she collapsed against him, arms wrapping tightly around him, and even though he was fucking wrecked from the best orgasm of his life, his body feeling like it had been surrounded in concrete and dropped into the ocean—sinking, sinking, sinking—he still managed to bring her close, to hold her tight.

  To whisper in her ear, “I love you.”

  A squeeze of her arms. Her body.

  They held on to each other as they tried to catch their breath (at least on his part) and summon the strength to move their limbs (also on his part), and to say something, anything that could capture what he was feeling in that moment.

  Complete.

  Whole.

  Totally fucking in love with this woman.

  But all he could do was hold her close, breathe in the smell of her until it was imprinted on his soul, and thank the universe for bringing her into his life.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hazel

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured as they drove to his house.

  He slowed at a stoplight, turned his head to gape at her. “For what?”

  “I know you wanted our first time to be romantic,” she said, on a wince. They’d been driving about five minutes, plus the ten minutes after they’d fucked like rabbits in the back of the limo (gloriously), and for the last fourteen minutes, guilt had been eating away at her post-orgasm bliss.r />
  “I wanted our first time to mean something.”

  She winced again.

  She was sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car, her bag in the trunk, silence in the cab. Her dress was unzipped, her coat half-buttoned, her panties having disappeared somewhere that she didn’t know for certain but suspected was in Oliver’s pocket, since he’d tugged them off when they’d been tangled on one high heel after the limo had stopped and they’d both roused themselves enough to realize they were back in the McDonald’s parking lot.

  French fries.

  Apple pies.

  Suddenly, she had another craving.

  Luckily for her, they hadn’t gone inside and added to her calorie count, nor had the driver opened the door. She had just parked along the curb and waited…

  For a while.

  Because it had taken them a while to separate, to deal with the condom and wrestle her dress so it wasn’t a tourniquet around her middle (but not zipped, because apparently the ripping sound she’d heard earlier had been her zipper being made non-functional—which, okay was hot as hell that he’d been so lost in her and what they were doing that he hadn’t been able to moderate his strength). So needless to say, it took them some time to restore their clothing into some semblance of decency.

  Or at least so they wouldn’t get arrested for public nudity.

  Only when they had their coats on—hers a requirement to keep her from being cited, his because he needed to cover a wet stain on his slacks (and maybe she should be embarrassed by that, but while she might feel guilty for hijacking his romance, she wasn’t embarrassed by the hottest sexual experience of her life—not in the least).

  “I wanted our first time to mean something,” he said again, picking up her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “And it did. Because it was with you.”

  Her breath caught. “But it wasn’t romantic.”

  “You’re right,” he said softly, as he navigated his car to his place. “It wasn’t.”

  Her heart squeezed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He’d had it all planned, and she ruined that by jumping him and suggesting car sex—though it was his fault, too, she supposed. He’d jumped her in that alley and—

  “I’m not.”

  He dropped his palm to his thigh, lightly squeezed his fingers around hers so she kept it there.

  “I made it this big thing in my head because you deserve everything perfect, everything wonderful. I wanted this night with you to be that.” Another squeeze. “And it was, babe. Because it was you and me and us. So no, it wasn’t candles and flowers and me kissing every inch of your body, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t perfect.”

  She sniffed.

  He did his thing—brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “But I do hope you’re still not too full.”

  Her brows drew together. “Why?”

  “Because there is absolutely no way that I’m done with you tonight.”

  Heat slicking down her spine, coiling between her thighs. She’d just come, and done it hard, but one rasp of his voice, that heat in his eyes, and she was ready all over again.

  “Good,” she said, squeezing his thigh, “because I have more items to add to your Fuck List.”

  His leg went taut below her hand.

  And then he was laughing as he drove the rest of the way to his place.

  She joined in.

  But neither of them were laughing when they got up to his bedroom.

  Because Oliver had made it his mission to tick those boxes of her fantasies, and he did it all night long.

  “That’s okay, Mom,” she said into the phone. “But are you sure I can’t bring you anything? Soup? I’d be happy to drop by the egg flower soup from Golden Panda. I know it makes you feel better.”

  Her mother’s voice was raspy, the bug that had her canceling Sunday dinner that evening evident.

  “Your father already picked some up for me, Spiced Pecan. I’m going to rest up, and I’ll see you and Oliver in a couple of weeks.”

  Twice a month they tried to get together for dinner.

  Sometimes it was every Sunday.

  Sometimes they went a whole month.

  But the goal was every other week.

  And this was that week. Her mom had been talking about the dinner she’d been planning for Oliver all week, texting questions about what he would and wouldn’t eat, what his favorites were, whether or not he’d gotten a date six through eight.

  Which obviously he had.

  Along with that fabulous date one.

  And what seemed like a million dates in between, though really, they’d just spent the weekend together. In bed and cuddled close, ordering takeout in, and watching movies (albeit not documentaries about penguins).

  Now it was Sunday at four. She was getting ready to make the half hour drive to her parents’ place.

  And her mom had the sickies.

  “I’m sorry, Sugar Snap,” her mom said. “I thought it was allergies with the season change, but now I’ve got a fever. Please, tell Oliver that I’m sorry.”

  “Of course, Mom. But seriously, don’t worry about us. Just feel better. I’m not here next Sunday”—she had a conference she would be flying home from—“and I know you’re visiting your grandbabies the following weekend, so Oliver and I will be there in three weeks, okay?”

  “He’d better bring an empty stomach. You, too. Because I’m going to bring my A game.”

  Hazel smiled, even as she felt obligated to say, “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  Her mom hissed out a breath. “By then the man will have probably gotten twenty dates, and I still won’t have met him. I’m bringing my A game, Lovely Lemon Meringue, and he’d better bring those abs and an empty stomach.”

  Hazel chucked. “Okay, Mom. Rest up. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, my Heavenly Éclair.”

  She smothered a giggle because seriously, where did she get this stuff? Did she have a list? Because Hazel, for the life of her, couldn’t remember a time when her mother had missed an opportunity for a baked-good-themed endearment. Maybe she should start making a list, just to document the brilliance.

  With goodbyes exchanged, they hung up, and Hazel turned to see Oliver leaning against the door to his bathroom, arms crossed, expression relaxed, though his eyes held a trace of concern.

  Such a good man.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “All’s good. My mom has a bug, so she needs to cancel dinner.”

  Oliver frowned and stepped closer. “Does she want us to bring her anything? Sprite, soup, crackers?” His frown deepened. “Or is it more serious? Should we take her to urgent care? The ER?”

  Such a good man.

  He’d had one conversation with Hazel’s mother, hadn’t even laid eyes on her yet, and he was already trying to step in and take care of her.

  The way he was raised should have made that difficult, the trauma of his injury should have increased that the urge to close down and protect himself. But he’d opened up to her, to her life, and he was all in—including caring about her mother. She knew part of it was because he’d had Alex and Teresa, that they’d laid the groundwork for him to know how good it could be to put trust in someone, to open up and accept love freely given.

  But he’d lost them, too.

  So, she understood the gift he was giving her.

  He’d made a conscious choice to be vulnerable and invested, to allow her into his life and her into his.

  Which was why Hazel was wrapping the precious gift he’d given her in bubble wrap and stowing it safely in a velvet lined box. She wouldn’t ever forget that he’d trusted her with it.

  Wouldn’t ever forget to keep it safe.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Oliver

  Just shy of two weeks later, Hazel woke him up with a soft kiss and stroking her fingers through his hair.

  “Morning, honey,” she said against his lips.

  He groaned and
stretched, glancing at the clock that said it was six in the morning. On a Saturday. Gods, why?

  “Sleep,” he muttered, tugging the blanket up and over them. It had been a long couple of weeks. A great couple of weeks, in fact. But still long and tiring. He’d decided to take an additional coaching class, and that on top of going through the files Marco had left for him meant that Oliver had ended the days bleary-eyed and exhausted more often than not.

  Thank God for Hazel.

  She seemed to never run out of energy, even though she’d worked just as hard. Aside from the weekend Hazel had gone to her conference, they’d spent every evening together, ate most meals together, gone to sleep together.

  And woke up every morning cuddling close.

  And just like during the rest of the time, she was the Energizer Bunny. Never stopping. Never acting tired.

  Including right now.

  Because she was lying on him, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with her arms crossed over his chest, her chin resting on top of them.

  And bouncing lightly.

  So he couldn’t drift back to sleep.

  Stretching forward, she brushed her lips over his again. Since he didn’t hate that, even though he hated getting up this early, he slid his fingers into her hair and kissed her a little harder, a little longer.

  “I forgot to tell you something,” she sing-songed.

  He stifled a groan, blinked sleep from his eyes. “What’s up, babe?”

  “I…” Her lips pressed flat. He was suddenly wide awake. Because there was worry in her eyes. She went on before he could ask again. “I have a surprise for you, and I’m scared you might hate it and be mad at me.”

  Oliver pushed himself up, wrapping his arms around her as she mirrored his movements, sitting up next to him.

  “What is it, baby?”

  “I—” Teeth into her bottom lip, her gaze darting away. Then a sigh. “I almost let you sleep through it because it would be easier.”

  Now he was getting worried.