by Evie Claire
“Brody,” she damn near panted as he rolled the rubber over his length, his fingers absently brushing at her entrance as he did. “I need you to fuck me.”
“I figured that,” he said, bending to kiss her neck. She drew in a breath.
“No, I mean fuck me. Make me lose control.” She pulled away, fixing him with a stare she hoped said it all. She wanted Brody to take charge of the situation, but even more, she needed him to take charge of her. She wanted to be dominated. She wanted to be ruled. She wanted to be possessed.
Oh, he understood all right. Grabbing a fistful of hair at the back of her neck, he twisted it tightly enough to draw her mouth open—a move he took full advantage of with his. Their tongues worked together while his cock worked against other parts of her. How did he do that? One hand in her hair, the other stroked his tip against her clit in one rhythm while his tongue tangled with hers in an entirely different one. It was a sensation overload.
And it was exquisite torture, because if it were up to her, she would slam into him and start the one thing she’d wanted since she walked into the bar hours ago. But she couldn’t. Because every time she tried to force him into her, he resisted. Because he instinctively knew sex was as much about the mental game as it was the physical for her.
Sensing that he could resist for days if he had to, she stopped trying to control the situation. Instead, she leaned limply into his arm, and lay back on the soft green velvet, totally giving herself over to him. He took her hips, inched her back into a better position, and then slowly…Oh. So. Slowly. Slid past her folds and sank deeply into her.
She welcomed the sensation with a sated whimper. One that pushed into the shadows of the room’s dusty corners. His hand wrapped around her neck. He placed his tongue on the spot below her ear. Her spot. In great swoops and swirls, he followed the remembered line to the nape of her neck. And while his tongue moved, so did other parts of him. In seemingly perfect coordination, his dick slid farther up the line of her.
Rolling her head to the side, she bucked off the table, certain she wouldn’t be able to take one more inch of him. When he reached her top, he paused, and nipped at the skin, just barely. So swept away by pleasure, she desperately needed pain. Or she might come again from just one push. Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she found what she needed to keep her wits about her.
He stayed there. Giving her ample time to gather herself. But with every minuscule movement, she was reminded of what still lay buried inside her. And it was the most exquisite torture she’d ever endured. Wanting so desperately to move against him, to make herself come, but also afraid of moving after the resistance he’d proven himself capable of earlier. So she waited. Biting harder with every passing second.
His free hand fumbled with something beside them. Cinnamon overtook her senses. Then her mouth. Flooded with warm heat from his kisses and fiery liquor, she let him redirect her focus. His finger, wet from the shot of Fireball he’d just downed, drew a line down his neck, into the dip at its base, and over his collarbone. His intention perfectly clear. Their lips parted.
And so did other parts of them. Because as she went to work on his neck, he went to work on her. Slowly in. Slowly out. Being certain he took his time and paid plenty of attention to each delicious inch of her. A tortured turtle’s pace that had her insides about to lose it. With nothing else to control, she focused on his neck and cleaning every drop of the hot sweetness from him. And God bless him, the faster she licked, the faster he drove into her. The harder her tongue struck his flesh, the harder he gave it right back to her.
And it wasn’t like she needed it fast or hard. She just needed it. And when she’d reached a breaking point and could no longer hope to hold together, she dug her nails deeply into the shoulders hulking over her.
By the gods of great lovers, he somehow managed to catch her nipple in his mouth. One he sucked so hard, it ripped an orgasm from her depths.
His name.
Her moans.
And then a final gasp of pleasure when she was certain she couldn’t take one more euphoric moment.
“Come for me, Love,” he whispered against her breast, slamming into her once more at the same moment his teeth clamped gently over her nipple. She was done. And also, hopelessly lost in Brody Cantrell.
Chapter 17
Brody
“It was my brother’s shirt,” Phebe said, her chin pushing into Brody’s bare breastbone as she spoke. With a finger, she traced the line of a tattoo that swirled over his pec.
He loved her like this. Post sex. After he’d fucked the tightly wound edge right out of her. She was easy. Relaxed. Free almost. Like the weight of her world was forgotten, and she could just be herself instead of Phebe Stark, ruler and defender of the free world. Not that he didn’t like that Phebe, too. But this one was a decidedly more desirable snuggle buddy.
Of course, he knew exactly what she was talking about. But instead of allowing the moment to veer back to their awful morning, he led it down a different path.
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“We’ve never done much talking, have we?” Phebe giggled and rolled onto her back, curling into the crook of his arm. They were still on Nuck’s old pool table, wrapped in the blankets Brody had hurriedly grabbed from his apartment. With a single bulb burning beside them, and the rest of the floor cast in shadows from the neighboring high-rises, it was peaceful. Once work started on the space the pool table would have to be moved. “I actually have two older brothers, but they lived with my dad. I would visit on weekends.”
It could’ve been a lie. Not that she had brothers. But that the shirt belonged to one of them. The shirt’s true owner didn’t matter one way or the other to him. Her needing him to believe it came from a totally platonic place was all that did.
He hadn’t totally lost faith in her that morning. Hadn’t spent the intervening day assuring himself it was the last he’d seen of her. No, maybe hoped was a better word for all of that. He’d hoped what he’d seen in her when they made love would be enough to pull her back.
Brody was big on moments. There were several minuscule ones that—if you knew what to look for—could tell you everything. It was something he’d seen that morning and then again moments ago.
It was a universally accepted truth that orgasms were fucking fabulous. If you boiled it down to the bare bones, for some the entire point of dating hinged on the achievement of one.
In this city alone, at this very minute, there were easily thousands of people chasing one. They weren’t that elusive if you knew what you were doing. It was the orgasmic tipping point—the nanosecond when the mind lost control of rational thought and primeval instincts took over—an exact moment when a lover told Brody everything he needed to know. A moment that was damn near impossible to fake.
When Phebe came, she pulled into him, needing more, wanting more. Hell, she even looked him dead in eye as she clung to him. A woman who was just using his dick didn’t do that. She buried her face in the pillow. Arched her back. Pulled away from the source of pleasure. Because it wasn’t a soul connection. It was just sex. And this one little difference told him Phebe was feeling more than a fuck buddy should.
That morning, when she’d filled her apartment with the sound of his name, clinging to him like life depended on it, he’d seen it all. The confirmation that she was feeling what he so strongly did, too. And—fair enough—maybe he’d gotten a little overzealous. Maybe he’d pressed the accelerator a bit too soon. Even if he knew it, Phebe was the kind of woman who needed to discover it for herself. It wasn’t a mistake he’d make again.
“Your parents are divorced?” he asked thoughtfully.
Phebe nodded. “Yours?” She asked the question and then slapped a hand over her face. “I’m sorry, Brody.”
“No. Don’t be.” Brody rolled over, propped on his elbow and
pulled her hand away. “My father didn’t raise me. Uncle Nuck did. My parents were still together when my dad passed a couple years ago, but we were never close.”
“Why not?”
“My dad worked more than you do. He was gone a lot. Didn’t exactly make him a great father figure.”
“So, Uncle Nuck filled in?”
“Yeah. And my granddad. His farm was thirty miles east of here. I loved it out there.” That was the only idyllic part of his childhood. The only part he really cared to remember. Sure, some kids had it worse. His father never laid a hand on him. But neglect and the occasional verbal abuse had pushed their relationship past the point of rescue.
“When I took over Uncle Nuck’s bar and quit school, my dad threatened to disown me. When he realized I didn’t give a shit if he did, it woke him up a bit. But it was too late for me. His attempts at a relationship with me were really just a pathetic attempt to make himself feel like less of an asshole.”
“Are you close with your mom?”
“My mom is the most gentle, loving soul you will ever meet. She’s hopelessly old-fashioned. Sometimes I think she might’ve been the only person on earth capable of loving my dad. Her heart was the only one strong enough to keep beating despite all the breaks.”
“She sounds lovely.”
The word sounded strange on Phebe’s lips. Foreign. Not at all a word she was used to describing mothers with.
“What’s the relationship like with your mom?”
Phebe didn’t answer right away, turning her head and looking out a darkening window.
“My mother is in an assisted-living facility. Mentally, she checked out when my dad left. All the alcohol is catching up physically, too. I pay her bills. I visit when I can. It is what it is.” Sadness laced her words.
“She’s forced you to function as her mother.”
“I couldn’t just leave her like everyone else did.” Phebe shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. Though she’d have to be made of steel for that to be true.
“See? I always knew you had a soft underbelly somewhere.”
Wanting to lighten the mood that had suddenly turned dark, Brody poked his fingers around Phebe’s middle, pretending to search for the weakness in her armor. She giggled, wildly bucking against him. Damn, she was ticklish. He’d have to tuck that away for future use.
He breathed a laugh into her vanilla-scented hair, and then took her tiny body in his arms and arranged her so she was the little spoon. He pulled her close. Their fingers wound together and they looked out the window together.
“We don’t have to be them, Phebe. It’s not predetermined by DNA. The only people we have to be is us.”
And he meant it. Once he’d signed the papers to take over Nuck’s bar, he’d never looked back. He wasn’t going to be his father. He might die penniless in a gutter somewhere, but it wouldn’t be because he’d valued property over people. And it damn sure wouldn’t be because he didn’t have time for them, either. Phebe was the real deal. And now that she’d figured out what he’d known since the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he wasn’t about to let her go.
He landed a kiss in the soft indention under her ear and drew her closer still. She responded, tightening her grip on him and pulling their tangled hands into the curve of her chest. As he rested his hand right between her breasts, she tucked her head and laid a kiss on his only knuckle that wasn’t crushed by hers. Sharing orgasms with her was great. But it was the tiny intimacies like these that wrapped her fingers tighter around his heart. So tight, he hoped they’d never let go.
* * *
—
“Are you sure, Brody?” Lona Cantrell fidgeted with her reading glasses, asking a question he’d already answered a million times.
“Yes.” Make that a million and one. “Even you have to admit it’s a great idea.”
“Of course it is, Brody. It’s very, very generous. And your father would be so proud of you.”
That was the last person he was doing this for. But strangely, after setting the ball in motion after their last exchange, Brody had found it oddly cathartic. A posthumous olive branch. Somehow naming a playground—on land Brody didn’t want—after his father was his way of finally making peace with what their relationship had been. Getting on. Getting over. That’s what this was about. Kids could play and be happy there. Maybe make up for the disappointments of his own childhood.
“Wait…” Lona stilled Brody’s hand where it hovered near the signature line. “Think about the future. What if, God forbid, something catastrophic happens? What if you get desperate and need the money you could have gotten for selling the property instead of donating it?” Lona pleaded with him.
“She’s right, Mr. Cantrell,” an attorney across the table piped up. It was a slow afternoon at The Guns, where they had agreed to meet. The attorney leaned on his forearms and adjusted the watch on his wrist. A watch that, from the looks of it, probably cost more than Brody made off the bar in a month. Okay, so Lona had a right to be concerned. But she didn’t know Brody’s financial situation was about to change. “There’s no way to reverse this donation once playground construction starts. We would be grateful to receive it, but you need to be certain before you sign.”
Brody pursed his lips and laid the pen down. “Can you give us a moment?” he asked the attorney.
“Certainly.” The lawyer stood and stepped outside with his phone.
“Mom, I appreciate your concern, but there’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m renovating the floors between the bar and the apartment. I’ve hired the best commercial real estate developer in the state and she’s helping me turn it into lofts. In a few months, I’ll be making more money off Nuck’s building than I need. Plenty to tuck away for a rainy day.”
“Well, Brody, that’s great news. I have always loved this building.” Lona smiled and clasped her hands together, looking at the rafters overhead, probably thinking of the possibilities.
“This…” Brody tapped his fingertips on the stack of papers he was about to sign. “…is something I want to do for you.” He swallowed hard before he spoke again, not knowing if he would be able to get it out or not. “And Dad.” But he did and the smile fell from Lona’s face, replaced by a slack-jawed stare that typically accompanied the witnessing of miracles.
“Brody, I…” She didn’t know what to say; tears flooded her lower lashes.
“Just say ‘thank you’ and let me make my own decisions.”
“Thank you,” Lona said, leaning in and placing her head on his shoulder, curling around his arm like she sometimes did.
Brody knocked on the large bay window behind him to get the attorney’s attention, waving him back inside.
Several signatures later, Brody had signed the deed to a prime piece of downtown Atlanta real estate over to the Boys & Girls Clubs of America, to build the new Thomas and Lona Cantrell Playground.
“This is a truly generous gift,” the attorney, whose name he thought was Brent, said, offering a handshake to seal the deal the old-fashioned way. “I hope you’ve received your invitation to the gala next week.”
“It was hand-delivered.” Brody’s smile couldn’t be contained, though it was hardly a paper invitation that excited him. It was the courier that had been exciting him every day since. Realizing how lovestruck he must appear, Brody wiped a hand down his beard, pulling the corners of his mouth back into their proper place. Brent’s eyes momentarily wrinkled behind a set of rimless readers, then the confusion melted away as quickly as it had come.
“Well, I look forward to seeing you then.” Brent clicked the locks on his briefcase into place, turned in his Gucci loafers, and left.
From behind the bar, Brody produced a special bottle of pinot. It was his mother’s favorite; they had some celebrat
ing to do.
“Oh, that’s nice, Brody.” Lona complimented her son’s wine choice like it wasn’t the same wine he always kept on hand for her. Just in case she decided to stop by. “You seem so very happy over this decision. And I think it’s good. Your father…Oh, if he could see you now. He’d be so proud.” Lona’s hands reached for the plain gold pendant hanging around her neck. She’d had it made from his father’s wedding band. She never took it off. As if its nearness eased her heartbreak.
Of course, she was lying about him again. They both knew it. But Lona was on a one-woman mission to right the wrongs of Thomas Cantrell, one by one. Society was built on a backbone of revisionist history. Why should his memory be any different? But enough about Thomas Cantrell. Brody had things to celebrate.
“I’ve met someone, Mom.” Brody braced himself for the barrage of questions about to rain down on him. Honestly, he was ready for it. All the bar staff was sick and damn tired of listening to him prattle on about Phebe. He couldn’t help it. It’d been only two weeks, but it was feeling like forever. God, he should at least start writing this cheesy shit down for Hallmark or something. Make some money off the fact that he was hopelessly whipped. Uncle Nuck would give him such hell if he were here.
“Brody!” Lona squealed. “Well, it must be serious. You’ve never mentioned a girl to me before.”
“She’s helping me with the renovation. I want you to meet her.”
“I’d love to. When?”
“Soon. We’ve got a thing tomorrow, but we’ll take you to dinner soon. I think you’re really going to like her. She actually reminds me of…Dad.” He paused after making the admission, having never made the connection before. Why, he wasn’t sure.
“I know I’ll love her, sweetheart. If you do, that’s all that matters. Oh, I wish your father was here to see you settling down. He always worried you had too much Uncle Nuck in you.”