by Kati Wilde
What matters is that I’ll be the one taking ’em off of her.
“Peach,” I tell him, and head out with my dick hard enough to chop that whole damn pile of wood.
12
Sara
It’s mid-afternoon before I hear Pop’s rattling old truck returning. The faint sound of Bull chopping wood has been a steady accompaniment to the music I’ve got playing in the kitchen, but now the rhythmic whack of his axe quiets. Intending to go outside and help carry in the things Pop picked up for me, I lay my knife on the cutting board, heading over to the sink to wash my hands.
I don’t even have time to finish drying them before I hear Pop’s truck leave again. A few seconds later, Bull comes into the kitchen weighed down with plastic shopping bags and a gallon of milk—and with his checkered shirt unbuttoned, the sides hanging open.
My breath catches in my throat and a jolt of sheer lust rips through me. The cotton frames slabs of muscle decorated with black ink and covered in dark hair. Sweat glistens over his golden skin.
But his shirt isn’t soaked with sweat, though he’d been working for hours.
Because he’d been chopping wood shirtless, I realize. As the day wore on and the temperature rose, he must have taken it off.
Oh, how I wish I’d known before. I’d have gone outside to help him stack the logs or taken him a lemonade or sat on the porch and stared.
With my hand down my pants.
Abruptly he comes to a halt, his incredible chest expanding on a deep breath. “It smells fucking amazing in here. What is that?”
Pleasure and embarrassment rise through me in equal measure. “Well, it could be the bread.” I gesture to the three loaves sitting on the cooling rack beside the stove. “Your dad said it’s one of the few things you buy from the store, so I offered to bake some instead. Or it could be the cinnamon rolls that I prepared for tomorrow morning. Or it could be the plum preserves that I made, because the tree out back looked as if the branches were about to break under the weight of all that ripe fruit. Or it could be the sauce for the stuffed zucchini that I’m making for dinner.” I gesture toward the stove, where the tomatoes are simmering, then to the cutting board, where fat zucchinis from the garden are sectioned and cored. “I might have gone a little overboard.”
“No such thing,” he tells me, heaving the bags onto the counter and heading for the fridge to put away the milk. “Unless you asked for a can of hornet spray and a pack of nine-volt batteries, looks like he’s got your stuff mixed in with ours. Think I can have one of those cinnamon rolls now?”
“If you want to.” I start sorting through the Walmart bags. “But they aren’t iced yet.”
“Then I’ll have second one later to compare.” He digs a roll out of the pan and leans back against the counter, watching me. “Just don’t tell Pop. He keeps going on about sugar but really he just wants all this to himself.”
Smiling, I pull out a pretty rose-patterned scarf. Not as big as I usually use, but it’ll still work as a hijab. I fold the scarf and set it on the counter. “Where did he go?”
“Took all that military surplus crap he got to his bunker.” A groan of ecstasy follows that answer. “Holy shit, this is so good. Do you sell these at Reggie’s?”
“Yes.” Iced.
“Why haven’t I ever had one?”
“Because I’m too busy feeding you meaty oatmeal. Pop really has a bunker?”
“Yup. So if you ever need to survive an apocalypse, just head out this way.”
“I’ll remember that when the zombies begin—” I break off when I realize what’s in my hand. Suddenly overcome with giggles, I show Bull the package of underwear Pop picked up. Despite his earlier teasing, he must not have been comfortable digging through bins of panties searching for colors and styles. “It’s a six pack of white granny panties.”
His mouth full, Bull silently laughs, his blue eyes gleaming and his broad shoulders shaking.
Wiping tears from my eyes, I place the package on top of the scarf. “The waistband is going to be higher than the waist of my jeans.”
As I paw through the next bag, Bull says, “Easy solution to that is to walk around without any jeans on.”
The briefs do offer more coverage than some shorts I see other girls wearing. But I don’t answer, because the next item I find leaves me flustered and uncertain, heat rising in my cheeks. Should I pretend not to see it for now? Bull’s standing right there.
But he took a huge risk earlier today, coming in to tell me about Osprey and the real reason the Hellfire Riders want to meet with the drug dealer. I suspect he wasn’t supposed to tell me, or he’d have told me earlier. But he did anyway, erasing all my fears, making me trust my instincts again. He does have a bad side, but he’s not rotten through. I was right about him.
So I should take a risk, too.
My courage doesn’t stretch to looking at him as I pull the giant box (“36CT VALUE PACK!”) of large-size condoms from the bag and set it beside my little pile. Blindly I keep searching through the other items.
I hear a labored swallow, then Bull clears his throat.
“That’s awkward as hell,” he says. “But I suppose no one can say Pop doesn’t believe in being prepared.”
It wasn’t Pop. “I asked him to pick them up.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then in a low voice he asks, “You did what?”
“I put condoms on my list,” I say with outward calm. Inside I’m a summer storm, wet and hot, my heart like thunder.
My pulse thrums faster when I hear him move. Out of the corner of my eye I see half a cinnamon roll abandoned beside the pan but I don’t turn to face him. Instead I’m trembling, remembering yesterday’s fantasy—that he would just bend me over the counter and sink in deep.
Wordlessly he stops behind me. Tension holds my body in an agonizing grip, waiting, picturing the bare skin of his chest almost pressed against my back, sensing the whisper of his breath across my hair. Knowing how big he is, how tall, having him this close should make his size seem overwhelming, but instead being surrounded by his strength and warmth sends anticipation racing in taut shivers across my skin.
My eyelids drift closed when I feel a tug at my nape. Slowly Bull winds my braid around his fist. With gentle pressure he tilts my head, elongating the side of my neck.
At the first hot touch of his lips against my exposed throat, everything inside me melts and softens. Moaning softly, I try to turn my head, but his grip on my braid prevents me from seeking his mouth with mine. A sharp nip just behind the point of my jaw leaves me gasping, my nipples hardening to burning points.
His teeth tug at my earlobe, his tongue flicking inside the sensitive shell of my ear before kissing his way down to my shoulder again. Just soft kisses against the side of my throat yet it’s as if my knees turn to custard.
Panting, I cling to the edge of the counter. The lush pressure of his mouth moves higher again, his tongue painting a hot trail of need along the tendon at the side of my neck, his lips tracing the line of my jaw. Trembling against him, I try to seek his mouth again, held immobile by my braid wound around his fist.
“Bull,” I plead desperately and his fist tightens, tilting my chin back over my shoulder.
From behind he catches my mouth in a rough, deep kiss. Tasting me, possessing me. As if he intends to brand me with the heat of his mouth and the stroke of his tongue.
Fiercely I return the kiss—claiming him for my own, taking as much as I give. The fire builds between us, hotter, higher with each lick, each tease of our lips. When my teeth close over the tip of his tongue, he shudders and groans, a low sexy rumble from deep in his throat.
We’re both panting when he lifts his head. With a voice like gravel, he says, “You got anything cooking that you can’t leave?”
Leave. So that we can go finish this in bed. Decadent need rolls through me in erotic waves, clenching the inner muscles of my pussy, swamping my senses with frantic desire. Dizzy from the
powerful sensations rushing through me, my wobbling knees almost collapse but his big body presses into mine, trapping me between the counter and the thick erection against my back.
In a breathless whisper I tell him, “I should turn off the burner under the tomatoes.”
“Do it.”
As soon as I twist the knob to ‘off,’ he sweeps me up against his broad chest, where I can feel the pounding of his heart through thick muscle. My fingers delve into his coarse beard, curling and tugging his lips down to mine, savoring the taste of him, his heated flavor sweetened by brown sugar and warmed by cinnamon. I don’t know how or why every kiss with Bull is so different from every kiss I’ve ever had before. It’s all lips and teeth and tongue, nothing’s changed in the mechanics, but with him every taste soothes some deep need inside me—and makes me want more, so much more.
Makes me desire and feel and breathe nothing except him.
Even with our mouths fused, his stride is swift and sure as he carries me toward the stairs.
He abruptly stops halfway up.
With a tortured groan, his lips release mine. “I forgot the condoms in the kitchen.”
Softly I laugh against his mouth. “I’m glad I’m not the only one losing my head.”
“I lost mine months ago,” he says and swiftly kisses me before setting my feet on the step. “Now you wait here for me.”
I do. But only long enough to watch him descend the stairs and turn toward the kitchen. Then I race up to the second floor and into his room.
A few moments later, his boots thunder up the stairs. I’m standing at the end of the bed when he crashes through the door, his thick hair a finger-tousled mess, his chest rising on deep breaths, mock anger roughening his voice.
“I told you to wait, woman,” he growls.
“So you did,” I respond with a cheeky grin. “What are you gonna do to me for disobeying?”
Danger glints in his eyes. “I’m gonna fuck you.”
Heart banging against my ribs, I whirl and jump up onto the bed. His big hands snag my hips before I can run another step, and I start laughing wildly as he drags me back to the mattress’s edge. Admitting that I’m caught—delighted to admit it—I turn and throw myself at his chest, hooking my arms around his shoulders, pushing my hands into his hair.
“I love being with you,” I impulsively tell him.
All that mock anger instantly stiffens into a tortured mask of determination and need. “I love being with you, too,” he says hoarsely. “So let me start this all over again. Whether it takes a month, a year, or ten years…let me fix this, Sara.”
My heart swells. Cupping his cheeks in my hands, I ask softly, “What’s left to fix?”
“You and me.”
The big lunk. Doesn’t he realize this was all fixed when he explained what was really going on with Osprey? “What do you think these condoms are?”
“You tell me.” His voice is still rough, his gaze boring into mine. “What are they?”
A risk. Maybe. Because the way he looks at me, I don’t think there’s much risk at all.
“They say I want to give this another go,” I tell him, and my throat tightens as I watch wonder and relief crack his tortured mask. “And if it works out between us, maybe one day we’ll throw away the condoms.”
“It’ll work out,” he vows gruffly. “It’ll be so damn good.”
“Of course it will be good for you. You’re a guy.” I catch my tongue between my teeth but can’t stop my teasing grin. Arching my brows, I add, “I guess we’ll find out if it’ll be good for me.”
His eyes narrow at that blatant challenge. In the next moment we crash together, hungry lips and hurried fingers. I drag off his shirt, worshipping the heavy muscles beneath my hands. Our wet panting kisses are broken as he tears my shirt over my head, as I back up to shimmy denim over my hips and kick away my jeans, then crashing together again. Softly I moan when his lips leave mine to skim the lace edge of my bra, as his fingers unfasten the hooks at my spine. Not wasting any time, his left hand delves down the front of my panties, and my gasp of pleasure becomes a strangled cry when his mouth claims my nipple at the same moment his broad fingers press into me. I shudder wildly against him, the sudden acute pleasure bordering on pain, my inner muscles clamping down on his softly thrusting fingers.
His mouth an erotic furnace, Bull groans against my breast. “You’re so fucking tight, baby. I’m gonna make you come first. Gonna make you so damn wet. You’ll need to be real wet to take my big cock.”
Another shudder rips through me. What his mouth does to me, his lips—it’s pure pleasure. Yet that ecstasy is almost nothing compared to what his words do, the frantic arousal they stir deep inside me.
Desperately I shove my hands into his hair and bring him in for another kiss, moaning as his slippery fingers slick through my folds to circle my clit.
I can’t bear it. Gasping, I break the kiss, my head falling back, my hips working against his hand.
His mouth latches onto my throat, suckling the tender skin before growling, “You like me teasing your clit, baby? Or you do you like my fingers inside you?” His thick fingers pump deep again. “Or maybe you want my tongue on your clit while I’m inside you? You want to come with me eating you up while my fingers fuck your sweet pussy?”
My only response is a stuttering moan as my sweet pussy clenches hard on his fingers.
“Hell yeah.” Satisfaction and arousal deepen his voice. “That’s what you want.”
A laugh breaks from me because I want everything. My hands buried in his hair, I kiss him again, then launch all of my weight against his chest, knowing that my attack will only have any impact if Bull wants it to.
He must. Because he lets me shove him backwards onto the bed without resistance—though there’s some reluctance when I grip his wrists and push them up, his fingers slipping from inside me.
But I have to make him stop touching me. Or I won’t be able to focus on what I want.
Which is right in front of me, wearing nothing but his jeans—a sexy combination of thick muscle and inked skin and his gorgeous grin.
That grin widens as I crawl over him, straddling his heavy thighs, my hands braced on his iron hard pecs.
A moan of sheer visual pleasure rises through me. “You’re just so…yummy.”
My fingernails scrape through the coarse hair on his chest, my gaze following the narrowing trail that leads down his stomach and disappears beneath his belt, where the thick bulge of his erection looks as if it’s about to burst through denim.
Poor thing. I really need to let it out.
“Yummy?” Watching me, his eyes are intensely blue as he sucks my arousal from his glistening fingers. “I’d say that’s you.”
“What description do you like better, then?” I tug at his belt. “Rugged? Masculine?”
He’s tensing up now, the muscles in his stomach and arms more sharply defined. His gaze locks on my hands as I slowly drag his zipper down.
“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Those are all right.”
“What about ‘massive’?” I ask breathlessly, freeing his dick from the straining prison of his navy boxer briefs. The exquisite ache between my legs intensifies as I take a long, long look. His cock’s more than a match for his size, his heavily veined shaft standing rigid and flushed a deep red, as if angry it had been trapped inside his jeans for so long. My voice is hardly more than a moan as I tell him, “You should have been named Goliath, instead.”
A shudder wracks his body. I’m not sure if it’s from laughter or pleasure, as my fingers firmly grip his heated length.
His response is a thick rasp. “David’s better. Goliath got a rock to the head.”
My gaze holding his, I bend over him. “And it’s not so easy to bring you down?”
“I hope not—”
He breaks off, his big body turning to stone at the first touch of my mouth. His eyelids fall to half mast. His hands fist in the quilt, the tendons in
his strong forearms standing in sharp relief.
Watching his response from beneath my lashes, I take a long, slow lick up the steely length of his shaft.
“Fuuuuck,” he says on a groan that deepens as my tongue swirls around the head of his cock. Breath hissing through his teeth, he grates out, “I’ll come if you keep doing that.”
“Are you telling me to stop?”
“Hell, no.” A tortured laugh shakes through him. “I can’t. I’ve dreamed of your lips wrapped around my cock for too damn long.”
And I’ve dreamed of this, of Bull enthralled by my touch, overcome by need. But none of my imaginings ever prepared me for the thrill of touching him, tasting him.
Of holding him in the palms of my hands.
From a bed of dark hair, his heavy shaft rises in a proud curve, the veins soft beneath velvety skin. Beaded with a pearl of precum, the bulging crown is smooth and taut as a plum.
With a flick of my tongue, I lick away that salty drop, savoring the flavor, the clean musky scent of him, the groan from deep in his throat.
“I love how thick you are,” I tell him huskily, stroking his length with my right hand and wedging my left beneath his loosened jeans for a good grip of his tightly muscled ass. “Just thick and meaty all over.”
So thick, and so long, he’s too much for my mouth but I still give him as much as I can, what he dreamed of, wrapping my lips around his shaft and taking him deep. It must be enough, because as I begin to suck his cock, his eyes glaze over and a tremor rocks through his strong form.
He makes a choked, guttural sound. His hips jerk once, shoving his dick to the back of my throat before he freezes.
Struggling for control. And losing that control as I slowly, deliberately wreck him with my mouth.
His groans deepen, his words nearly unintelligible as he growls suck me and harder and oh fuck please baby. He reaches for me before abruptly drawing his hands up to fist in his own hair. The muscles of his stomach contract with his every ragged breath.
Watching him unravel, making him unravel is the sweetest pleasure I’ve ever known. And the moment he breaks, abruptly gripping my hair and fucking into my mouth, as if he’s taking control—but he’s completely lost it, his restraint destroyed by the stroke of my tongue—I’ve never felt so sexy, so powerful.