“After thinking about it, I decided that if you’re worried, I should be, too. And if I’m going to be with you, then I’ll have to accept your assessment and the steps you take. I don’t want to know details, but I’ll accept your actions. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about them. And you’d better be forthcoming in the future about any such “arrangements” that concern me, or you’ll find I won’t be so understanding.” She leaned forward to top up his water glass. “Dinner okay?”
What? Fuck, but she humbled him, no matter that not-so-subtle threat she’d tacked on. She trusted him, and wasn’t that a kick in the ass? He set his utensils down, lest he make another imperious gesture and took her hand. “Don’t know how much there is to worry about, Amy, but I can’t be too careful where you’re concerned.”
Hand lying lax and compliant in his, she smiled and inclined her head. “Eat your dinner, babe. I made dessert, and then later I’ll need to work the calories off. Sex in a pan, for my sweet tooth.”
He didn’t eat dessert, donuts being the one exception, but would try the confection and eat her later. Take his caloric reducing role seriously. His cock muttered and protested at the delay.
“There’s something awkward between Sandra and Enrico.”
Mouth full, he settled on raising his brows in a “continue” gesture.
“She pulls inward and won’t engage with him. He doesn’t like it and hates to take his eyes off her.”
Unable to eat another bite, pretending not to see the pile of salad greens on his plate, he nodded. “I need him for another job, anyhow. Mike can replace him.”
“I didn’t mean for you to—”
“Sweetheart. Babysitting women shouldn’t be hard work, but it is. The men will be okay with switching off.”
“Babysitting? Hard work?” Carefully neutral tone of voice yet with a thread of venom.
When would he ever learn? Never. She’d deal—he hoped.
“Trailing along behind in a mall, watching you pick out underwear and lace things, take forever to choose. It’s torture. Or so I hear.”
“Too bad you won’t see the lace thing, then, babe. I bought it with you in mind.”
“Leave the dishes, Amy. Dessert later. Get your ass to the bedroom.”
The mischievous smile and snort of laughter made him lightheaded, but probably because all the blood in his body had gone south.
****
A bottle of strawberry lubricant reposed smugly, dead centre on her pillow, the coverlet stripped back to the foot of the bed. Dean had disappeared into the bedroom while she put the finishing touches on their meal, but she hadn’t noticed the lube, not a bag or a bulge in a pocket. Probably too busy checking out his ass. She came to a dead stop and his big hard body blanketed her, arms encircling her waist. A press of his lips at her ear and a deep, sexy rumble, “Been thinking about your ass all day, sweetheart. More, since Enrico reported back about the lingerie store.”
She hadn’t planned to make it that easy for him, had decided in fact, to eschew the sexy nightwear for another time when she wasn’t feeling so annoyed with him and his less-than-tactful comments. But the heat of him and the sight of that lubricant had her thoughts tumbling with arousal and need.
Core soaking with wet heat, her belly feeling that sharp little zing of excitement arrowing straight to her clit, she leaned into him, the solid evidence of his erection pressing back. He was asking. She stepped forward, out of his arms as he released her. Her choice. Anal wasn’t her preference, at least not with the men she’d fucked before, but with Dean … she pulled her clothes off, sensing his approval. And maybe some relief.
Clambering onto the bed, knees actually a bit weak with anticipation, she crouched on them, pressing her breasts into the mattress. She offered her ass, hands stretched out in front of her.
“Fuck me, sweetheart.” That raspy tone was back in his voice, perhaps at the evidence of her compliance. Clothing rustled and his belt hit the floor with a clank of metal on wood. The thrill of arousal built when he knelt beside her and gently looped soft rope around both wrists to secure her hands to the headboard. The feeling of being helpless and at his sensual mercy had her pussy spasming, and she closed her eyes to add to the sensation.
The sound of the lid of the lube popping open was crisp against his heavy breaths and the pounding of her heart. Cool liquid drizzled and flowed between her buttocks and she squeezed and gasped simultaneously.
Dean immediately stroked her ass, first one side then the other and a finger insinuated itself between her cheeks to swirl the lube over her puckered opening. Amy relaxed and breathed, slow, deep pulls of air, while her sex quivered and clenched independently, ignoring the commands from her brain to run from that finger. He pressed insistently and slid inside, and she fought the inclination to push him out. His murmur of approval warmed her even as he added another finger. In and out, ever deeper, spreading the digits to stretch her, the lube facilitating his efforts. Another finger and she whimpered. So full.
“Shhh. Breathe through it, sweetheart. You are so fucking hot and tight.”
The invaders withdrew and more lube coated her, dripping down to join the juices flowing from her pussy. A snap of latex. She panted.
“Knees apart, Amy. Wide as you can.”
Hot flesh covered in silky hair slid along the inside of her thighs as he knelt between them. Hard hands gripped her hips to raise her to a sharper angle, then the poke of his hard cock, seeking a portal. A hand disappeared and left a cooling imprint on her hip. She could visualize it, the spatulate shape of fingers, the wide palm. The press at her back entrance steadied and advanced. Fuck, he was too big.
“Push back. Amy, I’ve got you. Push back.”
His plea steadied her, the desperate need in his voice drew her. She pushed and he slid past the ring of muscle guarding her anus, bringing tears to her eyes. Panting harder, she prayed for it to be over. This was Dean and it still didn’t make it better.
“You gotta breathe slower and deeper, sweetheart.”
Okay. Oxygen. She adjusted her breathing and he pushed in further. A splinter of pleasure pierced the discomfort and she cautiously explored it. The heat pouring off him made her hotter, and she panted.
A pained chuckle above her. “You ready for a little more, sweetheart?”
Managing a muffled agreement, she felt him inch his way forward, deeper, stretching her and awakening her with jangles of sensation. The velvety feel of his sac bumped gently against her labia and Dean leaned over her to nuzzle the back of her neck.
“You’re soaked, Amy. I feel you on my balls. You okay? Need more time?”
Not knowing what she needed, she blindly grasped the head board slats harder, the rope around her wrists tethering her to the earth. This was different than the impersonal shove and painful thrust of ass-fucking. Something primitive uncoiled deep within her, rising to meet him. “No more time,” she gritted out.
Taking her at her word, he took her, hard. Reaming her, the stiff length of his cock dragging and pulling along nerve endings she didn’t know she owned, the friction indescribable. He was claiming her, making her his in such an intimate way. His sweat coated her back, the harsh soughing of their collective breathing filling the room, and she strained, reaching for a release she hadn’t believed possible. Dean withdrew, and then shoved back in to seat to the hilt, invading her with such controlled dominance. He orchestrated a pinch of her clit with his fingers, and she flew. The sound bursting from her throat would have brought the whole complex running if not for the fact he dropped his full weight on her, cock pulsing perceptibly to her heightened senses, pressing her face into the pillow to muffle her scream of completion.
Struggling to breathe, trying to cope with what had just transpired, Amy hitched against the two hundred plus pounds draping over her. Dean raised up, his skin separating from hers with an audible slick-and-slide, and pulled out, leaving her curiously empty. Holy shit. She couldn’t make herself move, although her thi
ghs and knees were protesting the position. Her eyes leaked. Overwhelmed.
A warm cloth slipped between her legs to gently wipe her pussy, then up to cleanse her between her buttocks. A kiss on either ass cheek, and one on the base of her spine. “Used you hard, sweetheart. Sorry. You might be a little sore.”
How did one respond to that observation? She remained mute.
“Hey.” Dean eased her legs together then coaxed them straight and the rush of blood returning to cramped muscles made her eyes leak some more.
Amy winced.
He rubbed the long muscles before releasing the binds at her wrists, then took hold of one shoulder and her hip to gently flip her over onto her back.
Her hands, fingers numb, reluctantly released the headboard as her weight transferred. He set a knee on either side of her, lacing his fingers with his own and stared down into her eyes.
“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Registering the soft weight of his scrotum against her mound, the concern radiating from his eyes, she wondered how often Dean apologized.
“You didn’t hurt me, not really. I’ll be sore. Hell, I am sore. But that was something.”
Relief loosened his features until she thought they would melt and run together. He leaned in to lick at the tears prevalent at the corners of her eyes and she closed them in self defense against the tenderness.
The intimate surrender of the act swelled her heart. She loved him. In for a penny…whatever that trite old saying one of her foster mothers used to say. “Love you, babe.”
Stiffening, his hands nearly crushed her own, and his knees locked at her hips, making her eyes pop wide, seeking to read him. He relaxed almost instantly, but wariness chased the tenderness away. A brief kiss and he swung his body to lie beside her. If he got up and left their bed—she wasn’t sure what she’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty. He didn’t have to repeat the sentiment, but if he left her, disregarded it…
“Like a punch in the gut, sweetheart. I have no idea what to say. Don’t know what I’m feeling, either.”
Okay. She could deal with the honesty. “Nothing to say, Dean. It’ll fall out of your mouth or it won’t. But I’m not taking it back. Now go cut me a piece of dessert. It’s in the glass pan, second shelf from the bottom in the fridge.”
A beat of silence, during which she steadfastly refused to look at him, staring instead at the ceiling, awash in emotions, trying to contain the leak that was back in her eyes. The bed frame creaked and she bounced a little as his weight lifted, and she was again treated to a great backside view as he presumably went to do her bidding. Her hand felt blindly for the box of tissues on the nightstand and she yanked several loose to mop at her tears.
****
The dessert was exactly where she said it was, and Dean lifted the long pan out to set it on the counter. Peeling back the clear wrap he noted the amount of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles mounding the surface.
Amy’s proclamation of love rocked his world, shit, blew it up. His knees actually felt weak, like they did after a very long run. She’d moved right on past the intense physical attraction and labeled the thing between them, present right from the get go, and now stretching and unfurling itself. Growing to cement their relationship. Jesus. His heart pounded and his gut lodged somewhere near his throat. Trying to catalogue his emotions, he shuffled through the utensil drawer for something to cut the gooey confection and serve it up.
A tall ceramic container near the stove snagged his attention, all manner of cooking objects protruding from the wide mouth. Made sense to have big spoons, rubber spatulas, egg flippers and the like, close to the action, but it was unfamiliar. A change. Just like his life was undergoing, hell, his head. And his heart. He debated, then cut a big slice. One plate. He’d feed his woman and maybe eat some of that cream off her nipples. Fucking her ass wasn’t something he could even think about right then. Aside from coming harder than he’d ever come, red splotches and black spirals clouding his vision, his cock exploding like a powder keg, it felt like he’d made her his, forever. Forever and ever, you’ll stay in my heart and I will love you, together, forever…shit, that fucking Randy and his insistence on that sixties channel. Fucking maudlin stuff.
Toting the dessert, a fork and a handful of napkins, he traipsed back to where Amy waited for her sweet treat. Only fair. He’d had his.
Chapter Seven
What a piece of work. If Amy didn’t have to lay eyes on that woman again in this life, or any others, she would count herself lucky. But Monica was her man’s mother, and if he could make himself see her when her health took another turn for the worse, then Amy would support him. Did drunks develop that kind of mean personality because of the alcohol abuse or did the booze refine it, knock all the boundaries aside? Had Monica always been like that? Dean’s childhood was probably worse than he described. He had minimized it, or maybe was in denial just to survive the memories. Amy supposed the care facility staff were paid well enough to put up with the stuff the woman spewed, maybe slipped her an extra shot of vodka or whatever her favorite toxin was, but holy shit. Monica still tried to drip her bitter poison into her son’s veins, and while he appeared impervious, Amy knew it had to make an impact.
Well, that painful visit was over and she hoped the next one was far, far in the future, or never. Dean told her they’d become more infrequent and sporadic as his mother’s periods of lucidness diminished. He’d talked with the doctors. The drive there took longer than the brief contact, but the twenty minutes or so felt like an eternity of venomous accusations, insane insinuations and bizarre comments, delivered in a sprightly, carefree voice more suited to a kindergarten teacher. Twilight zone.
Mother Chambray took one look at Amy and took flight into la-la land. Witch? Please. Dean shut the visit down instantly then, protective of her. It didn’t erase memory of the lined and worn countenance of the middle aged woman who stared at her out of Dean’s eyes, but it went a long way in reminding her that he was willing to make the effort to be with her, Amy. To try a relationship with a woman.
After dropping her off, with a hard kiss that had her wishing she’d enticed him into the condo for another, different kind of attempt at erasing the memory, Dean headed downtown on “business.” Amy didn’t think about that—she mostly liked his crew, and quite liked their women, now that she’d spent more and more time with them. Nobody talked shop, at least not around her, and working on the emotional components of this relationship took most of her energy and interest. She didn’t want to know anything further. She decided to get some work done before she started dinner. This whole housewife thing, although the actual wife part wasn’t yet in the cards, if ever, was surprisingly still comfortable, even after several months. She liked taking care of Dean. Her laptop glowed as it powered up and she entered her password, thinking she might invest in one of those big dough mixers and start making her own bread. A giggle escaped her and she shimmied in place. Despite the earlier visit to the bitch from hell, she actually felt happy.
Absently scrolling through the news feeds, a name leaped out at her. The rest of the stories flowed effortlessly across the screen beneath her frozen fingertip until she yanked it from the cursor. It took forever to find the correct feed again, so long Amy wondered if she’d actually seen it. Brent Whittaker. Locating the name, she skimmed the article, her belly filling with ice. Tourist in Vegas. High roller. Mugged and severely beaten. Police searching for leads.
Up from her chair, across the room with no memory of making a move, Amy set her back against the bookcase and stared at her laptop, breath stuttering in and out of her lungs. Gone was her cautious realization of happiness. Brent had gone back to Vegas, clearly ignoring the condition she stipulated in the settlement, because she thought she would still be living there and didn’t want to lay eyes on him again. The prick. But the fact he’d returned to Vegas wasn’t the issue.
A mugging and beating wasn’t that unusual. Brent being in th
at particular part of Vegas was. He liked the high profile casinos. Unless he went with a woman, or… Amy quit puzzling and returned to her laptop, concentrating on finding and collating information until she thought she had a clearer picture. You couldn’t always believe what the newspapers reported, but her brain put the idea forward. Her belly thawed and ached in agreement. She thought hard and picked up her phone.
“Amy?” Randy’s mellow voice soothed her. “What’s up?”
“Got a question for you,” she burbled—the stereotypical blonde. She hoped it would soften Randy’s typical vigilance.
“Sure, kiddo.”
“Brent Whittaker?”
Randy was good, but he hesitated, just enough of a pause to confirm it. Holy fuck.
“Thanks, Randy.”
No hesitation then, as he tried to retrieve it before she terminated the call. “Not familiar, Amy. Somebody I should know?”
“You can drop the act, Randy. My God. Where is he? Never mind. I’ll call him.”
“He’s right here, kiddo, looking at me. Wanna talk to him?”
The decision was taken out of her hands. Dean’s deep voice filled her ear. “Sweetheart?”
Maybe this was better than face-to-face because she had absolutely no idea what she was feeling and was terrified to explore it. “Brent Whittaker.”
“That douche bag.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because he hurt you, could have killed you.”
“You didn’t even know me, then!”
“I know you now, and he wasn’t getting away with it. He won’t raise his hand to another woman again.”
Deciding she didn’t want to know what that meant, Amy didn’t respond. Instead, she picked something mundane to try to right her world. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Silence. Then, “That’s it? See me at dinner?”
Forever (Eternity #1) Page 12