by Kate Meader
Pretty pleased with her mental pun, she smiled at the receptionist in Dr. Lowell’s beige-on-beige waiting area, but got nothing in response. Nice bedside manner, lady.
Luckily the girls had a field trip to a museum with their tutor this morning to see the Jurassic Park exhibit, so Violet was able to get away and “run an errand” without anyone asking questions. That the doc could see her so soon was a minor miracle.
Her thoughts wandered back to the day before yesterday. After she’d dried her hair, Bren had driven her back to the house on the lake and made lunch. His reasoning was sound: she needed to be around other people and it was easy to lose herself in the girls and Gretzky and even Bren as he laughed at something one of his girls did or said. And then they’d watched movies as though it were perfectly normal.
Like a family.
But they weren’t her family. They were spoken for; especially him, if not by his ex-wife then by the addiction that had him in its grip. This ghost in the corner of her eye, a shadow looming over everything. Like she didn’t have enough shadows to deal with.
The door opened and the nurse smiled at her. “Violet? We’re ready for you.”
He slammed the door of the SUV so hard it was a wonder the windshield didn’t crack. The force was necessary to announce his presence. His fury.
The girls’ tutor had called to say she was bringing them to the Field Museum, but when he asked if Violet was there, he was told she’d slipped out on an errand. A doctor’s appointment. There was no reason why this should have bothered him except for three salient facts:
One: Cade was still at the rink, working with Isobel on his skating motion.
Two: Bren had spotted Harper in the stands chatting with Dante during morning skate.
Which meant that three: unless Violet had someone else in her life whom Bren didn’t know about, she had gone to that appointment alone.
He didn’t know the location of her doctor’s office, but he did know that he wouldn’t be civil if he called her. So here he was, slamming the SUV’s door outside her cottage so Violet would know how furious he was. Her piece-of-shit car was here, so she would be as well.
If it was good news, surely she would have called him. But then she didn’t owe him a thing, did she?
The door to the cottage opened and she was there, alive and bright and withholding.
“Bren, what—”
“The hell are you doing at the doctor’s by yourself?”
She looked taken aback. Oh, he’d take her aback. He’d take her over his knee for a spanking.
She started to speak. “I—”
“This is not how you do this, Violet. You should have brought your sisters to that appointment. Or Cade.”
Or me. You should have brought me.
Irritation pleated her brow. “I had it handled.”
“You had it handled. You had it handled?” Was she trying to fuck with him?
That must be it. She was back with the MO of the past nine months, messing with his balls and his mind. Now she was barely breathing, staring at him like he was a madman, and in that moment, he knew. This was not a woman with a death sentence.
Still, the words tore from his throat in an anguished yell. “Are you okay?”
“Yes!” she screamed back before covering her mouth like she couldn’t believe she’d stooped to his rage-driven, let’s-shout-about-our-feelings level.
“Good!”
“Then why are you still shouting at me?!”
“I don’t know!”
But he did. In the process of learning she would be okay, he had learned something about himself.
He cared about this woman, and Christ Almighty, self-discovery sucked.
She tilted her head to the sun, and if it had been raining or cloudy he would have moved heaven and earth to make that sun appear. When she faced him again, her eyes glittered with unshed tears.
“Apparently my armpits need to go on a diet.”
He blinked in confusion. “Uh. Okay.”
“That’s what the lump is, a fatty deposit called a lipoma. Usually they’d leave it because it’s not typically health threatening, but because of my history, we’re going to take it out. It’s a simple outpatient surgery.”
The tight ball of stress he’d been living with for the past two days unfurled and flooded his chest. “They know for sure it’s not something else?”
“They’ll check when it comes out, but right now, the doc said it feels soft and it moves around. That’s what sealed it for her. It’s mobile under my skin.” She smiled, a star-bright curve of her lips that felled him. “I was worried about nothing.”
“Not nothing.”
“No, not nothing.”
“I’m sorry I shouted,” he muttered, feeling foolish for overreacting and revealing so much. “You shouldn’t have been alone. I would have come with you.” He would have done anything to ensure that she didn’t endure that solo.
“You had practice. In fact, I’m pretty sure you have practice.”
“When you have as many problems as I do, people tend not to question when you leave a practice early.”
“St. James . . .”
“Vasquez . . .” He added an eyebrow raise to let her know he would brook no disagreement here.
A tear escaped the corner of her eye, a strange sight from this woman who always projected such toughness. Before he could stop himself, he had caught it with his thumb. He longed to taste it, but he preferred to remain connected to her, skin to skin, so he let his thumb remain over her cheekbone.
“I thought it was back, Bren. I thought I was going to have to go through it again, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough.”
“You would be. You are. But luckily you don’t need to test that strength.”
She exhaled, her breath soft against his chin. He released her and stood back.
“Well, it’s good that you’re okay.” It came out sounding formal.
Not a word from her. She stood, staring at him, as he backed up. Backed away.
She was fine now. She didn’t need him to hold her hand at the doctor’s. She didn’t need him at all, and God only knew his needs were unimportant. But he’d like her to know he had the capacity to be there for her.
He closed the gap between them and placed his hands on her upper arms, then inclined his head to kiss her . . . forehead.
She made a small sound of disbelief. His dick agreed wholeheartedly.
He peered down at her. “What?”
“Must I do everything, St. James?”
His frown must have conveyed his confusion, because all it earned him was an eye roll.
“I won’t seduce you, Scot.”
“What if you already have?” Seduction could be as much mental as physical, and he had been thoroughly mind fucked by Violet Vasquez. He moved his lips from her forehead down her nose. Her breath hitched, a sweet invitation, so he slipped his mouth to her jaw, testing. Then her earlobe, tasting. Then a sensitive spot at the juncture of neck and shoulder.
Tormenting. Them both.
“Bren,” she rasped, turning her head just in time for her mouth to crash against his.
This wasn’t a textbook or fairy-tale kiss. This wasn’t smooth or gentle. It was hard and needy and unrepentant.
It was Violet.
It was Bren.
It was everything.
Bren St. James was kissing her . . . voluntarily.
Not that their previous makeout session had required all that much coaxing, but there had been a smidge of reluctance to it. Like Violet had somehow trapped him into doing it.
Not this time. This kiss was Bren going all in, and it was glorious.
He pushed her back toward the cottage, over the threshold, into the kitchen.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against her lips.
“Are you crazy?”
Brow crumple. Super sexy. “I don’t want to take advantage while you’re feeling at sixes and sevens.”
&
nbsp; She coasted a hand down the front of his sweats, where it met considerable resistance. “I could say I don’t want to take advantage of your unbelievably hard boner”—she gave it an earthy rub—“but that would be a lie as big and fat as this fabulous erection.”
He groaned. “You can take advantage of me anytime.”
“And what about your sobriety?”
He didn’t even flinch. They’d reached the point where they could talk easily about this.
“Just replacing one drug with another.”
“Bren—”
“That came out wrong. I never seem to be able to say what I mean to you. What I’m trying to say is that getting lost in you would be good for me. Good for you, too, I think.”
He was right. He was what she needed, and she would gladly give him this while taking a slice of heaven for herself.
“Take me to bed, Scot.”
He hitched her up around his hips while she explored his mouth with hers.
“Need direction,” he murmured.
“Been that long?”
“Hilarious. I mean, where is this bed you speak of?”
“It’s a cottage, not a penthouse.” At his growl, she cut him some slack. “Behind me, first door.”
She returned to her explicit exploration. Usually, guys with facial hair did little for her, but Bren St. James did pretty much everything for her. Delicioso. She licked the corner of his mouth and felt his lips quiver, his entire body harden.
Inside her bedroom, he placed her down on the bed gently.
“Don’t treat me with kid gloves,” she warned.
“How about you let me decide how this goes, Violet?”
The Scot was going to be bossy in bed. Yes!
Being a bit of a smart mouth, she often found that most guys mistook her attitude for tough-girl aggression. Not so at all. She just liked a guy who could match her verbally, and then she liked a guy who took charge sexually. Relinquishing control was a good way for her to forget about her problems. Thinking too much during sex was not.
The bossier the guy, the better.
He was still wearing sweats and then he wasn’t and she approved of the not-sweats situation immensely. The Scot had a body that required all her attention. Tat-free, no need to paint those beautiful muscles. Better to see them—and him—in all their blocked and ridged glory. She’d been with guys who had a lot of ink, even piercings in interesting places. They all seemed like poseurs compared to the guy before her. Bren St. James didn’t need to gussy up that body or accessorize his dick.
She swallowed. Yes, that’s one mighty fine piece of equipment you have there. She had some experience here—not that she had a long list of past lovers—but the dicktabase gave her a good frame of reference. She’d seen it all and she knew what she liked.
Bren St. James’s cock was perfect.
“You’re staring,” he said, and was that shyness she heard in his voice? So cute.
“You’re beautiful.” And she meant it, her voice almost breaking with her appreciation.
He stroked his erection, almost in warning, and her mouth watered at that extra squeeze to the plump head—and the bead of delicious moisture it produced.
“Need to see you, Violet, love. Don’t think I can wait much longer.”
He needed to see her. Oh. She hadn’t really thought this through. Of course he did, but that meant she had to strip. Which shouldn’t have been a problem, but she hadn’t done that since before her surgery. A two-year dry spell.
He continued to pump. Up and down. Hard and rough. “I need to see the ass that’s been driving me wild for months, the breasts I’ve dreamed of sucking, the pussy I’ve imagined gripping me hard.”
Okay, so not only did the Scot look perfect, he had all the words.
Pulling her upright, he tugged at the zipper of her denim skirt and slid it down. Then he gripped the hem of her T-shirt.
She nodded, raising her arms to help as he pulled it up over her head.
His eyelids fell to half-mast, his gaze moving over her body and the straight-out-of-a-catalog breasts that filled her teal bra perfectly. His knuckles skimmed the side of her breast, yielding a whisper of sensation. He seemed to be trying to see everything at once as he coasted both of his big beautiful hands down to her hips then clamped them over her ass and drew her flush. Her breasts smashed against his chest.
“Is there anything I shouldn’t do? Anything that won’t work for you?”
His fingers were already seeking pleasure between the backs of her thighs, beneath her thong, stroking in to the point she had to close her eyes to stay upright.
He didn’t need to know that her nipples lacked the nerve endings to feel sensation. Nor that her breasts, while beautiful, would never truly contribute to her sexual satisfaction. If they gave him pleasure, then that would be enough.
She suspected Bren had plenty of ways to make up for their lack.
“Treat me like any other woman, Bren.”
“Not like any other, Vi.” His mouth stamped on hers, an oral claiming that made her believe. She wasn’t any other woman to him. She was Violet, his girl, and she had never felt more desired.
He pushed her onto the bed, no longer gentle. This element of roughness thrilled through her.
“Turn over and show me that sweet ass.”
Oh. My. “God.”
She twisted onto her stomach, and maybe she wasn’t fast enough, because he lifted her onto her knees, so her ass took a starring role in the proceedings. Her thong bisected her ass cheeks in a way she suspected drove him a little crazy.
“You have any idea what this ass has been doing to me since the moment I met you?” He looped a finger in the waistband and pulled. Or perhaps twisted with his finger? She couldn’t see. But she felt the tug against her wet flesh all the way to every extremity.
She tried a wiggle. Got a throaty groan in return.
“Tell me, Scot. Tell me what this ass has been doing.”
“Making it so my cock is raw from jerking off. Contributing to every wank session in the shower, every sleepless night in my bed. This ass has been the bane of my fucking existence and I plan to use it hard. I plan to use this luscious body hard. You got a problem with that?”
He jerked the fabric of her thong, pulling it through her slippery folds, making her mindless with need.
“Dios, please.”
“Yeah, you’d better pray to your god, ’cause I’m going to take you to the edge and pull you back. I’m going to show you the meaning of torture, woman.”
Well, the joke was on him, because she was close. That’s what happened when you were primed from months of using your fantasies of a bad-tempered Scot to get off. She had her own stories to tell.
Another saw of the fabric through her sensitive flesh. Another flicker of warmth stoking the fire. Another—ack!
He pulled her thong down, and she mourned the loss of friction. Two large hands grasped her ass and then she felt something soft and at the same time firm—not his cock, but his lips. A teasing graze over her spine, down the cleft of her ass, but always stopping short of where she needed him to be.
“¡Malparido!”
He chuckled, the sound a mix of smoke and sin, the vibration against her slick flesh unbearable.
“Bastard!” She shoved her body back in obvious invitation. Take it. It’s yours.
His tongue licked one long, filthy-gorgeous stroke through. It made her buck, hurled her to the edge. She clenched her muscles, desperate to push herself off that cliff to climax. Must she do everything?
He turned her onto her back, gently forced her legs apart, and stared at what he had created.
Wet, pulsing, wanton, and begging.
“Look at you. So ready for me.” He licked his lips.
She had both hands free and could have used them. One quick stroke and she’d be there. But watching Bren savor her like this was the biggest turn-on. His cock jutted proudly from his body, its broad head slick. They w
ere both so close, yet holding this moment seemed hugely important.
“Inside me.” When she came the first time with Bren, that’s how she wanted it.
He appeared to shake off his trance. “I don’t have protection. I didn’t plan this.”
She leaned over and opened her side table drawer, then handed him a three-pack of condoms.
“I’m expecting great things, Scot.”
Smirking, he tore open the packet and secured the protection, then he slotted between her legs, still careful not to touch her. It was as if they both knew the second it happened, the world might explode.
“Take off your bra. Need to see those gorgeous tits.”
It should have ripped her out of the moment, placed her back in her head, but it felt right to be showing him everything. She loved how he gave her ownership of this. Even better, she loved the crude words he used. These breasts deserved no special handling. Today their purpose was pleasure.
Leaning up, she unhooked the bra and drew it away from her body, letting it slide from her fingers to the floor.
With the backs of his knuckles, he glanced his hand first over her left breast, then over her right. He cupped one, testing its weight and feel, shaping it with his palm. She felt his touch as one would a light brush over skin, but true sexual sensation didn’t magically return because Bren St. James had touched her. Yet something inside melted while somewhere below heated.
He rubbed his sheathed length against her ready flesh, his eyes wild as they wavered between her face and her breasts. She arched into him, eager to take him inside her.
“Please.”
Gripping her ass, he pulled it toward him at the same time as he sank in slowly.
Oh.
Oh.
Yes.
His eyes fluttered closed briefly, then on an exhale, he drove deeper.
“Christ,” he muttered. “If I’d known . . .”
She usually liked it fast, needing the friction to get her there. But with Bren, the languor and his awestruck wonder was its own form of spine-melting pleasure.
The feeling of fullness was exquisite. She had missed sex. Missed the weight of a man, the grunts, the moans. This physical connection had always made her feel alive, and while she walked in the wilderness, she’d wondered if she would ever feel this way again.