His rigid cock ground into her sex as she flattened her hands to his chest, his damp chest hairs tickling her palms.
“What,” he lowered his head until his lips were but a breath from hers, “if I want to make you come right here on this stool?”
His blue, heavy-lidded stare held her prisoner as surely as his strong fingers kneading her arse cheeks.
“My face buried between these fucking gorgeous thighs of yours, my tongue buried in your hot, wet—”
She silenced him with a hungry kiss, crushing her exposed breasts to his sweat-slicked chest, her belly to his sculpted abs, her pussy to his engorged cock.
He growled into her mouth and fisted his hands in her hair, giving the thick black curtain a punishing tug.
She’d taken charge of the moment, something she rarely did during off-season. He’d shift the control later, of that she had no doubt, but for now—
He hauled her off the stool without tearing his lips from hers and carried her into their home.
Through the living room, past the Steinbach baby grand neither could play, to the six thousand dollar Eames leather sofa chair situated beneath the original Brett Whiteley.
Without warning, he threw her onto it.
Her teeth clicked as her butt landed on the smooth cool cushions, her pulse wild in her throat.
They’d been here before: uninhibited sex after Mud’s morning workout. She knew exactly what was going to happen next. He was going to take her. Use her. And yet there was nothing predictable of it. The very animalistic aggressiveness of the fucking made her sex constrict with such impatient want it was all she could do not to whimper.
She gazed up at him, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath she pulled, her nipples hard, her pussy throbbing.
Watched him slowly move his hands to the waistband of his shorts.
Watched him slowly, slowly, inch the firm elastic down over his hips.
His erection sprung upright, finally free of its fabric restraint. The distinct musk of Mud’s body—of his perspiration, his potency, his power—teased her senses.
Jorja’s mouth filled with saliva. Some women, she knew, would throw up at the thought of going down on the man they loved while he was sweaty. Darla had, at their last dinner party, confessed to fabricating a toothache to avoid giving Julian head when he was less than shower-fresh clean. Jorja, however, loved giving Mud head this way.
It was dirty and wild and carnal and primitive. All the things she wasn’t with anyone else in her life.
Anyone.
At the feather-light touch of fingers to her cheek, she raised her stare from her boyfriend’s cock, finding Mud looking down at her, his expression…ambiguous.
“JJ…” he whispered, a tension in his voice she’d never heard before. An uncertainty, a hesitancy. “I…”
The doorbell of their apartment chimed.
Jorja froze.
“Fuck,” Mud ground out. He grabbed at the waistband of his shorts and yanked it up, covering his arousal once again.
Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed toward the front door, his footfalls bouncing around the apartment like angry thunder.
For a surreal second, barely a heartbeat, the thought of staying exactly where she was—semi-naked with her breasts exposed—played on Jorja’s mind. She didn’t know who had rung the doorbell, most likely it was Meagan, but whoever it was would see exactly what they’d interrupted when Mud opened the door. See and hopefully go away.
And if it’s a member of the media here to interview Mud? Or one of his teammates? Or the coach of the Australian team? Or someone from the Mended Smiles Foundation board?
At the notion of someone from her charity organisation seeing her in such an obvious state of sexual disarray, Jorja scrambled upright on the chair and reached for the misplaced triangles of her bikini top.
A hot spear of pain lanced through her neck, straight up into the base of her skull and down to the middle of her shoulder blades.
She cried out, a strangled gasp lost to the sound of Mud yanking open the front door.
“Daniel,” Meagan Bissett’s warm voice filled the room, accompanied by the sounds of Sydney Harbour life beyond the walls of Jorja and Mud’s home. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Yes, actually,” Mud declared, his no-nonsense country drawl undercut by a note of tension. “I was just about to fuck JJ.”
Jorja snapped to her feet. The twinge in her neck detonated again.
Another cry fell from her, louder this time. Loud enough to draw Meagan’s attention from the door.
Her best friend’s eyes widened. Her lips parted into a shocked O.
Jorja slapped her hands to her breasts, the resulting sting like a hot brand on her flesh. Her nipples, already primed for attention, puckered harder. A sharp twinge shot through her neck again.
Damn it, she was going to need to get a massage.
She didn’t have time for a massage.
She had a dinner party taking place in fourteen days. The first of the year for her immediate circle of friends. Well, friends was a loose definition. Some of the women coming definitely fell on the very…fringes of the term, in Jorja’s opinion, only a part of their group due to the money their partners earned or the size of the diamonds hanging from their neck and ears and wrists. If the dinner party wasn’t at its normal level of perfection, there were those who would see it as a sign of weakness. Besides, she didn’t want to see that wannabe Emma Ross get all—
“I really did interrupt you?”
Jorja blinked, aware Meagan had somehow made it through the living room and was standing directly in front of her. A grin pulled at the other woman’s lips, devoid—Jorja noticed—of lipstick or gloss. “I…”
A blush heated her cheeks. A blush, of all things.
Meagan’s smile turned to a laugh. “Why did you open the door?”
“I didn’t. Mud did.”
“Nice bikini, by the way.”
At Meagan’s chuckled jibe, Jorja rolled her eyes. Behind her friend, Mud closed the door. His gaze connected with hers, an unreadable emotion in their blue depths, before he turned and strode from the foyer, heading towards their bedroom.
Letting out a wobbly sigh, her body thrumming with denied sexual hunger, her neck and shoulders aching with strained tension, Jorja covered her breasts with the triangles of her bikini top. “Would you like a drink?” she asked Meagan, making her way to the living room’s well-stocked bar. Neither she nor Meagan drank alcohol through the day but the bar fridge was the best supply of Voss water in the house. And with the way the young women in their immediate social circle paraded around, like they were mocking those above the age of twenty-five with their youthful skin and nubile bodies, not to mention the NRL groupies offering themselves to Mud any chance they could, Jorja figured the best way to attack the inevitable aging process was via hydration.
Meagan didn’t need to worry about groupies or aging. There were no crazy fans sending her husband knickers in the mail, and she may have been thirty-eight but she didn’t look it. Thanks to the weight she’d gained during her last pregnancy—a weight that gave her a healthy cuddle factor, in Jorja’s opinion—she looked gorgeous.
It wasn’t that Jorja was old or obsessed about her age. At twenty-eight, she was hardly ready for a walking frame or weekly botox, but she wasn’t going to let some little…girl, born in a different decade, ruin her life, the way her mother’s life had been ruined by an upstart with perky boobs and a craving to fuck another woman’s—
“I’m not staying.”
Once again, Jorja found herself jerking her attention back to her friend, a frown pulling at her eyebrows.
What was going on with her today? She wasn’t normally so distracted. Surely it wasn’t just being interrupted before Mud could take her to sexual rapture and back, was it?
Maybe it was her stiff neck? She really would need to get it seen to. Whether she wanted to or not, she’d need to cal
l a masseuse.
A sharp clicking noise sounded in front of Jorja’s eyes. She blinked, rubbing at the back of her neck as she frowned at Meagan. “Why not?”
Meagan raised her elegantly shaped eyebrows. “Hmmm, maybe due to the fact you were a few seconds away from amazing sex with Mud?”
The question made Jorja aware of the throbbing pressure in her pussy and clit, a hangover from the building pleasure of Mud’s aggressive seduction. She swallowed. “Mud is most likely having amazing sex with his hand right now. And I’m going to have a glass of water. Do you want one? You should get something more from this visit than a perv at my boobs. I have freshly sliced lime.”
Her friend shook her head, her answering laugh relaxed. Most people were unsettled by Jorja’s blunt approach to communication. Thankfully, Meagan wasn’t one of them. Perhaps because she was completely comfortable and confident with whom she was. “No no, really. It was only meant to be a short visit. I’m on my way to Edesia and just wanted to return Mud’s jersey. He left it at our place last weekend. I figured he’d probably want it for that photo shoot you both have with The Women’s Weekly tomorrow, yes?”
Jorja scrunched up her face. The photo shoot. She’d forgotten about that. Not what she needed at all with a stiff neck.
Meagan raised another eyebrow. “Not looking forward to it?”
Rubbing at the muscles at the base of her skull, she retrieved a bottle of Voss from the bar fridge and untwisted the cap. “I never like it. But it is good for Mud’s public image.”
“Does he need his public image to be any better? Let’s be serious, the guy is damn near a god in this country, what with the way the media and league fans idolise him.”
Jorja lifted the open bottle to her lips, took a sip and recapped it. “The article is about our romance. With the number of women’s panties that arrive every day in the mail, I welcome some very public exposure declaring him off-limits.”
Meagan frowned. “Are you…questioning his faithfulness, JJ?”
Another wobbly sigh streamed passed Jorja’s lips and she slumped, resting her elbows on the polished steel of the bar’s countertop. Staring at the view of the harbour beyond the living room and balcony, she shook her head. “No.”
Who would have thought only a few moments ago she was on the verge of an orgasm, thanks purely to the raw hunger and open want in Mud’s eyes? And now here she was, close to vocalising her fear that some groupie was going to…
She shook head again. “No. His faithfulness is unquestionable.” It was. As was his sexual ferocity. “I’m questioning my ability to survive this kind of life. The constant attention. The scrutiny of our relationship. The expectations…”
A prickling heat on the side of her face told Jorja that Meagan was studying her. A knot formed in her belly and she took a sip of water, her mouth dry. She wasn’t one for sharing such vulnerabilities. She really must be shaken up.
What was going on with her?
The look in Mud’s eyes before Meagan arrived. That ambiguous, enigmatic expression you’ve never seen before. That’s what’s got you unsettled. Like he wanted to say something. Something…big. Maybe something…bad?
“I’ve got to go.”
Jorja flinched at her friend’s abrupt declaration, the jolt sending a shard of pain through her neck. She gave Meagan an askew glance, the tension in her stomach knotting tighter. “Really?”
Meagan gave her a warm smile as she smoothed a gentle hand up Jorja’s arm. It was such a wonderfully maternal thing to do, for a moment Jorja forgot how to breathe. “I told you it was just a quick drop in. Mud’s jersey is in a bag at the front door. Besides—” she shot a look over her shoulder, the action drawing Jorja’s attention to Mud where he now stood, still half naked in the kitchen, staring into the open fridge “—I think someone wants your time more than me at the moment.”
Jorja’s throat grew thick at the sight of her boyfriend, so obviously trying to appear like he wasn’t straining to hear their every word.
Meagan chuckled a second before she placed a kiss on the air beside Jorja’s cheek. “I really do love your bikini, by the way, hon. One of these days I’ll get back into mine and we can strut about together on Bondi Beach, driving all the young hot tourists crazy with lust.”
And with that, and a soft squeeze of Jorja’s hand, she crossed to the front door and closed it behind her.
Leaving Jorja alone with Mud again.
She pulled a steady breath, letting her gaze turn to him where he stood in the kitchen. For the first time since meeting him, six years ago in the Sydney University library, when they were both cash-strapped final year students, Jorja felt… nervous. There was no reason for it, none that made sense at least. But she was nervous. Nervous that no matter what she did or who she was, she’d never be able to—
Mud slammed the fridge door shut, his stare finding hers across the living room.
Jorja caught her breath. Her pulse pounded in her throat. Her belly fluttered. Her pussy constricted. Adrenaline and fear licked through her, an intoxicating mix that both shamed her and aroused her. “Daniel…” she whispered.
Without moving from where he stood, he studied her.
Say something, she begged him with her eyes.
Silence stretched between them.
Please?
“When did you hurt your neck?”
Numb disappointment filled her at his question. She touched her fingers to the stiff spot at the base of her skull, a frown pulling at her eyebrows. “How did you—”
“You’re holding your head funny,” he said before she could finish. “Did I do it? When I threw you on the chair?”
She shook her head, and then bit back a wince when an electric-hot pulse sliced up into the base of her skull again.
Mud’s jaw bunched. His eyes narrowed. Without a word, he strode from the kitchen, shoving his hand into his back pocket as he headed for their bedroom.
Jorja stood motionless, unsure what to do. What had just happened?
Oh God, why did she feel like things were splintering apart all of a sudden?
After hitting Send on his iPhone—a gift from one of his many sponsors—Mud tossed the device onto the bed, raked his hands through his hair and prowled the floor. Fuck. He’d hurt her. Of all the things he wanted to do to Jorja, hurt her wasn’t one of them.
Fuck.
What did he do? She bloody well turned him around, she did. Knocked him off kilter and sent him for a fucking tailspin. He knew exactly how to dominate every aspect of his life except his life with her. When it came to Jorja Jones, he was…confused.
She was everything he wanted, and yet every minute of every day he questioned if he was—
His phone bleeped from the bed, a new text message filling the screen.
He shot it a look, fisting his hair as he did so.
A message from the journalist from Men’s Health he’d met a week ago. The second one of the day, this one detailing what she wanted to do to his balls if he gave her the chance.
Fuck, he had to stop this. Now.
His phone bleeped at him again.
A new message. From the Australian Rugby League team’s masseur, the very person Mud had texted after becoming aware of Jorja’s sore neck.
Will be there in 30 mins.
Mud’s gut churned at the message.
The masseur had a thing for Jorja—had done since Mud introduced them two years ago. Whenever Jorja attended a Kangaroos social event, the masseur—Brett Bartowski, a man even Mud recognised as stupidly good-looking and ridiculously smart—damn near fell over himself trying to make her laugh and smile. Jorja had never encouraged the guy, but she’d never mentioned her disdain for him either. Jorja was not one for subtlety when it came to expressing her opinions, which made Mud wonder what she thought of Brett’s obvious crush. What would she do if he made a move on her?
The rest of Mud’s teammates had noticed their masseur’s attraction to Jorja. More than one had sugges
ted Mud take Brett aside and tell him to keep his fucking eyes off her, via a few well-landed fists if need be. It had reached the point where they intercepted Brett every time he made his way toward Jorja, whether it be at social engagements or on the side of the field after a game. In the same way they protected Mud when he had the ball on the field, they were protecting him—and what he possessed—off it.
And now here he was, calling Brett, inviting him into his and Jorja’s home. Inviting him not only to interact with Jorja, but to touch her. To give her what he himself seemed incapable of giving her. To offer the man the most precious gift he—
The disturbing thought cut through him, hot and cold at once. He shut it down, and the torment it brought, and strode from the room instead.
For better or worse, the ball was in play now. He’d initiated the move and, like he did on the field, he had to own it, regardless of the end result. Sometimes in life, as it was on the field, you had to play the risk. It was that, or lose it all.
His father hadn’t taught him that. His father, the bastard prick, had taught him to beat those weaker than him to a bloody pulp. And to never treat women with tender, gentle care.
To keep them scared and in their place.
An image of Jorja watching him run on the treadmill filled his head, her sexual desire for him laced with a trepidation that tore him apart.
Would she look at Brett Bartowski the same way?
His gut churned, a sickened tension he could no longer deny.
Jesus fuck, what the fuck was he doing?
Jorja had only just picked up her iPad, returning her admittedly unfocused attention to the budget reports, when Mud appeared at her side, his damp hair slicked back from his face, his incredible body half covered in a pair of Guess jeans and nothing else. The distinct scent of sandalwood soap and Hugo Boss aftershave tickled her nostrils. He’d showered.
No wild, sweaty animal sex for them, it seemed.
Disappointment laced through her but she hid it. Perhaps, what with the crick in her neck, it was for the better.
Secret Confessions: Sydney Housewives - Extended Edition Page 15