Dr. Strange Beard: Winston Brothers #5

by Reid, Penny

  But I couldn’t think. His exploring fingers where stroking and teasing me perfectly; and his mouth was at my neck sending jolts and spikes of ticklish sensation radiating along my nerves in all directions; and his long, lean body was pressing me against the wall. He was everywhere.

  Suddenly, I was the one being seduced.

  “Let me . . .”

  Abruptly, his fingers left my body, and I became aware he’d hooked them into the waist of my underwear. He was pulling them off, down my bare thighs, his fingers skimming the back of my legs. Maneuvering me away from the wall, he captured my mouth again, his hands wrapping around my thighs and back, lifting me from the ground. His movements were bolder, more certain.

  We were moving. Vaguely, I was aware he’d taken me into another room. His bedroom. The light was off but then he flipped the switch and all was illuminated. But I only saw him.

  Roscoe placed me on the bed and released me, stepping away. I reached for him, irrationally heartsick at his departure. But then he was unbuttoning his pants. I watched him over the canvas of my naked body. His pants dropped, his eyes on my skin hot and ardent and dazed.

  I was extremely thankful he’d turned on the light. Wise man.

  He came back to me, his hands braced on either side of my head, careful to avoid my hair. He kissed me, his body pressing me against the bed as our bodies rubbed together in a slow, torturous rhythm.

  But it wasn’t right. His boxers were still on.

  “What—what are you doing?” I couldn’t breathe, I wanted him so badly. I was mad with it. Reaching for the only remaining barrier between us with shaking hands, I felt him suck in a breath.

  “Wait. Wait. Not yet.” He shook his head, tucking his face into my neck. “Let me—I want—God, I’ve wanted you, this for so long.”

  His hot breath tickled my skin as he nipped and licked and bit his way down my body, lavishing everything between my shoulder and stomach with sultry kisses, groaning as he explored me with his mouth and hands. His hips rocked in unpracticed movements, first against my hip, and then my thigh. By the time he reached my legs and spread them wider, I was covered in a gloss of sweat, my body shaking.

  “Roscoe, what—what—”

  And then he was there. Right there.

  My hands flew to my face and I felt the first uncontainable ripple of pleasure-pain radiate outward, seizing my limbs, curling my toes.

  He parted me with his lips and tongue, all slippery friction and sensation. He made a Mmm sound and it rumbled against me, his arms wrapping around my thighs and pulling my body across the bed towards him like I was a doll, a plaything.

  Nothing about what he was doing was skillful or rehearsed, but everything about it was honest, and that made all the difference. I believed he loved this, he loved licking me slowly, savoring strokes of his tongue and lips, he loved the taste of me. He was ravenous yet tender—entirely too tender—and with each pass of his mouth I sunk deeper and deeper into madness.

  “Your hand.” I swallowed the last word, besieged yet wanting to give voice to my desires.

  His eyes lifted to mine, a shock of blue flame. Distrustful and greedy, they dared me to tell him to stop. I huffed a startled laugh at the ferocity there, like he’d found his favorite toy—or a slice of his favorite cake—and I’d just suggested he release it.

  “Give me your hand,” I said, finally finding my voice. It held a tremor.

  Reluctantly, he released my thigh, his tongue still lapping too slow, and caressed a path from my stomach to my breast, at last offering his hand.

  I grabbed it, lifting on an elbow and brought his middle finger to my lips. Sucking it inside, I rocked my neck slowly at first, and then faster, setting a pace for him, teaching him how to increase tempo, which he did. His pace mirrored mine until I could no longer hold on and I fell back on the bed, my body arching uncontrollably as a soundless scream echoed and rippled, a shock wave, and I fell, gripping the comforter for purchase.

  I hadn’t quite recovered, tremors still seizing me at intervals, when I became aware that Roscoe was trailing kisses along the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thigh. I couldn’t handle it. I felt as though I’d break in two.

  “Please,” I said unthinkingly.

  He looked at me, still ferocious, but also a little smug. The smugness made me chuckle.

  “Please,” I tried again. “Please come, please lie down with me.”

  “Why?” He sounded curious, cautious.

  “Because I want you to hold me.” It was a half-truth, but it worked.

  Not one second later, he’d stretched out, gathering me to his chest and holding me close, kissing my jaw and cheek and hair. A sound of contentment slipped past my lips, and I felt his chest rumble.

  “Did you just purr?”

  I snuggled closer. “Maybe.”

  His hand slid down my back to fondle my bottom. “You just did it again.” He sounded pleased.

  But I could also feel him, the press of his length against my hip. It felt large, and I imagined it was painful, and there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than to offer relief.

  So I wriggled in his arms, shifting myself to my side and pressing my hands flat against his chest until he lay on his back. Skimming my nails down his body, enjoying the angles and ridges of his form beneath his hot skin, I slipped my hand inside his boxers.

  He sucked in a breath between his teeth, his eyes closing as his head fell back. I watched with fascination as his Adam’s apple bobbed, a thick swallow, his muscles tensed everywhere as I encircled his length, stroking down, and then up.

  “Simone.” It sounded like a plea and a warning.

  A new thrill shot through me.

  “Shhh,” I whispered next to his ear, releasing him and kneeling to pull off his boxers.

  He lifted his hips, helping me, even as his eyes remained closed, his jaw clenched. I licked my lips, the anticipation of seeing him—all of him—causing my heart to quicken, to gallop, to fly.

  Quite suddenly, he was naked.

  My heart squeezed as I looked at him, at this beautiful man. His beauty, his nakedness seemed somehow both vulnerable and domineering, overwhelming to my eyes. Even his cock was beautiful, thick and gorgeously proportioned to the rest of his long body, jutting straight up as though issuing me an invitation.

  Or a dare.

  I let the boxers fall from my dangling fingers and I climbed back on the bed, straddling his hips, wanting the feel of his hot skin against mine, wanting to be filled, claimed, and to claim him in return.

  His eyes flew open, wide, rimmed with something wild. “Simone,” he repeated, but different this time. His hands lifted to my thighs, digging into my skin.

  Yet, he made no move to stop me as I reached for him.

  “Do you want me?” I asked, trying not to sound coy, but knowing I kinda did. I couldn’t help it, he got me so hot. Apparently, I turned into a sex kitten with Roscoe, and—you know what?—I was really okay with that.

  He made a sound, something helpless, fierce and primal. In the next moment, a hand slid to my waist, gripping me, impatient. I rocked my slippery center against him, rubbing my softness along the hardest part of him.

  He gasped, cursed through clenched teeth, his fingers flexing restively, his eyes flashing again like they’d done before, a hint of possession. Or maybe more than a hint. And, again, I was really okay with that. Likely because I was looking at him with more than a hint of possession as well.

  Because he’s mine.

  The thought didn’t bother me now, and I wondered half-heartedly if it would bother me later.

  Positioning his gorgeous cock, I slid him inside me, taking him slowly, watching with rapt fascination as he pressed the back of his head against the bed, his lips parted in a slight snarl, his hips tilting, trying to give me more of himself, trying to take me faster.

  I grinned wickedly, sliding a hand up to his lips as he lifted to his elbows. He took two of my fingers into his mo
uth and rocked his head up and down, showing me as I’d showed him how to set the pace. I obliged, rolling my hips slowly at first, and then faster, matching the rhythm of his mouth.

  God, I’d never witnessed anything so overwhelmingly sexy as Roscoe Winston sucking on my fingers while I took him within my body. I’d never felt anything so perfect as when I rode him and I felt my stomach coil and twist, preparing for another shock wave and accompanying release.

  But then he grabbed my wrist and pinned it to my side as he surged up, wrapping his arms around me as he strained beneath, his breathing ragged and labored. Roscoe’s eyes caught mine, attempting to focus through chaos as he came.

  He pressed upward unevenly once, twice, and then three times more, a desperate sound wrenched from his lungs.

  And then he fell back, taking me with him, still wrapped in his arms. His mouth sought mine and I capitulated, giving into his urgent, greedy kisses, his heart beating against my breast, a thunderous and harsh drumbeat, reminding me that we were still joined, and that every inch of him felt amazing.

  “I love you,” he said between kisses, pushing my hair from my face and turning us on our sides. “God, how I love you.”

  “Roscoe—”

  “Don’t. Don’t say anything.” He kissed me again on the lips and then lowered his mouth to my neck, nipping at my chin and jaw on the way.

  “But—”

  “Let me have this.” His mouth was at my ear, his words landing hot and urgent. “Give me this.” Another kiss. “Give me this memory.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Let us hope that we are all preceded in this world by a love story.”

  Don J. Snyder, Of Time and Memory: My Parents' Love Story

  *Simone*

  Kisses woke me up.

  Kisses on my stomach and ribs, followed by caressing strokes of big hands touching my shoulder, breast, knuckles brushing against my back, bottom, and thigh.

  Roscoe.

  I smiled. All of my thoughts were selfish, every single one of them, and I stretched, nestling my backside against his groin and grinning wider at his state of readiness.

  His lips were at the back of my neck now, his hand audacious as it slipped between my legs, encouraging me to lift one so he could touch me.

  “What time is it?” I asked, my voice raspy.

  I felt him shake his head in the darkness. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You’ll care in the morning, when you’re too tired to work.” My breath hitched as he rubbed and stroked and played with my body.

  Was I really trying to talk him out of this? Good Lord. Get a grip Simone.

  Reaching behind me, I closed my fingers around his cock, giving it a rough tug. He released a hissing breath, the heat of which sent a wave of goose bumps along my back, shoulder, and arm.

  “I want to be on top,” he said, nipping my ear.

  I thought about that, about the wisdom of moving to missionary so soon, and I frowned.

  After our earlier lovemaking, I’d left him in the bed, opting for a quick shower before round two. But when I came back, I found he’d passed out. Naked. Delightfully, deliciously naked.

  Therefore, I’d wrapped my hair in the silk scarf I’d bought earlier, brushed my teeth, turned off the lights, and crawled into bed next to him, snuggling close. Content for now that my virgin debauching—part one at least—had been a success, I promptly fell asleep.

  But missionary? For his second time? Eh, no.

  This might not be a popular opinion, but I considered missionary a PhD level sex position, one of the most difficult to perfect, which was why I’d never had any interest in it.

  I mean, just think about the logistics.

  Firstly, it was one of the least athletic, which meant lack of skill was difficult to disguise. Form, angle, and rhythm had to be just right. Secondly, the woman had little control over her own pleasure. She couldn’t touch herself, she couldn’t rock her hips with any reliability, she had to rely solely on her partner’s dexterity and expertise. Basically, she was completely vulnerable and at a very real danger of never reaching orgasm, or even getting anywhere close.

  Meanwhile, the man was guaranteed a good time, which made the position dangerous as a second-time deflowering. Bad habits are difficult to unteach. It would be a disservice to Roscoe to go full missionary without first explaining potential pitfalls.

  Also, I needed some time to mentally prepare.

  I doubted I would ever enjoy missionary. But—at the same time—I didn’t want to dismiss it out of hand without giving Roscoe a chance to prove me wrong. Then again, I didn’t want to doom him to failure by encouraging him to jump into the deep end without giving him the option of floaties first.

  His breathy laugh brought me back to the present and he placed a tender kiss on my shoulder. “What’s going on in your head right now? You sure are thinking hard.”

  “Your deflowering,” I muttered.

  He grew very still behind me. “My what?”

  “I have a hypothesis. I think we should map out an ideal progression of sexual positions in order to maximize competency and acquisition of abilities, each offering new skills which build upon each other. A forum for feedback is also important—for both of us—where we can compare findings and modify our approach. I just don’t want you to draw any false conclusions due to lack of appropriate specific aims or deficiencies in sample size.”

  Roscoe was silent, and then I felt the bed begin to shake behind me. Turning my head, I peered into the darkness, searching for him. After a few seconds, realization dawned. He was laughing.

  Twisting to face him completely, I placed my hand on his chest over his heart; he couldn’t see it, but my smile was self-deprecating and mild embarrassment heated my neck and cheeks. “Okay. Right. That might be too scientific of an approach. But—”

  “Oh my God, I love you.” He sniffed, his arms coming around my body.

  “You love me and you’re laughing at me.”

  “Yes.” He kissed my lips. “Please, never stop defaulting to the scientific approach. Never change that about yourself.”

  “Oh? What should I change?”

  “Na-ah,” he said, laughter in his voice. “That’s a trap.”

  I leaned away, trying to make out his face but deciphering only shadow. “It’s not a trap.”

  “Oh yeah? Fine. Then you tell me what you’d change about me. Then maybe I’ll tell you what I’d change about you.”

  I scoffed, because that was easy. “First of all—”

  “First of all?” His voice cracked. “You mean there’s a second of all?”

  “And a third of all, but let me list them in order.”

  He laughed again, closing the distance between our mouths for a quick kiss, and then settling on his back, bringing me to his chest. “Okay, let’s hear my list of deficiencies.”

  I shook my head, sighing loudly. “They’re not deficiencies. They’re things I wish would change.”

  “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

  “As I was saying, first of all, I’d like your zip code to be closer to mine.”

  Roscoe’s chest rose and fell with an expansive breath. “You mean you want me closer to Green Valley? Because I could apply for a position with Drew, at the Park.”

  Oh . . . right.

  Shit.

  I grimaced, my stomach dropping, because I’d meant Washington, DC, and my cozy apartment, and my Nancy, and my job at the bureau’s forensics research lab.

  My job.

  My grimace deepened. I exhaled, my lungs filled with remorse and fiery frustration. I hadn’t precisely forgotten why I’d come to Nashville, but I’d allowed Nelson’s orders and the case to take a back seat. That wasn’t like me, not at all. Work came first, duty came first, catching bad guys came first, because saving lives came first.

  I still needed to talk to Roscoe about Darrell. Allowing my feelings to guide me meant I’d neglected my mission, and that was unacceptable.

&nb
sp; But your mission makes you want to vomit.

  “Simone?”

  I cleared my throat, blinking as I gathered my thoughts. “We should—we should get some sleep and . . .”

  Straining my ears, I tensed. My phone was ringing. But not just any ringtone, it was my mother’s ringtone.

  “Oh shit!” I shot up and scrambled off the bed, grabbing for my bag by the door to the bathroom. I found my phone and noted with a great deal of dread that I’d missed ten text messages, all from my mom.

  “Shit, shit, shit—” I danced in place and swiped to answer my cell. “Hello? Mom?”

  A dangerous pause, and then, “Where are you?”

  “I’m so, so sorry. I—”

  “Where are you?” Her voice was like hoarfrost.

  I gripped my forehead, my throat a vise. I paced the bedroom. “I’m still in Nashville.”

  “For work?” she asked, snapping, and I tensed.

  My mother had never been truly angry at me. Disappointed? Yes. Irritated? Certainly. But pissed off? Never.

  How could I be so thoughtless?

  “Yes, it’s for—I mean, no. Not—not for . . . that.” God. This was the worst.

  Roscoe had also stood from the bed. He’d flipped on the lamp and was now hovering nearby, his hands on his hips, concern etched his features.

  He mouthed, “Is everything okay?” I could only look at him helplessly.

  “Simone Payton.” I listened as she gathered a deep breath and I knew I was really in for it.

  So I blurted, “I’m with Roscoe!” I scrunched my face, physically bracing for the impact of her words even though I was hundreds of miles away. “I’m with Roscoe. We went on a date and then we came back to his place and—Mom, I’m so sorry. I—I love him. I love him so much and I wasn’t thinking rationally, I was just thinking I wanted to be with him and I couldn’t see past that want, and I’m so, so sorry.”

  She said nothing. I couldn’t even hear her breathe, but that might’ve been because my heart was hammering between my ears.

  Forcing myself to take a calming breath, I said again, “I’m sorry.”