by Kylie Scott
Apparently, experience mattered. Because all I could do was try to keep up.
I held on tight to his open shirt, straining against him, needing to get closer. I’d have crawled inside the man if I could. Turned out that under certain circumstances, the taste of scotch worked for me in a big way. Against my hip, his cock hardened, digging into me. And oh my God, I’d done that to him. Me. How amazing! Meanwhile, my body felt liquid, core aching and empty. I needed him inside of me and it seemed like I’d already been waiting forever.
“Pete. Please.”
“Fuck,” he muttered, breath hot against my ear.
I fumbled at the remaining buttons on his shirt. My damn fingers didn’t seem to be working. Easier to just push the whole thing upward. Luckily, the man decided to help, tearing the shirt off over his head. More skin was good. And he was so hot and smooth, a thrill to the touch. The solid flesh of his pecs and the flat plane of his stomach.
He tore at the zipper on the back of my dress, dragging fabric down over my shoulders. A growl came from deep in his throat, a noise of frustration, impatience. I’m reasonably certain I heard the silk rip. I didn’t care. His hands and mouth seemed to cover every bit of skin revealed, touching and tasting me everywhere. The dress got stuck on my hips. Out of the way enough for now.
He didn’t even bother undoing my bra, simply peeling down one of the lace cups to free my flesh. My breast filled his hot palm as it took the weight. Fingers plumped me, his thumb flicking over my hard nipple. The sting of pain followed by the heat of his kiss made my head spin and my body ache. There was no room for thought as he fed me deep, wet kisses. Slowly, he took us to the floor. No time for anything else. Just the urgent need to have him inside me.
The hardness of the polished wood was cool against my back. My legs were spread, his body between them. And with his broad chest above me, his weight taken on one arm, he was all I could see. I swear even the insides of my thighs were wet, I was so ready. It would have been embarrassing with anybody else. But this man, he had to know, he had to understand. It had always been him.
“Pete, I need—”
“I know,” he said, voice harsh and low.
His absolute focus on me, right here, right now, made me weak. So many times, I’d imagined him like this, I’d dreamed about it. Now here he was, gaze stark with need. His skin seemed to be stretched tight over his sharp cheekbones and striking face. As if he was every bit as out of control and overexcited as I was. Like I wasn’t alone in feeling all this.
His hands bunched up my dress before going to his belt buckle, then the button and zip below. “Hard and fast.”
I nodded.
In one quick move, his pants and boxer briefs were shoved down. Immediately, I got an elbow beneath me because like hell I’d be missing this.
Holy shit, the sight of his cock. The size of his cock.
If need hadn’t been beating through me with such a beat, dark and heavy, I might have hesitated for a moment. But his fingers wrapped around the thick length, squeezing. My mouth watered, everything low in my belly tightening. Both of us were panting, desperate. But he took a breath, seeming to try and calm himself. To slow for a moment.
With one hand, he drew a line from my belly button, down through the small tangle of pubic hair to my sex. The pad of his thumb lightly circled my clit, getting me wetter, making me even more swollen. Fingers slid inside of me, pushing in deep, pumping slowly in and out of me. First two and then three. His gaze never shifted from between my legs. Everything there felt swollen and hypersensitive. Better than ever before and we’d barely gotten started.
“You’re very wet.” Then he took hold of himself again, dragging the wide crown between my labia. “And so damn beautiful.”
My insides clenched, so damn empty. His mouth covered mine, hungry and demanding, forcing me down, flat on my back. Then he pulled my underwear aside and pushed in, hard and fast as promised. My breath stuck in my throat, my heart seizing. Christ, the feel of his cock stretching me, the thick length buried deep. One hand lay beside my head, the other keeping a punishing grip on my hip, holding my body in place to receive him. There’d be bruises tomorrow. Evidence of this moment. I wanted that so badly, for him to bite me and fuck me. To take me hard and leave me hurting.
He pulled back, pushing in even faster this time. Such perfect friction. It was electric. Lighting me up inside. I moaned and the look in his eyes . . . it was hard to describe. I held on to his shoulders, skin slick and slippery. Hot as fire and all so real. His gaze bore into mine and I couldn’t have looked away if I tried. This man had me completely.
Skin slapped against skin with the force of his thrusts, sweat dripping off his body and onto mine. It was brutal, animalistic, the way he grunted every time he slammed into me. The heavy scent of sex and sweat filling the hot night air. I don’t know if he loved me or hated me. Right then, it didn’t even matter.
The tension in me coiled higher and higher. Blood surging, hammering behind my ears. Every muscle in me seemed strung out, my body begging for release. When it hit, it hit hard. A wave of pleasure igniting every nerve ending. My back bowed, pushing against him, my whole body shaking. It just kept rolling through me, dragging me under. I was lost and found, made and undone. Then he shouted, hips bucking against me, driving his cock so deep I thought he was a part of me. I wished he was.
The weight of his body pressed down on me, the heat of his breath against my neck. My hands slid over his back, up into his damp hair. I held on tight in a state of pure bliss.
“I’m crushing you,” he mumbled, pulling out of me.
I tried to demur, but it did no good.
He moved slowly, like he’d been hit. By a car, maybe, or a bolt of lightning. I don’t know. But his big body collapsed on the floor at my side. We both lay there on our backs, staring up at the dark ceiling, trying to catch our breath. Eventually, there came the rustle of fabric as he pulled up his pants and got at least half dressed. The zipper seemed alarmingly loud. Accusing, even. Though that might have just been my imagination.
“You alright?” he asked in the same quiet voice.
“I think you broke me. In a good way.”
He said nothing, climbing to his feet.
I took the opportunity to stick my breast back into the bra. To straighten myself up a little. Pretty sure my dress was ruined. So, that was angry sex. With Pete, it was shockingly good. My insides were still fluttering and quaking. They really needed to settle down, because I had a feeling the good times were over.
“Come on,” he said, offering a hand.
I let him pull me to my feet, not sure if my legs would hold me. Every muscle felt weak and a little wobbly. Support would have been good. But he dropped my hand and awkwardness settled in the space between us.
“I ruined your hair,” he said.
“Never mind.”
He pointed toward his room. “I’m gonna . . .”
And it wasn’t an invitation. More like official notification of his plan to make an escape. I tried to smile but could barely meet his eyes. Not when I knew what I’d see. “I, um . . . shower.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
The thud, thud, thudding woke me at around five. Outside, the world was gray, just coming to life. Birds everywhere were making a racket. But that wasn’t what woke me. Barefoot, I padded out onto the back deck, down toward his end of the house. My hair hung in tangles, thin sleep shorts and a tank top probably insufficient coverage for the cooler morning.
A punching bag hung down the end of the verandah. Dressed in only a pair of joggers, shorts, and some gloves, Pete was pounding his fists into it mercilessly. Sweat gleamed on his skin, dark hair hanging in damp tendrils. God only knew if he’d slept at all.
To think the sex had been angry and intense.
I just watched him in silence, his muscles bunching and straining. The dedicated fury and focus on his face. He was beautiful, a work of art. Irate Man the Morning After Regrettably I
ncredibly Hot Sex, that’s what they’d call it, the painting or sculpture or whatever. Everyone would rush to see him with his nostrils flaring and thick neck. The hard planes of his back and trim waist.
Eventually, he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eyes. One glove went to the bag, to stop it from swinging. He just looked at me, thick shoulders rising and falling with each breath. His gaze nothing less than tortured. Tormented. It was staggering, the self-loathing in his eyes, the pain.
I felt like I’d been slapped to the point where I almost took a step back. My face was burning, mind reeling. Fuck him for this. I didn’t make him kiss me hard enough to bruise my lips. Nor had I compelled him to have sex with me on the floor. All of that, he’d initiated. Not to say I hadn’t been a willing participant, but I hadn’t forced the man to do shit. And he had the gall to look at me like this. I swallowed hard, holding back the tears. I would not cry. At least, not yet.
“Don’t worry, Pete,” I said. “It can just be our dirty little secret.”
Then I turned and walked away.
Chapter Nine
Seven Years Ago
“I’m envisioning a yurt.”
Pete scrunched up his face. “A yurt? This is your great idea that kept you up half the night, seriously?”
“Yes! Think about it,” I said. “A main central room with a big pole in the middle and the roof goes up to a skylight at the top. It’ll be awesome.”
In the daylight, his block of land was a green haven with towering gums and a bunya pine. Below them were some banksia. Down the back, where the ground was more shadowy and moist, grew some more tropical plants like swamp lilies, bird of paradise, and bromeliads.
He scratched at his stubble. “I’m not sure I want to live in a yurt. Aren’t they made out of goatskins or something?”
“We’ll use wood,” I said. “No goats will be harmed in the making of this building.”
“That’s good news. Trees are much easier to catch.”
“Kitchen, dining, and lounge there in the open-space room in the middle.” I waved an arm around in demonstration. “Then off to either side, wings with the bedrooms, bathrooms, and whatever. A verandah running along the back of the house for hanging out on.”
“And we’re building this out of wood?” He cocked his head, staring out at the land too. Obviously not yet sold on my complete winner of an idea. The fool.
“Yes.”
He picked up a stick, drawing a rough diagram in the dirt beside the ashes of last night’s campfire. On days like this, it was way too hot to hang out in his living shed. Especially when there was a breeze blowing outside. We’d already been to the beach and had lunch with his latest. Monica, Melissa, something like that. But I could easily see us heading back there if the heat kept up. Damn my father for not putting in a pool. Just because he didn’t want to look after it all year round solely so I could use it for six weeks. Such a selfish man.
“You’re going to put in a pool down the back, right?” I asked.
A nod.
“Good.”
“I was thinking of maybe bringing in an old Queenslander,” he said. “Renovate it like your dad did. Probably be a hell of a lot easier.”
“But my idea’s better.”
He blinked. “But I’m the one that has to do all the work.”
“But it’s our dream.”
“It’s your dream, kid. I just want to get out of this shed.”
I gave him my best sad face with just a dash of disappointment thrown in.
He sighed. “I’ll think about it. No promises.”
“Okay.” I grinned. “I’ll do some sketches of it for you.”
“I mean it. No promises.”
Sunday Morning . . . Now
When I wheeled out my suitcase, he was seated at the kitchen counter, brooding over a cup of coffee this time. Give me strength. Heathcliff had carried on less. I wished Pete had stayed in his room. It would have been the nice thing to do, to not drag this out any further.
But no.
He’d apparently just showered, his hair wet and slicked back. Wearing fresh cargo shorts and a T-shirt. Some old band-tour thing. The soft old cotton fit him far too well. No matter; I could do this. I’d even put on a happy sundress with grass and ladybugs on it, because that was how little he affected my moods, life, and everything in general. Shanti and Dad would already be on their way to the airport for their early-morning flight to Bali. There was nothing else I needed to do. Nothing slowing me down.
Straight out the door, into my car, and on the road. That was the plan. Hell. I intended to set new land-speed records for a woman dragging a loaded suitcase. Someone should time me.
Still, first things first. I cleared my throat, going for dignified, but probably failing. “I was going to text you,” I said, nodding to him as he sat with his coffee. “We forgot to use protection last night.”
His eyes widened.
“I’m on the pill and get tested regularly. I assume you do too?”
“Ah, yeah,” he said, looking a little shocked. “I do.”
Good to know.
“Shit.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even think . . .”
“Me neither. Didn’t occur to me until it was running down my leg.”
His brows drew in to form one unimpressed line. “You were going to text me about that?”
“What? You’d prefer a telegram?”
“I’d prefer an adult conversation.”
“So would I, but apparently we’re past that,” I said, hand tightening on the handle of my suitcase. “If we were ever there to begin with, which I highly doubt.”
He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, but for some reason thumped it back down on the counter before taking a drop. His seat was pushed back and he walked toward me. Out of pure survival instinct, I held up my hand, took a step back. The man didn’t stop, however. Instead, he walked straight into my hand, my palm pressing against this chest.
“You’ve been crying.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Adele,” he said, voice horribly gentle.
“Alright, maybe I have. But it’s none of your business.”
“I think it is.”
“Let’s agree to disagree.” I straightened my shoulders. “Time for me to go.”
“No.”
“See you next time, Pete. It’s been real.” And I tried to step around him, but the bastard grabbed my shoulders. Built like he was, pushing against his chest didn’t achieve shit, even with two hands. I’d have kicked him in the shins if the case hadn’t been in the way.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Not happening.”
“Listen to me—”
“Go fuck yourself, Pete.” My hands beat against his chest, refusing to surrender. It was all building up again, not that it had ever really gone away. The pain and rage and hurt he caused. All of the dumb-ass feelings I should have let go of years ago. They crowded the tip of my tongue, ready to spill, out of my control. “Honestly, I’m so sick of all your bullshit. Your existential angst or whatever the fuck your problem is. You’re such a cunt, do you know that? You wanted me last night. You started it. But I wind up feeling like shit and I’m done, do you hear me?”
He kicked the suitcase out of the way, pulling me in closer. Not stopping until he held me against him. I just ignored the tears, hoping they’d go away. Too upset to care either way. The idiot could think what he liked.
“I’m fucking done,” I repeated, choking up just a little, dammit. “I’m going home and—”
“Please don’t tell me the ‘every available man’ thing again,” he said, face against the top of my head, voice rumbling in his chest. “I’m not sure I can take it.”
“I don’t give a shit what you can handle, you dickhead. And stop rocking me—I’m not a fucking baby.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Don’t pacify me, asshole.”
He didn’t bother to answer
and I didn’t bother to speak again. Guess I’d run out of insults for now and my throat hurt. I huddled against him, crying my heart out. No matter how I tried to calm down and get a handle on things it just kept rising inside of me. More sobs, hiccups, and pain. I wanted to just be angry, but it kept coming out as tears.
At some stage during my meltdown, he picked me up and carried me over to the couch, sitting me on his lap. Still holding on tight. And slowly, finally, the tears stopped and all was silent.
Wow. That’d been . . . extreme.
I knew someone should say something, but I didn’t know who should talk first. Pretty sure he was faster than me, so crawling away and making a run for the door was in all likelihood out of the question. I fished a tissue out of my pocket and blew my nose. Such an attractive sound. Also, his shirt had a big wet patch on the front. Feelings were such an inconvenience. Maybe I should get a lobotomy. I don’t think I’d ever been so angry and miserable at the same time. Now that the storm was spent, however, I wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually been called a cunt by a woman before,” he said.
“No? It was probably time.”
“Hm.”
I shifted in his lap, giving all of the signals to be let go. But the arms around me didn’t move an inch. “Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“Um. I need water.”
Easy as pie, he lifted me up, heading toward the kitchen.
“Or I could walk.”
He didn’t bother to answer. Instead, sitting me on the counter while he filled a glass with water and presented it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, proceeding to down the whole thing.
The man leaned back against the stainless-steel fridge, arms crossed. “I don’t usually stick around for the fights.”
“You could have just let me leave.”