Hot breath hit my skin as his soft lips traveled, down my neck to my br**sts, him planting small kisses along the way. He took his time on my ni**les, being impossibly gentle with them, and I arched my back, pushing into his pelvis and lifting my br**sts deeper into his open mouth. A small cry left my lips as he grabbed my tits, pressing them together and sucking them into his mouth.
“Please,” I whispered, frantically reaching down, grabbing his jeans, trying to unbutton them, my hands grabbing and pulling anything and everything, the overwhelming need to have him inside me ruling out any logical thoughts in my head. “I need you.”
“I don’t have—”
I cut him off, moaning the words of my beg. “I don’t care. Now. Please. I need you to f**k all of this insanity away.”
He lifted his head from my br**sts and yanked open his fly, bunching my skirt around my waist and moving aside the cloth of his underwear. His c**k popped out, hard and ready, a drop of precome glistening on its tip. I practically swooned, and before I could move, he was pressing the tip of it on my wetness, past my panties and shoving the thick girth all the way in.
I gasped, entering some unworldly plane of delirium. The release of having him bare inside me, of having his strong, massive body over me, my legs spread and back flat on his kitchen table, was mind-blowing. He moved inside me, his mouth at my ear, hot breath on my neck. My hands pulled at his T-shirt, pulling the cloth over his head, exploring the tight muscles on his back, my body craving more, more, more of him. He moaned in my ear, f**king me faster, our skin slapping together, filling me completely, then leaving me wanting. Fill, want, fill, want. Words came out, jagged in my ear.
“God, I need you, Julia, so f**king bad.”
It wasn’t enough for forever, but it was enough for right now, and I held him tight and squeezed my muscles around his cock, him moaning in immediate response. At that moment, in his arms, I didn’t think about the danger, or my job, or any of the shit that was falling down around us. He gave me what I needed, and I took what I wanted. I came, dissolving in his arms, screaming aloud, releasing my fear and frustration in a wave of exquisite pleasure. The orgasm was strong and beautiful, and I went limp when it ended. He slowed his strokes, breathing hard and kissing my face, lips and neck.
“I love f**king you,” he whispered, still moving inside me, slow and delicious, burying himself with every stroke. His words awakened my spent muscles and I moved, pushing against the table with my feet and rolling him over, straddling him for the first time, and gasping at the feel of him from this angle, his whole c**k inside me. I rode him, pumping up and down, his hands traveling over my torso, his face strong and possessive beneath me. I leaned forward, my hair brushing his face, and buried myself deep on his cock, grinding my clit against his pubic bone, moaning at the pleasure it brought me. He took over, wrapping his arms around me and f**king me from below, fast and hard, our bodies slapping, slick and furious. The orgasm came, jarring me, taking my breath, an explosion of my world, and I screamed his name as his c**k carried me through it. The last waves were still subsiding when he jerked out of me, his voice terse and quick.
I moved off him, as quickly as I could in my final stages of euphoria. Burying my fingers inside me, I moved them in and out while I took him in my mouth—gagging on his width, and sucking hard and fast, my free hand resting on the rough fabric of his jeans, still on.
He came, filling my throat, his hand on my head with gentle pressure, his voice calling my name over and over until he was limp and drained. I rolled over, spent, next to him on the hard table, my skirt bunched and twisted around my body, my panties discarded somewhere on the floor.
I laid there for a solid minute, then rolled on my side, resting my head in the crook of Brad’s arm, tracing a line on his abs. He spoke, his hair muffled in my hair.
“That was incredible.” He kissed my head, then laid his head back on the table.
“Yeah. But it doesn’t help my current predicament.” I sighed, tucking my hand into his jeans, into the hardness and warmth there.
“It’s going to be okay, Julia.” His words were reassuring, his tone terrifying. It spoke of desperation and fight—as if he would somehow force the fate of my future. This shouldn’t be his fight, but I was powerless in it, an easy pawn that could be swiped off the game board without consequence. I said nothing, rolling over and hugging his hard body, wanting the strength it provided.
I needed a distraction, and Brad needed twenty-four hours to take care of whatever his cockeyed plan was. We argued, a discussion bordering on a serious fight, about his refusal to share his plan with me. It was an argument I lost, his face stern and unyielding. I was almost grateful. I didn’t know how much more information I could take. To be safe, we decided that I should stay in the house, out of sight. A ridiculous plan, but I didn’t have a better one. I called Becca, asking her to come by and hang out, promising mimosas if she would come and keep me company. I would have asked Olivia, but she would have sniffed out trouble before she even walked in the front door. Becca was a lot less observant.
She arrived thirty minutes later, her silver Mercedes convertible pumping out music loud enough to cause the closest blueblood to have a heart attack. Becca doesn’t leave the house unless she is perfectly coiffed, so I wasn’t surprised to see her trot up the front steps wearing designer jeans, four-inch heels and a sequined gold top. Martha answered the door with a grunt, and I stepped out of the kitchen and waved Becca in.
Seeing me, she squealed and jogged over for a hug, passing right by Martha’s death stare of a welcome.
“Look at you, you sexy thing!” she said, giving my just-had-sex-in outfit a once-over. Evading her judgment, I grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house. Martha called to me as I was rounding the bend of the hall.
“Don’t think I’m going to be waiting on you two!”
I paused midstep, jogging back to the kitchen and grabbing the carton of orange juice and two cups she held out. She pursed her lips at me, and I grinned, bounding back down the hall and catching up to Becca.
“She seems nice,” Becca said, nodding in the direction of Martha.
I grinned. “She is,” I said, shocked at my own response. Maybe it takes drama to bring two people closer. I ushered Becca into the den, checked out the wet bar and found a bottle of champagne. Popping the cork, I poured us both glasses and settled into a plush recliner. She examined the champagne, then stood with her glass, walking around the room. I took a generous sip and leaned back in the chair.