The pretend fiance fiasc.., p.18
The Pretend Fiancé Fiasco (Copper Valley Bro Code Book 6), page 18
“I’m making you nervous.”
“Life makes me nervous today.”
“I’ll go—”
“No.”
She sucks in an audible breath, and I hear her teeth chatter again.
My heart squeezes.
I hate that she’s afraid.
I hate that it’s my fault she’s afraid.
That I can’t fully and completely protect her from what’s out there.
“I’ll quit talking,” she whispers.
Fuck this.
Fuck all of this.
She’s scared, but she doesn’t have to feel alone too.
She’s not alone.
I’m here.
I slide one arm under her pillow, the other around her back, and I tug her against me. “You’re safe,” I murmur.
Her breath rattles out of her, and she loops an arm around my waist and scoots closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Until she freezes as her hip connects with my raging boner.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
I stay still as I can make myself while my heart’s still beating, waiting for her to relax.
But she doesn’t relax.
And my heart doesn’t slow.
It speeds up.
It launches faster when she lifts her head to look at me.
And when she whispers, “Thank you for trusting me,” it hits the stratosphere.
I can’t do this.
I cannot lie here with her, holding her, my cock against her body, and not kiss her.
And so that’s exactly what I do.
16
Sloane
Oh my god, I miss kissing.
And this—this kiss—with no one watching, in the dark, my hands itching to stroke his thick, hard, unexpectedly large erection—it’s everything I need.
Want.
Everything I want.
I don’t need kissing.
I just want it.
With Davis.
His beard tickling my mouth. His lips suckling mine. His hand curling into my hair.
His hard-on getting harder as I roll to line up our bodies, kissing him back.
He smells stronger of campfire and pine, and he tastes like tequila, and when his tongue touches mine, it takes everything in me to not moan.
Cannot moan.
Absolutely cannot.
This isn’t about moaning.
It’s about—
Actually, I don’t know what it’s about.
Do I care?
He adjusts his grip on my hair, massaging my scalp and curling harder into my locks, and nope.
Don’t care.
I hug him harder around the waist, pulling him closer while his breath goes ragged. “Sloane—”
“Practice,” I gasp. “Sell it. Wedding. Practice.”
At least, I think that’s what I say.
Whatever it is that actually comes out of my mouth convinces him that kissing is good.
Kissing is right.
Kissing is necessary.
He rolls so he’s mostly on top of me, freeing my other arm to wrap around him too while our lips and tongues clash in my favorite dance of all humanity.
His leg slides against mine, parting my thighs.
I find the hemline of his T-shirt and slide my hand under it, tracing along hot, smooth skin.
I wonder if he has tattoos all over his back like he does on his arms.
If I’ll get to see them.
Study them.
His arms are fascinating. Some people get intricate patterns. Davis has things, all woven together like a puzzle. A basketball. A guitar. A turtle. A volcano.
I’m kissing the ultimate man of mystery, and on Saturday, I get to marry him.
For pretend.
This is fake. Imaginary.
I slide my other hand under his shirt too, and he angles his mouth harder against mine, then shifts his hand from my hair to my neck, fingertips barely brushing my sensitive skin, making me gasp.
His fingers drift lower, over my collarbone, and my vagina clenches.
Touch my breasts. Touch my breasts. Touch my breasts.
“Tell me to stop,” he says against my lips.
“Nuh-uh.”
The light’s dim, but I swear he smiles.
Davis.
Mr. Straight Face.
Smiling while he’s kissing me.
While he’s—
Oh my god.
I arch into his hand as he scrapes his fingers down my breast.
His breath catches and his hand stills, barely touching my pebbled nipple.
Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.
I squeeze my eyes shut and push my breast harder into his hand, arching my back as far as it will go, but he stays completely still.
Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.
“Please—touch me. I miss—touching.”
God, I do.
I miss kissing. Touching. Sex.
Physical intimacy.
He studies me briefly, and then he’s in motion. Smooth, controlled, easy motion.
Sliding down my body.
Pushing my shirt up.
Lowering his mouth to my chest.
His beard tickling my breast.
His tongue swirling around the tight bud of my nipple.
I gasp as he sucks, the sensation rocketing a jolt of pleasure straight to my clit. My hips reflexively pump against his leg, and he sucks harder on my nipple.
“Oh god, yes,” I whimper.
Shouldn’t be doing this.
We shouldn’t.
But how can something that feels so right be wrong?
He shifts his mouth to my other breast while he rubs my wet nipple with his thumb, and I almost jerk off the bed at the sensations ruling my body.
I’m not in control of my hands as I grip his hair, long and soft and perfect, while I hold his head to my breast and my hips jerk against his leg. Swear his hard-on has doubled in size, and that’s making me hot and wet too.
“I want—” I gasp, but the lingering guilt and shame stop me from saying it out loud.
I want to have sex.
With Davis.
Now.
Here.
Go all the way.
Lick his tattoos. Grab his ass while he’s balls-deep inside me.
Do all of the things that I know I can do.
That I should not be ashamed of.
“What do you want, Sloane?” he says softly, rubbing his beard over my bare breast while he watches me.
I feel so exposed, and it’s not because he’s eye level with my nipples.
“I want to shut my brain off and just be.”
“Here?” He thumbs my nipple again.
“Yes.”
“Here?” He licks me low between my breasts.
“Yes.”
“Here?” He presses a line of kisses down, and down, and down, until his mouth hovers over my belly button. His body is pushing my legs wider apart, and I can’t feel his erection anymore.
My pulse beats in my vagina, the steady drum making my clit ache to be touched too.
“Lower,” I breathe out. “Just—just touch me. Please. Or I can do it. I just want—make my—make my brain be quiet.”
“Show me.”
“Show you?”
“Show me how you like to touch yourself.”
My belly dips and my toes curl.
I enjoy sex, but I’ve always done it in the dark. No peeking.
Ridiculous, right? I’m a nurse. I know naked bodies are natural.
Except there will always be that little voice in the back of my head telling me it’s shameful to enjoy myself with a man.
“That’s…hard.”
He kisses my belly button again. “Why?”
I huff out a breath and stare up at the ceiling. Not enough light to see if there are any cracks in here. “Years of being lectured about being a good girl.”
“You are a good girl, Sloane. And good girls get to be happy.”
“It feels like—”
I’m lying here, in the dark, my pussy hot and bothered, my breasts heavy and aching, a sexy bad boy between my legs, hard for me, and I’m ruining the mood.
He brushes his thumb over my hip, just above my panties. “It feels like what?”
“Like Patrick breaking into my house was my punishment for lying to my grandmother about you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Why am I like this?
Why do I say the wrong thing at the wrong time?
Why can’t I just enjoy a good thing?
He’s not saying anything.
Just lying there.
Probably watching me.
Thinking I have issues.
“Never mind. Forget I said that. I—”
“Sloane.”
“What?”
“Having met your grandmother, the only thing I can feel about you telling her I was your boyfriend is honored. You should’ve picked someone hotter.”
I lift my head and stare at him.
Even in the dim light, I can tell he’s not smiling.
Not joking.
Not digging for compliments.
“Are you for real right now?”
“Yes.”
I snort. “There is no one hotter.”
And then I hear what I just said, and my entire body flushes.
“I—I don’t date,” I stammer. “I can recognize that some men—like you—are hot and still not want to date anyone.”
His teeth flash.
He’s smiling now.
“Good. Show me how you like to touch yourself.”
My heart pounds, and my panties get wetter. “Now?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“With or without my underwear?”
“However you like it.”
Fuck the voices shaming me in my head.
I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
Or never.
I pull one leg up and reach between my thighs. He shifts to give me room, his eyes following my hand.
“I don’t usually—use—just my fingers,” I whisper as I stroke myself lightly over my soaked panties.
He knows. He saw.
My entire collection of personal satisfaction tools was scattered across my room.
My bedroom flashes in my mind, everything wrecked and tossed, and I shiver again.
Davis’s voice penetrates the memory. “What do you use?”
Never. Ever. Ever, in the history of me dating, has a man asked me what adult toy I use to masturbate.
Probably because of how I pick—picked men.
I slip my finger under my panties and stroke the slick skin, up to my clit. “Depends—on my mood.”
“What are you in the mood for now?”
You.
Not letting that one slip.
Not a chance.
But the question makes my vagina ache harder.
So does the timbre of his voice in the darkness. “Is your own hand enough, or would you like assistance?”
I shiver again, but this is pure hormones.
Have I ever been this turned on in my life?
I don’t think so.
And every time he speaks, I get wound a little tighter.
“I—would love—assistance.”
“How?”
I tickle my clit and look up at the ceiling, my breath coming fast. “Take—my panties—off.”
“Like this?” He hooks a thumb under my waistband and tugs gently, and I instinctively lift my hips.
“Yes.”
He bends over my pelvis and kisses my hip bone as he exposes it to the air. “And this?”
“Yes.”
There’s a shuffling on the bed, and then he tugs down the other side of my panties, kissing my other hip bone as he peels my underwear away. “And this?”
“Yes.”
He slides the first side down more, and kisses the side of my ass, then does the same on the other side. “You smell delicious.”
“Please just tear them off.” I bend my legs again, helping with the process, and I only shiver a little as Davis pushes one of my legs to the side so he can settle between my thighs again, looking straight at my pussy.
I’m very exposed.
Very exposed.
And that little part of me that wants to shame me for showing a man who’s not my husband my most private parts can fuck off.
Because I’ve also never felt more safe in my life.
“Show me again,” he says.
“Give me your hand.”
He slides it up my thigh. “All yours.”
Like his body, his hand and fingers are long and lean. I guide it to the slick, swollen skin nestled in my pubic hair, and I stroke his hand up my pussy until my breath catches as his knuckle hits my clit.
“There,” I breathe out. “Tease me there.”
He flicks my clit, and all of my breath leaves my lungs as my hips leave the bed.
“So there,” he murmurs.
Very studious.
Very serious.
He flicks my clit again.
“There,” I gasp in agreement.
“Thank you. It’s been a while. I needed a refresher.”
His fingers stroke down the seam of my vulva, almost to my asshole, then back up again.
My legs fall open wider, and I arch into his touch, my eyes crossing when he teases my clit, then strokes me up and down again.
“May I try something?” he asks while he plays with all of my lady bits.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to know what it is?”
“Trust—you.”
He lifts his gaze to my face, nods once, and then shifts on the bed again.
Until his face is between my thighs.
He licks my pussy, and once again, my hips shoot off the mattress. “Oh my god.”
“Good or bad?” he murmurs against my clit.
“Good.”
“A little good, or a lot good?”
“Do it again.”
My fingers tangle in his hair again as he obeys orders, licking all the way up my pussy until he gets to my clit.
He flicks his tongue.
I grip his hair harder while my hips pump against his face.
He stops asking questions.
Good thing.
I don’t even know what words are right now.
Just know the heavy, tight sensation coiling hard and fast low in my belly. The tickle of his beard between my thighs, the rub of his mustache against my clit as he explores every inch of my pussy with his mouth, the slow, studious licks and sucks getting faster and faster as he uses his mouth and his hands on my thighs to urge me closer and closer.
I think I’m whimpering.
I want to orgasm and I don’t want this to stop.
But if I come, then it stops.
My hips buck harder. I can’t catch my breath.
And then I’m coming with a scream as everything inside me breaks free.
Shame floats away on the wind.
Modesty flies with it.
My legs go straight.
My toes curl again.
My eyelids squeeze shut.
My hands ball into fists and I’m likely pulling out some of his hair.
I’m coming so hard, my inner walls clamping fast and tight, over and over, ecstasy pulsing between my thighs.
He makes a soft rumble of appreciation while I come all over his bearded face.
The kind of sound you make when you take the first bite of the most delicious chocolate caramel dessert you’ve ever had in your life.
That’s what Davis sounds like.
Like I’m the best chocolate caramel dessert he’s ever had in his mouth.
Like my pleasure is his pleasure.
My eyes flood with heat.
It’s been longer than since my last boyfriend that I felt this cared for.
My body slowly comes back to earth and melts into a puddle of boneless satisfaction.
Davis props his chin on my lower belly, and when I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me.
What do you say in a moment like this?
Thank you?
That seems insufficient.
But as my body melts, my brain is melting too.
My breath slowing.
My eyelids drooping.
Crap. Crap crap crap.
I masturbate to fall asleep.
I’ve trained myself for this.
A hint of a smile touches his lips.
I think.
Everything’s getting blurry.
“Sleep tight, Sloane. You’re safe here.”
Did he drug my orgasm?
Wait.
That’s not possible.
Is it?
I don’t answer myself.
Because I’m doing what I’ve trained myself to do, and I’m falling fast, fast asleep.
17
Davis
Sunlight is peeking through the metal blinds on the small windows in the bedroom of my camper when I pull myself out of a deep slumber.
There’s cold, wet drool on my arm and the scent of cinnamon tickling my nose.
Cinnamon.
Sloane smells like cinnamon, but more.
Like a chai latte.
And she’s clinging to my arm, her mouth gaping open as she snores softly, her copper red hair curled in every direction but tame.
She snorts once, opens her eyes, and stares at me, but doesn’t seem to see me, and blurts, “The map is a lie.”
Her eyes close, she lets out the heaviest of heavy sighs, and burrows harder against my arm.
She’s fucking gorgeous, and I have a boner the size of a hundred-year-old blue spruce.
It’s been with me since I fucked up and touched her last night, then couldn’t stop touching her.
My balls feel like they’ve been used as a punching bag. If my cock doesn’t cool it, I’m gonna have to call a doctor.
Not good.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I can control this.
I can work through this.
I’ve done it before. I will do it again.
Yep.
I’ll feast on her pussy without getting any relief of my own again if that’s what it takes to put her to sleep.
No.
No.
I’ll get over the boner. That’s what I meant.
This is a false situation that’s making me feel attracted to her because I’m still a biological, heterosexual male whose body doesn’t always agree that the best course for my life is being single forever.
