I smiled a satisfied grin as I rested my forehead against his collarbone and laughed. “Want me to take them off?”
“Fuck, no,” he replied swiftly. “Not yet.”
Then he lowered himself to the wood floor, helping work the tight denim down my thighs before flinging my jeans somewhere over his shoulder into the living room.
I smiled down at him, thinking how good he looked on his knees for me. I gave in to the urge to run my fingers through his messy hair. As I sifted through the surprisingly soft strands, I was rewarded with a quiet moan as Brady leaned into my touch.
Rough palms smoothed over my backside, kneading and stroking. Then he rested his forehead against my stomach and groaned, the sound muffled by my skin. “This ass. Jesus.”
It turned out that Brady Judd was good for the ego because I had never felt so comfortable (mostly) naked in my whole life.
I’d never felt other things too ... so cherished and cared for and completely overwhelmed. I was turned on again and ready for more, which was also new. I’d never come twice with a partner before; usually I was too sensitive to bother trying, or the guy was more worried about his own turn.
Something told me Brady wasn’t thinking about himself right now.
True to his word, he rose to his feet and lifted me onto the counter and ate my pussy like a starving man. There was no slow, careful seduction or playful teasing touches this time around. He pulled my underwear to the side and feasted, with eager lips and teeth and tongue.
If I was a less confident person, I might have been embarrassed by the sounds I made or how wet Brady’s chin was. If I hadn’t been so lost to the pleasure he drew out of me, I might have also been self-conscious about the way I’d gripped his hair in my fist and then shouted my release for God, Brady, and his neighbors two doors down to hear. But I didn’t care.
When Brady helped me off the counter, he steadied my boneless legs, and I draped my arms around his shoulders, smiling the dopey, satiated smile of the recently well serviced.
“Want me to carry you to bed, Macklemore?”
“Yes,” I murmured and then squealed when he bent low and threw me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
“Brady!” I clung to his hips as he sauntered down the dark hallway.
He smacked my ass, and I yelped out a surprised laugh.
Brady set me down on a plush rug in the middle of a tidy bedroom. He steadied me until I had my feet under me, then stayed close.
The room was dim but not dark. There was light coming from the attached bathroom, and I could see well enough to make out Brady’s features. I could have seen the specifics of the furniture or the décor as well, but I was too distracted—too aware of the man in front of me.
With efficient movements, he started unfastening his flannel. I went to work on his belt and button-fly jeans. It wasn’t an elegant striptease by any means. We were both too anxious for what came next. But when I pushed his pants and underwear down his lean hips, I paused to take him in. I’d felt his size a couple of times—the morning we woke up together in the shed at Grandpappy’s and then earlier in the kitchen—and he didn’t let me down now.
I managed to get his clothes the rest of the way off, along with my thong.
Then I wrapped my hand around his hard length, and he made a rough sound in the back of his throat. It reminded me of that first kiss in the front seat of his truck. His eyes closed tight as I pumped up and down in a slow, steady rhythm.
Brady balanced himself with his hands on my waist, and I watched as a pained expression moved over his features. Then words poured out of his mouth in a rush. “When we wake up in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast. Pancakes. Stuffed French toast. Bacon. Whatever you want.”
I paused my movements, feeling amusement bubble up inside my chest. His eyes popped open as he regarded me solemnly.
“Brady, you’re a twenty-eight-year-old man, and you have me naked in your bedroom. You want to talk about cooking breakfast and staying over to cuddle?”
He frowned. “You have a tragic view of masculinity.”
I squeezed his very prevalent masculinity and made to resume my teasing motion, but Brady stopped me with a gentle touch on my wrist. “I have you for one night.”
“One time,” I corrected. Why was he bringing this up? I hadn’t even been able to judge the thread count of his sheets yet, and he wanted to talk aboutafter.
“One night,” he insisted. “You said so yourself.” His hand journeyed from my waist around to my ass where he gave a firm squeeze. Then he leaned his tallframe down and placed hot, wet kisses along my jaw. “You’re so worried about getting this—getting me—out of your system.”
His tongue grazed the sensitive skin below my ear, and I shuddered.
Voice soft and measured, he said between kisses, “But I’m only thinking about getting under your skin and staying there.”
I swallowed hard, struggling to focus on his words. “This feels like a conversation we should be having when you aren’t doing that with your tongue.”
