Page 39 of Grouch-ish

“The coffee machine is on.”

He doesn’t move. His eyes still focused on me. “You should really shower.”

“I’m slowly warming up right here,” I tell him, happy with my position before the fireplace. A blanket covers my lap. My hands are heating from holding the warm mug. The feeling in my cheeks is returning.

When Brock moves, I expect him to head for the kitchen and coffee. Instead, he walks toward me and folds down behind me. With his legs spread on either side of me, his hand comes to my back and the heat of his palm seeps through my sweater.

I shiver beneath his touch. Then I feel the hem of my sweater lifting and I turn my head only enough to glance over my shoulder. Preparing to question him when my lower back is exposed, I fall short of speaking when his warm fingertips tickle my skin. Deepening the pressure, he rubs upward underneath my sweater.

I straighten my spine and tremble again. A hum that cannot be helped escapes.

With that, Brock flattens his palm against my spine, lowering it before slipping around my side and skating over my belly. His fingers are warm, but his forearm is hot, like a heated log pressed against my middle. Leaning backward into his chest, I melt.

“I’m sorry you were cold.” His voice is quiet near my ear. His breath is as warm as other parts of him and tickles my neck.

“It’s winter,” I remind him.

“But you stayed out there for me.”

“I told you I was having fun.” My voice is equally as quiet as his, the crackling of the fire the only sound as the television flickers above the mantel but remains muted.

“No. You stayed to help me. Every day you’ve been helping me.”

“I didn’t help with the fence.”

Brock shakes his head and his jaw brushes against my ear, the bristle of his facial hair soft and tickling once more. With his forearm against my belly and his hand squeezing at my side, I nestle my back further into the warmth of his chest. He’s like my personal heating blanket.

When his mouth lands on my neck, I still for a second and Brock’s hold around me stiffens. But he must sense the moment I relax, or maybe it’s that the next kiss has me melting once more. He isn’t as enthusiastic as he was the other day when his mouth openly sucked at my flesh. This kiss is soft, delicate, peppering and sweet.

When I tilt my head, exposing more of my neck, the kisses turn more insistent. His mouth opens, hungrier. His teeth scrape, the pressure harder. His tongue feathers over my flesh.

I snap and twist in his arms so my shoulder leans against his chest and I can face him. Our eyes don’t meet. Our mouths do instead. While the first kiss might be a test, a reminder of the other night standing outside beneath the moonlight, within seconds our mouths are moving faster, the tension building stronger.

Kissing Brock Scroggs is an experience. One I’m not likely to ever forget.

The arm once wrapped around my belly, now reaches around my back and his palm holds me firmly in place against him. I slip my hand underneath his shirt, my fingertips instantly sizzling at the contact with his abs.

“You’re a furnace,” I mutter into his mouth.

He only smiles before deepening our kiss. Tugging on my lower lip. Licking at the corner of my mouth. Nipping at my chin. He moves along my jaw and down my neck before palming my chin in one hand and drawing my mouth back to his.

My fingertips dig into his stomach muscles which flinch underneath my attention. My hands are my eyes, feeling my way over ripples and dips. My fingers brush along a trail of hair below his belly button.

Brock sucks in a breath before turning up the temperature on our kisses. Tongues clash. Teeth gnash. But our connection isn’t a battle. The only fight we encounter is to stay connected.

I shift once more, tossing off the blanket over my legs and rotating to my knees before straddling his lap. All the while our mouths never leave one another’s until I settle over his thighs and press the gap between my thighs against the hard wedge in his loose-fitting joggers.

We groan in unison. With an arm wrapped around his neck and my hand in his hair at the top of his head, I roll my hips against him. His hand slides up my back inside my sweater, and clutches at the back of my neck. His other hand cups my ass, tugging me tighter against him.

We moan once more as my hot core hits his steel length.

Then, I’m suddenly off him and he is standing, pacing a few steps away from me.

Staring at his back, I’m shocked by his sudden retreat. Breathlessly, I watch him move like a caged polar bear.

“Did I do something wrong?” My reaction strikes from old insincerities.

Brock swipes a hand through his hair, before holding his palm against the back of his neck a second as his other arm moves, adjusting himself in the front.