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He responded with a chuckle and a stinging slap to my behind. “Funny, sweetheart. Very funny.”
Then neither of us was laughing. His hand covered mine on his erection, and he gave a few quick, savage pumps. My fingers slicked against the smooth flesh as a thick drop of moisture pearled at the tip.
My heart rate was rocketing. We weren’t even officially naked yet and I could barely catch my breath.
“We’ve got all night, sweetheart. But this first time’s gonna be fast and hard,” he warned. “We’ll circle back to foreplay after.”
We took turns stripping each other of our clothing before resuming our position. Vonn produced a condom and rolled it down his swollen length, gritting his teeth at the sensation. Then he gripped me by the hips and lowered me until the broad head of his penis was just parting my opening.
I was slick with need. Aching to be taken. I shifted and hissed out a breath as the first two inches breached me.
“Damn it, baby,” he whispered. “Fuck.” His fingers tightened their grip on my hips, and he yanked me the rest of the way down as he gave one vicious upthrust.
The intensity of his invasion made me dizzy. Stretched. Full. Overwhelmed. The pleasure laced with just a sliver of pain from his size. I was reclining against his thighs, my knees pressing into his shoulders.
It was beautiful.
We were beautiful.
Moving together. Working together. Partners worshiping each other. Vonn’s cool blue eyes burned with a fire and never left me.
“So fucking beautiful, Brooke,” he whispered.
Bringing my hands to his shoulders, I shifted forward, wincing at the change in angle that granted him an even deeper access.
“So are you,” I whispered. My teeth grazed his neck as my hips rolled against him.
He wrapped his arms around me and held on tight. Thrusting into me fast and hard. The sounds of our flesh sliding and slapping a sinful new soundtrack to the winter night.
I felt it building, felt the first flutters of my inner walls.
“Christ. That’s right, baby. I can feel you getting ready to let go,” he groaned against me and then his teeth sank into my shoulder. “Show me how hard my dick makes you come.”
The bite coupled with the demand left me no choice but to do as he ordered.
One second, I was Brooke Zimmerman, middle-aged empty nester. The next, I was a sex goddess hurtling into an orgasm so violent I worried I might die.
My vision grayed as the waves of pleasure pounded me mercilessly. I felt my inner walls clamp down hard on his straining erection as my thighs quivered and my head spun.
“Vonn!”
He was turning me inside out. Tearing me apart and reassembling me into something new.
His triumphant shout rang in my ears as he thrust once more into my still convulsing core. I felt the devastating pulse of his orgasm as he emptied himself inside me.
“Best Christmas ever,” I whispered.
“Damn right,” Vonn agreed.
It was officially Christmas morning. The dark hours of it anyway. The power had come back on at some point, and we were tangled up together in my bed. Fingers trailing over new skin, lips exploring uncharted territory. We’d put a more than respectable dent into the box of condoms Addison had hilariously given me along with a lecture on safe sex when I’d started dating again.
Vonn’s body was warm and hard, full of unexpected pleasures.
His fingers brushed my tattoo, a musical note on the inside of my right hip.
I felt…wonderful. Lit up from the inside. Loose and warm and ridiculously happy.
He threaded his fingers through my hair, separating the strands and letting them fall. “Why didn’t you ask about him?” His voice was a rumble in his chest against my ear.
“Who?”
“Tommy.”
I shifted to look at him. Tommy Kwik had been the original front man for Sonic Arcade. A punk icon whose tragic death had rocked fans. Vonn and Tommy hadn’t just founded Sonic Arcade, they’d been best friends.
Vonn had driven Tommy to his last stint in rehab. He’d been best man in all three of the lead singer’s weddings. They’d written all of the band’s songs together.
And by all accounts, it had been Vonn to find his best friend’s body in a hotel room in Miami after Tommy had overdosed two years ago.
He’d never once discussed it publicly. Never once talked about what had happened that night. Which had led a rabid public to devour and manufacture a steady diet of rumors and half-truths. The desire to know exactly what had happened to the beloved singer still gripped the music industry.
I remembered the footage of a grieving Vonn leaving Tommy’s funeral. The flashes from cameras, the shouted questions. A disrespectful trespass into territory where none of them had belonged.
I hadn’t asked him. Not because I didn’t want to know. I, like the rest of the public, was driven mad by the unanswered questions. But I didn’t want him to tell me. I didn’t want to make the call whether to keep the secret or to share it with the world.
