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I grab her hair, tug her head back and use my other hand to press against her throat. She moans into the kiss, and her tits rub against my chest, her nipples so taut they score my skin. I slide my hand down, over one breast, then lower, down to her pussy. I rub her clit, slip two fingers inside h
er, and she’s so fucking wet and hot.
Hell.
She lifts up, still kissing me, and seeks my cock. I pull my fingers out, guide my dick into her and I push inside in one slow, smooth thrust that has me groaning in her mouth.
Holy shit.
She rocks on me, and I roll my hips up, and we find a rhythm, her hands in my hair, my hands on her ass. Fast. Faster. Harder. Oh God.
It’s frantic. It’s near violent. It’s fucking perfect.
Is this distraction sex? Escapism sex? Get-better sex? I have no fucking clue, and right now I don’t care.
One moment I’m rocking her in my arms, the next she’s stroking my dick, and we’re tearing off each other’s clothes.
See? I don’t have a clue how girls’ minds work.
And then she digs her fingers into my scalp as she comes all over my cock, shaking and crying out my name.
Which of course triggers my own orgasm, and I slam into her again and again as I spill my seed inside her.
Fucking perfect.
***
After a long shower, and another round of mind-blowing sex, I leave Layla getting dressed and go in search of food. And no, I still haven’t told her what the detective said and what I decided.
I’m also looking for Raylin as I wander the house looking for the kitchen, but I don’t find neither her right away, nor the kitchen.
First I find Rook.
“Roderick,” I greet him because his given name annoys the hell out of him, and that amuses me. “What’s up?”
I guess the fact he’s drinking scotch at eight o’clock in the fucking morning isn’t such a good sign, but I ignore that and grab the jug of orange juice sitting on the table. I pour myself a glass, down it, and pour another.
Two rounds of sex and I feel drained. This week really took a lot out of me, though I bet the moment I see Layla I’ll be ready to go again.
Damn, that girl.
My girl.
Grinning like the wolf that got Red Riding Hood, I sit next to Rook and elbow him in the ribs. “I said, what’s up? Bad scotch?”
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Rook rumbles and scratches at his budding beard. “You got some and turned up the obnoxious, huh?”
“Hey.” I shrug one shoulder. “Can’t beat good sex in the morning for a pick-me-up. You should try it some time. Oh. Oh! I see why you’re so fucking grumpy. It’s because you haven’t gotten any in the past few years. Wanting a girl who doesn’t want you isn’t smart, man.”
“Did I ask for your opinion, junior?” Rook sends me a death glare. “No, I didn’t. Yet there you are, giving it again. Save it, Hawk, and drink your fruit juice like a good boy.”
Sighing, I put the glass down. “So what did you do with the detective? Lock him up in a closet somewhere until we have our own private talk?”
“Something like that.”
“Be sure to feed him.” And a shiver courses through me, because, fuck, bad joke. It brings back images from the basement, and my stomach twists around the sourness of the juice.
“Don’t concern yourself with that.” Rook pours himself another scotch. “Don’t concern yourself with any of it. I’ve got this.”
