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His forehead scrunches hard. “I don’t even know what the hell that means!”
“Exactly!” I sling more mud at him. “You don’t know what it’s like to be flawed. Flawed to your core. Flawed right down to your DNA. Because you’re a Westbrook. You’re perfect, Davis. And I’m…not.”
We argue and we scream and we sling mud at each other with every verbal blow. I’m a mess, and he’s a mess, and soon, I can’t tell if I’m about to laugh or cry or explode into a hysterical fit of rage. Judging by the ballooning bubble in my chest, I’m thinking it’s a little of all three.
What the hell is wrong with us?
I’m about to slap another handful of mud onto Davis’s chest, when suddenly, he’s on me. He steps forward and practically slams me up against a tree.
His strong chest traps me in place.
His warm breath flutters over my lips.
His rigid cock…jumps.
I’m suddenlyreally, reallyaware of how close he is. He’sreally, reallyclose.
His lips are parted, his brows are furrowed, his eyes are focused.
I recognize that face.
Davis’s pre-sex face.
And judging by the look he’s giving me as he frowns down at me, I’m willing to bet I’m wearing my pre-sex face, too. That’s what he used to always call it, in those quiet moments before we’d make love. He’d say that my cheeks would turn red. That my eyes would grow all big and shiny.That my…
Shit.
I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. His muddy hands tangle into my hair and I suck in a surprised breath as he crashes his mouth to mine, his strong hands holding my head in place.
I moan, succumbing to the kiss. My arms go around him and my fingernails claw at his back through his soaked T-shirt as I struggle to stay upright on my wobbly knees. He kisses me deeply, roughly palming one breast and then the next.
“You’re driving me crazy, Alana.” Davis reaches between us. He yanks on the drawstring of my sweatpants and the knot comes apart in his hand.
That simple action has my common sense coming apart at the seams. “God—just fuck me, Davis.” I shove my hand down the front of his pants and my fingers clasp his rock solid cock, trailing down the length.
He hisses against my lips and without a moment of hesitation, he’s wrestling my soaked pants and underwear down my legs. I wriggle my hips like a crazy hula doll, helping him get my clothes out of the way. Then he flings my sweats somewhere I’ll probably never find them. I don’t care.
My shaky, muddy fingers are undoing the button of his jeans and pushing the heavy, wet fabric to the ground.
We’re both so aggressive. So desperate.
Davis wastes no time stomping out of his boots and discarding his jeans on the ground. His proud cock bobs free, pointing upward, and—oh my god—it’s even bigger and longer than I remember. Tall and thick and throbbing between us. So smooth and so beautiful. Precum spills from the tip, coating the bulbous head in a layer of sheen I’m tempted to bend forward and lick off.
Objections try to enter my head. Justifications for why this is a bad idea. But I shut it all down. When Davis is sucking his way down my throat like he is right now, the last thing I’m interested in is logic and reason. I just want to feel.
Cupping my breast, he lowers his head and greedily pulls my pebbled nipple into his mouth, tank top and all. I gasp, feeling my eyes roll back into my head.
“Fucking hell,” Davis grumbles hotly against my chest. Then his lips shift to my other nipple, sucking and tugging on the fabric with his lips.
His hands travel down my back. He grasps my ass cheeks in his hungry palms, those strong arms effortlessly hoisting me up over the head of his ready erection. His crown is right there, nestled at the gates of my dripping entrance.
Four years, I’ve wanted him this way, I’ve missed him this way, I’ve needed him this way. My pussy is so fucking wet and slick. So ready. He’ll slide right inside me. My opening will suck him right in. God—I don’t know if I can wait.
“I don’t have a condom,” he whispers against my neck.
I bring our lips together and slide my tongue against his. “I don’t fucking care.” I lock my ankles around his back, ready to hold him captive if I have to. Because I’m not letting him change his mind.
Who the hell have I become in this moment? Where have my inhibitions run off to?
