Then I’m on my side, my leg lifted over his hip, and he’s driving into me, faster and faster, the headboard slamming loudly against the wall. Sweat drips off his body and onto mine, and the room fills with the thick smell of sex and the intoxicating sounds of my greedy moans and his grunts and his dirty mouth as he fucks me into oblivion. When I come, I’m a dam unleashed, and I’m screaming his name, letting everything go. Every fear, every thought, every darkened part of me. I’m liquid bliss and sunshine and every star in the universe.
“Bloody hell,” he swears a few moments later, rolling onto his back. “You weren’t kidding earlier. I’m pretty sure Horny Natasha might be the death of me.”
I give him a lazy smile. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s not.” He gets off the bed, peeling off the condom, and I make a mental note to go to the doctor and get on birth control as soon as I can. The other night at his parents’ house was too risky. “And now I’m fucking starving. How about I heat us up some pies?”
“Post-sex beer and pie,” I say with a sigh, spreading out on the bed and stretching my limbs. “Pretty sure there’s nothing better.”
“Who said anything about beer?” Brigs says, even though I know he’s joking. It’s pretty much become a ritual for us, eating pie and drinking beer, naked in his kitchen.
I hear him go into the other room and start rustling around, turning on the oven. I lie on the bed, the orgasm glow pulling me into a soft sleep. But once I hear the beer caps pop off, I drag myself off the bed and join him.
He hands me a beer, and we clink the bottles together, grinning at each other. It still blows my fucking mind that this is my life now, that this man, this gorgeous, special man can stand in front of me totally nude and I can do the same with him, and we can fuck and we can eat and we can love and we can just be.
“How long is the pie going to be?” I ask. Brigs’ oven is notoriously slow and I possess little patience when it comes to food. My ass is proof of that.
“Ten minutes, promise,” he says.
There’s a knock at the door suddenly, scaring the crap out of both of us. Winter starts barking.
“Fuck,” he says, quickly heading to the bathroom to grab a robe. Since I’m buck naked, I go into the bedroom, hauling Winter in there to shut him up. I close the door and slip on my jeans and his T-shirt, my cheeks going red as I think it could be a damn noise complaint. I was screaming pretty loud as I came, and that headboard was making a racket of its own.
I open the door a crack and poke my head out. Brigs is peering through the peephole.
“Who is it?” I hiss. “Are we going to get in trouble for being too loud?”
“I hope not,” he says, hand on the knob. “I can’t really see, looks like maybe the girl down the hall…”
He opens it and I duck my head back into the bedroom, shutting the door.
“Where is she?” I hear a familiar voice seething from outside. “Where is Natasha?”
Oh my fucking god! It’s Melissa!
What the fucking fuck? I feel myself flattening against the wall, holding my breath. What the hell is she doing here?!
“Melissa,” Brigs says. “What are you doing here? How do you know where I live?”
“I followed you from Hyde Park,” she snarls, her voice carrying into the room. “I was watching you. I know, I know everything about you.” She yells, “Natasha, you come out here!”
Jesus. I’m trembling, trying to catch my breath.
“Melissa, you need to leave right now,” Brigs says, raising his voice. “You have no business being here.”
“Natasha!” she yells, and I know if I don’t go out there, if I don’t show myself, she’ll cause a scene.
I straighten my shoulders and remind myself that she’s the one being absolutely fucking crazy. She followed us here? What the hell is happening?
“It’s okay, Brigs,” I say, stepping out of the bedroom and into the hall. I close the door behind me and stand there, folding my arms across my chest.
Melissa is halfway inside the door. Brigs has a firm hold on it, trying to shut it on her, and he turns his head to look at me. I meet his eyes and give him the nod to let her in.
He opens the front door wider and she barges inside, hustling right over to me, her eyes flashing.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she cries out, pointing at him while she stares at me. “How long have you been lying to me?”
“Why are you following me?” I question in return.
“Because I know you’re a fucking liar, that’s why,” she sneers, waving her arms about. “There is no Bradley in the art history masters. I checked.”