Then he leans up and kisses me again, deep and firm, and his hand cups my sex, hot and firm. Before I can even try to form words to ask him, he’s slid a finger inside.
He draws back, kissing my nose. “Is that all right?”
“Yes. Yes.” It’s more than all right. It’s exactly what I need. “I want you inside me.”
“Wait,” he says.
I wonder what exactly I’m waiting for, but he seems to have a plan. He strokes inside me with one finger, then two, and after a minute or two, he shifts his body down again and adds his tongue.
God. I’m hypersensitive here, too, whether because of the aftereffects of the pregnancy or just because it’s been so long since he’s touched me. The second his tongue brushes my clit, I explode.
The orgasm is hard, long, and intense. Almost painful, with aching pulses between my legs. I let out a ragged half scream, and Nick’s tongue strokes up then presses inside, the movements slow and languid.
I’m still pulsing inside when he draws his fingers out and gives me one long lick. He reaches to one side and I hear a drawer open. He’s retrieving a condom.
My breathing is ragged and harsh. “You don’t have to,” I manage.
He shakes his head, tearing open the package. “No. I don’t want you pregnant again until you’re damn good and ready.”
“It’s not as likely while I’m nursing.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He draws the condom from the packet and gives it to me. “Here.”
I take it. For a moment I consider not putting it on him, but then I lower my hand and roll the thin latex over his hard, hot length. I like having him in my hand, feeling him twitch, feeling the soft pulse of the big veins on his shaft. I think about his words—until I’m damn good and ready—and smile a little to myself.
So much has changed between us. We’re not the same people we were when we met on the dance floor. It seems like a lifetime ago. Then, I was a frightened rabbit running from the big bad wolf, and he was just a slightly less bad wolf. Now I’m a successful businesswoman, a wife, and a mother. As strangely as it all started, as unlikely as it seemed that any happiness could come out of our original agreement, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
I guide Nick’s sheathed cock down between my thighs and let him slide inside me. It’s a slow glide; he’s careful, as if he’s afraid he might hurt me. It feels strange at first—like he’s bigger, or like I’m still a little raw inside. The slight friction of the condom is different from how it’s been before, but I like the way it feels. More, I like what it means; he’s looking out for me, taking care of me. And after a few careful strokes, I’m filling up with need again, and even the new sensations flow into sheer desire.
I climax again with him deep inside me, and a few moments later, he pulses inside me. I kiss his mouth, tasting myself on his lips, and he pulls me tight against him. As the waves of orgasm ease away, he whispers against my lips, “I love you.”
I couldn’t ask for anything more.
# # #
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Filthy (A Bad Boy Romance)
CHAPTER ONE
Cain
The club stinks. It’s not that stale-beer, old-puke-with-a-side-of-piss smell you get in a regular bar either. No, this is a classy joint. Maybe not the best neighborhood in Los Angeles, but probably one of the top five. And it’s as classy as you can get with mob money rolling in hand over fist, which is to say, pretty damn classy. So it’s another kind of stink. It’s fresh blood and raw testosterone.
Most of it’s coming from me.
I still ache everywhere. The adrenaline’s still buzzing in my ears, and after the intensity in the fighting ring I think my dick would be rock hard even if I wasn’t here looking for a fuck. The ring’ll do that to you. It’s like your whole body revs, figuring you’ll be dead soon.
Which, frankly, I probably will be, after tonight’s performance. I fucked up. I know I fucked up. But I’m not mad at myself. I’m mad at my fucking boss. And I’m done.
I head for the long wooden bar at the back of the main room. It’s quality wood—oak, I think. Smooth, made by somebody who loved the work. It looks almost out of place, with the rest of this club so ultra-modern generic, shiny and machine cut. I run a hand across it. Shit, even that feels sexual. My dick’s so hard it’s going to have a zipper mark on it by the time I get it out of my pants.
Which hopefully will be soon. She should be here—she’s always here after the matches her dad runs—and I’m going to fuck her stupid if it’s the last thing I do.