‘Maybe I realised that I should be grateful for the things I have, no matter how tough it is right now.’ She lay back and stared intently at a spot on the roof, lower lip between her teeth.
He’d got to her with the story about his sister. Though he was hoping she’d apply it more to cutting herself some slack and persisting with her dance career—not to mention leaving that trashy bar—rather than to jumping back into bed with him.
‘And you’re grateful for having sex with me?’
‘I’m grateful for orgasms.’ Her head tilted so she could look at him. ‘It’s been a long time since I let myself have any fun.’
‘It is fun, isn’t it?’ He stepped closer, smoothing a hand over her stomach. ‘Just a bit of fun—nothing more.’
He poured the vodka into her belly button, the excess liquid spilling out onto her stomach. She let out a sharp cry at the coldness but he dropped his head and sucked, lashing his tongue across her belly and catching the liquid before it spilled onto the bench. It burned for a second, and then a smooth warmth spread through him.
The alcohol mingled with the taste of her warm skin. He ran his tongue down to the edge of her underwear, watching the slick trail he left behind. Her fingers thrust into his hair as he snapped at the waistband with his teeth, a low groan rumbling from deep inside her. He should have pulled away then, but the vodka felt good. It softened his edges, warmed his limbs. It made it easier to forget that sleeping with her was a bad idea.
A tasty, satisfying, perfect bad idea.
‘Don’t worry—I don’t expect anything.’ Her voice had become rough, husky. ‘A bit of fun is exactly what I need. No strings, no obligation.’
‘So you’re not going to fall for me?’
The scratch of her lace underwear against his tongue sent a shiver through him. He pressed his lips to the peak of her sex and was rewarded with a gasp and the sharp bite of her nails against his scalp.
‘You wish.’
Smooth skin beckoned to him. Hooking a finger beneath the waistband, he peeled her underwear down to mid-thigh, trapping her legs and preventing them from opening. His lips found the bare smooth skin of her centre, pressing down with agonising slowness. A quick swipe of his tongue had her hips bucking against him.
‘This is cruel… and unusual.’ Her hands dug deeper into his hair, wrenching his head up. ‘I can’t move properly.’
‘Anticipation, Chantal. Just go with it.’
He grabbed her wrist and put her hand down by her hip, holding on so she couldn’t move. His other hand teased her, his thumb rubbing against the sensitive bud of her clitoris in slow, circular movements. His tongue followed, parting her so he could claim her most sensitive spot between his lips. Her movement was restricted by the underwear holding her prisoner and she writhed against him in unfulfilled need.
‘Please…’ she panted. Her eyes had rolled back; her mouth was slack with pleasure. Her hair trailed over the side of the bench, brushing against the kitchen cupboards as she moved.
The sight of her laid out like an extravagant dessert was almost enough to send him over. He wanted to taste every inch of her, keep her begging while he feasted. He released her from her lacy bindings and his fingers found her hot and wet. His mouth came up, capturing a bronzed nipple as she squirmed, grinding again his hand until her cries peaked.
She shouted his name over and over, until the syllables jumbled together into an incoherent decree of passion and release. Shock waves ran through her and he withdrew his hand slowly, gently. His mouth found hers, his tongue parting her lips and bringing her back to the moment.
‘Still think I’m cruel?’ he murmured against her mouth, sliding a hand beneath her neck to lift her into a sitting position.
She faced him, wrapping her legs around his waist. Heat enveloped him as her hand slid down the front of his pants and stroked his erection. She caressed him—long, slow movements designed to make him want something out of reach.
‘I think you’ve got magic hands,’ he said.
Hair tickled his chest as she rested her head against him, still touching him. He pressed into her hand, gasping at the sharp flare of pleasure that forced his eyes shut.
‘Brodie?’
Olive eyes met his, the black of her pupils wide. Her tongue swiped along his lower lip, the taste of her tempting him.
‘I want you inside me. Now.’
Her hands tugged down his pants, exposing him to the warmth of her thighs. He lifted her from the bench and carried her to the bedroom. They landed on the bed, her body pinned beneath his, and he reached out to his drawer and withdrew a condom. Sheathing himself, he plunged into her. His mouth slanted over hers, hot, demanding. He savoured her heat and tightness until she couldn’t hold on.
Her muscles clenched around him—thighs around his waist, arms around his neck. He couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stop the desire to drown in her warm skin and open mouth. Burying his face against her hair, he brought her close to the edge again. She shook, holding on as if she were about to fly away.
‘Let go,’ he whispered. ‘Just let go.’
And she did. Crying, shaking, gasping. Her orgasm ripped through her with an intensity that brought on his own release within seconds. He rode her slowly, until the waves of pleasure subsided.
The realisation that she wasn’t in her own bed came swiftly when morning broke. Sunlight filtered into the room—Brodie’s room—and the ache between her thighs confirmed that she hadn’t imagined those naughty images of them in his kitchen. It wasn’t a dream—it was the mind-bending truth.
Brodie was like peanut butter ice cream with extra fudge. Decadent, tasty, hard to say no to. But, like all delicious things, he wasn’t the best choice she could have made. What she needed was a steady diet of apples and focus—not ice cream and orgasms.
‘Morning,’ he murmured against the back of her neck.
One arm was slung over her mid-section, turned slightly to expose the edge of his anchor tattoo. She traced the outline with her fingertip. Something firm dug into her lower back. She moved under the guise of stretching her back, smiling when he groaned and pressed against her.
‘Don’t start what you can’t finish.’
She chuckled. ‘You’re insatiable.’
‘Says you, Miss Body Shot. I was perfectly happy sleeping on my own last night.’
‘Liar.’ She rolled over, catching his stubble-coated jaw with her cupped hand.
He didn’t hesitate to kiss her, his tongue delving and tangling with hers. A hand found her breast, fingers tugging and teasing her nipple until she gave in and let him roll on top of her.
‘Weren’t we supposed to be going for a run this morning?’ she asked, blinking her eyes at him with faux innocence.
‘I know a few other things we can do that will burn calories.’
Apples, not ice cream.
‘Worried you won’t be able to keep up?’
‘Ha!’ He grinned. ‘Like I said before, don’t start what you can’t finish.’
‘Oh, I can finish it.’ She tipped her chin up at him, giving his chest a playful shove. ‘Loser makes breakfast.’
‘You’re on.’
Chantal regretted making the challenge a few ks into the run, when it became clear that Brodie was much better at running than she was. He jogged effortlessly alongside her, breaking into a sprint every so often to prove he could. The Newcastle coast blurred past in a haze of blue