Page 59 of Fire in You

That was the only explanation to why I was nestled up against a warm, male body—a body that I instinctively knew was Brock. It was his hand that was under the back of my top, flat against my lower back. It was his chest that my cheek was resting against, and his thick leg that was cradled under mine.

I awoke to a fire.

My body was overheated and lava had replaced the blood in my veins. The slow, sluggish pulse picked up, and my hips shifted, pressing the most intimate part of me against him. The friction was nearly immediate, like it was when I touched myself and thought of him. I moved against him, seeking release as my fingers curled into the material of his shirt.

I’d been dreaming of him—of his large body moving over mine and then in me, kissing and nipping at my naked flesh. The dream felt like now, and in the fog clouding my thoughts, I couldn’t make sense of what was then and what was now.

But now he tensed against me, his hand spasming against my back. “Jillian?”

His voice . . . it sounded so real that I moaned and I lifted my upper body. There was a flash of his face and then I was moving my hand from his chest to the rough line of his jaw. I kissed him—I kissed him as I rocked against him, seeking and searching.

The arm around my waist tightened and then he was kissing me back—hard and wet, and there was nothing artful or slow about it. Our teeth gnashed together. Our tongues tangled, and this—it’s not a dream, not a dream—didn’t feel real.

His mouth moved over mine as I twisted my hips against his leg. The tension was coiling into a knot, but it wasn’t enough, this wasn’t enough. I whimpered into his mouth, my movements becoming more frantic.

Brock seemed to know what I needed.

“I got you.” He pulled back, speaking in that deep, husky voice.

In a flurry of movement, he reached between us as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin under my ear, his nimble fingers catching the button on my pants, unhooking it. He worked the zipper down, loosening them.Not a dream. Not a dream. I was out of breath and my heart was pounding all over the place as his large, hot hand slipped into the opening of my pants and under the band of my panties.

The moment the tips of his fingers brushed over the tight oversensitive nerves, I cried out, throwing my head back. I didn’t care if this wasn’t a dream. I didn’t care what tomorrow would bring. “Please,” I begged, moving my hips against his hand. “Please,Brock. . .”

“Fuck,” he grunted, his mouth hot against my neck as I felt his finger sink deep into my wetness. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

My body was out of control. I gripped his arm, holding his hand to me as he pumped his finger in and out. My hips were moving faster and he did something with his hand, twisting his palm and it was everything—his mouth against my neck, his hand in my panties, between my thighs, his finger inside me—I clenched and then broke apart, crying out as sharp pleasure shattered my senses.

My body went lax as I slumped down, half on him and half against him. In my chest, my heart slowed and I was barely aware of his finger easing out of me. Sweat dotted my brow as I closed my eyes.

“Fuck,” I heard Brock say, and it was the last thing I heard.

* * *

I woke to my head throbbing and my left arm dead. I was also hot, like I’d been sleeping under a ton of blankets during the dead of summer.

Something furry brushed along the bottom of my foot, tickling me and causing me to jerk my leg. Confused, I pried open my eyes and immediately winced at the bright sunlight streaming into the living room. My head felt like a drummer had set up camp inside and my mouth felt like a desert and I . . .

I was not alone.

The first thing I saw was Rhage sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at me with his tail swishing back and forth. Slowly my gaze traveled up my leg and then got hung up on the very large hand resting on my hip. For several seconds I couldn’t process it, then I turned my head and saw Brock. His profile was relaxed, hair messy and lips slightly parted. The white button-down was wrinkled and half un-tucked, revealing an impossibly flat and ripped lower stomach. My gaze flew back to his face, and it all came crashing back—dinner last night, the two or three shots of whiskey on top of three glasses of wine, coming home and passing out next to Brock.

Waking up in the middle of the night and—oh my God.

Oh God.

Oh God, what had I done?

I flushed hot and then cold, and immediately I knew I needed to move. Carefully, with more grace than I knew I had, I slipped out of his loose embrace, sprang from the couch like I was made of coils, and then darted down the hall. I reached the hallway bathroom and flew inside it, closing the door behind me. I backed up until I hit the low rim of the tub and then I sat down.

Oh my God.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I let out a pitiful moan. I’d dry humped Brock’s leg. I totally did that—I dry humped his leg in the middle of the night, half-drunk and half-asleep.

And I’d done more than that. He’d done more than that. Glancing down at myself, I saw that my pants were still unbuttoned, unzipped. The hot-pink cotton panties peeking through.

Oh no, no, no.

I could still feel his finger inside me, pumping and sliding. I could hear my own breathy cries. Jumping up, I quickly buttoned up my pants and then turned, stopping halfway between the toilet and door.

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