Page 10 of Sticky Situationship

Her silky curls catch on my stubble as I kiss my way up to her earlobe. Her body arches, and a soft noise, like a cat’s purr, emerges from deep in her chest when I nip gently. The sound shoots straight to my core and fills my heart. If Libby isn’t interested inmore,I’m not sure I can continue with the current status quo. Turns out I want strings, and I want to be attached. To this woman. I don't think I can settle for less for much longer.

My fingers slip under the hem of her shirt and rise to cup her breasts. I flick my thumbs over the taut nipples, pressing against the delicate lace. Libby shivers, her breath hitching as she lifts her arm around my head and weaves her fingers through my hair.

“Brock,” she breathes.

“Mmm?” I murmur.

“I need you.”

The quiet declaration, one Libby’s never uttered, is my undoing. My eyes fall shut as I rest my forehead against her hair and blow out a long breath. I need this woman, too. Hell, I want to be her man, not just in the bedroom, but everywhere. Always.

But first things first.

“I’ve got you,” I assure her, my voice unsteady. But I'm resolved to prove it. and start by pressing a soft kiss against the warm, delicate skin of her neck before I slip my hand into hers and lead her to the bed.

Within seconds, we’ve both stripped naked, clothes flying before we come together again, our naked bodies pressing against each other from head to toe. Her lips crash into mine with a force that leaves me breathless. Once again, the kiss is fervent, desperate. As if Libby is pouring every ounce of herself into it. The intensity of her need, her urgency, is clear as her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging with enough force to make me groan. Her breath, hot and ragged, mingles with mine as we devour each other.

But there’s more of her I want to taste with my mouth, to worship with my tongue. I press her backwards, easing her down on the bed and sink to my knees as she opens her legs, knowing full well what’s coming next.

Her core glistens, the slick folds already soaked before I even swipe a lick up the center. But when I do, her hips buck and she sucks in a sharp breath. I anchor her with my palms, holding her thighs wide open.

And I go to town, relishing her intoxicating taste and the whimpers of pleasure from this woman I want more than anything. Alternating between a focus on her clit and the tight entrance below, I work her over, only adding a finger and then a second, when she cries, “Please,” and grabs my head, holding it in place with both hands.

Seconds later, she explodes, her thighs crushing my skull in a vise-like grip as her channel constricts around my fingers like a hose clamp that’s fully torqued. It takes a minute for the pleasure to roll through her body, her palm pounding the quilt over and over as she moans, “Yes,” at least a half dozen times.

I smile against her core and, once the clench of her legs eases, draw back and press a kiss to her soft inner thigh.

“Thank you,” she whispers, staring straight up at the ceiling.

Libby’s practice of thanking me after our time together started that first night and continued each time since then. But it was always when we were through, never in the middle of the action. But that’s not the only thing that sends a whisper of concern racing down my spine. It’s also the somber tone of her voice, without a hint of its usual playfulness or saucy teasing.

Still, I can’t help the automatic, “Anytime,” that emerges as I sit back on my heels and reach for a condom from the nightstand. I’m a man, after all, with a throbbing dick that’s not one bit interested in analyzing Libby’s tone.

Fortunately, rather than say anything more, she scrambles up and pats the bed, shooting me a smile as I stand and tear open the condom wrapper.

“Lie down,” she commands. And, just like that, my girl is back.

“Happy to.”

I toss aside the wrapper and roll the condom over my length. But just as I’m about to do as I’m told, three sharp knocks in rapid succession sound against the door. My heartrate spikes. Though I haven’t heard the familiar knock in a couple of months, there’s no doubt in my mind who’s standing in the hallway waiting for me to answer.

Libby

Brock freezes, his eyesflying to the door. I silently curse whoever is stopping by right now. An interruption is bad enough anytime I’m next door, but right now? It’s agonizing. For me and the aching juncture between my thighs.

Tonight’s the last time I’m going to enjoy the skillful handiwork of this sexy as hell—and well endowed—firefighter for a few months. At least, I hope it’s only a few months. I realize there’s a chance that, upon hearing I need to take a break from ourarrangement,Brock may decide to cut things off forever. A possibility that lodges a lump in my throat. An option I’ve tried all day to banish from the back of my mind. With no luck.

I wracked my brain for another solution at the hospital and then for the twenty minute commute up the red line home from Soho. A resolution that would keep Brock in my life. But I came up dry. Dr. Novak is right. The boards are my priority and should be my singular focus. As much as I don’t want to admit it, Brock is a distraction. Plus, I gave Dr. Novak my word.

“Don’t answer it,” Brock commands, dragging me back to the present. He’s uttered the directive in that low, authoritative tone I haven’t heard in a while but always love.

Except now, rather than follow directions, I roll my eyes and scoot toward the edge of the bed. “It’s probably just Mrs. Peters from down the hall. I promised I’d take a look at a rash on her torso yesterday and haven’t had a chance to stop by.”

“But—” he protests, holding up a hand.

“You know her,” I say, grabbing his navy NYFD T-shirt off the floor where it landed only moments ago. “She’s not one to give up if she knows I’m in here.” I slip the shirt over my head, its lingering scent enveloping me and not helping my resolve to cut off things with Brock.

“Libby—” he starts, but is interrupted when the knock sounds again. Three sharp raps. It’s just like Mrs. Peters to be impatient.

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