Page 4 of Sticky Situationship

“Wait,” she calls when I’m almost to the door.

I freeze, my heart pounding at the sound of the single word.

“I don’t even know your name.”

Libby | Present Day

“Brock, please. Brock, ooh!”

The soft, navy blue quilt on Brock’s bed muffles my begging as his calloused hands hold my hips firmly in place. The bastard thrusts from behind, filling me with alternating soft and slow, then hard and fast pumps, proving my claim that I hate being teased while being fucked is absolute bullshit. And showing, once again, that he knows what will get me off better than I do.

And definitely better than my battery operated boyfriend used to.

I suck in a deep breath when he adjusts the angle, sending my back bowing and my ass high in the air the perfect amount for his generous cock to hit me right where I need it. Right where it will send me soaring.

My fingers twist the sheets, tugging hard to gain traction, my eyes screwed shut and my breath coming in quick gasps. I’m teetering on the edge of another release thanks to the mind-blowing orgasm he delivered less than five minutes ago with his expert mouth.

And that wicked tongue. One that, for months now, has done wonders skating across my bare skin, teasing and nibbling every inch of me whenever we’re together. But especially, between my legs when his broad shoulders nudge my knees apart and his palms hold my thighs wide open, giving him the access he wants. The access I want him to have, especially when he hasn’t shaved for a day or more and the rough stubble heightens the sensation on my most sensitive regions. And makes me squirm.

Brock knows my body like the back of his hand. Since the first night we slept together, he’s had a sixth sense for when I need it rough and fast or when slow and gentle is what I crave. But the familiarity between us is a two-way street. Since the smoke alarm that set off a chain reaction and led to the arrangement we made two nights later that’s still in place today, I’ve memorized every contour of his body. From that irresistible, playful grin to those rippled abs and on down to his well-defined calves that beg my fingers to run along them.

I could sketch with anatomical precision the handful of scars that mar his smooth olive skin. The abrasion across his side from sliding over a rough brick wall while evacuating a burning building, the laceration down his thigh thanks to a piece of sharp metal from a forceable entry gone wrong, the burn on his forearm from a training accident, and the surgical scar on his shoulder courtesy of a torn rotator cuff. Plus, I’m an expert on what gets his jaw clenching just before he moans my name.

And because I know it will please him, I press up now and meet him stroke for stroke, milking his length and squeezing tight. Sure enough, he slaps my ass. Hard. I cry out as the freight train known as my impending orgasm pulls into the station.

He chuckles, but his fingers dig into the flesh of my hips and he quickens, setting a blistering pace that rocks the bed,knocking the headboard against the wall. Good thing it’s only my empty apartment on the other side.

Within seconds, we’re both coming. The thick pillow swallows my cries while his deep rumble of pleasure fills the room, followed by a fierce growl that’s endearing every time it makes an appearance. Mainly, because it’s completely out of character for the cool, calm, and collected first responder, who only ever loses control in bed.

Or at least, that’s what I imagine. It’s not as if I see Brock much, other than in bed, which is, no doubt, a reason our arrangement has lasted as long as it has. That and the fact the terms we agreed to from the beginning were crystal clear:

One, hot sex.

Two, no strings attached.

After a long minute, my heart, palpitating thanks to the exertion, starts to slow. Brock pats my ass gently as he pulls out. I sink into the warm cocoon of rumpled sheets.

“That do the trick?” he asks, rolling off the bed and padding to the bathroom.

I blow out a long breath and will myself to roll over, but my heavy limbs need a minute to recover. “As if you don’t know I’m basically a puddle over here after that.”

“Puddle, huh? That a medical term for your state?” He returns and bends down to press a quick kiss to my hair before grabbing his jeans from the floor.

I finally manage to roll over, tugging the quilt over me, and enjoy the view before he hides the goods. “Comatose seemed a little extreme. Maybe, well-fucked is a more accurate description, come to think of it.”

“Well fucked, hmm?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, sorely in need of a cut. “I bet that’s not one I’d find in a textbook, but I’ll take it any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

My brow furrows. “Twice on Sunday?”

“What? You’ve never heard that saying before?”

“Actually, I have,” I reply. “A physician at the hospital uses that expression, sometimes. Like just the other day. There was a high-risk surgical patient who’d had minimal complications and was recovering nicely.”

Brock stills as he tugs on a T-shirt and eyes me. “That so?”

There’s nothing Brock and I don’t talk about. Sure, we’re here for the great—uncomplicated—sex, but conversation has always come easily, too. There’s no topic off limits, from sharing our favorite movie quotes to debating where the best slices in the city are served. From the reason I’m so dedicated to becoming a top-notch internal medicine physician to the way his little sister is a drama queen with a capital D. Maybe, it’s because the strict parameters of our relationship somehow give us permission to let down our guard and not hold expectations.

But with my residency wrapping up soon and our attending physician reminding us daily of the importance of thorough preparation for the upcoming boards, my stress level is through the roof. Which is exactly why I knocked on Brock’s door tonight. For the third time this week.

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