Page 83 of Brazen Mistakes

Two fingers slip in without any protest from my amped-up body, and Jansen coaxes me, his breath warm against my clit, his tongue tracing around his fingers, but not hitting me where I want it to.

Still, the wet sound of his lapping and the pump of his fingers in and out has me rocking into him, my body urging me toward what it wants, to the point where all the heaviness of the world vanishes for one perfect moment.

Thescratch-scratchof Walker’s pencil picks up, but I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, focusing instead on hauling my pleasure to the surface.

When I’m about to scream in frustration, Jansen pulls my clit into his mouth, the slightest brush of teeth meeting with his tongue, and I explode, no longer certain what sounds I’m making, how my body is moving, just riding the bright, effervescent high of my orgasm, needing the oblivion, the silence in my brain, more than anything.

The guys are murmuring, but I’m still out of it as Jansen flips me over, hauling me until his hips press against my ass, and he slides in, the wet sound of his thrust the first noise to cut through the silence in my mind.

I scramble to keep myself in place as he pounds into me, rougher than he’s been before, his fingers digging to my hips, gripping me close like he needs more, and I struggle to push back, wanting to give it to him.

His tongue traces across my ribcage, and sooner than I thought, a guttural cry escapes him, his teeth digging into the soft flesh of my shoulder, the feeling of him pulsing inside of me pushing me to the edge of coming again, but not throwing me over.

He collapses on top of me, both of us crumpling to the bed. Turning my head, I find Walker’s eyes locked on me, and he sets down his sketch pad, the intention in his gaze making me shiver. He reaches across the bed, digging his fingers into my hair, his tongue plunging into my mouth. “Gorgeous,” he whispers.

He stands and disappears behind me. Jansen slips from my body before Walker hauls my ass back up to his hips, sliding in without any foreplay, both of us groaning.

One hand on my hip and the other sneaking around to play with my clit, he rides me through two more orgasms, finally coming and collapsing us both back to the mattress, rolling us onto our sides without leaving me. Jansen’s gaze meets mine, his fingers closing the distance and brushing up and down my arm, while Walker burrows his nose into my neck behind me, all of us quiet as the music continues to hum in the background, the steady beat encouraging time to disappear.

I fall asleep pressed between the two men, diving into dreams before my thoughts catch up with me.

Chapter 31

Trips

The knock comes a little after two, thankfully excusing me from the piss-poor attempt I was making at sleep. Switching on my lamp, I pull on some sweats and a sweatshirt—layers are the only armor I have against the temptation that I know is on the other side of that door. As much of my skin covered as makes sense, I swing the door open, letting Clara stumble in, a few tears still clinging to her lashes.

I’m no stranger to nightmares, to the way the bad shit always seems to attack when you’re most vulnerable, and I can’t help but wonder what her nightmares feel like. Are they pits of darkness that swallow her whole? Is she running and running and never escaping some horror that always returns? Or does the terror freeze her, forcing her to watch disaster as it crawls ever closer?

I’ve had all three, as well as instant fucking replays of all the shit I try to forget.

It’s no wonder I’ve developed what my fucking shrink called “maladaptive sleep behaviors.” He would have too, in my situation.

Clara folds herself onto my desk chair, bruised eyes blinking up at me in the yellow light of my lamp. “I take it the offer to punch shit still stands?”

“Yeah. It still stands.”

“Good. Tape me up.” She holds her hands out for me, and it’s all I can do to force my feet across the room to get the tape instead of taking her by the hands and hauling her against me.

The fucking asshole progenitor has always been the reason I don’t do girlfriends. Flings, yeah. But something serious? Something that might make my father think about vetting the poor girl, only to scare her off and replace her with some connection-rich debutante he judges acceptable? No thank you.

I’ll pretend to not want anything serious until the unlikely day the devil calls his number. If I look interested in “settling down” or some shit, I’ll find myself at the front of a chapel so fast I’ll wish I’d accidentally snapped my neck on the way.

But the way her skin warms against mine as I focus on getting the lines straight, the way her breath hitches when my fingers linger a second too long against her palm, it could be addicting.

But with any addiction, the ending is never pretty.

If only everything weren’t so damn vibrant when she’s around. I mean, waltzing with her was bad enough. But now, the two of us, alone in the middle of the night, the same fucking electricity fizzing between us?

Fuckity fuck shit balls. This self-restraint ishard.

I finally get the tape done, snatching up the pads, so there’s another barrier between the two of us. Again, she grabs my pen to hold back her hair, and I know, just like the last time, the scent of her shampoo will linger on it.

I’m going to turn into some pen-sniffing pervert if these late-night visits continue.

Warming her up, I watch her form, giving corrections when needed, but again, entirely unsurprised that she’s picking it up quickly. She has no muscle behind her hits, but she understands how to move.

Considering the way she dances, I guess that’s no fucking surprise.

---