Page 50 of Organized Chaos
Brandon felt the movements and reached for me blindly, almost instinctively. With accurate precision, he grabbed my arm and hauled me onto his chest. My face pressed against the taut muscles of his bicep as his hand sifted through the material of the shirt.
I stiffened. “You’re awake.”
“Who can sleep with your tossing and turning?” he rumbled. “Have you always been a restless sleeper?”
“I get a little tense in new environments...” I trailed off when Brandon peeled my shirt upward to reveal my backside, his hard bulge pressing against my thigh.
“What are you doing?”
“Relaxing your tense muscles.”
I closed my eyes. “Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t. Need a sleeping aid.” His palm rubbed the back of my thighs with a gentle caress.
I raised my head and found his eyes open, practically blazing in the moonlight. “I hardly doubt this counts as a sleeping aid.”
“It does,” he assured. “It’s very necessary to feel your bare skin in order to fall back asleep.”
“If you’re having trouble sleeping, I’m sure we can find you a book to read, or I can make up a bedtime story.” The words came out with such laced bitterness that they shocked me. Was this an example of passive-aggressiveness that generally went over my head?
Brandon didn’t pick up on the tone or my resentful hint. “Not interested in bedtime stories.”
“Then just close your eyes.”
“That doesn’t work, either. You’re the one who woke me up. Help me fall back asleep.”
I ground my teeth. “Help yourself.”
He tutted. “You talk about religion and being a good Christian. Aren’t you supposed to show kindness by helping those in need?”
Before I could retort, he rolled us over, pinning me underneath. His hands landed on the front of the shirt, roughly tearing it open with the buttons scattering in a million directions.
“Brandon,” I scolded as the first gust of cold from the air condition greeted my nipples.
He wasted no time. His mouth was on my tip, wet and hot, standing them to more attention. He twirled his tongue, making me quiver when he hollowed out his cheeks to suck.
“Fuck!” I almost sprang off the bed when he bit the underside of my boob.
He finally stopped, only to move to my other nipple for similar treatment and then once more to take off my shirt completely, leaving me to shiver.
Brandon repeated the process numerous times, sucking, biting, licking every inch of my breasts in turn. He groaned against the meatiest part; my chest dampened from the attention.
“Spread your legs.” He gave the instruction but barely waited for me to comply, parting my knees roughly to make space for himself.
“Wait,” I said breathlessly. “Protection? We didn’t use any before.” He had also caught me off guard that first time, so I hadn’t thought of it.
His gaze flipped to meet mine for a fleeting moment. “I don’t have any, but I’ll pull out.” Said every man with an illegitimate child.
I frowned.
I might be slightly sheltered, but I had two single brothers. Even without any intention of having sex, what unattached man in his twenties traveled to a foreign land without condoms? This tidbit conflicted with Brandon’s otherwise meticulous attitude to shield himself against all odds—reputation, image, women.
Brandon told me he was clean. I believed him. But he shouldn’t be risking pregnancies with random women. Just the thought irked me.
However, that Brandon-induced fog trumped all practical considerations. His fingers were between us, stroking my folds while his fully erect dick rubbed against my thigh.
To my horror, my previous irritation over contraception and how the jackass had forgotten about me all but subsided. I squirmed against his hand for friction.
