Page 45 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

A full body shiver works through me at his dirty talk. For the past two years, Nick was just my online buddy. He was the guy who would geek out with me about sci-fi and Marvel movies. Yeah, I knew I had a bit of a crush on him, because he’s smart and funny and… well, I’m not blind. But seeing this side of him? Knowing he’s also a sex god with a dominate streak… the combination is intoxicating.

“I need you to fuck me,” I say. He drags a thumb across my bottom lip and I snag it with my teeth and suck it into my mouth. I work it like I would his cock as I stare into his eyes.

“Goddamn, Cass. Get on the fucking bed. Now.” He steps away from me and starts pulling off his clothes. His movements aren’t frantic or rushed. He’s still completely in control and recognizing that makes me feel safe with him in a way I’ve never felt with another man.

Nick, in clothes, is just about the hottest man I’ve ever seen. But Nick in nothing but his tattoos, standing there in all his glory is something else entirely. I want to ask him to walk around so I can see the play of his muscles move and bunch beneath his skin. But my core is still soaked and clenching on emptiness.

I’m kneeling on the bed, just watching him as he prowls towards me. He sits on the edge and I circle around, straddling his lap.

“Look how fucking sexy you are, Butterscotch,” he murmurs when his palms grip my ass cheeks.

I slide my wetness against the ridge of his cock, not impaling myself on him yet, just lubricating him while I rub my clit on his hardness. I moan in response.

“You need this dick, don’t you, baby?”

“Yes,” I hiss. I can already feel the beginnings of a climax coiling inside me.

He grips my hips and raises me up, lifting me like I’m a doll and not a woman who's nearly five eight and eats too much gumbo.

Then he lowers me onto his cock. I’m so wet that despite how thick he is, he has no problem sliding in all the way to the hilt.

We both groan when he’s fully seated inside me.

“Do you have any idea how close I was to coming in my shorts while I was eating that sweet pussy?” he asks

I shake my head and rock myself on him, trying desperately to get the friction I need. He reaches up and palms my boobs, flicking and pinching my nipples into hard little points. Then he’s fucking up into me from below and oh wow, it feels so good I nearly can’t breathe.

The next minute he stands, gripping my ass and holding on to me, turns us around and we drop back down to the bed, me on my back and him on top of me. I barely have time to think of the position change before Nick pulls back and thrusts back in. He’s pounding into me at a relentless speed and all I can do is claw his back and cry out his name again and again as first one and then another climax rocket through me.

My thighs wrap around his hips, and the erotic sounds of his grunts and moans are so masculine.

“Come inside me,” I say. Though I’m not even sure where my request comes from.

“This is my fucking pussy,” Nick says as he thrusts two more times before his orgasm slams through him.

chaptertwenty-two

Cassie

I’m not surprised to wake up to an empty bed and an empty room.

Last night was amazing and seemed to turn the entire planet into my own personal Tilt-a-Wheel, but I’m not a woman who needs a man to wait on me hand and foot. Besides, I’m pretty sure Nick isn’t the kind of guy who sleeps late.

After all, I know how little sleep my brothers seem to need. Plus, by the time I drag myself out of bed, it’s nearly ten.

It doesn’t take a mind reader to guess that Nick’s been up for hours already and that he’s naturally too restless to sit around waiting for me to wake up. My suspicions are confirmed when I find a note on the dresser saying he’s gone out to exercise and will be back before lunch.

I don’t remember seeing an exercise facility at the resort, but I might have missed that part of the tour. But for all I know, Nick is out there swimming laps around the island or bench pressing whale sharks or whatever Navy SEALs do for exercise when they don’t have access to a gym, which is most of the time, actually.

I get dressed, slap on some sunscreen and go off in search of coffee.

Once I’m armed with coffee, I ask the staff and find out that nearly everyone else from our party went out on a boat earlier for a snorkeling excursion. I take my coffee out on to the patio, content to just sit and watch the water.

I’m not very good at not thinking about things. By nature, I’m someone who mulls things over, trying to see every angle, to predict what’s next.

The fact that I’ve made it a full twenty minutes without freaking out yet is impressive. Weirdly, even after I sit down and let myself think, I still don’t freak out.

It feels like I should be freaking out. After all, I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl. I don’t sleep around. I don’t judge other people who do—that’s their business—but it’s just not something that’s ever appealed to me. Until last night, each time I’d slept with a man, it was something I gave a lot of forethought to. I knew where the relationship was going. I knew what to expect, because I’d discussed those expectations ahead of time.

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