Coming October 19th
She likes it quick and dirty.
I like orders and rules.
She hates small talk.
I hate to share.
She’s an open book.
I’m a closed dresser drawer.
She rides a Harley.
And that drives me f’ing nuts.
Annalyse and I have both lived in our own personal hells for half a decade. She’s learned to love the warmth, and I’m still consumed. But my new neighbor is stoking more than my libido these days. We agreed on only pleasure. But she changed the rules.
And now I’m not even sure what they are.
Maybe there’s a reason she found me that night, maybe there’s a reason I can’t stop thinking about her, maybe there’s a reason for the pain. Maybe not.
We all look for reasons in life. Reasons for death, love, pain. Why one thing happens and not another? It’s human nature. We’ve been looking for the meaning of life since the beginning of time. But maybe the reason for all of it — life, love, loss, heartache — is the curvy brunette living next door.
There’s just something about being wrapped up in the right man’s arms that makes your heart believe anything is possible.
But the heart is a liar — a cruel, vicious liar.
It’s making me feel things that my head knows I shouldn’t. Holt told me he can’t love me. It was the first thing he said to me, so why is my heart telling me to believe the opposite?
Abruptly, I sit up and wipe water on my face before covering my chest with my hands. He simply leans up and gently rubs my back. “Cold?” he asks.
I nod and get to my feet, his hand running down my butt cheek as I step out of the tub and reach for a towel. Holt darts up and stops me, his fingers circling my hips.
“You have bruises,” he says, causing me to look down. He’s right. A couple tiny bruises grace my hips. He lightly grabs my hips, his fingers lining up with the marks on my flesh.
“Doesn’t hurt,” I say, reaching out to him, but he steps back.
“You’re hurt because of me.”
I can’t explain it, but I can see darkness cascade over him, like a storm you see coming over the horizon. His eyes get darker; his body seems heavier. The weight this man carries — whatever it is — is so huge, even the air in the room seems to change. I should be scared, but I’m not. I can see it in his eyes — the pain, the regret, the guilt.
“I just want to protect you,” he says, his voice low.
“Holt, I would tell you if you were too rough,” I say, stepping closer to him and stroking the stubble on his face.
His eyes spark, and he falls to his knees, kissing each bruise softly. “Think I need to show you how good gentle can feel,” he says, standing and picking me up. He carries me to the bed and lays me down, kissing my hair and whispering, “I want every inch of your body to remember me. Remember the pleasure I give you.” A little moan escapes, and he chuckles low in his throat. “I’m going to make you wait this time.”
“No,” I pout.
He raises his head and stares down at me. “You like it quick and dirty, don’t you?” he asks. Before Holt, I waited five years to have sex again, so my body must think it’s going to be sex deprived again, because he’s right. “Say it. Tell me what you like.”
“Quick,” I beg. “I need to come — now!”
“Demanding,” he smirks at me, pinning my arms overhead. “I’m the one who gives the orders, remember?”
I actually show my teeth. It’s like I’m a wild animal in heat. You know, the kind you see on Discovery Channel when sex looks more like a fight? He just leans down and kisses the tip of my nose. I wiggle my hips, grinding into the length of him, hoping I can catch just the right angle to push him inside. His tip lingers at my entrance — Yes! But just as I start to push into him, he lifts his hips up.
“Bad girl.” Then he lifts his eyes to mine and says, “I told you, no quick and dirty this time. This is a sweet fuck.”
Sweet fuck? Those words do not go together, but something about them makes my body relax. And Holt feels it too, releasing my wrists, his tongue finding mine and slowly exploring my mouth. This is the way he kissed me that first night on his patio — softly and sweetly. He’s winning me over already. There’s definitely something to be said for a patient man.
“Christ, you are so beautiful,” he whispers between kisses.
“Holt,” I say, my voice cracking. It’s much easier to have him talk dirty to me than to hear him say sweet things. Dirty talk equals fucking, not making love. At least, it’s easier to fool myself into believing that. I guess dirty talk happens when you love someone, too. But sweet talk doesn’t happen when it’s just sex. It means something more.
His head lowers to my breast, his tongue circling my nipple, and then I feel it a whole lot lower, my legs clenching together. His hand goes to my other breast, lightly pulling up the nipple while he sucks, licks, and circles the other with his warm mouth. A tightness builds in my thighs, and a wave of heat flashes over my body. I don’t know how, but I know I’m close. Another wave comes over me, and I say a few dirty words in my head.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he slides down my body. Clearly, he hasn’t given up on taking his time. He kisses my folds gently, like he’s kissing my face, and my legs push together, but he brings my thighs to his shoulders and lightly runs his tongue across me. “Don’t hold back,” he says. “You know I love it when you talk dirty.” His eyes close, and he moans, sending this incredible vibration through me. He’s being so gentle, so slow. It’s making me lose my mind.
“Fuck me with your tongue!” My eyes flash open. The whispered dirty words in my head have flown out of my mouth. His eyes catch mine, and he does exactly what I asked, slipping his tongue inside me. Oh, I like this game. Ask and I shall receive.
Prescott Lane is the Amazon best-selling author of Stripped Raw. She’s got five other books under her belt including: First Position, Perfectly Broken, Quiet Angel, and Wrapped in Lace, and her new release, Layers of Her. She is originally from Little Rock, Arkansas, and holds a degree in sociology and a MSW from Tulane University. She married her college sweetheart, and they currently live in New Orleans with their two children and two crazy dogs. Prescott started writing at the age of five, and sold her first story about a talking turtle to her father for a quarter. She later turned to writing romance novels because there aren’t enough happily ever afters in real life.