Page 70 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

I think we’re in his room, or rather the room he moved into when me and my sister moved in.

It’s upstairs; I felt him climb up the stairs as he kept kissing me.

And now from what I can feel, he’s striding toward his bed.

Sure enough, a few seconds later I feel his sheets at my back.

I feel him coming over me, settling over me like a warm blanket.

Only this blanket instead of being soft and dewy is hard and muscled, and I love it more than I can love anything else in this world.

It takes quite a while for us to break our kiss and for my hot and flushed, still-orgasmic body, to calm down.

When I’m not still trembling or jerking at odd intervals, he untangles our mouths and moves slightly up.

Slowly, I open my eyes and look at him. For the first time since he started eating me out.

I wonder if I look the same, like he does.

All mussed-up hair and pupils blown wide. Flushed cheeks and wet, swollen lips.

His strokes his thumb down my cheek and whispers, “Welcome back.”

I lick my swollen, sore lips. “Did I… pass out?”

His eyes go liquid as he shakes his head. “Close.”

I blink and remember something, the most important thing. “Your knees…”

“Are fine,” he says softly but sternly.

“But—”

“Let’s worry more about you.”

And I want to shake him for doing that, for always putting me first. But first, I don’t think I have the strength.

I’m barely able to fist his t-shirt; and second, I don’t want to argue with him right now.

I hated being away from him for the last two days, and while I know he’s appeared out of nowhere—and we’ll talk about him flying over from New Orleans—I’m sure he needs to leave soon, because he’s due in Florida sometime tomorrow for his next game.

So all I do is grumble, “It’s your fault.”

“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t look very sorry.

“That was intense.”

“That was the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.”

I blush, my channel pulsing with the memory of what he made me do. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

He rubs his thumb over my blush. “Thank fuck, you can.”

“Why?”

His eyes have a twinkle in them that I can only call devilish as he rasps, “Now every time I need a drink, all I gotta do is get down on my knees and French kiss your pussy so fucking hard that she pops like sparkly champagne.” He places a soft kiss on my gasping mouth. “Sparkly, strawberry champagne.”

I manage to shoot him a glare. “Just so you know, I still don’t think I taste like strawberries.”

His lips twitch as he places another soft kiss on my lips. “And I still think you do.”

Before I can do or say anything else, he pushes himself up and off my body and hops off the bed.

I come up on my elbows to watch him as he snags the back of his t-shirt and pulls it off his body without any fanfare.

His long-ish messy hair falls on his forehead and curls even more at the ends as he drops the shirt on the floor without a care or thought. Which I know is unlike him.

I make a mental note to pick up his shirt and put it in the laundry, because he doesn’t like messes.

I also make a mental note to presoak his jeans because they’re bloody.

Yes, he cut himself on the glass, and I don’t even know how he’s not showing any signs of it.

How is he not feeling any pain? But again, I make another note to look at his wounds before the night is over, no matter what he says or how much he argues.

A second later, my thoughts come to a halt because I notice his hands going down to his jeans.

Is it me or does he pause at the button?

And is that really his dick tenting his pants?

Because oh my God, his pants are tented.

And this tent is really large and high, probably able to accommodate multiple people on a camping trip.

What the hell are you thinking, Jupiter?

I mentally shake my head and prop myself up on my hands, sitting up straighter, my eyes glued to the waistband of his jeans.

I see his abs moving with a breath, the ridges of his six-pack standing out in stark relief as he pops the button.

I fist the sheets with both hands as he lowers the zipper.

And then squeeze my thighs really hard when, after going slow for the past couple of minutes, he loses patience and pushes his jeans and his underwear—black briefs—down.

He does it so fast that his tent—shit, his dick —snaps out and slaps against his abs. Hard.

So hard that I flinch, but it could also be the fact that it leaves a wet trail because holy fuck, it’s leaking .

The head is so purple, so swollen that it looks like a bruise, and so shiny with all the precum dripping down.

I can actually see it, the clear liquid oozing out of that slit at the top.

And the vein he was talking about the other night, the one that throbs when I’m close and snakes along the length of his very large and fat dick, pulses in time with his breaths.

My breaths too because I’m breathing in time with him.

I make another note to lick it later, that vein.

I bet his taste is all kinds of thick and potent down there.

And his balls look so heavy and weighty as they hang there, between the most powerful thighs I’ve ever seen.

So this is it, then.

This is the thing I’ve felt on my body, rubbing up and pressing against. This is the thing I’ve danced to so many times.

Not to mention, this is the thing that was inside of me two nights ago.

That made me cry and gave me so much pain.

And rationally I know that the pain turned into pleasure—mind-numbing and mind-blowing pleasure—but I’m still a little apprehensive of it.

I lick my lips and it jerks, making my core pulse in response. “It seems…”

“Big,” he rasps.

I look up. “Bigger.”

I watch him grip his length and… Wait , are his fingers really not able to meet each other?

I mean, if he strained his hand—his large hand—he might be able to.

But right now, as he lightly grasps his cock and gives it a tug, his thumb doesn’t quite meet his index finger.

I fist the sheets tighter. I practically rip them off the mattress as I move my legs up and down, wondering how on earth am I ever going to be able to hold it then?

“It is,” he whispers.

“You can’t really,” I swallow, “wrap your hand around it.”

He gives his cock another tug. “Only when I give it a conscious try.”

I swallow again, watching the precum sliding down his length and in turn, down his torn, bloody knuckles. God, I want to lick it. That clear liquid. Like I want to lick that thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his dick. As in, once I’m over my fear of it. Then, “But your hands are big.”

“They are.”

“My hands are really, really small, Shepard.”

“I know.”

“I don’t… think that I can ever hold your d-dick in my hands.”

I hear a rush of a breath escaping him, sort of like a pained chuckle. “I’ll teach you how.”

“Shepard?” I say his name even though he’s right here, but I think I do it more to calm myself than anything else.

And since he knows how much I love saying it, he goes, “Yeah, baby?”

Still looking at his large hand and his larger cock, I ask, “Is that… normal?”

His chest shudders with another chuckle, rough and very guttural, still pained. “For me, it is.”

I curl my toes and keep moving my heels up and down the sheets. “I know you said… The other night, you said I was m-made for you, but I don’t…”

“You are,” he says with clenched teeth, squeezing his length, and another drop oozes out.

I glance up again, my heart racing in my chest. “But?—”

“Just as your pretty pink pussy is made for my big, fat dick.”

God, I love him. I do.

My love may be one-sided, and it may hurt more than anything else ever has or will.

This love may have the most terrible lows, but I also know that it brings me the kind of joy and freedom and exhilaration and safety that nothing ever has or will.

This love has such epic highs that I can’t help but be addicted to it.

Oh and also, this love comes with a man with a dick so huge and horny that he should be pouncing on me; it’s written in every sweaty and muscled line on his body. And yet he’s taking the time to assuage my fears about what’s to come.

“Are you sure?” I ask, still doubtful.

“Before this night is out, I’m going to prove it to you,” he vows, still stroking his dick, his hands becoming all wet and slippery.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“In fact”—he gives himself a harsh tug—“before this night is out, we’re going to be friends.”

“You said you didn’t want to be my friend,” I remind him.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes narrowed now with lust. “But then again, I am an asshole.”

I nod. “You are.”

“And so you don’t want a friend like me. But this guy here,” he says, giving it another tug, and I swear this time his precum actually drips off his knuckles and falls to the floor, “he may look scary, but he’s a useful friend to have.”

I bite my lip. “Why?”