Page 72 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Twenty-Six

I open my eyes to the sun streaming through the window.

Strong sun too. Meaning, it’s late in the day.

But that’s not what wakes me up. It’s something else.

A bevy of sensations, some familiar but some strange, including one very bizarre one.

A pointed something—a tip?—soft and light, running across my skin.

On the side of my waist, precisely. I frown into the pillow.

Quickly, I catalog everything. I’m lying in bed, on my tummy, my cheek is pressed into the pillow, my face turned toward the window. I can see the sky through the glass, sunny and clear. But most of my attention is taken up by the fact that I can feel the sheets on my skin.

Or rather, my naked body.

Just the word ‘naked’ wakes me up the way even the sun couldn’t, and neither could that tickling sensation that I still feel. I try to push myself up, but suddenly there’s a hand on the back of my neck. Hot and dominating. It pushes me back down on the bed with a gruff, “Shh, don’t move.”

My heart starts slamming in my chest as I turn my face to look up at him and freeze.

Because the sun streaming through the window is mostly pouring its light on him, and I can see those chocolate-colored strands in his messy hair, thick and shiny, that I’m always looking for but they’re so well hidden that I rarely get to see them.

Not today though. Today, I can see everything.

I even discover something new. That his eyelashes have hidden chocolate in them too, and it’s such a surprise to find something new and unique in him, after years and years of watching him and thinking I know all his hidden secrets, that my heart skips a beat.

My heart also skips a beat at the fact that he, himself, looks like a treasure right now.

Kneeling and poised over me, his head dipped down and his brows furrowed in concentration, with sunlight kissing every inch of his corded and roped muscles, he looks like a statue made of gold.

God, he’s so beautiful, and he’s all mine. For now, at least.

And he’s mine in a way that I know what his collarbone tastes like, or that groove in his throat.

I know what his nipples feel like in my mouth, hard and pointy.

I know it takes me a grand total of seventy-five seconds to lick his entire six pack, if I’m being thorough, that is.

And I know that I still don’t know what his dick tastes like.

Because he wouldn’t let me put it in my mouth.

Because according to him, last night was about me and my pussy befriending the monster, not going on an adventure with him yet.

His words, not mine. He said he’ll teach me when I won’t flinch at his first stroke.

I told him it probably wasn’t going to happen because he’d forever be that big and I’d probably forever be that small.

Or at least, I didn’t think it would happen any time soon.

Because last night, we had sex three times, and it still felt like he was slowly killing me every time he pushed in.

So one time, he simply played with my sore pussy, rubbing the head of his dick against my clenching hole before running his length along the center of my core and making me come just from that.

Although, when it was his time to come, he did push his dick in a little bit, just the tip, and came inside my pussy.

All of this to say, it was a success. As in, we did become friends, his dick and my pussy.

We became the best of friends, because even when I was so sore and on the verge of passing out, I was literally humping his body and begging him to put it in me one more time.

But he refrained. He turned me on my side, plastered his sweaty, heaving chest against my equally sweaty and heaving spine, and spooned me.

And now, this. Sun and him kneeling over me looking like the soccer god he is. Or rather, he’s kneeling between my spread thighs. I fist the sheets and move my eyes to see what he’s doing. Because he’s the one causing that tickling sensation.

“Why are you…” I begin, watching his corded biceps and veined forearms move, “drawing on my skin?”

He’s got a Sharpie in his hand, a purple Sharpie, and he’s very carefully drawing something on my body, the side of my waist and my mid-back. At my question, he licks his lips and frowns a little more in concentration as he replies, without looking away, “I’m tracing your freckles.”

My heart hiccups. “What?”

He keeps frowning and drawing what I now realize are patterns on my skin—straight lines, circles and zig zags—and doesn’t answer me for a few beats.

And I’m so busy watching how fascinated he seems with something that I’ve always hated that I don’t mind.

So much so that his breaths slowly hasten and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

A smile like when you crack a code you’ve been trying to for years or realize you’re holding a treasure in your arms. I’m familiar with the latter.

Then, “Woke up, saw you lying there and thought I should probably get started on my other promise.”

“What other promise?”

“Counting your freckles.” A long scrape of his pen follows, and then, “Started doing that, but then realized I needed to mark them so I don’t count them twice.

So I got a pen and started doing that . But then I realized, maybe I should try to find patterns too while I’m at it.

You know, like how they find patterns in the stars? So yeah.”

“H-how long have you been awake?” I ask, while my heart, along with hiccupping, is also squeezing.

“Awhile.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Why would I wake you,” he says, still focused as if he’s a tortured artist sketching masterpieces on my skin instead of a superstar athlete, “when I kept you up most of the night? I’m an asshole, Strawberry, but I’m not so much of an asshole that I won’t let my girl sleep.”

I bite my lip harder, my belly starting to feel heavy. I squirm, pulling at the sheet, and he tsks. He puts his free hand on the back of my neck again to stop me, to pin me to the bed, so he can do what he’s doing on my body. Creating a universe, complete with stars and their constellations.

“Shepard?” I moan.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks distractedly.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Now.”

He hums in question, but I don’t think he cares about the answer right now because he’s still busy. But I give him the answer anyway in a keening moan, “I want it.”

That gets his attention and he finally, thankfully looks up. And like with his hair, the sun is bringing out the chocolate brown in his gaze too. Then, “You want what?”

I squirm again, and this time he lets me do it, even though his hand is still wrapped around the back of my neck. “You.”

Something carnal flashes through his features as he rumbles, “Yeah?”

I nod, rocking my pelvis against the bed. “But I’m busy,” he says, squeezing my neck.

“Be busy later.”

“What about your freckles?”

“Count them later too.”

“But I’m up to fifty-three now.”

“I don’t care,” I insist, a whine creeping up in my voice.

“Maybe I should at least finish this pattern,” he keeps teasing.

I groan. “Don’t be an asshole.”

He chuckles, his bare chest twitching as he straightens up on his knees.

He caps the Sharpie and throws it away before coming back down and draping his hot and muscled chest over my spine.

He settles himself between my thighs and his big, hard, dripping cock at my ass.

Then, moving his hips up and down and running the length of his dick, he says, “Only if you promise not to be a desperate little whore.”

I moan again, moving in tandem with him. “Please, S-Shepard, I need…”

He nips my earlobe with his teeth and hums, moving up and down my ass. “I know what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

I clench my eyes shut and sigh. “Oh, thank you.”

“But I’ll give it to you my way and you’ll lie there and take it, yeah?”

It sounds like a threat, his rough and rumbled words. And given the fact that he’s pinning me to the bed with his body weight, it’s a threat that also feels suffocating. It feels all-encompassing. So scary and delicious. Like his choking hands and life-giving kisses.

I nod. “Y-yes.”

“Good girl,” he says, and it warms me from the inside out.

Then he rises back up, but before I can make any moves, he grasps the back of my neck in a clear command to stay put.

He grabs my hip with rough fingers and hauls me up to my knees.

Then, kneading my flesh, he says, “First, I’m going to be a little rougher than last night, okay? ”

Fear coils heavy in my belly just as my pussy floods with even more wetness, and I jerk out a nod.

But it’s not good enough for him because before I can take another hitched breath, he lets go of my hip and brings his palm down on my ass in a thwack, smacking me.

I let out a very loud moan and jerk with the sharp sting.

Holy fuck, that was…

“Use your words,” he commands. “Say yes or no, yeah?”

“That hurt ,” I say, trying to look back at him.

But he keeps me pinned with that strong hand on my neck and spanks me again. “It’s going to hurt more if you don’t do as I say. So tell me you understand that I’m in the mood for a rough fuck right now.”

My pussy pulses at his words, at his dark demeanor.

While at the same time, nerves skitter down my spine.

Why did I think I had him figured out? Why did I think that he was going to be all sweet like he was last night?

I mean, he made me ride his boot and told me he liked it.

He broke his own window to get to me and then kneeled on broken glass to eat my pussy.

But more importantly, who do I think I am, getting all timid about this?

Clutching my pearls when I like every single thing he does to me.

So I nod again, and this time, use my words. “Y-yes.”