Page 18 of Hideaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #4)
“Birdie…” Elliott gently grabs my arm to stop me from leaving when I step aside to move around him, and he draws me into his big, naked body, his skin so, so cold.
At my lower back, he tugs on the hem of his sweatshirt that I’m wearing over two of his T-shirts that fall to my knees. “Please,” he says.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or don’t want to?” he asks quietly.
What I don’t want to do is lie, so I pull one of his trademark cards and simply don’t respond. Neither do I stop him, after a long pause, from taking my sweatshirt and top T-shirt off, though I hold down the bottom T-shirt when he tugs on that, too.
“If I get in the shower with you,” I say, “you have to promise not to look at or touch my stomach.”
“Why, Mama?” he asks, rubbing his hands up and down my bare arms that start to prickle with goosebumps as steam fills the room. “Every inch of you is gorgeous.”
I shake my head. “Promise me.”
“Ok,” he says, kissing my cheek and then my neck as he helps me roll my leggings and panties down, kneeling to remove my socks while I tie my hair up with one of Layla’s scrunchies I’d been wearing on my wrist.
He scoops me up with one hand under my ass, enclosing us in the shower, his cock hard and brushing against the V of my thighs.
Out of the direct moonlight, I’m less concerned now about him seeing anything he shouldn’t—which is a good thing, considering I hadn’t thought through my plan of keeping my shirt on, which is now soaked through and plastered to my body like a second skin anyway.
I wiggle to be let down and internally sigh with annoyance when I slip the T-shirt off over my head, dropping it in the corner of the rather large stall.
Elliott makes a pleased grunt when I press my naked upper body against his and circle his waist as much as I can, my arms too short to reach all the way around him.
With my cheek resting against his upper abdomen as the water heats our skin, thawing out his muscles and my tension, I finally find the courage to ask something that’s been on my mind since the first time I touched and explored his bare torso.
“Why do you have so many scars?” I find one of the larger scars along his right side, the tissue raised and thicker than the surrounding skin.
With his tattoos, you’d never notice them just by looking.
“A few reasons,” he mumbles cryptically.
Given that he captures my wrist and moves my hand away, I decide not to press any further for answers right now and simply bask in this moment of peace now that he’s home safe.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so relaxed in all my life than when Elliott starts massaging my shoulders with soapy hands, bending so he can kiss my neck where he keeps biting me when he cums, and I tip my head to the side to offer him more of me after we’re warm enough.
“Birdie,” he hums into my neck when I grip his lengthy, hard cock with both hands and stroke him, tightening my grip until he’s shuddering.
He crowds me to the side, slapping one hand against the tile wall over my head when my back connects with it, fucking my fists.
“If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up,” he murmurs, drawing back and cupping my breasts.
He’s at the perfect height when he kneels to take a nipple in his mouth, slipping a hand down between my thighs, pushing two fingers into me when I step my feet out.
“Oh, yes,” I moan, pressing on the back of his head to pull him closer, luxuriating in his hot mouth wrapped around me, sucking me deep inside. “Keep going,” I breathe out, rocking my hips onto his fingers, arching my back while trying to suck in my lower stomach.
Elliott growls into my skin, widening his mouth to take more of my breast, increasing his suction.
“Mmm, yes, Daddy. Hard—” We both freeze when it strikes us at once what I said.
“I—I didn’t mean it like…like anything gross,” I say, pushing his shoulder and curling my back to pull my breast out of his mouth, paradoxically finding Daddy might be pushing things too far.
“I meant it like…like Papa Bear,” I say, growing shrill and flustered. “I swear.”
“Birdie,” he says breathily, thrusting his two fingers deeper into me, making me moan. “I’ll be whoever or whatever you want me to be.”
“I don’t…I don’t want that.”
“Yes, you do, Mama.” Elliott taps my ankle until I widen my stance, and he adds a third finger on his next thrust.
Still, I clam up, rolling and pressing my lips together, biting down onto my tongue, tasting copper.
Elliott draws my other nipple into his mouth, giving it the lightest of licks while looking directly into my face, and when I continue to keep my lips shut, he says, “It’s just you and me in here, Mama. No one else to judge us for what we want or what we do or say. ”
“What do you want?” I finally ask in a whisper.
Elliott
I want to be everything you want and need in life. I want you and the kids to stay with me forever. I want us to be a family.
Since we’ve only known each other for six days, I can’t say any of that, knowing how crazy it sounds and that it would scare the daylights out of her.
She’s already been through enough. So instead, I hint at the truth.
“I want you to tell Daddy what you need. Harder, faster, softer, gentler. Tell me, and I’ll do it. ”
Maybe finally accepting that she doesn’t need to hold back, she says, “I want you.”
“Me?”
“Your cock,” she clarifies.
I briefly drop my forehead on her chest between her breasts, fighting back the crushing disappointment that she doesn’t mean me , as in all of me .
A woman as young and beautiful as her would never want that, not long term, not outside these bizarre circumstances.
It was stupid how high my hopes had flown.
Rising, I find her hip and turn her around. Our height difference is too great, though, for this to work logistically, so I lift her onto the stone bench at the back of the shower. “Bend—”
Birdie has already pressed her palms and shoulders to the wall, giving me her ass before I can finish my sentence. “Now, Daddy,” she demands.
“Fuck, Birdie,” I hiss against her neck after pushing into her, holding her in place so she won’t knock into the wall with each thrust. “I love…being inside you.”
She moans in agreement, shifting her feet out a few more inches and arching her back.
Propping my left foot on the bench beside hers, I make Birdie sing my name as I drive deeper into her.
And when I snake my hand around her hip to find and massage her clit, she sings even louder.
If this is all she wants from me, then I’ll make sure it’s the best she’s ever had.
No one who follows after me will ever make her forget about this week.
About how it felt to be held so tenderly in my arms. How it felt to take me—mind, body, and soul—deep inside her.
Tears build in my eyes when Birdie reaches up to palm the back of my head, moaning yes when I sink my teeth in the crook of her neck. My upper body shakes with the sob I try so hard to contain, knowing she is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I’ll lose her soon.
“Birdie,” I choke out after she tells me I can cum once she does. “Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.” But she isn’t really mine, is she?
* * *
Three days later, the godforsaken rain and snow have finally stopped.
After yet again lying awake all night without Birdie asleep by my side, I rise with the sun before the kids wake and head outside.
My skin buzzes and begs for the soothing burn of the needle, but the only way to find relief and quiet the static in my head before I can meet up with my tattoo artist is to push myself to the limits with my workout.
For hours, I flip the biggest tractor tire I could find at the junkyard two years ago, where I’d purchased both of my Broncos.
Some of the ice on the ground has started to melt, dirty slush splattering across my yard with each flip, back and forth and back and forth, while I try to rid the memory of Birdie ducking her head when I tried to kiss her on the lips for the first time last night.
My kiss had landed on the bridge of her nose, and she’d rolled out of my arms, out of my bed, and out of my room with barely a whisper of goodnight.
Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head .
I sweat through my thick hoodie and toss it toward the front porch, where it falls pitifully short since my arms are hardly cooperative at this point.
A tiny little yelp follows from under the stairs where the balled-up, heavy material had landed.
For a moment, I think the yelp came from Kendall, who must have snuck outside who knows how long ago.
With fear of finding her little body in shock, frozen solid, I make it to the porch in two strides, reaching under the stairs to scoop her up. My hand brushes against what I at first think is Kendall’s wet hair, but turns out to be fur.
“Hey, little guy,” I murmur as my rush of adrenaline fizzles out, cradling the muddy puppy to my chest. He’s nothing more than skin and bones, his whole body trembling violently.
“How on earth did you survive out here?” He nips at my skin with the most adorable little growl as I jump the stairs to bring him inside.