One of his hands splayed between my breasts, the other slid down my stomach, brushing over my suddenly too-sensitive clit, and guiding himself. I felt his cock press against the entrance for a long second, long enough for me to genuinely worry about his size, before he thrust forward, in one swift motion burying deep.

A half-gasp, half-groan escaped my lips because there was pain. Not the sharp stabbing I was expecting, but a hot, burning sensation as he stretched me to my limit. He paused, buried deep, his warm breath near my ear. “Relax,” he said, sounding tense. “Don't tense up on me,” he went on, his hips rocking against me, not quite thrusting, but pulsing inside me, getting my body used to the sensation.

I took a deep breath, letting my head fall back on his shoulder, closing my eyes, letting myself work past the discomfort, letting it slide away until a slow building pleasure replaced it. My breathing became more shallow, but faster. My hips started moving by their own mind.

“Remember what I said about how I fuck?” he asked, sounding strained.

I wet my lips with my tongue before I answered, my voice coming out breathy. “Hard,” I recalled.

“Hard,” he agreed. “Spread your arms out wider,” he instructed. “Brace yourself.”

I slid my arms across the surface of the counter, surprised when his hands closed down on top of mine, pinning them in place.

And then there was no thinking.

Because his cock was slamming into me.

Hard, as promised.

I had expected more of the hot, burning sensation.

But all I could feel was the building orgasm, the clawing, aching need increasing to a level that was borderline painful in its intensity.

My hands curled into fists as the moans started tearing out of my throat, loud and frantic. His hands left mine, moving up to my shoulders and grabbing them backward, using them to give him more leverage as he continued his relentless, steady thrusting.

“That's it,” he said. “Feel your pussy squeezing me?” he asked. And he was right. I could feel the tightening, the threatening of oblivion. “Come for me, doll. Let me hear you scream my name.”

His cock buried deep.

And then I did.

Hard.

And loud.

Screaming out his name at a level that made my own ears hurt as my sex clenched in a rapid succession of pulses. Through it, his thrusts never wavered, never slowed, just kept plowing into me hard and fast so that before the orgasm fully ebbed, it was building again.

Just like he promised.

And just like he had predicted, my moans became choked, airy whimpers as my legs started shaking violently, making his hands move from my shoulders and grab me around the waist, pulling me against him to keep me upright. His teeth bit into my earlobe as his fingers moved up to grab my breasts, digging in, as his thrusts became (if it was possible) harder and faster. Demanding my release so he could reach his own.

His fingers pinched my nipples as his cock slid out. By the time he was halfway buried inside me again, my body exploded into an orgasm that had me seeing white, my mouth opening to scream, but nothing came out.

“Fuck yeah,” he growled as I whispered out his name, my entire body shaking through my orgasm.

I felt him tense, slamming deep as his breath growled out of his throat and he came on the last waves of my orgasm.

Twelve

Breaker

I wanted to go to her. When she was telling me about her mom. I could feel the sorrow of it in her words. The air around her was heavy with it. But along with it was that strange aura of detachment that she always wore. Like she needed to remove herself from the equation. And I wondered for the first time if maybe it wasn't just how she was. If maybe it was a defense mechanism, a way to survive when she was on her own. Maybe it wasn't the real Alex Miller.

And I found myself wanting to know the real one.

But I also knew from the strange hollowness of her words and the way she was holding her shoulders that she wouldn't let me in. If I went to her, she would shrink away. So I stayed in the middle of the kitchen and listened. Even though it was killing me a little to not lend her some strength. Or demand some emotional honesty.

Then she was finally done speaking. I couldn't fight it. I went to her. And I put my arms around her. She melted into it for a minute, letting me hold her, before I felt her stiffen suddenly, and pull away.

Then she had to go and get mouthy.

And, well, Alex being mouthy was almost as hot as Alex blushing, or Alex kissing me back like she hadn't ever been kissed before.

I just couldn't help myself.

Apparently, neither could she.

Seeing her bent over my counter, ass up, inviting me in. Yeah, probably the hottest fuckin' thing I had ever seen in my life. Being inside her, listening to her moans, hearing her call my name as her pussy grabbed my cock... yeah it was worth whatever fucked up shit that was sure to be coming both of our ways because of it.

Her arms went up and around my neck afterward, my arms holding her to me as her breathing settled, her legs got steady enough to hold her without support. I grabbed her tee and handed it back to her and took my clothes and made my way to the bathroom.

By the time I got back, she already had the steak cut into slices on plates next to big piles of potatoes.

At my raised brow, she ducked her head, blushing a little. “If I wasn't hungry before... I am now,” she admitted in a quiet voice, making a chuckle rumble through my chest. It wasn't that I was a man of little humor. Hell, when your best friend is someone the likes of Shooter, you're going to have a stitch in your side constantly. But there was something about her awkwardness that was both sexy as hell and hilariously endearing. I never found myself laughing with (or at) women. My reaction to Alex was different. New. Interesting.

“Where are you going?” I asked, watching her walk past me with the plates, bypassing the stools pressed up against the island, past the living room, and making her way toward the hall.

“Figured we'd eat in bed,” she said, not even bothering to turn around.

“Beds are for fucking and sleeping,” I said, watching her freeze and turn back to me.

Her brows were raised, a confused smile tugging at her lips. “What?”

“Fucking and sleeping. Generally in that order. You don't eat in bed.”

“Why the hell not?” she asked, waving a plate-filled hand out to the side.

“You seriously eat in your bed?”

At this, she snorted. “Have you seen my apartment?” she asked, smiling. “Aside from my desk chair, the only place I have to sit is my bed. It doubles as a dining room, couch, office, pedicure chair...”

“Alright,” I said, agreeing her place was a hellhole that maybe necessitated something like that kind of arrangement. “But we ain't eating in bed,” I said, gesturing a hand toward the kitchen counter. At this, she exhaled loudly, shaking her head and made her way back over, slamming the plates down loudly.

“Just saying... the bed would be more comfortable,” she shrugged, pulling out a stool and sitting down. I shook my head at her, going to the fridge to grab a couple beers. “So you don't even like... late night snack in bed?” she asked. When I turned back, she was studying me with intense eyes.

“No doll,” I said, handing her a beer and sitting down to eat.