Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(83)

His face moved closer to mine. “Do you also know it makes me love you even more that you’re so goddamn loyal to your best friend you’d sacrifice your own happiness for hers?” He paused. “Even if the reason was bullshit.”

He shook his head before kissing me again, soft and tender this time. His hands started moving in between my legs again. “So tight, like velvet, baby. Even when you get prickly and sassy on the outside I know my girl’s always soft in here,” he murmured in my ear, kissing my earlobe.

I could feel my orgasm building, threatening to overwhelm me. “I’m going to spend every night for the rest of my life in this *, in my *. You hear that, babe?” he growled in my ear as he finger f*cked me.

“Yeah,” I murmured, barely able to get one syllable out.

His finger stopped and my eyes snapped open. His blue eyes blazed into mine. This time they seared my f*cking soul.

“Say it, Amy,” he demanded.

“Say what?”

“Say this * is mine, you’re mine. That you’re my f*ckin’ old lady,” he ordered hoarsely.

“My * is yours, I’m yours,” I breathed out as his fingers moved slowly.

“My what?”

“Your old lady,” I continued as he rubbed my clit.

“Too f*ckin right.”

His hands moved again, bringing me close to the edge before they stopped. Before I could complain he ripped my panties off me and unbuckled his belt, plunging into me, filling me. I cried out in ecstasy.

“Fuckin’ love you, Amy,” he grunted as he pounded into me, his large hand spanning my collarbone, the other biting into my ass.

“Love you,” I moaned back just before my orgasm rippled through me.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


The next morning had me feeling uncharacteristically domestic, which may or may not have been due to the fact I was thoroughly f*cked both last night and in the early hours of this morning. After getting all of dirty secrets regarding Ian aired I felt one hundred pounds lighter, which may be the reason I found myself blowing hair out of my face and frowning at the burnt mess that was my first pancake. I glanced at the pan, then at the picture on my Ipad.

“Shit,” I muttered.

I had left Brock sleeping upstairs and for once he didn’t wake up. I wondered if he would keep sleeping long enough for me to run to a café to get breakfast and feign I made it.

Arms around my middle made me jump.

“Morning, baby.” Stubble brushed against my check and I shivered delightfully, relaxing into Brock’s chest.

“You’re not supposed to be awake. I’m meant to be making you breakfast,” I replied, hoping he wouldn’t notice the mess in front of him.

“Well, when I woke to the smell of smoke I thought I’d better come down and investigate. Need a fire extinguisher?” he asked dryly.

“The first pancake is always a disaster,” I protested, trying to reach for the jug amongst my mess.

“I think this is more than a disaster and I fear for your safety if you have to attempt that again. Plus I fear for my stomach if I have to consume that,” he said seriously.

I turned around to face him, frowning. “I just wanted to do something nice for you and now you’re being an *. I’m tempted to force feed you,” I snapped, trying to maintain a scowl while his attractive face grinned down at me.

He kissed me on the head tenderly. “I appreciate the effort babe. But how about I take you out for breakfast and we can save both the house and our stomachs?”

I chewed my lip for a moment, contemplating what a disaster it would be if I attempted to salvage the ruined breakfast.

“Okay,” I conceded. “As long as you promise not to spread around what a horrible cook I am.”

Brock gathered me into his arms for a tight hug.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Sparky—although how is it you’ve been able to sustain yourself all these months?”

“Well, I mostly eat salads and healthy crap that doesn’t require many open flames, and I go out to eat when I can,” I confessed, hoping he wouldn’t be my turned off by lack of domesticity. Wait. Where did that come from? Since when did I care whether or not a man approved of my inability to perform household duties?

Brock interrupted my freak out, and he did seem angry but not for the reason I thought. “We’re going to fix that shit,” he growled.

“What? Are you going to give me cooking lessons, Jamie Oliver?” I asked sarcastically.

Brock’s eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t give a shit that you can’t boil an egg. I don’t mind cooking, and I don’t mind taking my lady out and showing her off. What I do care about is the whacked up shit you’ve got about all that rabbit food.”

I widened my eyes, leaning back in his arms slightly so I could meet his. “What are you talking about?”

“You and depriving yourself because you think you need to stay at a size zero. That’s stopping now. You’re beautiful, but you’re too f*ckin’ skinny. You’ve got amazing tits, but the rest of you needs some meat on your bones.”

I opened my mouth to voice the myriad of problems I had with that statement.

“Now don’t go spouting crap at me just yet. I’d take you any way you are, ten pounds lighter or a hundred pounds heavier, as long as you were happy. You can’t tell me you’re happy living off f*ck all in order to satisfy some f*cked up goal.”