Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(62)

He looks to the side. “It’s not my favorite topic.”

“Your sexual history as a whole, or why you’re so afraid of losing control?” I trace the outline of his collarbones.

“Both, I guess.” His fingers trail up and down my spine.

“Should I assume that in the past you’ve caused one of your partners some discomfort and that’s stuck with you?”

“In a nutshell, yeah.” His gaze goes to the ceiling.

I caress his cheek. “Sex is a two-way street, and it requires a lot of communication. I love that you’re careful and considerate, but whatever happened in the past, it’s not all on you to be the one making sure everything is okay. It goes both ways. So, in the future, unless I tell you otherwise, you’re more than welcome to pound me into the mattress like you’re exorcising demons out of my pussy, okay?”

He laughs and cups my face in his hands, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. “Noted. Does that mean you’re ready for round two?”

“Absolutely.”

He wraps his arm around my waist, rolls us over so he’s on top, and drops his mouth to mine. And we start again.





Twenty-Two





Space I Don’t Want





Maverick





I wake up the next morning to the feel of something tickling my stomach. I blink a few times, my brain slow to come online—especially since I’m not in my own bed, or my house.

It only takes a few seconds before last night comes rushing back. Me showing up at Clover’s unannounced. The sex. So much sex. I figured after the first time she’d need a break, or some pillow talk, or maybe some sleep. But no.

All those months of avoiding, then dancing around each other made us voracious.

And she’s currently naked, kneeling beside me, hair sleep-messed and sex wild, her tongue pushing at her top lip. She runs a finger along my cock, which isn’t quite awake yet either, but will be soon.

“What are you doing?” My voice is raspy and thick with sleep.

She startles and gasps. “Oh my God! I thought you were still asleep.” Her cheeks flush with color.

“I was. Why are you creeping on my business?”

“Your business?” She arches a brow.

“Less-evolved head, penis maximus, Thor’s hammer—pick your preferred name for my favorite appendage.” I point to my cock, which is lying on my stomach, angled toward Clover.

She grins. “Thor’s hammer? Is that what you call your fuck stick?”

I bark out a laugh. “Fuck stick?”

“It’s actually more like a fuck log, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue quite so nicely.” She strokes a single finger from the tip to the base. “You know, this is like false advertising.”

I fold an arm behind my head. “How so?”

“Your soft is someone else’s generous hard.”

“I’m a grow-er who should be a show-er, is that what you mean?”

“Yes!” Her eyes light up. “That’s it exactly. Like, this should stay basically the same size and get hard. But it gets harder and bigger.”

“It’s the Waters curse,” I tell her.

She hums distractedly. “Curse?”

“Yeah. Apparently stupidly huge fuck sticks run in my family.”

“There must be a story that goes along with this.” She keeps petting my cock, stroking up and down the length with her fingertip, and every time she does it, it grows.

“There is.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Depends, I guess.”

“On?” She runs her finger around the crown and over the slit, where it’s weeping already.

“What you’re planning to do when I stop growing.”

She gives me a cheeky grin. “Log ride?”

I laugh, and my cock kicks under her touch. “Then I’ll tell you the story after. I need to get you ready.” I tap my lips. “Bring that pretty pussy up here so I can eat you before I fuck you.”





Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing in Clover’s kitchen in my dress pants and nothing else because she’s wearing my button-down. The first thing she did was adjust the blinds so no one can see in. I pour myself a glass of water and down it, then fill it again and down another. It’s nine in the morning. The holiday break has officially started. I have one last self-defense class to teach in a couple of hours, and then I’m supposed to head home for Christmas with my family. That’s usually something I enjoy, but this year I’m not as excited to be in Lake Geneva when the person I want to spend time with—mostly naked—is standing right here.

Clover pushes up on her tiptoes, trying to snag the canister on the shelf second from the top. She’s not particularly tall. I could grab it for her, but instead, I pick her up by the waist, lifting her a foot off the ground so she can reach it.

“You could probably bench press me,” she says when I set her back on her feet.

“Oh yeah. You weigh what? A buck ten, a buck fifteen?”

“One twenty-five.”

“I could press you for sure.”

“I can lift a bag of potatoes over my head no problem.” She flexes her biceps with a grin and starts measuring out ingredients for pancakes.