Still Not Over You(50)

I stand on the tips of my toes, rocking into him, enjoying the loud slap of his balls on my skin.

I don't last long. He fucks straight through my first orgasm and keeps on going, a tattooed train of a man. “Legs apart, Reb. Take it fucking deep for me,” he whispers, thunder in his voice as he shifts my thighs open.

He holds me tighter as he pulls his pleasure from my body. My breasts sway, pendulums shaken by everything quintessentially Landon Strauss. I'm on the ledge in no time at all again, and this time, he falls with me.

The heat of his release burns into mine. I'm making sounds in the back of my throat I didn't know I could, milking his cock with everything I have. It blurs in the sweet delirium of him growling my name, his balls heaving everything into me.

Mercy.

I’m a wreck after, gasping and dizzy. He’s gentle and tender and considerate. Wiping me off with a washcloth, letting me lean against him, wrapping me up in a cozy towel and carrying me from the shower into the bedroom.

I kind of hate him for still being able to stand after doing that to me.

Twice in a row.

Jerk-ass, again. I wish I could decide if it's an insult or a show of affection. Maybe both.

He’s just setting me down on the bed when a rattle comes from downstairs, clattering and loud and a little too familiar.

Landon goes tense, eyes flashing as he stiffens with a growl.

“If that brat just came waltzing into my house again, I swear to Christ, Buddha, and Krishna...”

I groan, flopping back on the bed in a tangle of wet hair and damp towel. “I'm glad you're invoking all the major powers. Because, I don't exactly have the patience to deal with her right now.”

“Too bad. Remember, you’re my shield.” He winks, setting me a little at ease, even if there’s a tight edge to it. “Get dressed, Reb. Time to greet the company.”

I give him a sour look and kick one foot out to push at him. Not that it does any good, landing on his rock-hard stomach and not even making him tilt.

He catches my foot, lifts it up in a way that spreads me pretty embarrassingly, and then he kisses my ankle – but his eyes aren’t on my foot.

There’s no doubting where he’s looking, eyes glinting, that grin turning devilish. I squeak, yanking my foot back and drag the towel over me. His gaze leaves a delicious burn between my legs.

“Don’t you even start!” I mutter, cut off by another clatter from downstairs. My heart jumps into my throat, remembering the intruder. “Ugh. I don’t want her to hear us.”

“So, you’re possessive now? I'm liking the new you, Reb.” He winks again, then sidesteps, dodging the pillow I throw at him, laughing.

It’s like that the entire time we get dressed. Completely detached from the serious situation.

Teasing, stealing kisses, trying to be quick but fumbling over each other when we can’t seem to keep our hands off each other or stop laughing.

But I manage to get my jellied legs into a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a button-up sleeveless shirt that shows off my C-cups more than I normally would, the top button undone. I keep my hair loose and shower-tumbled, spilling in wild waves all around me. I skip the glasses for now, tucking them into my pocket, even if it means a bit of a blur more than five feet in front of me.

Look, I’m not preening. Or showing off.

I just want Milah freaking Holly to get a really good look at what she thinks Landon shouldn’t want.

And maybe I feel a little buzz in my veins when Landon slips his hand in mine before we head downstairs. He’s already steeling himself, his expression blanking, shoulders and jaw tight.

His hand grips mine a little too hard, but it doesn’t really hurt, and I don’t want to pull him out of what’s clearly a preparation for war. I just squeeze his fingers tighter, reminding him that I’m here, and square my own shoulders as we round the wall into the kitchen.

There's another shock waiting.

A tall, regal, graying woman stands at one of the open cabinets, murmuring under her breath in a softly cultured accent while she meticulously organizes Landon’s scattered dishware by color.

It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but I recognize her air immediately.

Shirley Strauss.

Landon’s mother.

My face blooms hot, and I let out a mortified squeak, letting go of Landon’s hand and hastily buttoning the top button of my shirt over the small glimpse of my bra I’d let out.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

Of course, I try to play the vixen and the femme fatale and the smug not-quite-fake girlfriend, and so, of course I walk in boobs out on Landon’s mother.

Wicked sense of humor doesn't describe what this universe has in store.

That squeak must've tipped her off, because she glances over her shoulder, brows lifting mildly. Her eyes are as blue as Landon’s, but where his are all electric charge hers are more a still calm sea. She blinks at me, then smiles, warm and pleasant.

“McKenna?”

She’s always used my full name. She comes toward me with her hands outstretched, moving fluidly despite the curious cats twining around her ankles like she’s soaked her stockings in catnip.

Still blushing, I let her pull me into a hug, exchanging wide-eyed, half-amused, and half-horrified looks with Landon over her shoulder.

“Great to see you again, Mrs. Strauss,” I murmur, giving her a squeeze and then stepping back, edging to the side.