Rock Chick Regret (Rock Chick #7)(87)

Once I tossed my camisole to the side, he leaned over, put one hand to the bed and the other arm slanted across my waist and he yanked me up, my back arched, his mouth came down on my nipple and, without leading into it, he sucked deep.

“Oh God,” I breathed, pretty certain sure I was going to cl**ax on the spot.

Instead, my hands went to the drawstring of my pajama bottoms and I tugged it. Hector’s mouth left me, he yanked down my bottoms, taking my panties with them and then shoved me back to the bed.

My behind hit the bed, I kicked off my clothes but leaned forward, my fingers coming up, I undid the rest of the buttons on his jeans and pulled them all the way down.

And I saw him, right there, in front of me.

And I liked what I saw.

And I wanted it.

And it was f**king well my turn to explore.

So I scooted to the edge of the bed, head tilted back to look up at him, his eyes blazing into mine, I wrapped my hand around him and took him in my mouth.

“Dios mio,” he groaned then he said more stuff in Spanish, his fingers diving into my hair, pulling it away from my face and holding it behind my head in his fists.

He let me explore, let me taste him for what felt like a nanosecond (but was probably longer, it was just that I liked what I was doing and I knew Hector did too which made me like it all the more) then his hands went under my armpits, lifting me clean up into the air. My legs wrapped around his waist, my arms around his neck and then he went forward, I went back, both of us landing on the bed.

Before I had a chance to get used to our new position, he was inside me and not like last night. This was different, harder, rougher, not in either of our control and therefore shocking in its intense beauty.

He pulled my legs up at the knees until they were tucked against his sides and he kept slamming into me, one of my arms wrapped around his back, the other hand in his hair.

We weren’t kissing and I heard our noises drifting around us, his low, deep grunts mingled with my softer whimpers. His face was in my neck and he was groaning there, breathing hard. My face was in his neck and I was moaning there, breathing hard and alternately tasting him and even (no kidding!) biting the flesh at his shoulder.

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped moving, his body buried in mine.

“Jesus, f**k, Sadie,” he muttered in my neck. “Fuck,” he repeated, his arms going tight. “Give me a second.”

I was blinking, rapidly, surprised that he stopped and wanting the movement, the pounding, even our noises back.

“For what?” I asked.

His mouth came to my ear and he whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I closed my eyes and my arms went tight.

“You aren’t hurting me,” I promised, I squeezed him with my thighs (and other parts of me besides) and I heard him make a noise low in his throat. The noise spurred me to coax, “Keep going.”

“Hang on,” Hector murmured, still fighting for control even as he ground deeper (which felt good, good enough for me to remember that I wanted more).

It was my turn to make a low noise in my throat then I repeated, “Keep going.”

“Sadie –” he started but my arm moved, my hand went to his fantastic behind, the fingers of my other hand fisted in his hair. My movements made his head come up and I pressed my lips to his.

“Hector, please,” I whispered, my voice a mixture of begging and demanding, “Please… f*ck me.”

I watched his eyes grow dark then his head slanted, his mouth took mine in another wet, hungry kiss and he did as I asked, wild and rough, until, minutes later, almost at the same time, we both exploded.

It was hard and hot and so overpowering, I moaned deep into his mouth as my body convulsed beneath his.

It took what seemed like forever to come down, tremors coursing through me as I concentrated on Hector, his body still pressing into mine, his breathing on my neck, going slowly from heavy to soft.

His weight bore down on me and I realized, to my surprise, that after the intensity of what we just shared, I felt even more snugly, warm, safe and comfy than I ever had before when I was with him (which was to say, ever in my life).

And, obviously, that was saying something.

That was, I felt more snugly, warm, safe and comfy until he spoke, his voice deep, husky and utterly satisfied.

“This is who I wanted to find, the girl from that night. I knew she was f**kin’ in there, I just didn’t know I’d have her this soon.”

It felt like he’d shoved an icicle in my heart.

No.

Please.

No.

That was not me.

There were loads of Sadies but that wasn’t one of them.

Was it?

A brazen hussy, throwing myself at him and begging him to f**k me?

The Society Slut who went slumming?

Did he think that was me?

Was that what he wanted?

I didn’t want him to want that.

Then it hit me.

The rose on his back which he wanted to put on his arm.

He had the broken heart from Belinda to remind him not to let the desires of his body cloud his judgment.

He had the skull to celebrate taking down my father.

Neither of these things were good, loving, comfy, snugly, warm things.

They represented a hard earned lesson and the victory of a hard fought, dangerous battle.

Maybe the rose didn’t mean what I thought it meant.