Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

He moves over me, in me, faster and faster, sweat slicking his skin, making his ink glow as his skin catches the light. His hair sticks to his temples, his forehead, and his mouth seeks mine again, the hard planes and ridges of his chest rubbing on my boobs, on my sensitive nipples, setting off more sparks of pleasure in my core.

It’s starting, I feel it uncoiling deep inside me, I feel that trickle that’s about to turn into a flashflood and take me under.

I kiss him back desperately, my hands slipping behind his muscular back, drawing him closer to me, deeper, and we rock together. His breath catches, and somehow he swells bigger inside me. It feels good, frigging amazing, and…

Oh God.

The orgasm hits me without a warning. I hold on to Jarett as wave after wave pounds me, as I tighten around his hard cock, and shudder again, the sensations going on and on.

He’s panting, I realize, rocking in shallow thrusts inside me, and then he stills, moaning long and low, looming over me, every muscle taut and his beautiful face twisted with pleasure as he comes. I feel his hot cum spill inside me, triggering new spasms of pleasure.

I catch him when his arms give way, and he drops on top of me. He tries not to crush me, but it takes him a long moment to find his coordination.

“Stay,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around him as he struggles to push off me. I like his weight on me. “Please stay.”

Stay with me.

He sighs, his head resting on my boobs. “Love you, Gigi,” he mutters, and I blink, not sure I heard him right.

But he says nothing more, and I thread my fingers through his thick, dark hair, wondering.

We doze on and off, and eventually he gets up and drags me off the sofa.

Then he swings me up in his arms and carries me to his bedroom. He lays me down, and I stare up into his clear eyes, smiling.

His mouth quirks. He lies down beside me and pulls the covers over us, then puts his arms around me. “I missed this last night. Missed you.”

“Then why

didn’t you come over?”

“I dunno. Cuz of things going to shit, I guess. Losing my job, and all these… these fucking doubts. About myself. About what I considered important.”

I stroke his bare chest, and feel a few raised ridges under his ink. My hands can see things my eyes can’t.

“You have scars on your chest.”

He’s been half-dozing, but now he frowns, a small unhappy line between his brows. “A few. That accident, when I was little. Then a couple more over the years. Once I fell off the porch when I lived with Connor. Busted my head open, too.”

“Where?” I trail my hand up the side of his face, to his hair, and he shivers. “Ah, found it.” A thin scar, on the top of his head. “Where else?”

He huffs. “My fucking knee.”

“Let me see.”

“What for? It’s damn ugly.”

“Nothing about you is ugly. I want to see.” I meet his heavy-lidded gaze. “To see everything that hurts. Everything that made you who you are.”

He looks like he’s about to refuse, object, but he releases me from his arms and pushes down the covers. He folds his arms under his head, all those strong muscles in full display, but his face is stoic as I crouch over his leg. Like he expects me to make a face, or say something nasty.

I study the mass of scars. “Surgery?”

“Yeah. Several. For a while they thought I wouldn’t walk again.”

Ow. I hurt on his behalf. The scars are shaped funny, like they’re too short for the width of his leg, and then I realize it’s because he was little when it all happened.

Bending over, I kiss the scarred flesh, gently caress it with my fingers.