Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Small, nimble, shaking fingers dig at my hair.

I’m relentless, thrusting my tongue inside her and feeling soft flesh flutter and tighten around it, again and again and again.

I want her to come so hard it breaks her like a cliff falling into the sea.

I want Callie Landry completely undone.

So destroyed that when I take her, those beautiful grey eyes see me and only me.

Forever.

Greedy? Hell yes, I am. And it’s entirely her fault.

Her knees buckle as my thumb grazes her clit, slowly circling, massaging it in rhythm with my tongue.

“Roland!” she whines.

Her body curls forward.

There’s no mistaking what she feels when she’s practically sobbing with pleasure, so gorgeously responsive, so mine in this fuck-hot moment.

I know what’s coming when she fists my hair and grinds into me, throws her head back with a gasp, arches against the wall, and breaks.

She gives up everything I crave, her taste gushing over my tongue.

Fuck!

For two seconds, I’m conflicted.

I want to be inside her so bad it’s murdering me. Only, I can’t pull away from the addictive taste of her orgasm or the tortured sounds she makes as I keep teasing her well after she’s come.

She must be so lit right now.

It makes me shudder with angry heat, my cock pulsing so hard I can’t fucking stand it, my jeans so tight the pain grows unbearable.

She’s the only woman who ever made me hurt this way—and the only one who can relieve my misery.

Snarling, I surge up her body and kiss her with the taste of her pussy still on my lips, blending between us.

She’s made me such a throbbing mess my hands are clumsy as I rip my jeans open.

I feel her then, soft and submissive against me, still dazed.

She grasps my dick with soft fingers, looking up like I’ve drugged her as her sweet mouth laps at mine in nervous kisses.

I’m spellbound.

She’s hypnotic, drawing me in, driving me mad, and I can’t wait a second longer.

The grip of the condom sliding over my cock churns fire in my balls. It might as well be paper for all it blocks the hot feeling of her body.

I catch her under one knee, draw her thigh against my waist, and spread her open.

“Here. Here. This is what you want,” I say, knowing damned well it’s what I need to keep breathing.

I bury myself to the hilt in a single thrust that makes her scream.

This need is violent. Overwhelming. Insatiable.

I can barely see, resting my brow against her shoulder as I pour every ounce of desire I have into punishing strokes, marking her from the inside out again and again.

My armor’s gone.

She’s stripped me raw, left me bare, and I have nothing left to shield me from feeling everything with an intensity that scares me.

She’s so giving, too.

Even as she mewls desperation—fucking mewls—she’s so open for the pillaging, denying me nothing, giving me the entirety of her body, her pleasure, her wetness gripping me so tight.

Like she doesn’t want to let me go.

I grind my pubic bone against her, adding friction to her clit like I’m pulling her trigger.

She moves with me, rising to meet every thrust. Her damp kisses stamp my jaw, my throat, bringing more pleasure to the deluge.

Tonight threatens to completely drown me in this woman for life.

“Callie,” I whisper against her shoulder, crushing her against me, pulling her in with a jealous possession I have no right to. “Callie, Callie, Callie.”

Her name is a prayer.

Her answer is wordless, wild, yearning.

She’s too damned beautiful for this world.

Too gorgeous to hold out a second longer.

Driving deeper, harder, angrier, I lose my steady rhythm and fall into a chaotic rut.

Something inside me breaks.

I’m defenseless and falling.

My balls short-circuit.

I slam myself into her so hard I worry I’ll bruise her, all guttural snarls and molten heat surging up my cock.

“Callie!” I heave up her name before my throat closes off.

Then there’s just a wordless inferno braising me to the bone.

I come in her with an intensity that makes me wish for a broken condom.

I know. I already told you she’s driven me batshit crazy.

Losing myself in her feels like seventh heaven, but it’s not myself I’m afraid for.

I’m afraid for her.

I’m afraid for everything that happens next if we stay tangled up.

This is the last time.

The last fucking time, and I make it count.

For Callie’s sake, for Barrett’s sake, for my own, it has to be.

* * *

It’s not the last time.

I wish I knew how this turned into a habit.

Almost every night, instead of working late, I go home.

I settle in.

I wait.

I know she’s coming.

She tells me with every quip and subtle flirt slipped into our messages. The thing that shall not be spoken and that must never happen again gets spoken loudly in groans.

The thing happens repeatedly in sweat and rampaging kisses and starry summer nights.