Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

Brock’s eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t give a shit that you can’t boil an egg. I don’t mind cooking, and I don’t mind taking my lady out and showing her off. What I do care about is the whacked up shit you’ve got about all that rabbit food.”

I widened my eyes, leaning back in his arms slightly so I could meet his. “What are you talking about?”

“You and depriving yourself because you think you need to stay at a size zero. That’s stopping now. You’re beautiful, but you’re too fuckin’ skinny. You’ve got amazing tits, but the rest of you needs some meat on your bones.”

I opened my mouth to voice the myriad of problems I had with that statement.

“Now don’t go spouting crap at me just yet. I’d take you any way you are, ten pounds lighter or a hundred pounds heavier, as long as you were happy. You can’t tell me you’re happy living off fuck all in order to satisfy some fucked up goal.”

I pursed my lips; my perpetual dieting had been a part of me as long as I could remember. I wouldn’t say I had an eating disorder but when you had a weight obsessed mother whose skeptical eye noticed a mere pound weight gain plus a love of fashion, you stayed thin. It had become second nature to me to deprive myself, although every now and then I would glare enviously at people gobbling down candy bars or French toast. But I didn’t want this change to be perpetuated to please a man.

“You can’t just tell me what to eat,” I snapped at him.

Brock regarded me. “I’m not telling you what to eat. Eat whatever the fuck you want. That’s the point. Enjoy life a little, baby.”

I didn’t want to get into an argument so soon after a reconciliation so I just rolled my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll go and get dressed for breakfast.” I tried to move out of his hold but his arms tightened.

“What? You want me to go in this?” I gestured down to the skimpy nighty I was wearing.

Brock’s hungry gaze travelled down my scantily clad body. “Fuck no, I would like to show my appreciation for that piece of nightwear though.” Hands traveled down my sides to pull me flush against him, his firm hands squeezing my ass. “I’d also like to kiss my lady good morning,” he said softly, eyes moving over my face.

His mouth descended on mine and the kiss went wild, as if we hadn’t had sex, three times in the past twenty-four hours. I was pushed back against the counter and bowls and spatulas scattered everywhere. I didn’t care. Brock’s hands circled my hips, lifting me on the counter. I moaned as his hard length pressed against me in the perfect spot. I frantically pulled at his boxers, freeing him and gripping him firmly. Brock’s hands shoved my nightgown up, revealing my bare core. I was impatient and guided him inside me.

He plunged into me. Hard.

I screamed and almost came right then and then.

“You feel so fuckin’ good, babe, you’re like velvet,” he muttered into my ear, hands holding me securely while he thrust into me.

“Harder,” was all I managed.

He complied and I scratched my hands down his bare back, reveling in the sharp hiss he emitted. Strong hands bit into my hip while the other held my hip. I held onto him for dear life as he pounded into me, plates smashing on the floor.

His hand went to my neck and he grasped it tightly, his eyes on mine. We stayed like that, staring at each other while he fucked me within an inch of my life, no words needed.

My orgasm washed over me without warning and I cried out as I felt him empty himself inside me. He rested his forehead against mine; we were both breathing heavily.

“That’s what I call a good morning kiss,” I whispered.

Brock chuckled lightly and the vibration made me twitch as he was still inside me. His gaze then traveled down my body to reveal we were both covered in flour.

All of a sudden we were off the counter, Brock still inside me. I squealed.

“We need a shower,” he growled.

After a very long and satisfying shower I stood in my walk-in closet, contemplating an outfit for the day. I was meant to be in the store about twelve. It was only nine now so we had plenty of time for a breakfast date. My head snapped up from a perusal of heels (I started my outfits from the bottom up, considering shoes to be most important). Date. Brock and I had messed around for months on and off. We had fought, made up, slept together, woke up together but did not go on one date. I was too busy trying to maintain emotional distance to even entertain the idea of a date. We hadn’t even shared a proper meal together. How could I be in love with a man when I didn’t even know if he liked mushrooms?

`“Want to run something by you, baby.” Brock’s voice penetrated my thoughts.

I whirled around to see him leaning against the door to the closet. He did that well. Leaning, I mean.

“Do you like mushrooms?” I blurted.

He furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Mushrooms,” I repeated impatiently, “do you like them?”

He looked at me a second before answering. “Not particularly.”

“Good,” I nodded. “Me either, they gross me out. What’s your go to breakfast? Are you a toast and jelly man or do you go full hog with bacon and eggs?” I asked. “Or do you forgo breakfast altogether and just suck down a coffee? On that note, how do you take your coffee?” I shot at him, pacing.

How could our relationship have been so shallow and so deep at the same time? I knew. It was because of me. Me and my fucked up-ness keeping Brock at arms’ length, then keeping him away altogether.

Brock stepped forward putting his hands on my arms. “Take a breath, Sparky, and tell me where all this is coming from,” he said easily.