Oh, yeah, this girl’s gonna be mine again. And now I’ve put her on notice that it’s happening. But I’ll give her a minute to adjust to the idea because I know she wasn’t looking for this, didn’t plan on my swooping back into her life and demanding a place in her heart.
So I’ll wait. But not long.
Chapter 18
Allyson
There’s a loud rumble of an engine coming closer, but the noise that draws my attention is the purring in Bruce’s chest beneath my palm. “Should we . . . I don’t know, get up? Sounds like someone’s coming.” I know it’s one hundred percent what I should be doing, jumping up and righting my clothes, but I’m so floaty and dreamy in this post-orgasmic haze. At least my bra’s zipped and my tank is back on, I think distantly.
Good Lord, it’s been years since I’ve come like that, and I’m not exactly bad at using my favorite vibrator. But even with its ungodly amount of horsepower, it’s got nothing on Bruce’s fingers . . . or his tongue . . . or his cock, if I remember correctly. I wonder what new tricks he has up his sleeve these days and realize I am in so much trouble.
He’s talking about making me ‘his’ again, and I heard that proud caveman grunt when he said ‘mine.’ That alone should send me running for the hills as fast as my legs can carry me. So why am I still sitting here?
He’s bossy, that I know. But it’s in an oddly respectful way that doesn’t set off every alarm bell I have in my body. He sets off some sirens, but it’s mostly the good ones, the really good ones.
“We’ve got about thirty more seconds until they’re close enough to see us, and I’m using every one of them in case you go skittish on me again. I want as much of you as I can get.” He grinds his still-rigid cock against my core, and I moan, forgetting to argue that I’m not skittish. Nervous maybe, wary definitely, but I’m not some jumpy, on-edge runner.
Or am I?
Deciding to do some self-analyzation on that at a time where I don’t have Bruce underneath me, I smirk at him. Challenge accepted. “Count it down, then.”
He blinks slowly in confusion, and I give him two heartbeats to start counting, even if he doesn’t know why. “Thirty, twenty-nine . . . fuck, Al, what are you doing?” He groans as I move my hips, fucking him through our clothes.
My shorts are so soaked, I’m probably leaving traces of my juices on his jeans and I don’t care in the slightest. He grips my thighs, not stopping me but not guiding me either, just letting me ride him however I want. I pick up the pace, and the numbers fly from his mind as he begins cursing instead.
“Uh-uh, keep counting,” I admonish and continue my torture of us both.
I don’t know who this wanton woman is. This playfulness, this forwardness isn’t me, at least not anymore. But with Bruce, she comes out of her hidey hole, ready to be frisky and fun. I like it, even as it makes me sad that I haven’t been like this in so long.
Since Bruce. Only with Bruce.
“Ten, nine . . .” He spits the words through clenched teeth. “Fuck, Allyson. You’re gonna make me come.”
I can’t help but cry out, wanting that desperately. I’m close again too, and I want us to come together.
The engine sound quiets and I hear a voice call out instead, “Incoming!”
“Goddamn it.” Bruce grabs my ass, fingers spread wide to squeeze all of me, and pulls me against him hard and tight, grinding against me for a second before letting me go. He rests his forehead against mine, panting as his eyes bore into mine.
“Wait a fucking second, Bobby!” he calls out into the air around us. “Fucker knows exactly where we are.” His eyes are scanning the trees around us like he’s expecting Bobby to sneak attack.
The tension of being on the edge fades away slowly, the adrenalin cooling, and a sense of normalcy returns to the moment. I start to laugh lightly, but everything I’ve done hits me at once.
Did I seriously just come barreling onto Bruce’s farm to yell at him and fire him from the team? Only to end up apologizing when he talked me down because I did actually overreact? And then walk around all afternoon like old times and end up riding Bruce, trying to make him come in his jeans against a clock? Who the hell am I?
Yourself, a tiny voice says from a deep recess in my mind.
Is that true? Could I be this woman?
I’ve worked so hard to be even-keeled and analytical, safe and routine-oriented. But what if I’m also emotionally tumultuous, passionate, with just a dash of wild? Have I really shut myself off that much?