Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

“Oh. So maybe I didn’t need to say anything.”

“Two, who the fuck did that to you?”

A long sigh escapes me. I look up at the ceiling. It doesn’t have any answers. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it fucking matters.”

“Is there a chance we can go back to doing what we were doing?”

“Oh, we’re doing that. Don’t worry. But first, you’re going to give me a name.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a hypocritical bastard who demands your secrets even when I won’t give you my own. Now tell me.”

“It was my foster father. And maybe it was my own fault. He wasn’t even home much. One night I was up late and so was he. He offered to let me try some of his beer. It didn’t taste good, but he told me to finish the whole can.”

“It wasn’t your fucking fault. Don’t say that again.”

“The next morning I woke up in bed. I didn’t remember anything about what happened. But there was something between my legs. I was sore and I thought… well, I think I know what he did. It was only that one time though.”

“One time is too many.”

“After that I mostly avoided him. And Noah was there to protect me.”

Beau blows out a hard breath. “I suppose I can’t hate the guy too much, then.”

I don’t feel sexual anymore, not after talking about my foster father, not after thinking about that night. But I don’t want him to control me. I don’t consider what happened that night to be sex. Beau Rochester will be my first; I won’t let my foster father take that from me.

I reach out tentatively for Beau. He doesn’t move as I stroke a circle across his bicep. And then a triangle. And then a square. Then I graduate to letters.

Can we start over? I ask with silent, traced letters.

He faces me. “I want to kill someone,” he says, fury evident in his voice.

“Do that later.”

A short laugh. “You are perfect, you know that? You’re so damn strong. You’re invincible. It terrifies me, how much I want you.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, my nose, my chin. The place between my breasts. My belly button. My legs fall open in surrender. And then he presses a kiss to my sex. He licks from bottom to top, lingering to draw around my clit. A circle. A triangle. A square. I let out a breathless laugh. Then he sucks on my clit in earnest, fluttering his tongue, and I moan, grasping his hair in my fists, shamelessly rubbing against his face.

Right when I’m about to come, he pulls back.

“No,” I moan.

He quirks his lips. “Remember what I said. I want you squirting on my cock.”

“Is that what I did?”

“That’s what you’re about to do.” He notches his cock against my sex, and this time I don’t ask him to wait. This time he presses forward, and he’s right. Even without a hymen, even though I’m not a virgin in the most technical sense, it sort of hurts. It’s definitely a stretching sensation. I suck in a breath, and he pushes deeper.

“Oh God, you feel good,” he mutters.

With a final thrust, he pushes all the way inside. His hips are flush with my thighs.

My mouth opens on a silent cry. I feel incredibly full. Too full. I pant through the sensation. He holds still to let me get used to him. “Okay?” he asks, his voice tense.

“Okay,” I say, too high pitched to be believed.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, and I hear the echo of when he said that before. In the hallway, right before he put his hand beneath my nightgown and made me come.

“Don’t stop.”

“Fuck,” he says, and then he’s pulling out and pushing back inside. Each thrust pushes deeper somehow. It feels like too much until his thumb finds my clit. He rubs using the same rhythm, and soon I’m melting against the bed, turning into a puddle of arousal.

“What number is this?” I ask, breathless.

“Number six?” he asks, more a question. “Seven?”

Another thrust inside me. “Eight. Nine. Ten.” He’s counting every single push, and I can’t disagree. Each one feels like a revelation. Each one sends pleasure cascading through my body. Soon my hips rise up to meet him, little breathy moans escaping me each time.

He’s moving faster and faster, harder and harder. I’m losing my grip on reality. Everything is a blur. Everything is sensation. He chokes on a cry and throws his head back. I watch his throat work as he comes, his tendons straining, his muscles taut. His hand holds my hips in place, leaving bruises on my skin. His other hand presses tight against my clit. The sight of him in rapture is what sends me over. I grind my hips against his sweet pressure, gasping, riding myself through the final waves of orgasm.