West (The Henchmen MC 19)

One of his arms anchored around my stomach. His other hand slipped down, slid between my thighs, started working my clit. As gentle and unhurried as he moved inside me.

"Come for me, Auggie," he demanded, voice low, but tight, close himself.

Another rock, another swipe, and I was falling into another orgasm.

Different from the other two.

A slow, deep pulsing that made my body tremble, made his name cry out from between my lips.

I was vaguely aware of his hiss, of his body jolting as he found his own release.

His hands shifted, one anchoring across my chest, the other across my lower hips, holding me up as I came back down.

I understood the concept of aftershocks, but had never been so unprepared for the intensity of an orgasm before.

Because my body shook ever so slightly, a strange, out of control sensation I was both freaked out and fascinated by at the same time.

West slid out of me, lips pressing a kiss to my neck, waiting for me to hold my own weight, then moving away.

Likely handling the condom as I tried to deep breathe some sense back into my body. And, to be real, my mind as well. Because it was thinking wild things, crazy things, things like asking him to stay the night, to wake up to him in the morning, to go out to brunch with him.

Brunch.

I was not a brunch sort of person.

I was definitely not a brunch-with-a-guy sort of girl.

Yet there was no denying my mind was considering the possibility as West moved back toward me, pants up, but button still undone, his gaze moving over my still-naked body.

I was not someone who felt awkward when someone looked at their body, but there was something in West's gaze that made me both want to stay naked forever, but also cover up.

Something almost, I don't know, possessive.

But no.

That wasn't possible.

We were casual people.

We did casual ugly-bumping.

We didn't do possession and titles and brunch.

"You good?" he asked, brows furrowing, likely reading the mix of confusion and panic on my face.

Yes, panic.

Because I couldn't be the girl who claimed—adamantly, I might add—that she was totally fine with fun and casual only to immediately change her mind as soon as things got physical.

No.

I couldn't be like that.

It would make it seem like I was lying all along, that I was being manipulative.

That wasn't me.

Not at all.

It was just, I don't know, the endorphins. Or the dopamine. Or whatever the hell else went on hormone-wise after some really intense orgasms. Especially three in a row.

Yeah.

That was the only explanation.

"Yep. Fine," I declared, very unconvincingly, as I stooped to retrieve my top, slipping it on, then finding my pants, yanking them up my legs, tucking my panties and bra awkwardly into my pocket. "What?" I asked at his raised-brow look. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, nope. No woman is ever fine. Just like no woman is ever 'not in the mood' for a snack. Or happy to get a random gift."

"Right. Because you're the woman expert, huh?" I asked, chin lifting in an aggressive way I generally didn't like, but I was hoping it would distract from the vulnerability I was feeling that might have been in my eyes as well.

"Alright," he said, tucking his hands into his front pockets, making his shoulders hunch, something that made him seem boyish, nonthreatening. "What's up, Auggie?"

"Nothing," I objected, shaking my head. "Can you move your belt?" I asked, annoyed that I had to, but there was no way I could reach it.

"So you can run away?" he asked, brow raising, baiting me for an argument.

"So I can go get something to eat. I'm starving."

"Oh, a dinner invitation!" he declared, beaming, even though he damn well knew I wasn't inviting him. "In that case," he went on, reaching up to unclasp the belt, slipping it back on. "What are we having?"

What was the least appetizing thing for a hungry, post-sex man?

"Salad," I told him, moving into the hall.

"Gotta get the greens in. Good for the muscles and all that. I always wanted to be Popeye when I was growing up," he added, sounding light and happy as he followed me up the stairs. "Who did you want to grow up to be when you were a kid?"

"Charlotte Pickles."

"The mom from Rugrats?" he asked, and I could hear the surprise in his voice.

"She was so sophisticated and scary and her husband kowtowed to her. I thought she was the shit. Or maybe even Betty. She was the ultimate feminist."

"Really doubled down on the Rugrats, huh?"

"Was it possible not to like Tommy and his crew?" I asked, opening my door. "You know what. No. Blanche from The Golden Girls."

"You watched The Golden Girls as a kid?"

"Who didn't?" I shot back, having fond memories of curling up in bed, turning on the TV, and watching that awesome group until I fell asleep.