He exploded to the wash of her climax over his cock. The gripping, grasping muscles tightening, her creamy release soaking him, making him lose his last shred of control.
When the last tremors shook their bodies, he eased his finger from her and rose from the bed. He collected a warm, wet rag and a towel from the bathroom. As she watched him, silent, thoughtful, he cleaned her thighs, then dried them gently.
“Sleep,” he told her, crawling back in beside her, a tired breath escaping his throat. “You killed me baby. No more sex for you tonight.”
Her husky laughter had him smiling. When he looked into her face once again, her eyes were closed, her breath slowly evening. He settled his head on her pillow, took a deep breath and joined her in the darkness of exhaustion.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sarah dragged herself out of bed several mornings later, stumbling to the kitchen with a wide yawn as she headed for the coffeepot. Filling the machine, she walked to the fridge, pulling out a cold can of soda and popped the lid as she sat down at the kitchen table.
The house was silent. Almost too silent. The television that she usually kept playing low in the living room had not been turned on the night before. There had been no need to fill the house with sounds; her screams had filled silence instead. She would have blushed if she weren’t so damned tired. Her body ached pleasantly, the flesh between her thighs more sensitive than it had ever been. Her breasts were tender and she knew from her blurry perusal in the shower that they were marked with the proof of Brock’s passion.
Pulling her robe tighter around her body, a grin tilted her mouth. He had been like a madman when he returned from the ranch the night before. He had barely made it into the house before he had her on her back again, throwing her into one climax after another then building her up again. She doubted he managed more than a few hours sleep before he left that morning.
Her shoulder was healing well, it was barely sore now thanks to the doctor’s salve. The wound hadn’t been that bad, the experience had been horrifying though. The security system was now installed and Sam was waiting on special locks for the doors just in case someone managed to bypass the system. And Brock was practically living with her.
She had told him he wasn’t staying with her. But she was more than aware of the suitcase under her bed, the clothes now hanging in her closet. Not a lot, but enough to assure her that he had no intentions of leaving anytime soon. That thought brought a frisson of worry to her mind. He was moving in and taking over, ignoring her attempts at self-preservation and making love to her until she begged him to stay. And she had no idea how it had happened. She knew he was worried, knew he had been upset by the attack as well, but she couldn’t let him take over like this.
Honestly, all she had been looking for was one night. She hadn’t expected a new roommate and a lover that kept her exhausted. But she had to admit that this new roommate more than satisfied her. Sarah had never been so well loved, so well satisfied. The rumors about his stamina weren’t lies. If anything, they were understatements.
Hearing the last pop of the ancient coffeemaker, she set the remaining cola in the fridge and went for that first cup. She was just tilting it to her mouth when she heard the back door open.
“So what did you forget?” She turned to face a returning Brock and found her ex-husband instead. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Mark Tate was a handsome man, if you could get past the overbearing, sulky expression on his dark, tanning booth-tanned face. His hair was a light brown, cut almost military short, his eyes a soft hazel. His body was toned from hours at the gym and his clothes were always tightly pressed and the height of male fashion. He had drained damned near every last drop of money she had keeping himself attired.
“Checking to see what a crazy woman looks like,” he grunted, moving to the coffee pot and snagging one of the cups from the cupboard as she moved out of his way. “What the hell did you sic the sheriff on me for, Sarah? That was low. And who the hell attacked you the other night? Haven’t you figured out you’re messing with trouble with the Augusts?”
Sarah saw the signs of his building anger. They were easy to read. The pouty look around his mouth, the surliness in his eyes. He could carry on for hours, his comments like serrated knives tearing at the skin. Over and over, hour after hour until she gave in, did whatever he wanted, just to make him shut up. Just to get him off her back and to find the peace she needed so desperately. The divorce was supposed to facilitate that. He wasn’t supposed to return as though he still lived there.
“I’m not in the mood for your irrational tirades, Mark,” she told him firmly, sitting back down at the table. “So you can just mosey on home to Lolita and leave me the hell alone. You should have never brought her here to begin with. This is my home.”
“Her name’s Jackie,” he reminded her sullenly.
“Whatever.” Sarah raked her fingers through her still damp hair and covered her yawn.
“When’s August due back?” he asked her suddenly, snagging a chair and taking a seat across the table as he sneered the question in her face.
Sarah looked up at him in surprise, wondering at the attitude.
“That doesn’t concern you, Mark,” she told him firmly. “Nothing I do concerns you anymore. Get used to it.”
“The whole damn town’s talking about your little spectacle at the bar the other night, Sarah.” His lips twisted into a grimace. “It’s making me look like a fool.”
Sarah blinked at him in surprise. After six years of his public infidelities, he had the nerve to say that?
“We’re divorced,” she pointed out. “It can’t make you look like anything.”
She watched his face twist in anger. He looked not quite rational, she thought with an edge of worry.
“You’re still carrying my name,” he threw back at her.
Sarah watched him carefully, wondering if he had been drinking this morning.
“Not for much longer,” she assured him tightly. “So why don’t you just leave. Brock August, or what I do, is none of your business.”
She controlled her flush of embarrassment as she remembered what he had done to her beneath that table, promising her no one could see. But she knew, most likely, no one had seen what his fingers were doing to her. Merely speaking to another man was enough to shame her in Mark’s eyes. What was good for the gander was definitely not good for the goose.