“Come on, Red. You can do better than that.”
On that note, he plunges two fingers inside me, and my back arches with a guttural cry. His mouth is rough, and his fingers brutal as he sucks and nibbles at my clit.
The blankets are clenched tightly in my fists, and my heels fall with a clunk against the tile floor while my husband wears my thighs like ear muffs, not even coming up for air until I’m screaming.
My orgasm is fast and fierce, but before I’ve even recovered, he’s flipping me onto my knees and crawling onto the bed behind me.
Grabbing onto the headboard, I brace myself for the impact as he slams home.
Hunter is rough in bed. It’s probably my second favorite thing about him—just after that kind heart of his. And it’s probably the dichotomy of his personality that makes the sex so delectable. He is warm and kind and quiet in person, but in the bedroom, he lets loose. He’s wild and rough and almost primal. He growls and commands and dominates in a way that lets me know he wants me and only me. That he needs me.
“Louder,” he grunts.
I cry out again, our bed smacking against the wall, and I swear I hear the cries on the other side get louder. Then, for some reason, I imagine what he’s doing to them in that room. I picture Drake pounding into that girl the way Hunter is me. I picture sweat dripping across his bare pecs and over the ridges of his abs. I picture his dirty blond hair barely touching his shoulders. I picture his face and wonder what it looks like when he comes.
My body is flooded with heat and pleasure as I come again, my fingers straining in their tight grip around the headboard as I scream.
Behind me, Hunter pounds into me two more times before he groans through his own orgasm. And when I open my eyes again, I breathe through a wave of shame with the image of Drake still frozen in the forefront of my mind. And feeling for one second like the hands currently gripping my hips are his.
Quickly, I reach back and latch onto Hunter’s hand. Turning toward him, I shake myself out of my imagination and feel relief when I lock eyes with my husband. The only man I should be thinking about when I climax.
So…what the hell was that?
Rule #3: Midnight kitchen meetings can be very enlightening.
Hunter
Ten years. Ten years.
Still feels like yesterday. I still feel like that drug dealer in the driver’s seat of my dad’s beat-up SUV. Twenty-three years old and just scrambling to get by.
Ten years in fancy suits and nice cars and a beautiful house I bought and paid for, for my beautiful wife.
I’m not going to spout some bullshit like how I don’t deserve this, because I know I fucking do. I worked my ass off to trade a life of selling MDMA for one selling BDSM. I haven’t lost touch. Somewhere inside, I’m still that stupid kid who’s lucky he never ended up behind bars. But I don’t feel bad about that. I did what jail would have done. I rehabilitated myself, and this woman next to me was my sentence.
Isabel is breathing softly, her messy mop of amber hair half-covering her face. Reaching down, I pull back the strands and kiss her forehead as she sleeps. Then, I carefully roll out of bed without waking her.
The red light of the old alarm clock on the nightstand shows 3:22. Life at the club has turned me into a night owl, wide awake all night and falling asleep at dawn. And when I hear a cabinet close in the kitchen, I know I’m not the only one.
“You really keep bad hours for a construction worker.” My voice carries across the dark space, and the glass rattles on the counter when Drake hears me.
“Jesus Christ, brother. You scared the shit out of me.”
I can’t hold in my gravelly chuckle as I reach for a glass just behind him, his bare shoulder brushing mine. “Sorry.”
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“You know me,” I reply in a lazy mumble. Filling the glass with water, I look over at my best friend bathed only in the light from the tiny bulb above the stovetop. As I set the drink down against the counter, I smile. “I thought for sure you’d be out cold. Sounded like a real workout in there.”
He grins wide, leaning back against the marble, his broad hands bracing the surface as he hoists himself on top of it. In nothing but a pair of jeans, his bare feet hanging out of the bottom, he looks almost proud of himself for all the noise he was making tonight.
Technically, it was the girls making all the noise, I guess.
“Oh, you heard that?” he replies with a mischievous smile.
“Come on, Drake. Emerson and Maggie probably heard that back at the club. It’s a small miracle the neighbors didn’t call the cops. It sounded like you were drowning feral cats in there.”