Cannon (A Step Brother Romance #3)

I push, just a little bit, against her, sliding inside her and then stopping. "Then say it, Addy."

"Fuck me, Hendrix," she begs. "I want it."

I yank her hair again, and she groans, deep in her throat. "Say yes."

"Yes, yes, yes," she says, her voice breathy. Gripping her hips, I slide easily into her slick wet pussy. She's bent over the bed, her palms flat, ass arched up, and I fuck her with deep thrusts.

This isn't the slow, romantic sex you read about in romance novels or see in the movies. It's all heat, Addy and I. I thrust inside her with the pent-up frustration of a man who's lusted after her for years. What happened between us a week ago has done nothing to quench my thirst.

She makes these sounds that end up somewhere between a grunt and a moan, faster and faster as she gets closer so quickly.

"Harder, Hendrix, harder," she begs, and I lose track of everything else, including any sense of time.

When she comes, it's without any warning, and the sound that rips through her body is so primal, so incredibly unlike Addy, that as soon as I hear it, I have to let go. The intensity of my orgasm is practically blinding.

Afterward, she turns to face me and takes my face in her hands. I hold my breath, thinking she's about to launch into some meaningful, emotional conversation, but instead, she asks, "Now, where are my fucking clothes?"

I laugh, deep and long, so hard that I almost double over, before I pick her up again and carry her to the bed. "I plan on keeping you out of clothes as much as possible, Addy. You're not going to need them."





THREE YEARS AGO


I stare at the computer screen, the cursor blinking in the middle of the body of the email, the message empty except for the address my mother gave me. She said that Hendrix is in Okinawa, on the other side of the world.

Hendrix is safely on the other side of the world, where nothing can happen between us. That was my first thought when I heard where he was. It's fucked up that I thought that way. It's fucked up that my first thought was about us, and not the fact that he's a Marine who could wind up in Iraq or Afghanistan. I was relieved that he was stationed someplace so far away that no one could possibly expect me to visit him. That makes me a terrible person, I think.

But my momentary sense of relief was immediately followed by an overwhelming sense of dread, panic at the thought of losing him in the War. I had to count by fours, then by eights, then by twelves, until I was finally calm enough to breathe again.

Why is it that I'm sitting here, filled with the same sense of impending dread now, staring at a blank email to Hendrix? It's only an email – it shouldn't strike fear into my heart.

I begin to type out what I want to say, one word at a time, stilted and disjointed. Then I erase the words and begin again. It's funny how the words flow so easily when I write them in my journal, lyrics to songs I'll never get the chance to sing. But they don't come now that I'm looking at an email to the one person I want to write.

Instead, fear clutches at my chest and I can't breathe.

I wonder when I'll be able to breathe again.





PRESENT DAY


Hendrix is as good as his word, and I spend the next few days with him holed up in the apartment where I don't wear a stich of clothing except for his t-shirt when we come up for air. Otherwise, we screw and lie around naked and talk about stupid stuff, laughing the way we use to when we were teenagers. Hendrix's face takes on a lightness, a happiness that I haven't seen from him.

When I get a voicemail from my mother, lecturing me on how all charity donations, especially for things like my clothes, should go through her since she's my manager, I pick up a pillow from the living room sofa and toss it at Hendrix's head. "You donated my freaking clothes?"

Hendrix grins, looking completely and utterly fucking pleased with himself. "You're going to tell me you don't support veterans organizations?"

I slap him hard on the arm. "You think veterans want my closet full of clothes?"

Hendrix laughs. "Vets don't want your designer labels, sweet cheeks," he says. "They're going to be auctioned off and the proceeds donated to a veterans organization. But, I mean, if you want them back…"

"I can't believe you stole my clothes," I say, shaking my head. I can't believe I'm not angry. There's something about Hendrix that makes his completely over-the-top behavior, his over-protectiveness, suddenly endearing. Sex has to be making me stupid.

"I wanted you naked all the time," he says. "It's a small price to pay."

"For you maybe," I say. "I'm the one who lost her closet. You go and do something so terrible and then it's for a good cause so it's impossible to hate you."

"We both know it's impossible for you to hate me anyhow. Relax, sweet cheeks," he says. "I kept the stuff I knew you loved. It's in my closet."