She lifted her head, shoved her face in his neck and, still coming, gasped, “That’s it, baby, fuck me.”
He did as she asked.
Then he plunged his fingers in her hair, fisted, positioned her head for her mouth to take his and his groan drove down her throat as he buried his dick inside her and came.
Each time, it was phenomenal. Each time, he knew the next could never top it.
Each time, he was wrong.
He came down and she was kissing him, her tongue gliding sweet against his. Mike took over, soft at first, building it then taking her to the whimper. When he got it, he ended the kiss, slid his lips down her cheek to her neck and worked his mouth there.
This was different than he had with any other woman. Even Audrey, he disengaged quickly. He didn’t mind closeness, cuddling but, whatever it said about him, when he was done, he was done. With every woman he had, every encounter, within moments he pulled out and rolled away. He might eventually roll them into him but he never stayed buried, kissed, savored the feel of the woman’s limbs rounding him, the smell of her perfume in his nostrils, the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her wrapped around his dick.
He did it with Dusty every time. He couldn’t get enough of her, enough of her scent, her feel, their connection.
He felt her legs wrap tight and her fingers glide over the skin of his back, light, sweet, her other hand sliding into his hair and playing. It sent prickles across his scalp, down his neck but not the bad kind.
He was about to lift his head when her body bucked in a strange way and she made a noise low in her throat like she was in pain.
His head jerked up and he looked down at her to see her warm brown eyes filled with tears. Filled so full, they spilled over, gliding down her temples into her hair.
“Sweetheart, what the fuck?” he whispered and when he did, she lifted her head, shoved it in his neck, her arms and legs getting tight and she began to sob. As in sob, body wrenching, breath hitching, moans tearing up her throat.
Jesus.
He pulled out. It took effort and not a small amount of time since it seemed with her actions Dusty wanted to burrow into him, for him to absorb her into his skin but he got his jeans adjusted and his shirt off. Then he forced her arms in the sleeves and got two buttons done at her breasts before she plastered herself against him, face buried in his neck, ass in his lap, arms around him in a death grip.
He slid the fingers of one hand up and down her spine soothingly, the fingers of other gliding through her hair as he twisted his neck and whispered in her ear, “Angel, get a handle on it long enough to talk to me. Tell me, what’s wrong?”
“Da…Da…Darrin,” she sobbed into his neck and her body reared with another hitched breath. “He’d be so…so…ha…happy!”
That was not what he expected her to say. Then again, he had no fucking clue what she was going to say.
Mike’s hands stopped moving so he could circle his arms around her and he whispered, “Dusty.”
“He…he…wanted us together sah…sah…so bad,” she continued blubbering. “And he did…did…didn’t live to see it. In…in fact, him dying is why it happened.”
Jesus.
Mike’s arms got tighter and he kept whispering in her ear when he said, “Honey.”
She jerked back, looked down at him, her face red, her eyes wet, the trails of tears still tracking over her cheeks. “I know I’m weird!” she cried. “Talking about my brah…brah…brother after sex but he would, Mike. He would be happy.” She pulled an arm from around him and dashed a hand across her cheek so clumsily he feared she’d do herself harm but luckily she stopped, took a long shuddering breath and kept talking. “Not the sex part because he was kind of conservative but the you and me part.”
“He wanted us together?” Mike asked and she nodded fervently. “Why?”
“He read my diaries, Mike!” she exclaimed then collapsed against him again. “And he knew you were a good guy.”
Well, that would definitely explain it, at least the diaries.
She’d ratcheted it down to sniffling so Mike moved his hands on her soothingly again, giving her some time before he murmured, “My girl, takin’ everything on, she hasn’t had time to deal with her own shit.”
“No,” Dusty mumbled then sniffed.
“You need to give yourself time to grieve, Angel,” Mike advised.
“When?” she replied. “There is no time with my bitchface sister, budding teenage romance, shadowy, nefarious businessmen lurking and Rhonda baffling science by being the first case of a walking, talking, cooking, grocery shopping coma patient.”
He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t. But his body started rocking with laughter anyway.
This went on a while before Dusty muttered, “This isn’t funny.”
He knew she wasn’t pissed because her words held a smile but Mike calmed his laughter and gathered her close before he said gently, “No, darlin’, it isn’t. But you are.”