The End - Blackbird book 7

12

Gillian accepted with a smile and circled the bar to the kitchen. Damn. The smell of food had masked his cologne a little. But now she stood next to him, it seemed to call out for her to drop all her nice dinner manners.

Brock too felt her proximity was too tempting and looked for an excuse to put some yards between them. Trying the different parts of the apartment was sexy and funny. But his bed was large and comfy enough for them to have all the fun they wanted--without hard surfaces and sharp corners around.

"Mind if I take a real shower?" he asked.

She looked up at him and smiled. She really needed to turn to the sink and focus on the dishes. A chill ran down her spine when he brushed off her hair to kiss her shoulder.

"Wanna wait for me in bed?" he whispered.

Her hormones threw a parade she was hardly able to hide as she held his eyes to nod. "Okay..." she breathed, hoping for his lips to land on hers. As they did a moment later.

But he didn't linger kissing her, and Gillian let out a heartfelt sigh when he headed to the bathroom.

She only took a few minutes to set the dishwasher and turn it on. On her way to Brock's room, she heard the shower running. She paused outside the closed bathroom door and listened. And perceived the slight variations in the sound of the running water. Her relentless hormones gladly explained that those variations were caused by the water falling directly on Brock's body. And sliding down. Down his neck... Down his chest... Down his belly... Gillian fled before kicking the door open.

In the bathroom, Brock showered as quickly as he could and got out. He was about to walk out when he scratched his jaw and felt the growing stubble all over the lower half of his face. Damn. He didn't want to feel like sand paper to be with her.

Gillian heard the muffled buzz of the shaver from the bathroom and felt a treacherous prick of emotion. Stupid caring man! How could he be so frigging adorable? She waited for him in bed. There was a framed photo of Andrea and a thick book on one of the nightstands, so she took the other side of the bed. She'd faced a tricky situation to get there: how much of her clothes should she take off? Eve's outfit felt just too much. And she couldn't wait for him fully dressed either. One thing was sure: her jeans were goners, so she took them off. Finally, she decided top and underwear would be fine. She took her phone with her, to have something to do until he came. So she put on her readers and sat to text Connor about spending the weekend in DC.

Her son replied with an annoying amount of surprised and happy emojis. She was about to threaten him with staying in Boston unless he used civilized language, when she heard the shaver buzz stop. She texted a hurried, 'Gotta go, night, love you.' She took off her glasses and laid back in bed. She'd hardly rested her head on the pillows when Brock walked in—black pajamas bottoms, every hair in place and his face as smooth as a baby's.

He smiled at her as she rested on her pillow and opened the covers for him. And there was something in her bright blue eyes, fixed on him as he crossed the room to the bed, that dried his throat and woke up his fingertips—there's a word for it, Brockner: desire. No. It was something deeper, not only physical desire, but he couldn't tell exactly what—then get in bed and find out!

She looked up to hold his eyes when he sat in bed, not a word, not even the hint of a smile. He slid his long legs under the sheets and lay back, his arm moving up to make room for her by his side. Gillian moved closer to him. She tucked him in and her arm stayed across his chest.

Brock slid his own arm under her and around her shoulders. Gillian lifted her head, not only to let his arm circle her, but also to meet her own hand when it grabbed Brock's face. He rolled over to face her as they kissed. She pushed him gently to lay flat on his back again.

He did, their eyes still locked in complete silence, watching her pull herself a little higher to look down at him, her fingers sliding along his jaw.

Gillian's lips left his to travel down his neck. Her hand moved with them and went on to his chest. Brock's chin pointed at the ceiling, exposing as much of his neck as he could, for her to kiss and lick and bite. Her hand caressed his chest in no hurry, coming and going until her mouth joined it again.

She loved it when his hand fell from her shoulder on the pillows and his other arm rested across his face, covering his eyes as he sighed, his message crystal clear—do whatever you want with me, to me, on me. She hoisted herself to rest on her elbow in order to reach farther. Her hand navigated his chest slowly, her tongue rolling down the small gap between his ribs. Kissing him was fascinating. Her lips moved over his skin, her tongue swirling in wet doodles on it until she found his navel. Her hand stroke his belly on a first approach to the waist of his pajamas bottoms.

Brock reacted at her every move, gasping and sighing. It wasn't easy to stay put. His groin hardened as if he hadn't waken up at sunrise to go through a long, exhausting day; as if that moment on the couch had never happened. Once more, he needed her badly. Yet he didn't want this delicious torture to end. One of his knees came up on its own accord when her fingers sneaked into his bottoms. It brought his tip within their reach, and he held his breath when they rubbed its back. How much harder could he get, he wondered, feeling the yearning throbs as her fingers stroke his length down softly. His other leg moved apart, giving her way between his thighs. Her gentle grasp pulled a growl from his throat. He expected her mouth to move down too, but it didn't. Which was good in a frustrating way. Did her tongue touch his tip again, it'd be all over. And he wanted it to last longer than the first time. Her mouth moved up, and he let out a muffled groan when her hand wrapped around his erection, to stroke him in slow caresses that fed an aching need in him.

Her kiss on his lips made him move his arm away from his face, but his eyes remained closed. So she waited, gazing down at him. She loved feeling him so stiff and eager. She wanted so bad to lay on top of him, take him in her body again, let herself lose in him as he was lost in her. It felt as if she didn't have enough hands, lips, skin to feel him as much as she wanted. As if her body wasn't enough to encompass him. To express all he made her feel, her emotions, her sensations.