He stood beside me in the elevator, his shoulder brushing against mine.

I wished he could see how badly I needed him right then. I was crumbling inside. Collapsing. Shattering.

Seeing Dad—seeing Connor had brought everything back, had unearthed the boiling maelstrom of emotions and turmoil I’d worked so hard for so long to repress. Talking about what had happened…it was wrecking me. I was incapable of expressing that, however, and Brock didn’t seem to see it.

“Claire, babe—”

I felt myself resorting to anger, because I had nothing else to rely on. “Oh shove it, Brock,” I snapped. “I don’t wanna fucking hear it.”

“Claire, just listen to me for a second.”

I wanted to listen to him—god, I wanted to. I wanted to crawl into his arms and let him carry me, let him hold me, let him tell me it was gonna be okay. But I couldn’t say that. I just didn’t know how. I was scared and all I had was anger, the same anger that had festered inside me for so long. My anger was my shield, but it was my nemesis, too. I had to feed it or the tenuous control I had on life would be gone forever. My anger was propping me up inside, and if I let it all collapse, I’d never recover. So I used the anger and let it flow through me, as Emperor Palpatine might have said.

I whirled on Brock and glared up at him. “I don’t want to hear one fucking word from you, Brock. I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to talk about this shit. Yet here I am, and what have I gotten? Nothing but more hurt, nothing but being told, again, that I am worth nothing. These people have turned me into someone I barely know and, for the last fucking time, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He stayed silent, following me to the parking lot and to our rental car. I rounded the hood to stand on the driver’s side. “I’m driving.”

He eyed me for a long moment, and then tossed me the keys. He said nothing, just sank into the passenger seat as I cranked the engine. He barely had the door closed before I was backing out of the space and then peeling rubber to fishtail out of the parking lot. Brock appeared relaxed, even as I swung far too fast out of the hospital lot and onto Thirteen Mile Road. I didn’t have far go before I reached my first destination; Tip-Top Liquor. I skidded to a halt diagonally between two parking spaces, threw the vehicle into park, and leaped out. Brock waited, seeming to know better at that moment than to follow me. I bought a fifth of Patrón Silver and tossed it to Brock as I slid behind the wheel again. More squealing tires as I peeled out of the lot and onto Thirteen Mile again, heading for Woodward Avenue. I barely slowed down and certainly didn’t look as I skidded sideways around the right turn onto Woodward, and this time even Brock held on to the oh-shit bar and braced as we barely missed a Smart Bus and then two pedestrians crossing the street.

“Slow down, Claire,” Brock said through gritted teeth. “This isn’t going to help anything.”

“Shut up, Brock.”

“You’re going to get us killed at worst, pulled over at best. Slow down.”

I ignored him, weaving through traffic with the pedal mashed down. It wasn’t even noon on a weekday, so when we got to Scotia Park, not far from where my parents still lived, the park was empty. I parked the Mustang, snatched the bottle from Brock, and stormed across the park to the set of mini-bleachers placed randomly near a towering pair of maple trees, which shaded the metal bleachers from the worst of the sun. I sat down on the bleachers, uncorked the Patrón, and took a giant four-gulp swig straight from the bottle, hissing as I swallowed the last gulp.

Brock joined me a few seconds later, leaning back to brace his elbows on the riser behind us. “Not saying I don’t understand, but getting day-wasted isn’t going to change anything.”

“Nope,” I agreed. “But then, I’m not trying to change anything.”

“Then what is this about?”

“This is about me wanting to get completely obliterated so I don’t have to remember any of this in the morning.”

“Also not going to work.”

“Yeah, since when are you an expert in any of this?”

He breathed out a long, heavy sigh. “There are few things I haven’t told you, or anyone.”

“Like what?”

He eyed me. “Cork the bottle and open up to me a little, and I’ll tell you.”

I pulled on the bottle again, twice more. “Fuck you.”

“I know what you’re doing, Claire.”

“Oh yeah, smart guy? What’s that?”

“Trying to hurt me. Push me away. This is all too much for you to handle, and you’re freaking out, and you don’t know what to do.” He slid closer to me. I stiffened, because I could smell him and his smell always made me want to burrow into him. “You hold so much in, Claire. Talk to me.”

Fuck. The tequila was having its way with me, singing through my blood and erasing my inhibitions as swiftly as only tequila could; I should have gotten a bottle of Grey Goose instead…vodka wouldn’t betray me like this.

“I don’t trust you,” I said, hating how the words toppled out of me, evading my attempts to keep them in as the tequila pushed them out. “And I trust myself even less.”

“Why don’t you trust yourself?”

I shook my head. “Oh no, you’re not gonna take advantage of me like this.”

“What do you mean, Claire?” He sounded so puzzled.

“You know what tequila does to me.”

“Actually I don’t. We haven’t gotten tequila hammered together yet.”

“It makes me all…truthy.” I could feel my head swelling, my brain fogging—I was feeling the six or seven shots I’d had in less than five minutes. “It also does like it says in that one song. You know which one I mean?”

He laughed. “‘Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off?”

I nodded, and knew I was already sloppy. So fuck it, right? I took another shot or three. “Yep, that one. It does that. And it also makes me prone to say pretty much anything.”

“Like what?”

I shook my head. “Oh no. No way, José. Nice try.”

Another chuckle, and I realized he’d somehow managed to pull a fast one on me, sneaking the bottle away from me. Probably for the best. I didn’t pack much mass, so it didn’t take much for me to get blitzed, and I’d had a lot very quickly.

“You’re gonna have your hands full pretty soon, Brocky-baby,” I said, laughing. “I’m a lunatic when I’m tequila wasted.”

“Oh joy,” Brock deadpanned.

“Like this one time, Mara and I were at this bar, our favorite bar in San Francisco. Someone bought a round of tequila, and that led to another and then all of a sudden I was topless in the bathroom, going down on two guys at once. Not even sure how I ended up there, honestly, it was just...one tequila, two tequila, three tequila—and then bam, dicks in my mouth. But I was like whatever, and I finished them both off.”

“Jesus, Claire.”

“Not sure even he can help me, at this point.” I glanced at him, and if this was a cartoon, Brock would have steam spouting from his ears and his face would be beet red. “Oh, are you jealous?” I asked, mocking. “Poor Brock.”

He growled. “You’ve never been anything less than honest about your past, and I’ve never been anything less than totally accepting.”

“Oh, I’m supposed to apologize for being a slut, now? That’s not even the worst story I could tell you. There’s the time I took a week off of work and went down to Acapulco by myself. I don’t think I wore clothes at all that week. I don’t remember much except being wasted the whole time and doing a lot of blow and sucking a lot of cock.” I watched his reaction. “You don’t like these stories, do you?”

“No, Claire, I don’t.” He stared hard at me. “I don’t like hearing about you sucking off other guys, whether it’s one or a hundred.”

Brock lapsed into a stony, pissed off silence.

Whatever.

“Actually, I think there’s a video of me from that week up on YouPorn. One of the guys recorded some shit and put it up with the amateur stuff. I checked it out later. Can’t really tell it’s me though, because I had my hair dyed bright neon purple and I had a shitload of makeup on.” I laughed. “It’s kinda hot, actually. I was wearing a push-up bra, so with the downward angle of the camera, it actually looked like I had tits for once.”

“Claire, come on.”

“What? I’m sure you’ve seen that shit before.”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

“Never done it, though?”

He frowned at me. “Hell, no.” A shake of his head. “That shit is degrading.”

“Not if she’s into it. If she lets it happen voluntarily.”

“That just smacks of self-esteem issues to me.”

I snorted. “Well, no shit. Obviously. That’s the entire point. She does that shit because it feeds her need for attention. She likes guys doing that shit to her because then it’s at least guys finding her attractive. And if they want to blow their load on her face, then fine, but that’s her choice. It’s not degrading if she chooses it.”

He hesitated before answering. “I don’t know if I agree.”

I stared at him—my view of him was spinning, now. “So then, that time in Seattle in my apartment, when you came all over my chest, that was you degrading me?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It wasn’t your face, and it was just me.”

“So it’s different when it’s four guys and I get come on my face rather than my tits?”

“Yeah, it’s different. I value you, Claire, which is more than those guys did.”

I was really dizzy now and the world was spinning around me but I did manage to ask a question I’d asked myself many times before now. “If I’m not worth shit to my own father, who should I be worth shit to?”

“Me?” Brock asked.

“Yeah, now.”

“Yeah, now,” Brock echoed. “And no story you could tell me is gonna change that.”

“Not even if I tell you I got DP’d?”

Brock winced. “No, Claire.”

I was so dizzy, now. “I’ve been a bad girl, Brock. Done a lot of bad, bad things. And you’re saying none of it matters to you?”

“Of course it matters. It matters a lot. I wish to fuck I could go back and make you see your worth so you wouldn’t have done any of it. So you’d have some self-respect.”

“Yeah, well…you’re too late. None of that self-respect mumbo-jumbo matters to me. I’m just little ol’ slutty Claire Collins, whore-extraordinaire.”

He palmed my cheek, and I opened my eyes to see his close to mine, burning with sincerity. “No, Claire. It’s never too late.”

“Oh, you’re gonna save me, is that it? I’m a pity project. Save Claire, the slut with a heart of gold.” I took on a deep, mocking tone of voice. “‘I’m Brock, and I’m gonna love Claire so good she’ll stop being a whore and have some self-respect for once in her whore life, because I’m fucking magical!’” I blew a raspberry. “Get over yourself, Brock. I’m un-save-able and not worth saving.”

He didn’t have an answer for that.

I tried to sit up, and discovered that superdrunkiness had snuck up on me while I was babbling about my whorish past. “Damn.” I grabbed at Brock. “Can you help your drunk whore of a girlfriend to the car?” He stood up, bent over, and scooped me up in his arms. I nuzzled against his chest, unable to stop myself. “Wanna know a secret?” I mumbled.

“Yes.”

I felt him bend and lower me into the car—I wasn’t sure how he got the door open while holding me, though. I grabbed onto his neck so he couldn’t stand upright, and I whispered into his ear. “I know I act like a hard-ass bitch, but I’m not. I just don’t know how to stop pretending I don’t give a fuck.” I bit his earlobe, hard, and he grunted in surprise. “Another secret, since I’m all truthy on tequila? I really, really want you to fuck me like the dirty slut I am, and do every dirty thing there is to me. I need it, and I’m scared you won’t give it to me. And I also want you to keep doing all those sweet, tender, princess-y things for me even though I act like I hate them. I don’t—I love them. I just hate that I love them, because I’m not worthy of them, or of you.” I kissed his earlobe where I’d bitten him hard enough to leave an angry red mark. “I’m gonna pass out now, and when I wake up I’m gonna pretend I never said any of that.”

“I know.”

“Will you forget?”

The car was moving, and the window was open, letting in a sweet, cool breeze. “Not a chance,” I heard Brock say.

“Promise?”

I felt him take my hand in his, and I let myself hold on to him, for my heart’s sake, not because I was so dizzy the world felt like it was wobbling like a spinning top losing momentum. “Yes, Claire. I promise I won’t forget.”

“I’m gonna be a pain in the ass about this, I hope you know.”

“I know.”

I rested my head on the side of the door, next to the open window, closing my eyes, feeling myself sliding into unconsciousness. “Hey…Brock?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“This.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am, though.”

“I’ll let you make it up to me.”

“With blowjobs?”

He laughed, squeezing my hand. “I’ll think of something.”

I sighed, and focused on not puking. “’Kay. Bye.”

Hello darkness, my old friend.

* * *

Oh my god.

I knew this would happen.

Ouch. My head hurt so bad I could hardly open my eyes.

Shit, goddammit, and motherfucker.

Ow, ow, ow, ow.

I slowly cracked my eyes open. I was in the hotel room, so that was good. In bed, also good. Still in my clothes. A glance at the window showed darkness beyond, and a glance at the clock showed that it was 5:55 a.m. Why the fuck was I awake at 5:55 a.m.? I never wake up this early; I’m a computer programmer and I do my best to work late at night.

Brock was in bed beside me, knees drawn up, turned away from me, spine curved into a broad, hard arc. There was a bottle of mineral water on the bedside table, a packet of aspirin, and a handwritten note beneath my cell phone. I took the aspirin with half the bottle of water, and read the note.

Claire,

I really, really, REALLY like you. A lot.

Also, I’m not trying to save you.

Furthermore, I’m not trying to change you.

Additionally, you’re sexy. Even passed out drunk, you take my breath away.

And finally, you can totally make this up to me with lots of random BJs. Or, if you’d prefer, we can just agree that shit happens, and that there’s nothing to make up for. Either way, I’m in this with you, good or bad, no matter what. So don’t freak out, okay?

Okay, so there’s maybe one more thing: It’s going to be fine, I promise.

Yours, because I want to be,

B

I read the note three or four times and tried to convince myself that I wasn’t crying. But I was just bullshitting myself. I was crying. In fact, I was bawling my eyes out. Get a grip, Claire. You don’t do crying. What is it about this guy that brings all this stuff out of me?

On top of it all I felt like shit because I was hungover as all fuck, and also upset at myself, and at Connor—since I refused to acknowledge the bastard as my father ever again—and at Brock for being so damn sweet when I just wanted him to either fuck me like I want to be fucked, or just get it over with and leave me already.

Having been hungover like this a time or two before, I’d discovered one surefire way of getting rid of a nasty hangover; it sucked, but it was effective. I changed into my workout clothes—a pair of tight red yoga shorts that didn’t really even cover my ass all the way, and a yellow sports bra. I laced up my Brooks, and headed down to the gym.

I did leave Brock a note, however, written on the back of his, and tucked it under his cell phone:

Brock,

Running away from my hangover. (In the gym, I mean.)

We can talk about the contents of the reverse side of this note when I get back.

Yours, assuming you still want me to be,

C

I found the gym and the treadmill, turned on my running playlist, cranked the speed up as high as I could handle it, and ran like a girl running away from problems, and herself, and the world, and her mixed-up and stupid feelings for her man, and all the other bullshit. So, yeah, you can’t get very far away from that shit on a treadmill, but that’s not the point. You can’t get very far from your problems even on a jet, because your problems are inside you. Unless your problems have something to do with the law or the mafia, in which case running might do SOME good.

Running while hungover really sucks. It hurts, you wanna puke the whole time, and you’re never quite sure you’re not gonna actually just die. But the longer you run, the more you sweat, the better you start to feel, in a backward sort of way. Eventually the hangover is replaced by the normal pain of why the fuck did I decide to run ten miles? It’s stupid, but it works.

When my Garmin told me I’d hit ten miles in an hour and a half, I smashed the stop button and slowed to a stop as the belt halted under me. I stood on it gasping, clinging to the handles as I caught my wind, dripping sweat, and no longer quite as hungover as I’d been when I first got here.

Stumbling back to our room, I found Brock still asleep, this time on his back, arm over his head, mouth slack, his hair a mess, and a monster hard-on bulging the front of his underwear. Shit…if I wasn’t a sweaty disaster, I’d have woken him up with the first of my apology BJs.

I spun on the hot water, stripped out of my running clothes, dragged a brush through my hair, and then squirted toothpaste onto my travel toothbrush and went after my furry teeth. As is my habit, I wandered around as I brushed my teeth, since I get restless just standing at the sink staring at myself in the mirror. I ended up at the window, the curtains pulled open a few inches, enough that I could see out onto the dark, empty Birmingham street below.

I didn’t hear him, didn’t even sense him until his hands slid around my midsection. I jumped about a foot, and squealed while trying to keep the foamy toothpaste in my mouth. “Gah-dammmmih, Brock!”

He laughed, a low amused chuckle in my ear. “Startled you, huh?”

“No shih, a-hoh.”

His hands slid up to cup my tits, and I moaned as he lavished attention on them, squeezing, kneading, and thumbing my ultrasensitive nipples. And then he shifted closer, and I realized he was naked now, and still as hard as a rock.

I went back to brushing, and then stopped after a few brushstrokes. “Brock? Whah are you doing?”

“Showing you that I absolutely want you to be mine.”

“I’m bruffing my teeh,” I protested.

“So?”

He used one hand to continue playing with my tits, and the other slid down to my pussy, two fingers finding my clit, flicking, and then slipping into me, curling, gathering the gush of wetness that was suddenly but not unexpectedly flooding through me. His cock was a hard rod against my ass, hot and thick and soft. His hands worked me into a furor as swiftly as only Brock could, bringing me to knee-weakening climax in a minute, two at the most, and he pushed me over the edge, pinching my nipple between his finger and thumb and squeezing in sync with my gasping groans of release.

I had a mouthful of toothpaste, which was now dribbling down my chin and onto my chest, and onto my wrist, and I was still holding my toothbrush.

Brock laughed and guided me to the bathroom, pressed me up against the sink, and I bent, spat, and rinsed my mouth, then used a washcloth to dry my face.

I waited for Brock to take me to the bed, but he didn’t. He kept me pinned up against the sink. “Brock?”

I was still quivery from my orgasm, and his eyes were fiery with need, his cock a tease between the upper swell of my ass cheeks.

He slid his fingers into me. “How about one more, first?”

I gripped the edge of the counter. “I wouldn’t argue.”

He went more slowly, this time. Teasing my clit, tweaking my nipples, sliding his fingers into me, then out to circle, never giving me a rhythm I could sink into. This time, as I drew closer, he slowed and changed his pattern, keeping me from the edge. Again and again, he got me to the point of flexing my hips and whimpering, and then he’d do something different.

“Brock, please.”

“I like it when you ask nicely,” he murmured, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

I smiled at his reflection. “Oh yeah?” I slid my ass against his cock. “Please, Brock. Please?”

“That’s hot.” He had me almost there again. “Please what, though? Some specifics might be helpful.”

“Let me come,” I breathed, grinding into his fingers as he squelched them in and out of me, letting his thumb rock against my clit.

“Just let you come?” he teased, pressing his cock against me suggestively. “That’s all you want?”

“No, no…I want to come around your cock. Put it in me, Brock. Right now. Please.”

He kissed my shoulder, a soft, sweet, gentle gesture that had my heart twisting and leaping. “Put it in you, and then what, Claire?”

I felt my heart skip a beat. “Fuck me, Brock.”

He kissed my other shoulder. “You taste like sweat.”

“I was running.”

“I know.” He kissed the back of my neck. “I like this, taking you like this, while you’re all sweaty.”

“It’s not gross?”

“Would you fuck me after a workout, if I was the one all sweaty?” he asked.

“Without hesitation,” I answered.

“There you go, then.” He kissed behind my ear, his tongue flicking, tasting. Another kiss, to my nape, and I shuddered. “So you want…this?”

He put both hands on my shoulders and pressed me downward, toward the counter. I went willingly, and he kissed me as I bent over, his lips and tongue sliding over my skin, tasting my skin and my sweat. And then I felt him slide two fingers against my pussy, seeking my opening. I felt him touch the broad, hard head of his cock against my slit, and I arched my back and groaned as he slid into me, slowly.

“This is what you want, isn’t it, Claire?”

“Fuck yes. Just like this.”

He pulled me backward by the hips and I grabbed onto the edge of the counter, pushing back against him as I bent over the counter. I swallowed hard and gasped in pleasure as his massive cock filled my tight pussy. God, oh god. So good. So fucking good, the way he felt. His hands slid up my body to cup my boobs, and now, with his dick inside me and at the edge of orgasm, my nipples were more sensitive than ever, and my nips were always insanely sensitive.

He met my eyes in the mirror. “Fuck me, Claire. You do it. Show me how you like to be fucked.”

I closed my eyes momentarily, relishing the ache of his cock inside me, stretching to a burning throb, and then opened them, meeting his eyes. And then I did what he said: I showed him how I like to be fucked. I used the counter for leverage, shoving my ass back against him, taking him deep and then twerking away to slide him out. Starting slow, I built up speed steadily until I was undulating against Brock as hard and fast as I could. His hands clutched my tits the whole time, and yet he didn’t move with me. He just let me fuck him.

And then, as I neared the edge all over again and felt him shuddering and heard him gasping, he grabbed my hips and halted me. “Wait,” he murmured.

“What?” I demanded. “I was close.”

“Me too.” He growled as he pulled away from me.

“Then what are you doing?” I felt desperate, needing in this moment at least that connection with him, to keep at bay all the shit I was refusing to think about.

“Making you wait.”

“Why?”

He just smiled at me, a secret, amused, thoughtful little smile. He pulled out of me completely, spun me around, and brought my hand to his cock. I slid my fist around him, eying him. “You wanna come on my tits? Is that it?”

“Could be fun.”

He was up to something.

“How about my face?” I remembered yesterday’s drunken admissions all too well; maybe that’s what this was about. I dropped to my knees and stroked his cock with both hands. “You wanna shoot your load all over my face?”

He let me touch him, but he didn’t answer. And I was losing the edge of my orgasm; this wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be touched, to be fucked, to be held, to be taken, to have Brock all around me, blocking out the world.

“Is this what you want, Claire?” he asked, almost as if he could read my mind.

I kept stroking him with both hands and didn’t answer.

“Is it?” he repeated.

“No.”

He lifted me to my feet, grabbed my wrists to slow my touch. His other hand went between my legs, and he touched me. I widened my stance so he could access my clit, and access it he did, flicking and stroking until I was at the verge again, involuntarily squeezing and stroking his cock as I flexed my hips with the rhythm of his flicking fingers.

“What do you want, Claire?” he asked, slowing until I started to lose the edge.

“Don’t stop, Brock, please.”

“Then tell me what you want.” With one hand he gripped my wrists, keeping me from caressing his length, and with the other he teased me, edging me, keeping me from coming but always near the edge.

“Tell you what I want?” I leaned back against the edge of the counter. “Why?”

“I want to know.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want this to be more than just good fucking, Claire. I want this be real. And if you never tell me what you really want, then it can’t ever be real.”

Oh god. Oh god. I was so close, and I had an image of what I wanted, but the words were stuck. He would hate it. He would think it was stupid, and embarrassing. He wouldn’t do it. He would call me a freak, a slut.

“Tell me, Claire.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t want to do it. And you’ll—”

“Try me. Have I judged you for anything yet?”

“No, but—”

“Then try me, Claire.” Three fingers then, finger-fucking me, giving it to me hard and fast, squelching in and out wetly, curling just so, pushing me to the edge of what I was sure was going to be an actual squirting orgasm, and he knew it, too, because that’s exactly what he was going for.

“I’m scared to tell you,” I whispered.

“Why?”

I couldn’t answer. Didn’t answer.

He leaned against me, sucked my breast into his mouth, flicked his tongue against my nipple, rocking his hand against me so his fingers fucked me and the heel of his palm struck my clit just the way I needed it.

“Why, Claire?”

I felt it break over me, then, and I couldn’t help answering, the words were just ripped out of me as the climax battered through me like a tornado. “Because I’m afraid of falling in love with you, goddammit!” I shouted. “And I’m afraid if you know the things I want, you’ll leave me!”

I felt myself break open on his hand, everything inside me clamping and clenching as a wall of blasting heat crashed through me, and I felt my orgasm wrench something free, something wet that I was afraid was pee squirting out of me beyond my control. I sank my teeth into Brock’s shoulder to muffle a scream as I came like a lightning bolt searing through me, and he didn’t relent, but kept driving me through the orgasm, kept me in it, weltering in the primal, coruscating ecstasy of an orgasm like no other.

“Tell me what you want, Claire,” he murmured, his lips nuzzling my ear.

“Open the curtains and press me up against the window and fuck me,” I whispered. “Fuck me as hard as you can. Fuck me until you come inside me, bare, and then force me down to my knees and watch me lick your cock clean.”

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Yeah. I told you, I like—”

He put his hand over my mouth, and his fingers smelled like my pussy. “Claire? Shut up.”

He whirled me around and gave me a surprisingly forceful shove toward the window.

HOLY SHIT.

Oh my god, holy shit, and kill me dead—he was going to do it? No way, no way, no way.

Yes way.

I reached the window, and he shoved the curtains aside. Below, the city was waking up, a few early risers passing back and forth on their way to work. My heart was crashing in my chest, and not just from the intensity of the orgasm. I was still shuddering from it, and it would only take the slightest touch to set me off again.

The window was huge; nearly floor to ceiling, and our room was on the second floor.

He pressed me up against the glass, my tits smashing flat against the cold window. I reached up to hold the frame, and then lost my ability to breathe as Brock slid himself into me, grinding deep, impaled to the hilt inside me. Oh…fuck.

This was real. Up against a window, in broad daylight. Brock behind me, the city before me, a wakening city full of lots of wealthy people—this was Birmingham, after all, one of the wealthiest towns in Michigan. His cock drilled into me, and I groaned in bliss.

“Like this?” he demanded, pounding into me.

“Fuck yeah, god yes, Brock, just like this.”

He reached up, took both of my hands in his without missing a beat, and pinned my wrists behind my back with one of his strong hands, using the leverage of my arms to press me harder against the window, and then pulled me a few steps away from the window so I was bent forward against it, just my face and tits against the cold glass. He grabbed my hip at the crease and pulled me backward into his thrusts, keeping my hands pinned hard. Not painful, but firm, and with no chance I could get away.

Oh, Jesus.

I whimpered as he fucked me, and the whimpers became shrieks, and then the shrieks became outright screams. Because he was fucking me so good, so hard, harder than he’d ever fucked me, and he was doing it up against a window.

“Brock!” I screamed.

“You like this, Claire?”

“So fucking much.”

“You gonna come again for me?”

“Oh yeah, baby, I’m gonna come again, so hard…”

“Look out there,” he murmured. “All the people walking by. What if someone looks up right now?”

I groaned, the image turning me on even more.

“Oh god, oh god—oh fuck,” I groaned, and I felt it shear through me, another blistering, boiling orgasm. “Brock, keep fucking me. Come with me!”

I felt his grip tighten and his thrusts took on renewed power, and then he released my hands and I immediately reached up to grab his hair, and his hands cupped my breasts, and then one slid down to my pussy, and his touch was unnecessary but incredible, pushing me past mere orgasm into something else, into a screaming paroxysm I couldn’t control, and he was grunting in my ear, snarling, fucking me with relentless fury, pounding into me so hard our slapping flesh was audible even over my screams and his hoarse grunts.

And then I felt him come, felt him drive into me with sudden grinding power unlike anything before from him, and I felt his come shoot into me, flood through me, and he fucked me again with another spurt of wetness and heat, and again, and again. He lifted my thigh, sliding his touch down to behind my knee as he raised my leg up, and he braced my foot against the window frame, and kept fucking me, twice more, three times, grunting in my ear.

“Pull out, Brock,” I breathed.

He bent at the knees, drawing himself out of me, and I stood like that, one foot braced on the window frame, and Brock’s come dripping out of me.

And then Brock put his hands on my shoulders and pressed me down to my knees. Brock: naked, cock still hard and jutting up, rigid and glistening wet, his abs furrowed and his chest broad, his shoulders round, his biceps carved from marble, his face out of a magazine, his hair messy. I stared up at him, saw him like that, and I nearly came again, just looking at him. He was, very literally, a god, or an angel. Fucking gorgeous beyond belief. So beautiful my breath caught.

I cupped his heavy balls in both hands and licked him from root to tip, tasting his musky come and my own tart, smoky scent. I took him into my mouth, and then backed away, and licked him again. A bead of come seeped out of him and slid down the side of his dick, and I licked that away, too.

I knelt in front of him and tilted his cock forward, and I took him all the way into my mouth, looking up at him.

He met my eyes, and then wrapped a palm around my ass and jerked me up against him, smashing me hard against his muscular body. “Was that what you wanted?”

I searched his eyes. “Yes,” I said, not seeing judgment or anger, only satisfaction and lust…and something else, something hot and possessive and thoughtful and intense. “You?”

“That was new for me,” he said. “But it was hot as fuck.”

“It was new for me, too. That’s why I wanted it.”

His lips met mine, and now he tasted our mingled essences, transferred from his cock to my lips to his mouth. The kiss was demanding, deep and drowning, until my breath left me.

“Brock…” I gasped.

“What, babe?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything,” I said. “For—”

I broke off, realizing I’d been hearing something for a while now. A buzzing sound. I glanced over at the bedside table, and caught the end of my phone’s on-silent vibration pattern. Who would be calling me before seven in the morning?

Oh.

Right.

Brock fetched my phone and brought it to me without looking at it. Respecting my privacy, the wonderful, crazy, absurd gentleman.

My heart scudded in my chest as I thumbed through the barrage of notifications filling the screen: Missed call: Tabitha (4); Missed Call: Hayley (5); Missed Call: Mom (2); Message: Hayley: Dad took a major turn for the worse this morning. Come see him now!; Message: Tabitha: Dad is going to go today. PLEASE PLEASE PLEAASE come.

“Fuck.” I breathed the word.

“Your dad?”

I nodded. “They’re saying he’s going to go soon. They’re begging me to come.”

“Go get dressed, and we’ll head over to the hospital.”

I rinsed off in the shower as fast as I could and pulled some clothes on, and the irony wasn’t lost on me that, yet again, I was going to the hospital with Brock’s come still seeping out of me. I wondered if there was a meaning in that, somewhere.

Probably not.

And if there was, I don’t think I’d like what it said about me very much.

Why was I going? To watch him die? Or because, deep down, I still wanted him to, just once, tell me he loved me, that he was sorry? I don’t know. But I was going, and I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t help it—I knew I had to, like it or not. I thought about my little sisters and knew I was doing this as much for them as I was for any other reason.

I was going. I had to.

Thank god Brock was at my side.