I watched as Brock stood in front of the mirror, shaving, a white hotel towel cinched low around his waist. His whole jaw was slathered with shaving cream, and he was dragging a big, bulky, expensive-looking razor down his cheek and across his jawline in slow, careful lines.

The man is a fucking god. For real. Six-one, one-ninety-five and all of it toned muscle. I’m not super attracted to the macho bodybuilder types, which works, because while Brock works out, eats right, and generally stays fit and sexy, he’s not a gym rat, and certainly isn’t anywhere near as ripped and jacked as his brothers Zane, Bast, and Bax; those boys are true monsters, especially Bax, which is fine for them, and for those who like that look. Bax is hot, don’t get me wrong, but that look just isn’t for me.

But Brock? He is truly, deeply, intensely beautiful. Sculpted, chiseled features, brown eyes the exact color of creamy milk chocolate, with thick wavy brown hair that he keeps cut in a classic side part, so a few strands tend to dangle in front of those chocolate eyes. One look at Brock, just from the neck up, and I get a case of the dropsies—as in oops, I drop to my knees. If he takes off his shirt, I get all sweaty and my pussy gets super moist. Once his pants are off and his dick is brought into the picture, all bets are off. I am a goner. He could ask me for anything, do anything to me, and I’d let him. He has complete and total control over me once he is naked.

But ssshhhh—I haven’t exactly told him that yet. Let him figure it out on his own.

So yeah, I watch Brock shave, and entertain fantasies of ripping that towel off and blowing him while he shaves. I mean, yeah, we did just finish fucking, and he’d already showered and so had I, and I was supposed to be getting dressed because we were going to William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan...to visit my dad. Who is dying.

I didn’t want to go.

I wanted to stay in this hotel and fuck Brock.

I wanted to be back in Ketchikan, with him and his brothers and my BFF Mara, or in Seattle working.

Anywhere, essentially, but here in Oakland fucking County, Michigan, preparing to visit my dying father, who had disowned me for having a miscarriage.

I felt the knot of tension and anger and sadness boil up inside me, but I shut that line of thought right down. Brock was going to drag me to the fucking hospital no matter what. He insisted I’d regret it if Dad died before I got a chance to at least try to see him. I wasn’t so sure myself. Brock hadn’t met the sorry bastard, and I couldn’t imagine that he’d changed one iota since I last saw him.

I let out an irritated breath, and Brock glanced at me, his face half-shaved, the other still white with cream. “What’s up, babe?”

“Oh, you know, the usual.” I shrugged. “I don’t like this, I wanna go home, I don’t care if the old goat dies, yada-yada-yada. Same old, same old.”

Brock rinsed the razor and brought it to his skin for another pass, twisting his face in one of those weird shaving-man grimaces. Even while shaving, he was so damn pretty my ovaries applauded God for creating him. “We’ve had this discussion a dozen times, Claire. You know deep down this is the right thing to do.”

“It’s the sucky, shitty, horrible, painful, stupid thing to do.”

“And the right thing.”

“Have you even met me, Brock? I’m not exactly aiming for sainthood here.”

Brock just snorted gently and kept shaving. I stood up, wearing nothing but an orange thong, and sidled up behind him. He stilled, watching me in the mirror, the razor frozen at his cheekbone.

“Claire…what are you doing?”

I slowly pulled the end of the towel free from where he’d tucked it in, and it fell to the floor in a heap of damp, heavy white cotton. “Nothin’.”

He’d just blown his load less than thirty minutes ago, but all I had to do was look at his cock and he’d start hardening. “Claire. Seriously. We’ve gotta get going.”

I leaned up against him, pressing my tits—such as they were—against his back, and slid my palms under his arms, caressing his chest, and then his stomach, and then down his thighs. He was well and truly erect at this point. The sink and counter came to just below his navel, and his cock stood hard and glorious, a thick, straight marvel of manhood. Brock was perfect. Big enough that he filled me and stretched me and made my eyes bug out in shock every time he drilled into me, yet not so big it actually hurt.

I wrapped my hand around his perfect penis and stroked him gently, peering around his sculpted-from-marble bicep in the mirror, watching my tiny pale little hand slide up and down his huge golden cock. “This is better, isn’t it?”

“Claire, damn it.”

“Is that like goddammit?” I asked.

He heaved a deep breath and attempted to pretend I wasn’t doing anything; he drew the razor carefully down his cheek, rinsed it, and scraped down once more. Then he tilted his head to one side and pulled the razor upward from his neck toward his ear.

“Yes,” he grated through gritted teeth. “Claire-damn-it. You can’t weasel your way out of this.”

“I’m not weaseling.” I brought my other arm around his body and did the thing he liked best: hand over hand, slowly, each hand gliding in a tight, slow squeeze from tip to root, one hand and then the other in a rolling continuous stroke. “Does this feel like weaseling?”

“It feels like you trying to distract me.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “Is it working?”

“No.” He went back to shaving, and he was taking more time with each stroke now, because he had to focus harder. “Not working.”

Time to switch tactics. I cupped his balls in one hand and used my middle finger to massage his taint, worming my way toward his prostate. He wouldn’t let me really massage his prostate yet, but I was working on it. I could get my finger close, but then he’d chicken out before I could manage insertion. Someday, though. For now, a nice firm taint-massage would do the trick. One hand gliding up and down his lovely cock, my boobs rubbing against his back, all happening in the mirror where he could watch? Oh yeah.

Hot. Really hot.

Shit, it was hot to me, and I was only doing this to try to get out of having to go to the damned hospital.

“Shit!” Brock snapped, and my gaze lifted to his.

He’d cut himself underneath the jaw, a thin red line beginning to appear. He reached over and ripped a square of toilet paper free and dabbed the spot. “You made me cut myself. Happy now?”

I lifted up on my tiptoes, grabbed his neck to pull him down, and kissed the spot, all without missing a beat in my stroking of his cock. “I’d never be happy about you getting hurt.”

“You’re not gonna change my mind, Claire. This is important. It’s important to you, too, even if you try to deny it.”

I could tell he was losing the ability to think clearly, because it took him a while to formulate that sentence, and he spoke very crisply and precisely, as he did when he was trying to keep the drawl out of his voice; case in point, the use of gonna, rather than going to.

He was flexing in time with the slow movement of my hand, pushing forward as I slid my fist downward. He was close, now.

“If my distraction technique isn’t working, maybe I should just quit, then.” I let go, and Brock’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing.

He let out a breath, blinking hard, jaw muscles flexing, abs tensed. “Fine.”

I met his irritated gaze in the mirror. “Really?”

“You can’t use that to manipulate me.”

I rested my cheek against his bicep. “I’m not trying to manipulate you, Brock, I just—”

“Yes, you are. And I get it.” He took his gaze off of mine to finish one last pass along his jaw, and then rinsed the razor before setting it aside and bracing his fists on the countertop. “You’re freaking out, and you’ve got a lot of negative emotion tied up in this. Shit, I can’t understand completely, and probably won’t ever really understand. But I understand this much—you are trying to manipulate me, and it’s shitty of you.”

I sighed, and dropped my gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

His smile in the mirror was gentle, loving, and understanding. “I get it, Claire. I really do. Just…don’t pull that shit with me. I’m not doing this to punish you. I’m doing it because—”

“Why, Brock?” I demanded. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because…” He hesitated. “Because I care about you, and I’m not going to allow you to cheat yourself out of this. You’re angry, you’re scared, you’re hurt, and you have every right to be. But your dad is dying. Short of a miracle, he’s going to die, and sooner rather than later. If you don’t at least try to go see him now, even if he tosses you out, you’ll regret it.” He reached down and took my hand. “I’m doing this for you. You have to forgive him—for you, though, not for him.”

“Well, I don’t forgive him. I can’t and I won’t.”

“Try.”

“I told you—I can’t. Been trying for years, and I’m too pissed off.”

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean not being angry about it anymore. It’s just letting go of it and understanding that you’re just wasting emotional energy hanging on to the hatred.”

“Okay Mother Theresa, whatever.”

He shook his head. “You’ll get it. I know you will.” He glanced down. “Now, are you really gonna leave me hanging like this?”

I giggled, muffling it against his skin. “Not much about you is exactly hanging at the moment.”

But of course I wasn’t going to leave him hanging, metaphorically speaking. I grasped him in both hands and stroked him gently and slowly, and we both watched in the mirror as my little hands slid along his huge cock. His six-pack tensed as he neared the breaking point, and his big, meaty chest swelled with each ragged breath he took.

“Normally,” I whispered, letting my lips slide against his bicep, “I’d finish you off with my mouth right about now, but I already brushed my teeth.”

“And you already took a shower, so you probably won’t let me come on your tits.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, that’s a negative Ghost Rider, the pattern is full.”

“Don’t you dare quote Top Gun at me, woman, or I’ll fuck you silly, freshly showered or not.”

I giggled. “Take me to bed or lose me forever, Goose.”

“That’s not even the actual quote.” He was clenching his jaw now, and his hips were pivoting as he got closer and closer to orgasm. And then, seconds before I knew he was about to blow, he pivoted, grabbed me by the hips, spun back around, and plopped my ass on the counter.

“Yeah, fuck that noise,” he grunted, and tugged my thong aside and drove himself into me.

“Goddammit, Brock!” I snapped.

“You can’t get me all worked up and think I’m gonna be content with a simple handjob, Claire.”

“It was going to be fun.”

“For whom?”

“For me. Watching you spooge all over the mirror.”

He snorted as he thrust deep into me. “Only place I’m spooging, babe, is deep inside your sweet little pussy.”

“You’re determined to make me take another shower, aren’t you?” I asked, but I was getting breathless, because his slow thrusts were grinding his cock inside me just right and if I wrapped my legs around his waist and tipped my hips forward to tilt my pelvis downward, his shaft would slide along my clit, and—oh. Oh yeah.

Yep.

Just like that.

“Maybe I won’t let you take another shower. It’s already ten and we haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“So you want me to visit my estranged, dying father with your cummies drip-drip-dribbling down my thighs?”

He glared down at me. “Cummies? Really?”

“It’s a fun word.”

“It’s demeaning. Makes it seem…juvenile.”

“And wanting to come on my tits isn’t?”

He was holding back, waiting for me. “You love it when I come on your tits,” he muttered. “Don’t even try to pretend you don’t.”

“It can be hot sometimes, but I wouldn’t say I love it,” I lied.

He smirked down at me. “You’re a shitty liar, Claire.”

“Am not.”

He laughed. “Okay, you’re actually not, but I can still see right through you.”

Thing was, I wasn’t lying or even faking. I really would have loved it if he’d have thrown me off the counter, shoved me down to my knees and come all over me. But he would never do that.

He was thrusting raggedly, now, and I knew he wasn’t far from coming. Prediction: Brock would come inside me, and then he’d tell me to stay put on the counter while he got a warm, damp washcloth, and he’d kneel between my thighs and he would clean up with sweet, loving, gentle front-to-back swipes.

Sweet, loving, and fucking saccharine.

I didn’t know how to tell him how much I hated it when he was all sweet and tender with me like that. I wanted him to be rough and controlling. I wanted him to fuck me like his own personal whore. I wanted him to use me and take advantage of me and do dark, dirty things to me. I wanted to take a bath in his hot salty come. I wanted to have bruises on my tits from his teeth—shit, I wanted bruises from his teeth on the insides of my thighs. On my clit itself if he was so inclined.

But instead he treated me as if I was more precious than diamonds, and more fragile than porcelain. He catered to my every whim. He took care of me, served me, and he loved me like no one ever had.

No, we didn’t say that word yet, and I certainly wouldn’t be saying it first or even in return anytime soon. But I knew he was in love. And so was I.

I hated it.

I didn’t want it.

But I couldn’t and wouldn’t give him up.

Because even his sweet, saccharine, tender lovemaking was better than all the hard and brutal fucking, better than the hours of dirty bondage and edging and light S&M. Better than all the random hook-ups, better than any glory hole or back-alley BJ. Obviously, it was better than all that.

I’d been fucking Brock for months and wasn’t tired of him, so obviously the sex was pretty damn amazing.

But it was vanilla.

And I wanted more.

I just wasn’t sure Brock had it in him.

“God, Claire. I’m gonna come.”

“Well I’d hope so, since that’s kind of the point.”

“Are you close?”

“No,” I lied.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Fine, I’m close.”

“Why lie?”

“Because I don’t want you to stop. It feels too good having your dick inside me.”

“I’m holding out as hard as I can. You feel so good, Claire.”

“Can you just take your cock off and leave it inside me?”

“You’re so weird.”

“You know you dig it.”

He was grunting now, and his thrusts were harder and rougher than ever before.

“Harder, Brock.”

He picked up the pace, but not the roughness. “Like this?”

“Not faster—harder. Fuck me hard, Brock,” I growled, “Fuck me like you mean it.”

And, for once, he sort of listened. He pulled me to the edge of the counter and held on to my ass and pounded into me.

“Fuck, yes, Brock, just like this—” I held on to his strong neck with both hands and hooked my ankles tight around his lower back and met him thrust for thrust, slamming my pussy against him as hard as I could, taking his pounding and loving every single second of it. “Yes, yes, Jesus…YES!”

Our pelvises bumped, our bellies slapped, and I came like a lightning bolt smashing down out of a clear blue sky. I screamed and sank my teeth into the meat of his pec, clinging to him, screaming around a mouthful of his skin and muscle as I came and came and came.

And then I felt him let go, snarling in my ear, his strong hands clawed into my ass. He lifted me off the sink and spun me around, slamming me up against the wall, his hands clutching my ass cheeks and his weight pinning me to the wall, his crashing thrusts nailing me to the wall.

The harder he fucked me, the harder I came, and I kept coming as he kept fucking me.

My throat went hoarse from screaming as he drilled me over and over and over, and I felt his come shoot into me in hot spurting bursts of wetness, filling me until I felt myself leaking around him while he continued to thrust into me in stuttering, ragged movements.

Finally, he stopped, and pulled out. He twisted in place, pivoting to put me back on the counter. “Stay put for a second,” Brock murmured. “I’ll clean you up.”

He stood up, grabbed a washcloth, rinsed it under hot water, wrung it out, and then returned to kneeling in front of me. He gently, tenderly touched the washcloth to my pussy, using two fingers to hold my thong aside and spread my labia apart, drawing the cotton downward toward my butt. I watched, my heart hammering weirdly, my throat seized. He was so fucking sweet it drove me nuts.

I didn’t know how to tell him I wanted to spend the day walking around with his come dripping down my leg. I was afraid he’d find it gross, or stupid.

Basically, I was afraid to tell him a lot of stuff that I thought about and wanted, and felt, because if life has taught me anything, it’s that guys don’t really want the raw truth from you. They wanted steady sex, a high libido, lots of blowjobs, anal once in a while, and for you to keep your girly, emotional shit to yourself. Fine by me. It’s what I know, and what I do best.

Brock seems different, but I enjoy being with him too much to risk losing what we do have, so I’m currently settling for vanilla. And the occasional creampie.

I was on birth control, obvs, but Brock usually used a condom as well, since neither of us was in any way interested in an accident of the kind Zane and Mara had experienced. Their pregnancy seems like it’s gonna work out for them, but I personally would shit myself it that ever happened to me. I’d haul ass down to Planned Parenthood faster than I could spell P-R-E-G-N-A-N-T, because I am NOT mommy material. I don’t have a nurturing bone in my body. I became a combat nurse because the sight of blood didn’t move me in any way whatsoever, and because I could handle gnarly shit without flinching, or letting annoying shit like emotions get in the way. Maternal instincts? I’ve got those about as much as I have testosterone and big swinging balls. In other words, I have none.

I may act like I’ve got big brass balls, but I’m all woman, trust me—just not the bouncing babies and changing diapers kind.

I let Brock clean me up and then I hopped off the counter, pressing myself up against Brock’s front, and lifting up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “That, Brock Badd, was some damn fine fucking.”

I turned away from him, only to feel a swift, sharp swat to my ass. “It was more than just fucking, Claire, and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, breezily. “Semantics. Point is, that’s exactly how I like it best.”

I went to the bureau and pulled out a pair of skinny jeans and a mint tank top, with a white floral print three-quarter sleeve cardigan over it. As I shimmied into the jeans, I caught a glimpse of Brock, gazing at me thoughtfully while he swiped on deodorant.

“What’s the look for?” I asked, tugging the tank top on.

He was still naked as he rubbed a dab of hair paste onto his palms, and then worked it into his hair. “That’s exactly how you like it best?”

I nodded, leaving the cardigan off for the moment, hunting for my favorite pair of leopard print Tieks in my suitcase. “Yes sir.”

“Hard and rough?”

I found them and leaned against the bedframe to tug them onto my bare feet. “The harder and rougher the better. Fuck me so hard my pussy is sore for days.”

“Really?”

I dug in my suitcase again, this time for my bag of jewelry, rummaging for my fake pearl teardrop earrings and Alex and Ani bracelets. I found them and switched places with Brock in the bathroom, as he started getting dressed and I put in my earrings and did some light makeup.

“Really, really,” I said, in a shitty Scottish accent, going for Shrek and ending up sounding something else that was mostly just embarrassing. “The fact that every time we fuck I shout harder, harder, harder hasn’t clued you in yet?”

He stepped into a pair of khakis, tugged on a PRL polo shirt, dark blue with a huge orange logo on the left side of his chest. “But for real, the harder the better?”

“Yes, really, Brock.” I paused halfway through applying eyeliner. “Why?”

“So when it’s not hard and rough—”

I stifled a groan, because this conversation was exactly what I hadn’t wanted to have. Not now, especially. “Brock, don’t. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged and went back to applying eyeliner. “All insecure and shit. Any sex with you is good sex. Hell, bad sex with you would be better than the best sex I’ve had with anyone else. I always like it. I’m never left unsatisfied—I’m too selfish to let you get away with that.”

“But?” He jerked on socks and shoved his feet into a pair of Red Wing boots.

“But nothing.”

He stared at me for a long moment; I pretended not to see his stare, not to feel it, even though it was all I was aware of. I messed up the eyeliner and had to start over, cursing under my breath.

“There’s a but.”

I put away the eyeliner and dug through my collection of lip stain. “Yes, Brock. There’s a but. A big one.” I glanced at him, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. “And if you’re really nice to me, I may let you play with it later.”

He laughed, but shook his head. “Not what I meant.”

I finished my lips, dusted on some foundation and blush, put everything away, and turned around. “I know.” I pressed myself up against Brock’s big hard body, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders as I lifted up to kiss him again. “Brock, quit worrying. You fuck like a god. Now, unless you’re letting me off the hook, let’s go already so we can get this visit over with.”

He snagged my purse off the bureau and handed it to me, letting the strap dangle from his index finger. “And no, I’m not letting you off the hook.”

I tossed the strap over my shoulder and draped my sweater over my forearm. “Fine, then. Let’s go…hotcakes.”

He just rolled his eyes and huffed as he led the way out the door.

I was acting casual and unaffected, but inside, I was a wreck. Total tumult. Complete chaos.

I did not want to do this. Not one bit. And if it weren’t for Brock, I wouldn’t be here at all.