“I’ll need your help with this,” Bram says, muffled. He’s inside the large swath of fabric that is supposed to slip on over the frame, covering him like a yellow ghost from head to waist. “I need to zip onto those white pads that are somewhere out there.”
I spot the pad behind me and dip down until I’m under the couch material with Bram. It’s like being inside a very tiny tent and there’s barely enough room for both of us to stand under here. Our faces are bathed in a yellow glow.
“Here,” I say, holding up the edge of the pad that has a zipper pull. I’m wildly conscious of how close I am to him and I try to keep my breath contained, my voice down. It’s getting hot under the canopy and all I can smell is his beautiful skin.
Shit, shit, shit, I think to myself. Get out of this situation.
But I don’t. He pulls down the zipper track inside of the fabric and I hold up the mattress pad and we struggle for the zipper pull and the track to connect. His brow is furrowed in concentration, I’m trying to hold everything just right and I feel like neither of us are breathing.
Then the zipper catches and slides along and the pad is attached. I think we both breathe out a sigh of relief and then he ducks under the pad, lifting it behind him so we’re still under the tent of fabric, but both pressed up against each other.
He’s smiling. I’m smiling.
And a flash of danger comes across his eyes.
Maybe it’s lust.
But it’s all danger to me.
Beautiful, delicious danger.
For once, for once, I’m ready for it.
But before that thought even has a thought to process, the look in his eyes smolders, drunk with desire and he grabs my face with one hand, the other hand going behind my hair and he’s kissing me.
Kissing me.
Kissing me.
I thought I was ready for this but I wasn’t.
His kiss.
It’s more than I remembered. It does more than knock me off my feet. His tongue is insatiable, explicit as it thrusts into my mouth hungrily, his lips crazed and needy. It’s wet and violent and makes the want inside me throb, over and over. His hand at my head is gripping my hair as if he’s holding on for dear life and each tug shoots fire down my nerves. Every part of my being feels alive, soaking it all in, desperate for more of his touch, more of him, more of everything.
He pulls back half an inch, just for a second, just enough time to let out a moan while his other hand holds my face in place, captive. His heady-lidded gaze fixates on my eyes, then my lips, as if I’m some sort of apparition.
Then I grab his shirt collar and yank his lips back to mine. The need in me builds and builds and I’m dying to wrap my legs around him, to feel every inch, to feel his want for me. I think I whimper. I gasp. I kiss him with the same kind of abandon as he’s kissing me, his mouth all encompassing as if wanting to swallow me whole. I wouldn’t mind his mouth somewhere else.
As if he reads my thoughts, he grabs me around the waist and quickly lowers me backward to the ground, the padding inside propping my shoulders up. We’re lucky that the couch frame or coffee table wasn’t in the way but I’m not even sure if that would have mattered. To hell with all the furniture.
With rough, eager hands he shoves up the tunic so my breasts are exposed and then pulls down my bra until my nipples are hardening in the air.
“I knew you’d be so fucking perfect,” he says, breathing hard. The feeling makes my nipples even more sensitive and a low moan escapes from my mouth. “Oh, sweetheart, if you keep making noises like that, I’m afraid I’ll come all over you before I can come inside you.”
Our top halves are still inside the fabric and he places his wide, hot tongue on my stomach, trailing a path up and over my breast and to my nipple. He swirls his tongue around before flicking it. I moan again, unable to keep it inside, my hands gripping onto this soft, thick hair like a lifeline.
“It’s like licking a fucking buttercup,” he says between groans and I look down. My breasts, heaving and wet from his tongue, also glowing yellow from being inside the fabric.
Now he’s undoing my jeans and sliding his fingers down the front of my underwear. I want to spread my legs to give him easier access but he’s pulling down my jeans and locking my thighs together. His finger pushes in through the slit and I close my eyes to the feeling, succumbing to him.
When he finds me soaking wet, I’m almost embarrassed at how desperate my body is.
“You’re gushing,” he says, in a low voice that connects with me on this primitive, visceral level. “Oh fuck, babe, you have no idea how badly I need to be inside your tight, pink little hole right now.” And with his words, two of his fingers slip inside me and I gasp, automatically clenching around him.
“God, you’re greedy, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Totally underfucked and I’m about to change all of that for good.”
Oh, God. Please do.
He bites at my breast, plunging his fingers in further and my back is arching, wanting so much more, harder, longer, deeper. I want to be stripped naked, bare to the marrow, and I want him to take me so fucking completely I’ll never need anything else again.
“Mommy?”
Ah, fucking shit!
“Damn,” I cry out softly and Bram immediately retrieves his hand, zipping back up my jeans. We exchange a wild, bashful look between us and then, once my shirt is on properly, he lifts the couch fabric up and over us.
Ava is standing at the door to my bedroom, rubbing her eyes and looking sleepy. Thankfully from her position, she couldn’t have seen all that much.
“Hi, sweetie,” I say to her, trying to catch my breath.
She peers at me and Bram. “What are you doing? Your hair is all windy.”
“Just putting the couch together,” I say, smiling way too broadly. “Bram stopped by.”
“Hi, Bram.” She yawns and then plods along through the living room and sits down on the couch. The normal couch. The couch that doesn’t practically force two neighbors to have sex in it.
I look over at him as he pats down his hair with a smile. What the hell just happened? I’m still turned on as hell, my breasts feel heavy with desire, my clit throbs from where his thumb was pressing. Good Lord, I need him to continue.
But maybe this is a good thing that we stopped. Getting carried away would have been a bad idea.
Right? I realize I’m just asking myself and I don’t have the answers. I just want to get fucking laid by this Scottish sex god beside me.
“Well,” I say to Bram, clearing my throat. “Thanks for your help.”
He nods and slowly gets to his feet, pulling me up to mine as he goes. “Sure. But I wasn’t done helping you, you know. I was just getting started.”
I know what he’s saying and as much I want to ask for more, I’m not sure how and if I should.
“Well, thanks for the help you did give. You know, with the couch.”
He shoots me a wicked smile and then runs his fingers – his same fingers that were inside me just moments ago – underneath his nose and breathes in. “I’ll be back for more of this,” he says thickly.
Then he turns and leaves and I’m standing beside an almost finished piece of shit couch, wondering if my legs are ever going to stop shaking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nicola
I don’t see Bram for the rest of the night and when I wake up the morning, my body’s still groggy from the previous hangover and my insides ache for the brief moment that some part of Bram was inside me. It all feels like a dream, a really good wet dream, except I never got a chance to come and now I’m feeling embarrassed and sexually frustrated to boot.