Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

31

Rachel

He makes a small noise of satisfaction.

I can’t even do that. I just lie there, limp to my toes.

Wanting him.

Even with his fingers (still) inside me, coming that hard makes me hungry for more.

“You know what I really want?”

“What do you really want, baby?” He slides his fingers out—leaving me even more empty—and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“I want you inside me.”

The flush on Brody’s face deepens. “I want that, too.”

He yanks his shirt over his head and kicks his way out of his pants and boxer briefs.

Brody Wilder stark naked is a national treasure. He’s such a feast, I can’t figure out where I want to look—at his golden, inked pecs, the line of dark-gold hair bisecting his eight pack, or the proud jut of his cock at the V of muscle in his hips.

What did I do to deserve this prize?

“Admiring the merch?” he teases, flexing a bit.

“Nah,” I tease back, and he rolls his eyes and crawls up the bed over me, bracing himself on his arms. Which only creates an even better biceps-and-pecs scenario for ogling. Brody’s built enough that he has those distinct swells of muscle—the cap of shoulder, the swell of mid-bicep, that gorgeous cut between biceps and triceps.

So. Lickable.

“Eyes up here, pretty girl,” he teases, lowering himself onto me. And oh, my God, it feels good, all that warm skin against skin. I wrap my arms around him and rub myself all over him, and he groans and holds me tight, dropping kisses along my jawline until he finds my mouth. And then we’re kissing so hard and so deep. Not like any other kisses we’ve shared. They’ve all been good, but this kiss says, I need you. Now.

And maybe forever.

I won’t examine that thought right now. I won’t. I clutch him closer and sink deeper into the kiss, begging him for more of his mouth, more of his hands. He is a skilled multitasker, kissing me and also finding my nipples with his thumb and forefinger, tweaking, rolling, pinching, flicking.

Those sensations gang up with the tension gathering in my core, and suddenly another orgasm doesn’t feel far off.

Which is not my mode of operation, usually.

Brody has found my second gear, and I so appreciate it.

He rolls away from me, fumbling with the nightstand drawer, coming back with a packet in his hand. His hands are shaking. I take it from him, open it, and roll it on him.

“I want to go slow,” he says.

He eases himself through the slick of arousal on my sex, sliding back and forth over my clit. Yup, I’m going to come again, without even trying.

And as soon as I do, as soon as I buck and call his name, he plunges in and fills me, and it’s so, so good. I’m coming and clenching and needing, and he’s big and thick and hot and everything I need.

“Yeah, Rachel, just like that, you come for me, baby, you come.”

He kisses me again, deep and greedy, and there’s no way he’s taking this slow. It feels too good—to both of us. I can’t stop grabbing him and pulling him deeper. I can’t stop kissing him like I want to devour him. I can’t stop trying to touch him, everywhere.

His first couple of controlled, careful thrusts give way to what comes next. I feel that moment—when he realizes it. His rhythm breaks first, then the kiss. He’s up, over me, eyes almost surprised, his hips jerking. Needy. Greedy. Grunts and fingers digging into my flesh.

I love it.

“That’s it,” I tell him. “You take what you need.”

And then he doesn’t even try to stay in control. He thrusts chaotically, hard, deep, rolling and grinding his hips over mine, which makes me come again. Yes. Again.

And then he’s coming, mouth on mine, hands gripping me, every muscle in his body rigid.

“Rachel!”

Condom attended to,he wraps me in his arms and holds me.

There are no questions about whether we’ll cuddle or whether I’ll stay. Who’ll put on clothes or how we’ll share the bed. There’s just this. Brody’s arms and his lips in my hair and his voice murmuring that I have just broken him because he’s never had sex that good before.

Neither have I.

“Maybe it’s not that you broke me,” he says, a minute later. “Maybe it’s that you put me back together.”

I smile against his bare chest.

Another thing there is no question about:

I am in love with Brody Wilder. This is not a thing I have to agonize about, discuss with my girlfriends, or realize in a sudden, shining moment. It’s just so obvious. Possibly I loved Brody Wilder from the moment he first picked me up by the side of the road where I was standing with my bike, its front tire flat.

Possibly I loved him before that, from afar, watching him play with Connor and knowing that I would always be on the outside of that boy awesomeness, telling myself I didn’t care.

More likely, I fell in love with him sometime this month. Maybe when I realized that he would do just about anything to make things right for his family’s business and his family. When he somehow managed to take in stride the fact that I’d unexpectedly brought sex toys on his boat. When he taught me to picnic without a plan and jump without overthinking it.

When I saw how much he loves Justin. How even through his anger and frustration, he has such a big, loving, giving heart.

It doesn’t really matter. The point is, the problem is, I’m in love with Brody Wilder.

And I don’t want to be the girl Brody Wilder fucks. I want to be the woman he loves.

I don’t want to take a walk on the Wilder side.

I want to live there.

I want Brody Wilder to be the awesome boyfriend in step six, the man in my plan.

Now I just have to figure out how to tell him that.