Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dixon

The taste of Fiona still on his lips, Dixon couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. Somehow he got rid of his boots and socks, then stripped off his jeans and boxers. He was not calm or cool or collected as he stood there buck naked in a tent with the woman standing between him and winning.

At that moment, he didn’t recognize himself. He wasn’t the CEO of Beckett Cosmetics or one of the city’s most wealthy and wanted bachelors. What he was happened to be a man fucking desperate to touch Fiona Hartigan again.

Shoving down every instinct he had to just rush over and do the caveman pick-her-up-and-toss-her-over-his-shoulder thing, he stayed where he was. “Are you sure?”

“About what?” she asked, planting her hands on her mouthwateringly generous hips.

“That you want to do”—he waved his hands between them—“this. I know with it being just the two of us out here, trapped on an island, sharing the same tent, it could be—”

“Dixon?” she interrupted, still making it sound like a question.

“Yeah?”

She raised an eyebrow and gave him a look that made him feel like he was sitting behind a grade-school desk getting dressed down by the teacher. “Shut the fuck up.”

He laughed, and some of the tension went out with his expelled breath. This was not how things usually went for him. Hardly anyone ever told him to shut up—definitely not when they were about to have sex. “You’re something.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said with a chuckle.

And he couldn’t get enough. Two steps was all it took to touch her again. One head dip and they were kissing. After that, he couldn’t count anymore.

Hands cupping her bountiful ass, he lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around him. What he wouldn’t give for an actual wall instead of the sides of the tent to lean her up against so he could be inside her. Another time—yeah, no matter what he’d said, he was already hungry for another time—they’d do that, but not tonight. Instead, he brought her down to the thick blankets on the floor, rolling so she was under him while his forearms bore the brunt of his weight. That position gave her just enough room to let her hands roam over him, his shoulders, the outside of his thighs, his back from neck to his ass. Then she moved so her lips were on his throat and her hands were gliding down his chest, over his abs, and finally encircling his cock that was so hard, it fucking ached.

Dixon couldn’t move—didn’t want to—as she roamed her hands up and down, squeezing just enough to make him close his eyes and hiss out a tortured breath. “Please—I’m begging you—don’t stop.”

She didn’t. Instead, as if she knew what he wanted even before he did, she kept going, keeping her pace steady as she trailed kisses over his hot skin. The air inside the tent had gone from September to August as he touched her, gliding his hands over the high, round curve of her ass; skimming the dip of her waist; and tangling his fingers in her long hair as he held her face close to his for another round of kissing. The whole time she was stroking him, tracing the pad of her thumb over the head slick with pre-come, and driving him right up to the edge. Then she sank down to her knees and took him into her mouth, sucking him deep and releasing him back out so all he knew was the want of being between her lips again. It was heaven and hell as he fought against the rising urge making his balls tight and the refused-to-be-denied craving to feel her come around him before giving in and letting go.

“Fiona,” he more groaned than said as he took a few shaky steps back. “That fucking mouth of yours is dangerous.”

“Did you want something different or—” Her eyes widened and she stood up, a new, unwelcome tension giving her face a pinched look as the words tumbled from her. “I didn’t ask first. I should have; not everyone is into blow jobs. I’m sorry.”

It took a second for her words to penetrate the lust making Dixon’s brain foggy.

“Sorry is about as far from what you should be as humanly possible.” He crossed over to her and cupped her head, looking directly into those worried eyes of hers. “All I want is to sink inside you, feel you ride my cock, and hear that sound you made when you came before.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and her gaze dropped to the floor for a second before she looked back up at him. “I like that plan.”

“Good.” Or at least that’s what he meant to say, but instead the temptation to kiss her was too much to resist. Hard and swift, they came together and got lost in each other again. Ending it was brutal but had to be done. He had to go get those condoms. Yes. Multiple.

As she got rid of those red panties that were pretty much guaranteed to be imprinted on his brain for the rest of eternity, he grabbed the condoms from the extra picnic basket and put one on. He sat down on a thick blanket and took in the view as she walked over to him, naked, her tits and hips swaying with each step. Only the nervous way she bit down on her bottom lip gave away any hint that she wasn’t nearly as sure of herself as the tilt of her chin suggested.

“Nope, don’t give me that look,” she said, crossing her arms so they were tucked underneath her perfect tits.

“What look?”

She scoffed. “The one that says you’re about to ask me if I’m really sure I want to have sex with you.”

Ah. That look. Well, he had his reasons. They were ugly and twisted and hurt when he yanked them out to take a look at what an asshole he’d been about Nicole. Betrayal was like that—it left a jagged scar where trust should be. And for whatever reason, Fiona wasn’t exactly what you see is what you get.

“I just want to make sure you really want to be here,” he said, picking his words carefully. “That it’s really what you want, not whoever it is who hates dogs you’re pretending to be.”

“Sit down,” she said in that librarian/teacher/school principal way of hers.

Okay, that was not what he’d expected. “What?”

She just shot him a you-hear-me? look, and so he did exactly what she asked.

“Yeah, this is me, Fiona…” She walked over to him and went down so her knees were on either side of his hips. “Muriel…” She wrapped those talented fingers of hers around his dick again and lined him up. “Hartigan wanting you.” Then she lowered herself almost the rest of the way down but stilled at the last moment. “Does that work for you?”

He nodded, using every last bit of his reserves not to surge up inside her. “Absolutely.”

“Good.” She lowered herself the rest of the way and moved her hands to his shoulders. Her fingernails dug into him a little more with each slow rock she made as she got used to him. “Dixon.”

“Yes.” Good God. He couldn’t keep up a conversation anymore, not when she felt like that and did that thing with her hips and made him crazy with the need to fuck her until she came.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said, her voice ragged.

If he could have voiced agreement at that point, he would have, but he was too far gone.

She moved against him, undulating her hips as he held on to her, pulling her harder against him with each stroke. The sounds coming out of that sweet, dirty mouth of hers unleashed something inside him—a need, a want, an imperative—he couldn’t define. All he knew was that they both had to have more. Moving swiftly, he rolled them over so her back was pressed against the soft blankets. He lifted her hips, trying not to handle her roughly as desperation for her ate away at his self-control and he sank into her as deep as he could go.

Holding her so only her shoulders touched the blankets, he pushed forward and retreated, the sounds of their panting breaths, their moans of pleasure, their harsh whispers for more, and their bodies coming together filling the tent. Her hands were on her tits, pulling her nipples, tugging them as far as they would go, as she watched his face, lust turning her gaze hazy. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on. She was so tight, so hot, so everything that he wanted and needed. Each thrust had him closer and closer to the edge he could back away from, but still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow, couldn’t do anything but follow the orders Fiona gave.

Harder.

More.

There.

Just like that.

Don’t stop.

Don’t.

Fucking.

Stop.

She reached between her legs, the tips of her fingers brushing her clit, circling it over and over again as she gripped his cock harder. It was too much. He wouldn’t be able to last much longer.

“Yes,” she cried out as she came hard enough that her body, so soft and pliant before, went stiff and bowed above him.

It was all he could do to push forward one last time before his orgasm slammed into him, knocking out the rest of the world except for Fiona.

He was still trying to catch his breath a minute later while they were untangling their legs and curling up together on the blankets. Taking a second to get rid of the condom, he snuck a peek at Fiona and the goofy, satisfied grin on her face. Yeah. That was Fiona. Whoever else she was still pretending to be, he could guarantee that the woman lying down on the blankets and looking up at the top of the tent was the real Fiona. Then she aimed that smile at him, and he forgot how to think again. Being around her was like that. Pushing why that was a bad thing to the back of his thoughts, he snuggled up beside her.

“Don’t ever tell your cousins,” she said as she snuggled in so her head fit perfectly in the pocket of his shoulder. “But I could kiss them for leaving that basket of condoms.”

Finally, something they had in common. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

He brushed a kiss across her forehead as a new plan started to claim the brain cells he’d temporarily lost earlier. Not so much a new plan as a tweak, a single, small change. “What if—”

“This wasn’t a one-time thing?” Fiona said, not opening her eyes, as if she couldn’t look at him while she said it. “It just wasn’t a forever thing?”

“Exactly.” He pulled her closer, to reassure her or him, he wasn’t sure.

Now she did open her eyes, propping herself up on her forearm, and the look she gave him was deadly serious. “But only until the six dates are done.”

“Sounds perfect.” Really, it was. He didn’t get attached, and she couldn’t get attached to him. “So it’s a deal.”

She nodded, lay back down, and closed her eyes again, fitting herself against him so that the cold air outside of their sleeping bag couldn’t get between them. Having her there, trusting him enough to let her breath go slow and steady as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, triggered a question he couldn’t answer. Who had fucked Fiona over so much that someone like her—a woman who let strange dogs stay in her room, who took photos for tourists, and who agreed to pretend to have fallen for him so he could win a bet—couldn’t allow herself to even try to connect with another person for real? That asshole deserved to lose a few teeth for it.

“Whoever he was who fucked with you,” he said, the words coming out before he’d really thought them through, “I can make them pay.”

She smiled against his chest, but her eyelids stayed closed. “I know.”

“But you won’t say who or why.” That stubbornness, it was all Fiona, that was for sure.

A sigh escaped her lips. “Unfortunately, the one who was in the wrong is me, and I’ve paid enough already.”

He squeezed her tighter, wrapping himself around her like a human shield. “You should be nicer to yourself.”

For a few seconds, she didn’t say anything, and he was lost, trying—and failing—to figure out how to pull off a victory for her when she was obviously in a war with herself.

“I’ll let you be nicer to me later if you let me sleep now,” she said, the hint of sadness underlying her teasing words standing out like red lipstick in a sea of clear gloss.

Now it was his turn to agree. “Deal.”

So he shut up and relished the success he hadn’t expected—and that’s what this was.

The only thing better than one win was two, and this situation was definitely a win-win. He ran his fingertips lightly over Fiona’s bare back, relishing her responding soft, contented sigh, and then let his eyelids drop, satisfied with the knowledge that once again he’d found a way to put a check mark in the W column.