Badd to the bone, p.21
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       Badd to the Bone, p.21

         Part #3 of Badd Brothers series by Jasinda Wilder
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  She crawled onto the bed from the foot end, prowling like a lioness up between my outstretched legs. She crawled over me, hands on either side of my hips, an eager, lascivious smirk on her lips, and then she took me into her mouth, and this time, it wasn't because I'd told her--playfully ordered her to--it was because she wanted to. If I hadn't been totally erect before, her sweet warm mouth took care of that in a heartbeat. She took me to the back of her throat, and then once again demonstrated her lack of a gag reflex, sliding me into her throat until her lips were at the base of my cock and her nose was touching my belly. She backed away and immediately pressed down again, and then started fucking me with her mouth around the root of my throbbing cock.

  "Claire, Jesus--Claire, stop. I'm gonna come in a second--" I reached for her, pulled up and away. "I don't want to come in your mouth this time."

  She let me fall out of her mouth, grinning up at me. "Oh, I wouldn't have let you." She crawled farther up my body, until she was straddling me. "I'm on a hair trigger, and I wanted you ready for me."

  "I'm more than ready," I said.

  She sat astride my waist, ran a hand through my hair and then cupped the back of my neck. Leaned forward so her lips brushed mine, her breasts brushing my chest. Reaching a hand between us, Claire guided me to her entrance and she sank down onto me in a single smooth slide, no pause, no hesitation, no drawing it out, just a beautiful joining of our bodies. We both moaned in unison as her pussy swallowed my cock, and then I was fully seated inside her, her ass on my thighs, her mouth on mine, her weight on her shins on the bed.

  "I've never done this before," Claire whispered. "Not like this."


  "Never like this." She clung to me, started writhing on me, her breath hot on the side of my neck. "I can see this being addictive."

  She moved, lifting her hips and dropping them, rolling slowly, grinding on me. Taking me, using me to bring her orgasm to the surface. She hadn't been kidding--she was on the edge, riding me hard and fast within moments, gasping, crying out, and clawing her fingers down my chest as she detonated.

  As she climaxed, she cupped my face with one hand and touched her trembling lips against mine, shuddering on top of me. "Brock, god...Brock."

  "Claire--" I was getting close, her clenching clamping heat bare around me bringing me swiftly to that edge as well. "Claire, I love--"

  She pressed her thumb over my lips and shook her head. "Not yet." She stared down at me, desperation in her eyes. "Don't say it yet."

  I knew what she wanted, then. I saw it in her eyes, felt it from her.

  I lifted up to kiss her, grinding my hips against hers. Ran my hands over her back, cupped her ass, pulling her against me as we moved together. She ended the kiss first, her forehead resting against mine.

  "Brock," she whispered.

  "I know."

  I captured her legs with mine, clamping my thighs around hers, and rolled over without allowing our connection to break. And then, just like that, she was beneath me. Her eyes were wide, her breathing fast...

  But she had a smile on her face, bright and bold and fearless and beautiful. She slid her arms around my waist and clawed her fingers into the muscle of my back, wrapped her ankles around the backs of my knees, and her breathing caught.

  "Brock," she whispered again, happiness in her eyes, shining wetly.

  "I know." I pressed against her, pushing deeper, and she gasped, lifted her hips against mine. "Me too."

  She palmed my ass, pressed her forehead against my shoulder and then bit the side of my bicep, and began writhing beneath me, desperate for more. "Say it," she murmured, kissing the side of my jaw, then my cheekbone. "Now say it."

  I laughed at the giddiness in her voice. "Hey, Claire." I braced one hand in the mattress beside her, used the other to brush her hair out of her face. "Guess what?"

  Her smile shone up at me as our bodies moved in perfect incredible sync, hips meeting and retreating, breath coming hard and fast, her hands on my ass and my back and in my hair and everywhere, her legs hooked around mine and her feet stroking me wherever they could reach, our bodies so eager to caress and show as much affection as we could, because this was love.

  "Hey, Brock--what?"

  I sank into her, feeling her clamping around me, feeling myself unable to hold back any longer, feeling my heart expand and connecting to hers and merging with her skin and her soul and her past and our future.

  I extended the moment as long as I could, not breaking eye contact as I brought us closer and closer and closer...

  She was gasping, shrill and desperate, clinging to me everywhere she could, moving with me, and then her gasps turned to moans, soft, sweet, wild sounds as she clenched and throbbed around me, and then it was time, I couldn't wait any longer, I was bursting with the need to finally say the words to her and hear them back, violently desperate to release inside her after so long.

  "I love you, Claire." As I said the words, I came, and the words became a chant. "I love you, ohhhh god, I love you."

  Again and again and again, and Claire was crying, coming apart beneath me, sobbing and clutching at me wildly and kissing me in a thousand places with a thousand kisses each more desperate and crazed than the last.

  "Brock, Brock, oh my god...Brock!" She screamed my name as she shattered, shaking, trembling, gasping. Her eyes flew open and locked on mine, tears running unheeded down her face, joy in every line and pore and movement. "I...I love you, Brock."

  My breath caught, my throat closed. I bumped my forehead against hers, and she clutched the back of my head, her lips seeking mine. These were the words I'd been waiting to hear, and they meant so much to me that all I could do was utter her name, again and again. "Claire, Claire, Claire."

  All I could do was pour myself into her and feel her lush tight body writhing beneath me, her hands all over me, her lips on me, her pussy clenching around me throbbing and clamping down so tight it was nearly painful as she came and came and came, milking my orgasm until it became something else entirely, more than just a release.

  When I could come no more, I collapsed on her, and she laughed in pleased surprise, taking my weight. She stroked my hair and my back and my ass and my arms, just caressing, petting. Loving me with her hands.

  I went to move off her, sure I was crushing her with my weight, but she held me in place. "No. Just...stay like this for a while. I..." She inhaled the scent of my hair. "I love this."

  "I'm not too heavy?"

  She shook her head, her hands moving over me, tracing my muscles. "You're perfect."

  I don't know how long we stayed like that, me still buried inside her, my weight on her, her hands moving, our breathing slowing into a synced susurrus.

  Eventually, she pushed at my shoulder. "Now switch." I rolled again, and now she was fully on top of me, her head tucked under my chin, her fingertips resting on my face. She lifted up to look down at me. "I want to say it again, when it's not the heat of the moment."

  She gazed at me, a long silence growing as she allowed the feelings to move through her, the fear of putting herself in my hands, the joy, the bliss of being together after so long apart. "I love you, Brock Badd." Her voice was strong, her eyes searching mine as she said it.

  She rested her head on my chest again, and I breathed in the moment, letting my hands now roam her skin.

  After a moment, Claire lifted up again. "Aren't you going to say it back?"

  I grunted a negative. "Nope. Gonna let you have that one."

  She laughed. "Oh."

  "It doesn't have to be a you-then-me sort of thing, Claire. It can be whatever we want it to be. Expressing love for each other however we feel like expressing it."

  She slid off me to lay on the bed beside me, and took my slack cock in her hand. "So if I wanted to express my love for you like this?"

  "Then I'd say, baby, I've got all night." I watched her hand move, teasing me to life. "I'd say, baby, let's get started on forever right now."

/>   She laughed. "That was cheesy."

  "You love it when I'm cheesy."

  "True, I do love it when you're cheesy." She fondled me into erection, toying with me until I was achingly hard again. "I also love it when your come is leaking out of me, and I get your big fat cock inside me again and you come even more, and I spend the whole next day smelling like you, with your come dripping out of me every time I sit down or stand up."

  She rolled on top of me, took me inside her, and this time, she rode me to completion, hers and my own. We hurried there, grinding together until she was breathless above me and I was pouring into her. Less than five minutes from start to finish, but her eyes never left mine, and we didn't need to say the words this time, we just needed to move together, come together, feel the intensity of our union.

  Again and again, and again, all through the night. We slept, and we woke and we joined together, and we slept again. Dawn came eventually and I was inside her again, above her again.

  We never left the bed.

  I lost track of the number of times we each said I love you.

  As it should be.



  The air in my father's private jet was tense and stifling.

  "Evangeline." Father's voice was stern and stentorian and stiff with anger. "I just received word of your marks at Yale from this past semester. You still aren't applying yourself as you should be. At least not in the classes that matter."

  "Well, you see, that's what's funny, Father. Your notion of which classes really matter differs from mine, as you may recall from our previous conversations on this topic." I stifled a tired sigh. "You're lucky I'm attending those ridiculous, wretched classes at all."

  "I'm lucky?" His thick, manicured, salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "You have things rather backward, I'm afraid."

  We were in the midst of yet another maddeningly polite argument about everything we always argued about: my life, my choices for my career and my future, and the fact that Thomas Haverton was not the man for me.

  "I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in politics or business, Father. This isn't new."

  "Politics and business are your birthright and your inheritance, Evangeline. You cannot simply ignore the path life has set out for you."

  I couldn't keep back the groan this time. "Life hasn't set out that path for me, Father, you have. And I'm not interested." I waved my French-manicured fingernails behind us, where Thomas Haverton--my father's protege and the subject of much hopeful matchmaking--was fielding a conference call. "He is interested enough in the business for the both of us. You want someone to take over your place as CEO and president of du Maurier Enterprises? Give it to him. I don't want it."

  "That's the plan already, my dear," Father said. "But I want the business to remain in the family. Which is why I really think you need give the man a fair shake."

  I bit my lip to keep from cursing at my father. "This is even older news than my apathy about business and politics. Thomas is a fine businessman and a worthy successor to your chair as the head of the board. But I have less than no interest in him romantically. I do not feel about him like that now, I haven't for many years, and I will never have those feelings going forward. Not ever."

  Father had his chair swiveled to face me across the aisle. We were on board Father's private jet which, despite its massive size only boasted a total of six chairs, although each chair was a high-tech work of leather-wrapped luxury, featuring full massage capabilities, 360-degree swivel, a footrest, cup holders, AC, and USB ports, and could fully recline to become a bed. I was on the other side of the aisle, facing forward, perpendicular to my father, using body language to create a sense of disinterest in the topic.

  "Evangeline, come now. He's a wonderful man. Smart, driven, successful, wealthy in his own right, and within ten years of your own age, not to mention his impeccable breeding and pedigree--"

  "Yes, Father, he's a prize stallion, I'm sure." I rolled my eyes. "Good for you. If he's so wonderful, you marry him."

  "You have been destined to marry Thomas Haverton since birth, Evangeline. It is fated. There can be no better match for my daughter."

  The argument had the same effect it always did...none whatsoever, although I do admit I was being worn down, exhausted by their persistent efforts.

  I'd broken up with Thomas Haverton at least three times, and yet any time I was home for a break or a weekend, anytime I had lunch with Father or Mother, Thomas showed up, and I got sucked back into his orbit. He showed up for our family vacations, showed up at birthday parties and business functions. I couldn't escape him, couldn't avoid him.

  His long, sleek black Mercedes would show up outside my dorm at Yale and Raymond, his driver, would be behind the wheel, Thomas in back with his tablet and laptop and phone and slim leather briefcase, working as always. He and Father worked together and were so much alike it was scary. He should have been born into my family rather than me.

  When Thomas showed up, he wouldn't go away unless I came outside. He'd have Raymond follow me at a slow crawl, and he would carry on a conversation with me regardless, and everyone would stare and whisper and point, and so I would get in just to stop the scene.

  Invariably we'd end up at a private table at some exclusive restaurant in the city, and he would order a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine and then things went the way they always went. We'd get to the part where I was supposed to invite him up to my room, and I wouldn't, because I didn't want Thomas in my private space.

  I'd slept with him a once or twice, years past. He'd been my first date, my first kiss; we'd gone from first base to second to third in gradual phases, and then I'd given him my virginity in his suite of rooms at the top of his parents' exclusive high rise in Manhattan after senior prom.

  I'd cried, and he hadn't understood, and then he'd gotten drunk on champagne and I'd ended up calling Teddy, Father's driver, to come get me at three in the morning, my dress rumpled and ruined, my hair a wreck, my makeup a disaster, tracks of dried mascara on my cheeks. I'd had to explain to Teddy that Thomas hadn't hurt me, at least not like that.

  That was more than three years ago now, and since then I avoided Thomas as much as possible. He just wasn't the man for me. As far as I was concerned, I had clearly broken up with him, but yet he persisted. He continued to propose with four-carat diamond rings and elaborate showpieces worthy of The Bachelor.

  Why would he continue after being refused three times? The answer was simple but hard to understand--it was because Father had promised him that I would marry him. It just might take some time for me to accept.

  Father was stewing, now. Clenching his jaw, sighing prodigiously, and eying me furiously. "Evangeline. This is maddening."

  I laughed. "On this, Father, we happen to agree."

  "So why must you insist on being so difficult?"

  I stared at my father in irritated befuddlement. "You mean, why must I insist on, oh, I don't know, having my own personality? My own dreams and desires and plans that don't necessarily line up with your vision for my life?"

  "Precisely," Father muttered, without a trace of any irony whatsoever.

  "You are unbelievable."

  "The feeling is mutual," I snapped.

  A moment of silence, and then another sigh from Father. "I just want the best for you."

  "I know you do. But the best for me is the freedom to choose my own path in life."

  "There are certain expectations that have been thrust upon your shoulders, simply due to the family into which you were born, Evangeline. You cannot ignore the duty you owe your family."

  "Why do you think I'm even attending those stupid classes you've forced me into, Father?"

  "You're barely passing. That hardly counts."

  "A C-average isn't exactly barely passing."

  "You're a member of MENSA, Evangeline."

  I shrugged. "Perhaps that may be important to you, but it isn't to me."

/>   "No child of mine should be seen to be maintaining anything less than their very best, and you are capable of far more than a C."

  "I'm not in high school, Father. My grades are my business, not yours."

  Father rumbled a sound of displeasure. "I'm paying for the classes, so it is my business, I rather think."

  "Then I'll quit school entirely. Will that make you happier?"

  Father shoved up out of his chair, anger in every line of his body. "You are simply impossible, Evangeline du Maurier."

  I didn't reply, because there was no point: what I wanted didn't matter. I was simply expected to be the compliant daughter who accepted Father's plans for me, to accede to his wishes, to do as he instructed; Father knew best.

  He was Lawrence du Maurier, owner, founder, president, and CEO of du Maurier Enterprises, a global complex of corporations and LLCs spanning industries from technology and communications, to medical research and arms development. He was also a former three-term senator, a man with connections to the highest levels of government, and the ears of lobbyists, lawmakers, and Congressional committees. He was an immensely powerful man, one who was accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted--because he always did, no matter what he had to do.

  Halfway through my sophomore year at Yale, I'd changed my major from poli-sci to art. I'd dumped the politics classes, blew off the cushy internship Father had set up for my summer at a prestigious Boston firm, and had enrolled in painting classes, art history, and anatomy courses in the fall semester.

  Father had been furious, of course. We'd quarreled. He'd cursed at me, I'd cursed back, he'd cursed louder, and I'd stormed off and spent my summer in art classes at the community college near our estate in Connecticut. Then, when I returned to school for the fall semester and visited the office to get my schedule, I discovered that Father had switched everything back to poli-sci. He'd even rearranged my schedule so I could intern at the Boston firm Thursday, Friday, and the weekend, the rest of my classes being crammed between Monday and Wednesday.

  No amount of finagling from me had persuaded the enrollment office to change my schedule back, since Father was one of the biggest donors the university had. He always got what he wanted, and what he wanted was for me, his daughter, his only child, to major in political science.

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