Badd to the bone, p.5
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       Badd to the Bone, p.5

         Part #3 of Badd Brothers series by Jasinda Wilder
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  Brock joined me a few seconds later, leaning back to brace his elbows on the riser behind us. "Not saying I don't understand, but getting day-wasted isn't going to change anything."

  "Nope," I agreed. "But then, I'm not trying to change anything."

  "Then what is this about?"

  "This is about me wanting to get completely obliterated so I don't have to remember any of this in the morning."

  "Also not going to work."

  "Yeah, since when are you an expert in any of this?"

  He breathed out a long, heavy sigh. "There are few things I haven't told you, or anyone."

  "Like what?"

  He eyed me. "Cork the bottle and open up to me a little, and I'll tell you."

  I pulled on the bottle again, twice more. "Fuck you."

  "I know what you're doing, Claire."

  "Oh yeah, smart guy? What's that?"

  "Trying to hurt me. Push me away. This is all too much for you to handle, and you're freaking out, and you don't know what to do." He slid closer to me. I stiffened, because I could smell him and his smell always made me want to burrow into him. "You hold so much in, Claire. Talk to me."

  Fuck. The tequila was having its way with me, singing through my blood and erasing my inhibitions as swiftly as only tequila could; I should have gotten a bottle of Grey Goose wouldn't betray me like this.

  "I don't trust you," I said, hating how the words toppled out of me, evading my attempts to keep them in as the tequila pushed them out. "And I trust myself even less."

  "Why don't you trust yourself?"

  I shook my head. "Oh no, you're not gonna take advantage of me like this."

  "What do you mean, Claire?" He sounded so puzzled.

  "You know what tequila does to me."

  "Actually I don't. We haven't gotten tequila hammered together yet."

  "It makes me all...truthy." I could feel my head swelling, my brain fogging--I was feeling the six or seven shots I'd had in less than five minutes. "It also does like it says in that one song. You know which one I mean?"

  He laughed. "'Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off?"

  I nodded, and knew I was already sloppy. So fuck it, right? I took another shot or three. "Yep, that one. It does that. And it also makes me prone to say pretty much anything."

  "Like what?"

  I shook my head. "Oh no. No way, Jose. Nice try."

  Another chuckle, and I realized he'd somehow managed to pull a fast one on me, sneaking the bottle away from me. Probably for the best. I didn't pack much mass, so it didn't take much for me to get blitzed, and I'd had a lot very quickly.

  "You're gonna have your hands full pretty soon, Brocky-baby," I said, laughing. "I'm a lunatic when I'm tequila wasted."

  "Oh joy," Brock deadpanned.

  "Like this one time, Mara and I were at this bar, our favorite bar in San Francisco. Someone bought a round of tequila, and that led to another and then all of a sudden I was topless in the bathroom, going down on two guys at once. Not even sure how I ended up there, honestly, it was tequila, two tequila, three tequila--and then bam, dicks in my mouth. But I was like whatever, and I finished them both off."

  "Jesus, Claire."

  "Not sure even he can help me, at this point." I glanced at him, and if this was a cartoon, Brock would have steam spouting from his ears and his face would be beet red. "Oh, are you jealous?" I asked, mocking. "Poor Brock."

  He growled. "You've never been anything less than honest about your past, and I've never been anything less than totally accepting."

  "Oh, I'm supposed to apologize for being a slut, now? That's not even the worst story I could tell you. There's the time I took a week off of work and went down to Acapulco by myself. I don't think I wore clothes at all that week. I don't remember much except being wasted the whole time and doing a lot of blow and sucking a lot of cock." I watched his reaction. "You don't like these stories, do you?"

  "No, Claire, I don't." He stared hard at me. "I don't like hearing about you sucking off other guys, whether it's one or a hundred."

  Brock lapsed into a stony, pissed off silence.


  "Actually, I think there's a video of me from that week up on YouPorn. One of the guys recorded some shit and put it up with the amateur stuff. I checked it out later. Can't really tell it's me though, because I had my hair dyed bright neon purple and I had a shitload of makeup on." I laughed. "It's kinda hot, actually. I was wearing a push-up bra, so with the downward angle of the camera, it actually looked like I had tits for once."

  "Claire, come on."

  "What? I'm sure you've seen that shit before."

  He shrugged. "Sure."

  "Never done it, though?"

  He frowned at me. "Hell, no." A shake of his head. "That shit is degrading."

  "Not if she's into it. If she lets it happen voluntarily."

  "That just smacks of self-esteem issues to me."

  I snorted. "Well, no shit. Obviously. That's the entire point. She does that shit because it feeds her need for attention. She likes guys doing that shit to her because then it's at least guys finding her attractive. And if they want to blow their load on her face, then fine, but that's her choice. It's not degrading if she chooses it."

  He hesitated before answering. "I don't know if I agree."

  I stared at him--my view of him was spinning, now. "So then, that time in Seattle in my apartment, when you came all over my chest, that was you degrading me?"

  "That's different."


  "It wasn't your face, and it was just me."

  "So it's different when it's four guys and I get come on my face rather than my tits?"

  "Yeah, it's different. I value you, Claire, which is more than those guys did."

  I was really dizzy now and the world was spinning around me but I did manage to ask a question I'd asked myself many times before now. "If I'm not worth shit to my own father, who should I be worth shit to?"

  "Me?" Brock asked.

  "Yeah, now."

  "Yeah, now," Brock echoed. "And no story you could tell me is gonna change that."

  "Not even if I tell you I got DP'd?"

  Brock winced. "No, Claire."

  I was so dizzy, now. "I've been a bad girl, Brock. Done a lot of bad, bad things. And you're saying none of it matters to you?"

  "Of course it matters. It matters a lot. I wish to fuck I could go back and make you see your worth so you wouldn't have done any of it. So you'd have some self-respect."

  "Yeah,'re too late. None of that self-respect mumbo-jumbo matters to me. I'm just little ol' slutty Claire Collins, whore-extraordinaire."

  He palmed my cheek, and I opened my eyes to see his close to mine, burning with sincerity. "No, Claire. It's never too late."

  "Oh, you're gonna save me, is that it? I'm a pity project. Save Claire, the slut with a heart of gold." I took on a deep, mocking tone of voice. "'I'm Brock, and I'm gonna love Claire so good she'll stop being a whore and have some self-respect for once in her whore life, because I'm fucking magical!'" I blew a raspberry. "Get over yourself, Brock. I'm un-save-able and not worth saving."

  He didn't have an answer for that.

  I tried to sit up, and discovered that superdrunkiness had snuck up on me while I was babbling about my whorish past. "Damn." I grabbed at Brock. "Can you help your drunk whore of a girlfriend to the car?" He stood up, bent over, and scooped me up in his arms. I nuzzled against his chest, unable to stop myself. "Wanna know a secret?" I mumbled.


  I felt him bend and lower me into the car--I wasn't sure how he got the door open while holding me, though. I grabbed onto his neck so he couldn't stand upright, and I whispered into his ear. "I know I act like a hard-ass bitch, but I'm not. I just don't know how to stop pretending I don't give a fuck." I bit his earlobe, hard, and he grunted in surprise. "Another secret, since I'm all truthy on tequila? I really, really want you to fuck me like
the dirty slut I am, and do every dirty thing there is to me. I need it, and I'm scared you won't give it to me. And I also want you to keep doing all those sweet, tender, princess-y things for me even though I act like I hate them. I don't--I love them. I just hate that I love them, because I'm not worthy of them, or of you." I kissed his earlobe where I'd bitten him hard enough to leave an angry red mark. "I'm gonna pass out now, and when I wake up I'm gonna pretend I never said any of that."

  "I know."

  "Will you forget?"

  The car was moving, and the window was open, letting in a sweet, cool breeze. "Not a chance," I heard Brock say.


  I felt him take my hand in his, and I let myself hold on to him, for my heart's sake, not because I was so dizzy the world felt like it was wobbling like a spinning top losing momentum. "Yes, Claire. I promise I won't forget."

  "I'm gonna be a pain in the ass about this, I hope you know."

  "I know."

  I rested my head on the side of the door, next to the open window, closing my eyes, feeling myself sliding into unconsciousness. "Hey...Brock?"

  "Yeah, honey?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "For what?"


  "Don't be."

  "I am, though."

  "I'll let you make it up to me."

  "With blowjobs?"

  He laughed, squeezing my hand. "I'll think of something."

  I sighed, and focused on not puking. "'Kay. Bye."

  Hello darkness, my old friend.

  Oh my god.

  I knew this would happen.

  Ouch. My head hurt so bad I could hardly open my eyes.

  Shit, goddammit, and motherfucker.

  Ow, ow, ow, ow.

  I slowly cracked my eyes open. I was in the hotel room, so that was good. In bed, also good. Still in my clothes. A glance at the window showed darkness beyond, and a glance at the clock showed that it was 5:55 a.m. Why the fuck was I awake at 5:55 a.m.? I never wake up this early; I'm a computer programmer and I do my best to work late at night.

  Brock was in bed beside me, knees drawn up, turned away from me, spine curved into a broad, hard arc. There was a bottle of mineral water on the bedside table, a packet of aspirin, and a handwritten note beneath my cell phone. I took the aspirin with half the bottle of water, and read the note.


  I really, really, REALLY like you. A lot.

  Also, I'm not trying to save you.

  Furthermore, I'm not trying to change you.

  Additionally, you're sexy. Even passed out drunk, you take my breath away.

  And finally, you can totally make this up to me with lots of random BJs. Or, if you'd prefer, we can just agree that shit happens, and that there's nothing to make up for. Either way, I'm in this with you, good or bad, no matter what. So don't freak out, okay?

  Okay, so there's maybe one more thing: It's going to be fine, I promise.

  Yours, because I want to be,


  I read the note three or four times and tried to convince myself that I wasn't crying. But I was just bullshitting myself. I was crying. In fact, I was bawling my eyes out. Get a grip, Claire. You don't do crying. What is it about this guy that brings all this stuff out of me?

  On top of it all I felt like shit because I was hungover as all fuck, and also upset at myself, and at Connor--since I refused to acknowledge the bastard as my father ever again--and at Brock for being so damn sweet when I just wanted him to either fuck me like I want to be fucked, or just get it over with and leave me already.

  Having been hungover like this a time or two before, I'd discovered one surefire way of getting rid of a nasty hangover; it sucked, but it was effective. I changed into my workout clothes--a pair of tight red yoga shorts that didn't really even cover my ass all the way, and a yellow sports bra. I laced up my Brooks, and headed down to the gym.

  I did leave Brock a note, however, written on the back of his, and tucked it under his cell phone:


  Running away from my hangover. (In the gym, I mean.)

  We can talk about the contents of the reverse side of this note when I get back.

  Yours, assuming you still want me to be,


  I found the gym and the treadmill, turned on my running playlist, cranked the speed up as high as I could handle it, and ran like a girl running away from problems, and herself, and the world, and her mixed-up and stupid feelings for her man, and all the other bullshit. So, yeah, you can't get very far away from that shit on a treadmill, but that's not the point. You can't get very far from your problems even on a jet, because your problems are inside you. Unless your problems have something to do with the law or the mafia, in which case running might do SOME good.

  Running while hungover really sucks. It hurts, you wanna puke the whole time, and you're never quite sure you're not gonna actually just die. But the longer you run, the more you sweat, the better you start to feel, in a backward sort of way. Eventually the hangover is replaced by the normal pain of why the fuck did I decide to run ten miles? It's stupid, but it works.

  When my Garmin told me I'd hit ten miles in an hour and a half, I smashed the stop button and slowed to a stop as the belt halted under me. I stood on it gasping, clinging to the handles as I caught my wind, dripping sweat, and no longer quite as hungover as I'd been when I first got here.

  Stumbling back to our room, I found Brock still asleep, this time on his back, arm over his head, mouth slack, his hair a mess, and a monster hard-on bulging the front of his underwear. Shit...if I wasn't a sweaty disaster, I'd have woken him up with the first of my apology BJs.

  I spun on the hot water, stripped out of my running clothes, dragged a brush through my hair, and then squirted toothpaste onto my travel toothbrush and went after my furry teeth. As is my habit, I wandered around as I brushed my teeth, since I get restless just standing at the sink staring at myself in the mirror. I ended up at the window, the curtains pulled open a few inches, enough that I could see out onto the dark, empty Birmingham street below.

  I didn't hear him, didn't even sense him until his hands slid around my midsection. I jumped about a foot, and squealed while trying to keep the foamy toothpaste in my mouth. "Gah-dammmmih, Brock!"

  He laughed, a low amused chuckle in my ear. "Startled you, huh?"

  "No shih, a-hoh."

  His hands slid up to cup my tits, and I moaned as he lavished attention on them, squeezing, kneading, and thumbing my ultrasensitive nipples. And then he shifted closer, and I realized he was naked now, and still as hard as a rock.

  I went back to brushing, and then stopped after a few brushstrokes. "Brock? Whah are you doing?"

  "Showing you that I absolutely want you to be mine."

  "I'm bruffing my teeh," I protested.


  He used one hand to continue playing with my tits, and the other slid down to my pussy, two fingers finding my clit, flicking, and then slipping into me, curling, gathering the gush of wetness that was suddenly but not unexpectedly flooding through me. His cock was a hard rod against my ass, hot and thick and soft. His hands worked me into a furor as swiftly as only Brock could, bringing me to knee-weakening climax in a minute, two at the most, and he pushed me over the edge, pinching my nipple between his finger and thumb and squeezing in sync with my gasping groans of release.

  I had a mouthful of toothpaste, which was now dribbling down my chin and onto my chest, and onto my wrist, and I was still holding my toothbrush.

  Brock laughed and guided me to the bathroom, pressed me up against the sink, and I bent, spat, and rinsed my mouth, then used a washcloth to dry my face.

  I waited for Brock to take me to the bed, but he didn't. He kept me pinned up against the sink. "Brock?"

  I was still quivery from my orgasm, and his eyes were fiery with need, his cock a tease between the upper swell of my ass cheeks.

  He slid his fingers into me. "How about one more, f

  I gripped the edge of the counter. "I wouldn't argue."

  He went more slowly, this time. Teasing my clit, tweaking my nipples, sliding his fingers into me, then out to circle, never giving me a rhythm I could sink into. This time, as I drew closer, he slowed and changed his pattern, keeping me from the edge. Again and again, he got me to the point of flexing my hips and whimpering, and then he'd do something different.

  "Brock, please."

  "I like it when you ask nicely," he murmured, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

  I smiled at his reflection. "Oh yeah?" I slid my ass against his cock. "Please, Brock. Please?"

  "That's hot." He had me almost there again. "Please what, though? Some specifics might be helpful."

  "Let me come," I breathed, grinding into his fingers as he squelched them in and out of me, letting his thumb rock against my clit.

  "Just let you come?" he teased, pressing his cock against me suggestively. "That's all you want?"

  "No, no...I want to come around your cock. Put it in me, Brock. Right now. Please."

  He kissed my shoulder, a soft, sweet, gentle gesture that had my heart twisting and leaping. "Put it in you, and then what, Claire?"

  I felt my heart skip a beat. "Fuck me, Brock."

  He kissed my other shoulder. "You taste like sweat."

  "I was running."

  "I know." He kissed the back of my neck. "I like this, taking you like this, while you're all sweaty."

  "It's not gross?"

  "Would you fuck me after a workout, if I was the one all sweaty?" he asked.

  "Without hesitation," I answered.

  "There you go, then." He kissed behind my ear, his tongue flicking, tasting. Another kiss, to my nape, and I shuddered. "So you want...this?"

  He put both hands on my shoulders and pressed me downward, toward the counter. I went willingly, and he kissed me as I bent over, his lips and tongue sliding over my skin, tasting my skin and my sweat. And then I felt him slide two fingers against my pussy, seeking my opening. I felt him touch the broad, hard head of his cock against my slit, and I arched my back and groaned as he slid into me, slowly.

  "This is what you want, isn't it, Claire?"

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