Page 67 of Grouch-ish

“She’s strength and wealth, and lots of orgasms in your future.”

I laugh, lifting my chin. “And what’s your card?”

With a flick of his fingers, he presents his card to me. “King of Clubs.”

“Which means?”

“Winter. The club symbolizes the three-in-one spirit. But also represents strength and determination.”

“And lots of orgasms in your future,” I tease.

Brock’s expression remains serious while his eyes are playful.

“What kind of game are we playing here? And how does this relate to your dream?”

Brock reaches around me, patting the seat of the dining chair that faces inward. “You sit on this throne, and I worship you.”

I glance from the seat to Brock’s face, wondering once more what he’s playing at but as he gently nudges me to the chair, I follow his lead, giving into his game.

All desire to talk has left my brain. Especially when Brock spreads my knees, forcing my center to be exposed to him in a way I’ve never been, and I pulse in all the places.

Brock pins my legs open, my thighs over the front corners of the high-back chair. The woven cane seat beneath my bare bottom takes a second to adjust to. The blanket overhead brushes against my hair, but the second Brock’s hot breath hits that tender spot, naked and visible to him on his knees before me, all thoughts are forgotten.

He worships me as he promised, like the alpha king he is, making me feel like his queen. His tongue is sin. His lips redemption. And those teeth . . . good God, I don’t know how he does it, but his teeth have skill as he teases my flesh. Then it’s tongue and lips again, and my legs shake.

At first, I’m combing my fingers through his hair, but eventually I need to steady myself as my knees bounce. I reach behind me, gripping the sides of the seat for stability as my backside balances on the edge.

Brock hums as he feasts. His eager moans and happy groans fill our little tent. Our bubble of paradise. The blanket den of amorous congress.

“Fireman,” I groan, gritting my teeth as I near the brink.

“Don’t come,” Brock pulls back, growling his demand before dipping his tongue into me once more.

“What?” I choke. I can’t hold back. I’m too close. My toes are tipped on the floor. My legs violently quake. I’m a bundle of nerves and then—

Brock moves away.

“No,” I moan, tipping back my head before peering at Brock, glaring daggers at him.

However, Brock has risen on his knees, bringing his magnificent length to meet that sensitive nub, the tip manually guided to slide up and down in the slippery mess his mouth has made of me.

“I want you to let me in.”

“Brock,” I whimper.

“With nothing between us.”

This would only be our second time. What’s the rush? Still, I meet his eyes, reading more in them. He doesn’t just mean physically. He wants me to let him into my heart. My secrets and my soul.

When I take too long to answer, Brock pulls back, lowering to his haunches, reaching his free hand for his pants somewhere in the pile of clothes and blankets.

I catch his forearm to stop him. “I trust you.”

His eyes shift. No longer black as coal. No longer liquid ink. Something softer, like dark silk.

Rising back up on his knees, he cups my jaw with one hand. “I promise I’m not dangerous.” He made that declaration once before to me. When I opened the door to him and decided to let him into the house. When I allowed him to stay for my own reasons.

I’d replied then that I doubted him. Because something deep inside warned me right then that if I let Brock Scroggs stay, he’d be dangerous for my heart.