F*CK Reality: Take One Read online

  Trapping her mouth with mine, I aim to quiet her moans as I thrust back inside of her. Within seconds, I realize it’s too fucking late.

  I’m had.

  I’m spent.

  I’m taken.

  Completely.

  Chapter Fourteen

  And I thought this would be awkward.

  Brooke

  -

  “Woman, I bet I’m bleeding.” Brock’s words come out as a garbled mumble when he says them against my forehead.

  He’s still inside me and hasn’t moved since we finished at the same time.

  In all my years with Jason that never, not once, happened. I’d always finish first and wait for him to follow. Sometimes it took a while, as after I was done, I lost interest.

  “Bleeding?”

  Grinning, he pulls back and feigns a pained wince before replying. “I think your talons shredded my back.”

  “You don’t say something like that to a girl you had sex with but hardly know, Brock,” I scold. “Not cool.”

  “What do I say to a really hot girl I just had great sex with then?” he questions. And, if I’m right, he’s being sincere.

  Too sincere.

  After spending time with Brock earlier as I did, I can see how Jason’s version of us growing apart made sense. I would never ever have considered having sex in the front seat of a parked car like where I found him. At the time, the very thought would’ve horrified me.

  That was until I considered having sex in a public hotel elevator merely because it wasn’t getting us to Brock’s room fast enough.

  “Where’d you go?” he inquires, pulling me from everything Jason.

  “Here,” I cheerfully reply.

  His neck rears back. The hair that’s fallen to his forehead gives him a rugged, but boyish look. His cheeks are pink, and sweat beads cover his brow.

  “I need to get rid of this.” He carefully pulls out of me, and the empty feeling once he’s done so isn’t appreciated.

  After he’s out of bed, he doesn’t turn back to look at me. He has a nice ass, and I’m not an ass lover at all. Nor am I a lover of all things cock. Women bug me when they go on and on about a man’s dick and how lovely it is.

  I hear the hotel toilet flush, and the light clicks off before Brock saunters back into the room. He’s smirking at me, probably noticing I can’t look away from his expansive chest.

  Brock doesn’t have the bulk of a body builder, nor the sinewy frame of a runner. He’s somewhere in between. The definition in his arms, neck, and chest is thick and corded with veins.

  Now that it seems I’ve worked off at least some of the alcohol, I fear this entire situation will get weird.

  “So, I’ve never done that,” I tell him.

  He sighs as he comes to the bed, moves the covers, and lies down at my side. He’s made no move to further touch me, which is fine.

  The covers are pulled up to his waist before he turns his head and returns, “I think I got you’ve never done that. You’ve mentioned you’re not a slut a few times now.”

  Shit, I have.

  “I’m not sure how this works.”

  Really, I have no idea how any of this works. I don’t want to explain he’s only the second man I’ve ever had sex with, and that I waited until I was the ripe old ago of twenty-two before losing my V card to the only man I’ve ever loved. He wouldn’t understand my reasons why, and I wouldn’t relish in explaining.

  “How what works?”

  “This,” I state, pointing around us in the bed. “I’m thinking I should go?”

  Lifting his arm and settling it to rest beneath his head, he turns his gaze to the ceiling before asking, “Do you want to go because you want to go, or you think I want you to go?”

  “I’m not tired. But maybe you are.”

  His head turns, that boyish grin comes with it as his eyes meet mine.

  “I’m not tired, but I am starving. How about room service?”

  “Breakfast with a lot of bacon?” I suggest, thinking the notion at this hour sounds ridiculous, but still good.

  He laughs, drops his hands to his stomach, and replies, “Breakfast it is.”

  Jackknifing himself to a sitting position, he grabs the phone to make the call. Thinking this is a good time to plot my escape for clothes, I sit up and reach for the closest item within reach.

  His shirt smells like he does. The size dwarfs my body, but it’s enough to cover the most delicate parts of it. Once I have myself adjusted, I prop the pillows behind me to sit up and lean back against the headboard .

  After he’s ordered, he lays the hotel phone back in its cradle and grabs the television remote. He flips it to what I assume is a twenty-four hour sports channel, then fixes his pillows the same as mine and sits up next to me.

  In the quiet of the room, I don’t feel out of place. Though impossible, it’s almost as if we’ve done this before.

  “You watch baseball?” he inquires.

  The commercial playing is one I’ve seen a thousand times.

  “Sometimes I have it on for background noise.”

  “So, you don’t watch baseball.” He smiles. “Good to know.”

  “Do you watch game shows?”

  “Sometimes,” he says.

  “Which ones?”

  “Sometimes I have one on for background noise.”

  He’s making fun.

  “Music?” I ask, wondering what he’d listen to if he were alone. This topic could be a deal breaker. If he’s into heavy metal, we’re not a fit.

  What am I saying?

  We’re not a fit. I don’t know anything about him other than he’s good with his hands and great with his dick. In my current situation, I don’t have the right to get to know him. Nothing about what I’m doing in L.A. says this is a good idea.

  “I like all music. Except that head banging shit.”

  Damn it.

  It would’ve been better had he said he loved to head bang.

  “What about you?” he asks.

  Feigning boredom, I reply, “The same.”

  “I listen to a lot of vocalists. Too many to pick just one.”

  Curiously, I ask, “If you had to pick a favorite, though, who would it be?”

  Studying the television, he says so quietly I nearly miss it. “Celine Dion.”

  “No way,” I breathe, sitting up to get a better look at him. He can’t be serious. “Celine Dion?”

  “Are you judging?” he snaps, turning his face to mine and cocking a gorgeous dark eyebrow.

  I bite my lip to keep from smiling before I counter, “I’m not sure. Are you serious?”

  “She’s talented. Her whole life story is inspiring. She’s the youngest of fourteen kids. That’s incredible.”

  I didn’t know this about her, but I don’t pay attention to the detailed lives of anyone else. Mine keeps me busy enough.

  “So, you respect her,” I summarize.

  Flipping the channel to a gory scene in an apparent horror movie, he replies, “Fuck yeah. Her entire family lived and breathed music.”

  “I like Rihanna.”

  Rolling his eyes, he says, “That’s easy. Who doesn’t?”

  “Where are you from? You’re visiting Los Angeles, but where’s home?”

  “Dallas, Texas.”

  “Family?” I shouldn’t be asking; I shouldn’t want to know. But I’m curious. His admiration for Celine’s family surprised me.

  “Parents. Kid sister.”

  “Your parents are still together then,” I assume, as he said ‘parents.’

  “No,” he corrects. “My dad died when I was a kid. Martin raised me. I consider him my second dad, and he considers me the pain-in-the-ass son.”

  The topic of family has hit a nerve, and being that we just met, probably to never meet again, I shouldn’t be so intimate, asking such personal questions.

  “Your friend is crazy,” he remarks out of nowhere. When I turn my face to his, I find his ey
es are smiling. “The good kind of crazy.”

  “Explain,” I insist.

  A green plight of jealous tension sits heavily in my chest. I don’t like recognizing it, nor it being there in the first place.

  “I don’t know her, but I’m guessing she has a good time wherever she goes. She told me she’s attached, but it didn’t seem like she lets her relationship status stop her from having men as friends. I admire that.”

  “She’s a good friend,” I return with honesty “She is half-crazy, though.”

  For the next thirty minutes, we sit side by side in quiet company. He’s changed it back to the sports broadcast, following the scores at the bottom of the screen. I know this because every few minutes he mumbles something about a surprising score.

  “There’s the food,” he tells me before throwing off the covers and making a move to stand.

  I hadn’t noticed he’d grabbed his boxers and put them on. Before he moves to the door, he turns in place and sets his gaze on my chest.

  “My shirt looks good on you,” he compliments.

  Looking down at the gaping holes between the buttons, I don’t make a move to close them. I’m comfortable. He makes me feel comfortable.

  “Thank you.” He smiles.

  Damn.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brooke and Brock act one, take two.

  Brock

  -

  Brooke’s soft snores aren’t what’s been keeping me awake for the last forty-five minutes.

  The soft and sweet mumbles she’s been murmuring in her sleep aren’t the problem either.

  The reason I’m awake at this hour is because my mind won’t stop racing.

  After we shared a full plate of bacon and a few bites of whatever else room service brought up, we hung out in bed and talked. This is where I learned she had a great childhood, with a loving father she adored, a mother she tolerated, but loved all the same, and a pain in the ass little brother she despairingly admitted she wouldn’t trade for anything. She has good friends she considers family, as well as a job working for her parents which she bears, but doesn’t always want to have.

  Spring is her favorite season because she likes the rain. She told me the sound of it hitting the pavement and windows calms her. Being outside, sitting in the sun comes second best in fun only to late night movies in bed, cuddled under the covers with whoever is willing to do so.

  And, without having to tell me, I already knew she loves to laugh.

  We’re so alike. I’m not sure how she’s truly real.

  If only she was a die-hard baseball fan.

  We can work on that.

  As I turn my head to watch her sleep, which I’m sure isn’t creepy at all, I hate the sun for coming up. I want to bottle this night, and not only remember it, but carry it through until the next...and the next...and the next...

  Grabbing my phone for distraction, I check the incoming messages. I find none, except the one from Drew earlier, which stares back at me.

  Drew: So? How’s it going? Have you met Mrs. Brock LaDuece yet?

  In a matter of hours, everything since being here has shifted. By no means is Brooke Malloy in love with me, nor am I with her. However, the compatibility and possibility factors that I’ve waited years to find and experience are all there—all coming one week too late. My remorse for tomorrow sits heavily between us. The bed isn’t big enough to hold its weight.

  Reaching for her hand, I take it in mine. She wears pink polish, which after knowing her for as little time as I have makes sense. Her angelic face is relaxed in sleep, her light brown hair falling haplessly against the pillow. Her long neck, leading to a chest reddened from my hands and jaw reflect back at me. I’d love to wake her, but I’m unsure how she’d react.

  What the hell, right?

  All of this will be gone tomorrow, forever filed away as a chance meeting and one-night stand that I should feel lucky enough to have had with a great girl from a happy home miles and miles away from here.

  Deciding to press forward, I carefully and quietly move the sheet and slide it down her body. She doesn’t move.

  My hand runs the expanse of her naked thigh, making its way to the crook of her ass. Still, she doesn’t make a sound.

  My mouth finds her chest, kissing it gently before running my tongue over its now tightened peak. My cock swells. Her immediate reaction to my touch is enough to undo me.

  Maybe, even with only knowing her a matter of hours, I’m already coming undone.

  “Brooke,” I whisper, as she begins to spread her thighs, getting comfortable beneath me. Her eyes aren’t yet open. “You awake?”

  “Hmm,” she wordlessly acknowledges. Her arms wrap around my neck, and her head turns up in my direction.

  “Look at me.”

  She does as I ask and smiles. I resent the realization, thinking the deep hue of her amber eyes will eventually come to haunt me.

  “Good morning,” I proclaim, once again hating the fact the hours have passed. I’m physically exhausted, but in no way ready or willing to sleep.

  Her face inches toward mine. When I think she’s about to kiss me, she moves her lips into my neck. Her fingernails gently scrape the skin of my shoulders, and her hips tense beneath mine.

  “Condom,” I whisper into her hair.

  Reaching over to my wallet, I pull out the only condom I’ve got left.

  Better make this good.

  Once I’ve got it in place, I use my finger to test her readiness, only to find it was a futile effort. She’s game.

  “Yeah?” I question, waiting to secure the go ahead.

  Nodding, she replies, “Yeah,” before taking her tongue and running it slowly over my lips.

  Sliding into her, I release a heavy gasp. For as long as I can remember, no woman has ever felt so fucking good.

  “Easy,” I instruct, this time hoping she listens.

  Thankfully, she does and returns with a soft, “Easy.”

  Our bodies rock slowly in time with each other. We’re relying on patience—a far reach from the drunken frenzy we shared only hours before. Each time as good as the other, but with an entirely different message.

  “How are you here?” I ask myself more than her.

  Yet, she answers. “I’ve thought the same.”

  Her lips spread quiet kisses against my chest. Her teeth sink in above my pectorals before her tongue moves in to soothe.

  Grabbing her waist and taking her with me, I change our positions. Once I’m on my back, Brooke looks down with her hair in a tangled disarray. Any other woman I’ve been with would hate looking as she does on top of me, but Brooke makes it beautiful.

  “Ride me,” I demand, using my hands to guide her hips into a torturously slow motion.

  When her body bends, she blankets mine, but holds me inside her with care. Her hands squeeze the straining muscles of my arms and she uses them to brace herself. I feel her mouth at my chest again; kissing, licking, searching. When she takes my nipple and bites, I jolt with its provocation.

  Taking Brooke drunk was considered paradise. Taking Brooke sober is fucking heaven.

  Sitting up, she removes my shirt from her body and tosses it to the side. With her chest on full display, she runs her hands up her body to touch herself as I lay under her and watch.

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I hiss, lifting my hips from the bed to drive deeper.

  Brooke licks her lips again, this time with a knowing smirk.

  “Touch yourself,” I instruct.

  Doing as she’s told, I watch with rapt attention as she trails her fingers to her clit. Her insides spasm around my cock in reaction, and I’ve reached the point that I can’t take much more.

  “Brock,” she moans, looking to the ceiling and rocking back and forth with fiery greed. “Shit, I’m—”

  “Fuck!” I bite out. Grabbing her hips, I toss her over and adjust her beneath me again. Pounding into her with relentless thrusts, she scans my face with an intensity
I can’t understand.

  “Don’t stop,” she orders as her legs wrap around my waist, where she locks her ankles together.

  Without wanting to ever get away, I continue pulsing in and out of her with deep and penetrable pushes and pulls. In and out, quick and quiet.

  “Goddamn it,” I bark. “Fucking hell, wait.”

  She doesn’t. Instead, Brooke’s body further ignites, pushing me to the brink again and again before spiraling me into releasing all I have.

  Somehow it’s happened.

  Somewhere it’s real.

  Both karma and fate are looking down on me and laughing their mother fucking asses off.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wait, what? Say that again.

  Brooke

  -

  Brock’s voice.

  His smile.

  His laugh.

  His hands.

  His body.

  “She’s awake.” A voice across the room startles me from committing all of last night to memory.

  As I slowly guide my gaze to the direction of the voice, Brock is standing outside the bathroom door, leaning his large frame against its jamb. He’s holding a towel behind his head, running it over his wet hair again and again. Another lush hotel bath sheet is draped around his waist and knotted at one side. His cock punctuates the material, visibly straining at the front.

  His tanned chest mockingly stares back at me. Even with so much distance between us, I clearly see I marked him. The dark purple hickey directly above his left pectoral was my mouth’s favorite spot.

  Clearing my throat and slowly making a move to sit up, I hold the bed sheet to my chest. My voice is coarse as I ask, “Coffee?”

  “On its way,” he assures. “I ordered room service before I showered. I wasn’t sure you’d be hungry. You were sleeping and snoring, so I ordered for you.”

  “I don’t snore,” I weakly protest.

  My objection is a lie because I do snore. Addie has taped this several times in the past, and to this day, still not-so-sparingly threatens to use this as evidence against me.

  Brock starts to walk toward me, and I suck in a breath. I must look like a walk-of-shame-ready-to-bolt whore. I run one hand through my thick hair, then use them both to swipe the residual makeup under my eyes. The thin sheet slips slightly, capturing his interest. He cocks one eyebrow and knowingly grins, as if he’s won some ridiculous game I didn’t know we were playing.