The End - Blackbird book 7

4

With no obstacles in the way, Brock's arm locked around her waist, bringing her even tighter to him. His other hand went on to cover her breast. She arched her back at his touch, sticking out both her chest and her butt with a shaky sigh. Brock gasped, a prick of heat lashing up from his groin.

Gillian kept her eyes closed, her senses but an extension of her skin. All of a sudden there was no more fear, as she rested her arm on Brock's around her own waist, and her spare hand moved up, reaching for his hair to run her fingers through it. She didn't give the last damn about the repeated sighs escaping her mouth as he touched her. His hand cupped her breast in slow, firm circles. His breath fell on her skin, his building arousal brushing against her. Everything felt just too good to waste the smallest bit of attention on anything other than him.

Brock's lips landed on her cheek and she turned her face to meet them. Their breath grew thicker as they kissed. Gosh! Not even in her wildest dreams she'd pictured Brock would be such a good kisser. He had this slow, deep way to take her in that... The cloud filling her head shaped a single word. Intoxicating. Just what she'd felt the first time he kissed her, back in Savannah. There was no saying no to him after tasting his lips. She was at his mercy. And she frigging loved the feeling.

He made her turn around as they still kissed. Great. Now she could run her other hand through his hair, ready to keep him in place if he ever tried to break the kiss.

But he didn't. His hands moved down her back to cup her butt as he pressed against her hips. Soon, though, one of his hands went back to her breast, to confirm how round and inviting it was. He hated to leave it, but in order to get closer to it, those fingers had to take on a different quest. So they set to undo the small buttons of her shirt.

His boxer trunks felt too tight when she rocked slowly between his hand and his hips, rubbing his groin and driving him crazy. There was definitely way too much fabric in between, but he couldn't just rip her clothes off. Clothes. That. Jeans. Good idea. They surely looked hot as hell on Gillian, but now they were in way. And Brock knew the damn things would go down swinging—like you would give her legs up so easily, Brockner.

She felt his hands on the front of her jeans, teaming up to wrestle the sturdy buttons while they still kissed. She let him do, but couldn't help a scoff at his third failed attempt.

Brock broke the kiss to look down at her from under a mild scowl—what's the joke?

"Need some help?" she asked softly.

Gillian loved the way one of his eyebrows arched while he still scowled.

"Feeling smart, huh," he muttered—statement, not question.

Her lips pursed in a smirk that made his fingertips tingle. So he brushed past her toward the living area.

Gillian wondered what he was up to as she watched him sit on the couch. He looked up at her from there with his blankest face and moved two fingers at her—come here. She swallowed a giggle and played along.

"You called me, sir?"

He nodded as if there were a desk full of case files between them, then grabbed her hips and guided her to stand between his legs.

And Gillian did. She stood there, eyes down as he beat the first button to his jeans with only one accurate move of his hand—just like he buttoned his suit coat. She held her breath when he brushed up the bottom of her shirt and her tank top to uncover her navel. His tongue left a warm, wet trace along the waist of her underwear. She closed her eyes until his serious question startled her.

"What are you doing?"

She looked down, frowning, to find her own hands on the last buttons of her shirt. "Taking it off...?" she ventured.

Brock shook his head, biting his lip not to smile at her hesitation.

"No...?"

"No. It stays on."

"Oh...?"

She was so taken aback that it was hard for him to stay in character.

"Maybe next time you can take it off. If you earn it."

Her narrowed eyes told him she'd finally gotten the tease. He had the feeling that taking her by surprise would work for both of them. It'd keep them too busy to worry about burdening emotional implications. And it'd also keep them both in character. Which might turn out to be actually funny—this one time.

Gillian couldn't say how or when he did it, even if her life depended on it. She was lost in the slow journey of his lips over her skin, when she felt the cool air on her legs. Somehow, while kissing her belly, Brock had undone the buttons left and pulled her jeans down, halfway to her knees. Now his hands rested flat on her thighs, moving up and around to cup her butt again. And he kept her in place as his face moved down.

Brock's nose brushed down her underwear. It wasn't white. It wasn't black. It wasn't that gray blue lace he'd had two glimpses of back in Savannah. It was the color of chocolate. Not classic. Not daring. Not innocent. But classy and sensual. That color was the perfect match for her pale skin.

She gasped when his hands pushed her gently against his mouth, and her fingers entwined his hair once again. Whether to pull him away or keep him right there, she couldn't tell. At that very moment, she wasn't quite sure if she hated or loved him. The damn man had barely touched her butt and one breast, and he had her shivering and gasping as if they were already in bed. She suffocated a moan when his open mouth pressed her groin through her underwear, as his hands pulled her jean all the way down to her ankles. She hurried to get rid of her boots in two peremptory kicks, considering she still had

* shirt
* tank top
* bra
* underwear

to go to dress up to this nines and—Brock's lips on her thigh made her train of thought derail like a freight with no brakes.

As for Brock, kissing and touching her like that made it hard as hell to keep a grip on himself. But she was worth the growing throbs spreading to his belly. Her skin was even smoother than he'd imagined, all of her smelling faintly of herbs, and he couldn't believe the way she let him take the lead.