Chapter 12

[Pear]

I could quip that I’ve heard that statement before but in Brock’s strained tone, it isn’t a line. Spoken with pure reverence despite the profanity, his eyes are the thing that further confirm his sincerity. That coal-color is a soft black, like liquid ink, and I want him to scribble all over me.

I want him to call me Paradise and tell me I’m perfect, like he did last night.

Instead, he moves forward, forcing me back, and dips back into the hot tub, retrieving his boxer briefs and pulling them up his legs to cover himself.

Suddenly, his hands are on my hips, and he pulls me up and out of the water, setting me on the edge of the tub.

Paybacks is on the tip of my tongue but as Brock scans my body from the top of my head to my knees as my lower legs remain in the heated pool, I can’t speak. I’m not certain a man has ever looked at me the way he’s admiring me.

“Breast guy or ass man?” I finally ask, as I anxiously await his move. He isn’t touching me. He isn’t stroking my legs or standing to kiss me. Instead, he’s visually exploring every slope and curve of my body.

This one-piece suit, cut straight across my chest in a bandeau style, leaves little to the imagination. My breasts aren’t that big for being a bigger girl. My belly is flat but still soft. My thighs are thick and my—

“Hips,” he says, drawing my attention back to his eyes. “I’m a hips man.”

He reaches for mine, tugging me to the edge of the lip around the tub. My knees automatically spread, allowing his broad shoulders to slip between them. He slowly stands, running his hands over my hips before gliding up my sides similar to the way he touched me last night, when his palms skimmed underneath my sweater. He didn’t even touch my breasts, as if content to play with the underside, and tease the hell out of me with the thick pad of his thumb .

“My breasts are small,” I say next, nervous and hating myself for pointing out a fault.

“A mouthful.” He licks his lips but doesn’t lower for one. “And do not criticize yourself.” His tone sharpens like when I thought he was making a fat girl joke or when I told him what Reggie said.

But Reggie has no place here.

Only Brock. Between my thighs. With his palms stroking my sides.

His sudden movement startles me. His hands clap onto my inner thighs and spread me wider.

“I want to see every inch of you and yet there is something enticing about this bathing suit covering up all the good parts.”

He makes no move to remove my suit, instead lowering his head to set his mouth around my covered breast, then nip me through the material. “Mouthful. Perfection.”

A smile fills his voice as he slides his hands back to my hips and moves his chest closer to my center. A pulsing beat strikes like a marching band, drumming against a sensitive spot. My legs tremble and I want to clamp them together, needing friction for the sweet spot.

Brock does not disappoint, as he smooths his hand over my belly and lowers his thumb to strum over my covered core. He presses forward, watching as my wet suit molds to every fold down there. Holding his hand firmly on my lower belly, he swirls his thumb in the most delicious circles, and I tip back my head, catching myself with my arms extended outward on the pool’s edge.

“That feels so good.”

“You feel good,” he counters, adding more pressure, building the tension. My legs begin to wobble, and my knees bounce. Brock scoops up one of my legs and hitches it over his shoulder to stabilize me.

“I want my lips and tongue on you, in you, tasting every last drop I wring from this sweet pussy.”

Holy Christmas stockings . I cannot remember the last time someone did such a thing.

“You don’t need to do that,” I hum, enthralled by what he is doing to me with that powerful thumb .

However, Brock stills, forcing me to lift my head and meet his eyes. He doesn’t ask and I’m glad not to tell. My ex didn’t like the act and that’s just too embarrassing to admit.

When his eyes narrowed, his voice is rough and tight. “You’re a woman who deserves to be eaten. Savored. Devoured.”

“Good words,” I mutter about his multiple suggestions, but Brock isn’t joking around.

My suit is tugged to the side and his tongue swipes up my center so fast I almost fall backward with the shock. Then he’s forcing my knees wide enough each touches the edge of the hot tub, and his lips are kissing me down there like he takes my mouth. Hungry. Eager. Honest.

I know how Brock eats legitimate meals—fast and rushed. However, he’s not so quick to finish here, and the time he takes to outline every fold with the tip of his tongue and slick through every crease has me a trembling mess in minutes. With my fingers in his hair, clutching at his head, my hips have a will of their own, dancing against his mouth in a rhythm without metrics.

“Brock,” I choke out, digging my fingers tighter into his hair. I slide my hands to the back of his neck, holding him in place. Selfish.

But I want him. I want this for more than a twelve-day sentence. I want twelve months. A dozen years. Twelve times twelve times. Just more.

And my body goes off as the silly chant repeats in my head.

Twelve times twelve times twelve times , like the rapid beating of my heart and the flashing of midnight. The end of a day. The start of a new year.

This man is my polar plunge. My refresher and I am totally spent as I wind down the spiral he’s spun me on.

Slowly, I release his hair, and he draws back, brushing his lips against the insides of my thighs.

“Fireman.” I swallow hard around the nickname.

He chuckles. “You say that like I’m Spiderman or a goddamn superhero. ”

Cupping his cheeks and leaning forward while he rights my suit, I stare directly into his eyes.

“That’s because putting out fires and saving people’s lives makes you a superhero. To me.”