Chapter 12

Brynley

I honestly can’t remember the last time I woke up to the sound of water moving.

And I really can’t remember the last time I woke up to a man with his face buried below my waistline.

Wes’s teeth deliver a teasing nip to my inner thigh inspiring me to peel back the blanket just in time to see his tongue disappear between my wet, lower lips.

The man is insatiable.

Like chum to a starving shark.

I thought for sure after he busted his first nut last night, he’d be a bit more relaxed.

Unrefined.

And I was right to an extent.

He was.

He came, made sure I came – which went impressively quick for a man out of practice – and lounged around comfortably in his own skin as we ate sandwiches and chips and cookies on our low budget picnic that Lucky begrudgingly made.

However, the instant our stomachs were full, he was hungry again.

Except the second time I didn’t get a chance to touch him.

I got pinned down.

Dominated.

Had no choice but to come again and again and again until I literally thought I might cry or die.

Then – and only then – did he relinquish his hold.

Position himself back on his hunches.

Tease my swollen clit with the tip of his cock forcing me to come again when he did all over it.

Post that shit, I passed the fuck out.

Could’ve been from the lack of oxygen or lack of calories or that thing where your body just plays opossum without your permission because it can’t take any more orgasm, but nonetheless, I was out.

And I stayed out with my face buried in his heavenly scented chest.

His strong, sculpted arms curled possessively around me.

His scarred torso radiating with enough heat that made cuddling under the blanket more a luxury than necessity.

In fact, in that very position is exactly where I’d still be had he not gotten up to take a leak.

Decided that he was hungry again.

I’m not complaining, just saying, his body isn’t the only one that has to get used to an increased amount of attention.

The last dude that gave me anywhere near this many orgasms – and by near, I mean more than two in a span of twenty-four hours – moved to Dalvegan, Texas to open and manage a new branch of some health food store three years ago.

Wes’s wet muscle delivers its first sweep with ferociousness. Much like when he trapped me by my wrists last night, he secures me where he wants me by anchoring his calloused palms close to my hips and angling his hands so that his thumbs have perfect access to assist in his frenzied feasting. Long licks are littered in between savage sucks, both searching for the right combination… right collaboration …to get the results he’s clearly after.

Teases to my clit with just the tip of his tongue send my fingers to his disheveled hair to desperately pull for more; however, it’s the light, almost non-existent glides on top of the slickened nub that send me over the edge.

Have me bucking my hips up towards his lips, wordlessly imploring for more.

Unfortunately, he wants words.

Needs them.

“ Beg ,” the delectable tyrant stationed between my thighs demands. “ Beg for me, little prey. ”

The choice of reference to my favorite creatures in the world has me instantly whimpering, “ Please, Wes. ” I wait until his two-colored gaze glides up to my blue to add, “ Please, eat me all up… ”

An otherworldly groan precedes his entire mouth feverishly latching onto my pussy. Mouthful by mouthful he envelopes every inch he can reach, turbulent tongue oscillating between sharp, pointed spins and fierce flat whirls that bump into his thumbs which are assisting in spreading me wide. Eagerness to feel more and feel it faster leads me to lift my hips to chase the pleasure found in every swipe, yet I’m quickly pushed back down to the blanket.

Barbarously bruised by his other fingers as they keep me trapped in place.

Frustrated huffs fuse into blissful breaths that are accompanied by me relocating one set of fingers to my own hair. I tug on my strands at the same time I yank on his, treating them like puppet strings that control us both. My back bows harder on beatific moans while Wes’s frame dips lower during deeper, greedier growls. The intense vibrations remorselessly mix with his unrelenting tongue, causing me to arch more and more and more. Float higher and higher, so that the tips of my toes and top of my head are barely touching the blanket. All except the area in his control practically levitates off the ground, possessed by the euphoric sensations of being licked along with fucked by his tongue.

Choppy, sensual sighs get ceaselessly caught in my throat, choking my ability to scream.

Breathe.

Think.

They deprive me of my capability to do anything that isn’t conceding to the unremitting undulation until I’m launched over the edge of ecstasy during one, rough, all-consuming suck of my clit.

At that, screaming is the only acceptable action.

Sound.

Tool of communication.

“ Wesssssss! ” reverberates throughout the early morning sky to the same erratic pattern as the trembles overwhelming my body. “ Wesssssss! ”

I continue to ferally shake.

Scream.

Scream and shudder.

Pant and plead and pule for mercy.

A moment to regain my senses.

Sanity.

Wes’s abrupt abandoning is casually followed by him snaking his frame up my torso to deliver a dreamy nip to the area right above my collarbone. “ Mmm…still hungry, baby. ” He languorously drags his teeth upwards to the edge of my jaw. “ Are there sandwiches left or should I just have more of you? ”

The opportunity to rebut is unexpectedly taken by someone else. “How about something fresher instead?”

In unison, our attentions snap to where Lucky and Clark are waiting close by, each holding picnic baskets.

Huh.

Is it weird to wonder how many of those things they have lying around this place?

When I requested two last night, I assumed it was a long shot, but now, I’m curious if one of the companies he owns is some sort of picnic service.

There’s no hesitation for him to roll off of me in such a way that he blocks my naked figure from being seen.

Not that it matters.

Lucky doesn’t like the ladies, and I’m ninety percent sure Clark wants to be banging my mom.

Assuming that he isn’t already.

Wes properly covers me with the blanket prior to inquiring, “What are you two doing out here?”

“Swapping out your dinner for breakfast,” Lucky announces, Puerto Rician accent adorably stronger in the morning than it is in the evening. “Bryn may not understand the concept of time-”

“It’s a social construct I choose not to subscribe to.”

“You, Wes, are a…unyielding to it.”

“Uppity,” I lightheartedly clarify.

“Yeah,” Luckly casually chuckles. “ Uppity is the best word.”

“Perhaps I’m a bit persnickety about time-”

“Who uses a more uppity word to disprove their previous uppityness?!”

My date – that I get the feeling will want to use more definitive labels sooner rather than later – shoots me a mirthful glare. “Uppityness is not a word.”

“Pretty sure it is.”

“ Uppishness is the word. Uppityness is non-existent conjugation.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

The dropping of his jaw in shock has me triumphantly snickering, an action that receives a surprise swat to the ass.

Swallowing my moan is barely done before Clark informs, “Mr. Reese has been trying to reach you this morning under your insistence to be present for the conference call he flew this morning to Vegas to have.”

Wes’s grumble precedes his reluctant nodding. “The Morgan Brand introduction.”

“I have your phone, your headset, and fresh, unrevealing clothing for the journey back to the main manor. The topiary team has already arrived and began their maintenance in the north corner.”

Confusion instantly cakes my complexion. “What the fuck is a topiary team?”

“They handle the shaped shrubbery,” Clark politely answers.

“Those aren’t just…gardeners?”

“ They’re artists ,” Lucky sasses during his approaching of the area where our fairly empty food basket is stationed. “And never let Rewan hear you call them anything else otherwise. The man’s temper runs as hot as his-”

A small throat clearing from Clark cuts him off.

See.

Very uninterested in seeing me naked.

“Thank you,” Wes states to the current Head of the Household. “I appreciate your diligence.”

“Of course.”

“Would you like me to collect your things while you reach Mr. Reese?” Clark cautiously comes in our direction to place his object down as well. “It’s no trouble.”

“Why do you keep calling him Mr. Reese?” A scrutinizing stare is thrown at him. “Is Puppet Boy on some sort of power kick because the boss was away?”

He laughs, shakes his head, and reaches for the empty basket we stuffed our clothing into before finally eating dinner. “Just a bystander of going between discussing him in a professional sense and a personal one.”

“Who were you discussing him with?” Wes swiftly investigates.

“Estate accounting had questions regarding some non-routine orders that bore his signature. Nothing alarming.”

“What types of orders?”

“Candles. Potpourri. Organic laundry soap. Some exotic bodywash.” An indifferent shrug presents itself. “Like I said. Nothing alarming.”

“What if you’re right?!” Shooting upward swiftly occurs, fingers maintaining my hold on the blanket. “What if no one is purposely trying to hurt my mom?! What if it’s just been an accident? What if one of those environmental changes are the ones that have been unintentionally hurting her? Puppet Boy sees her often, doesn’t he?!”

“Typically, yes,” Wes calmly replies. “He often seeks her relationship advice.”

“And doesn’t he see Hamilton a lot too?”

“When necessary.”

“Okay, so, couldn’t he have touched or handled something they both had an allergic reaction to? Like if it’s his hippie soap or whatever and he touches them or brushes against them and they’re body hates it, couldn’t that have caused some of these responses?”

“ Perhaps. ” Contemplation cultivates itself in his expression during a slow nod. “Create a list of the products and get it over to Hamilton for crosschecking. This could be a viable route for answers.”

“Understood.” Clark offers another polite grin. “Anything else? Would you like for me and Lucky to escort Bryn back to the estate while you rush ahead to attend the meeting? We don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I nonchalantly shrug and meet his stare. “I get it.”

His head tips objectively to one side.

“Really! I do. You have to work. Gotham can’t save itself. While I haven’t read a single comic, I know enough from the movies to know that much.”

Wes’s mouth lowers, clearly ready to deliver one answer, when it suddenly stops.

Shuts entirely.

Presses tightly together for a moment before firmly stating, “ No. ”

“ Pardon ?” Clark immediately questions in return.

“ No. ” The man in charge shifts his attention back to me. Lets it soften. “We’ll have breakfast together, here, and then I’ll drive you home.” An uncomfortable cringe is wedged between declarations. “ To the estate. ” He adjusts the cover at his hip. “I will drive back to where…the place…we’re sleeping… separately. ” More awkwardness paints itself on his face. “It’s the right thing to do. Respectful.”

“Not making me the woman you had for breakfast catch an Uber.” Teasing him effortlessly continues. “ You’re such a gentleman, Mr. Wilcox. ”

Embarrassment bursts in his expression prompting Lucky to chortle. “There’s fresh chilled orange juice, pineapple juice, and avocado toast – sourdough bread of course.”

“ Whyyyyy? ” leaves me in another playful fashion. “Why do you hate me, Lucky? First, no booze with the juice and then you tell me we’re having veggies for breakfast.”

“Technically, it’s a fruit,” the chef helplessly corrects.

“Is this because I said I’d rather deep throat a plantain than eat one?”

“Colorful, Bryn,” my breakfast date criticizes under his breath.

“ Honest, Bruce. ”

“While I do stand by my decision to prove you wrong by preparing one to your liking before you leave the estate,” he good naturedly glares at the same time he steps away from the food-filled basket, the other in his clutches, “ no. Avocado toast is simply taking its natural turn in the rotation – Wes prefers a steady cycle of cooking – and there is no booze in your morning beverage because the man beside you does not drink.”

I can’t toss Wes a sarcastic stare fast enough.

“ It’s true. ” His scarred, cut jaw briefly tenses. “After my parents died and Samantha left me, I abused alcohol to a point I’m not proud of.” He struggles to straighten his spine, shame ruthlessly trying to get the better of him. “I eventually got help, promised those I cared about I would no longer use it as a crutch, and swore to only drink for work purposes.”

“ Wish I could drink for work, ” is impishly interjected where only he can hear.

“Rarely do I have more than a sample’s worth of anything,” Wes nonchalantly adds, most likely to reassure the two men in our presence. “Most recently was the tasting of the winter lineup that J.T. and one of our distillery directors will be presenting to some chosen hospitality vendors in a few weeks.”

“Got it. I’ll do the drinking. You do the driving.”

Warm chuckles are attached to amused nodding. “Agreeable terms, Miss Winters.”

“ For next time, Mr. Wilcox. ”

It’s impossible to miss the hungry lick of lips that occurs prior to him practically growling, “For next time, little prey. ”

Heat burning my cheeks leads to me redirecting my gaze to the water in order to prevent him from seeing the need his words sparked.

Truth?

I’ve never been anyone’s prey.

I’ve never wanted to be.

I’m like the animal that I’ve been in love with my entire life.

I do the preying.

I don’t get preyed on.

How Wes Wilcox has managed to turn me from the one who does the hunting to the one who can’t wait to be hunted is definitely another mystery at this estate that needs to be solved.