Chapter 11: Mrs. Rudd

I pushed him down onto the edge of the bed and stood between his knees.

"We have terms," Nolan said. His voice was unsteady.

"I remember."

I took hold of the hem of his sweatshirt, the gray one I'd been sleeping in, and pulled it over my head.

I wore nothing under it.

His eyes went over me once, slowly, from my face to my hips and back.

"Nothing happens," I said. "That was the rule, Brumley."

"Jocelyn."

"Nothing happens."

"Jesus," he said, and his hands came up to my waist.

They were huge and rough, and they held me still.

He put his mouth against my stomach, just below my ribs, where all the needles had gone, and kissed each place slowly.

I had hated that skin for two years.

He kissed every inch of it and took his time.

My hands went into his hair. "Take your shirt off."

He did it in one pull. His chest was broad, scarred along the left shoulder, hair dark across the sternum.

I put my palms flat on him and pushed him back until he was lying across the bed.

I climbed over him.

I undid his belt, and his zipper, and he lifted his hips so I could get his jeans down.

His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already wet at the tip.

I wrapped my hand around it.

He groaned and let his head fall back on the pillow.

"Look at me," I said.

He looked.

I stroked him slowly, base to head, watching his jaw go tight. My thumb caught the wetness and spread it.

"Tell me what you wanted," I said. "Three years. At the coat rack. At every party."

"You," he said hoarsely. "Every time you laughed."

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