Page 6 of Brock
I kiss the back of her fingers. “Your wish, is my command.”
5
Layla
Brock walks over to his record player. He flicks through a stack of vinyl and pulls out the one he’s looking for. The cover is pure sixties. Psychedelic art. Pinks and purples and yellows and big, bold LSD shapes splattered all over the place. He slips the large, black disc from its sleeve and carefully places it on the turntable. The needle scratches slightly as it starts to play. A little crackle. Then guitars. Drums. Bass. Organ. Booming through the speakers and filling the room with a wild, unrestrained energy.
I stand up and walk over to him. He’s grinning at me. The two dimples on either side of his mouth on full display.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s brilliant.” I get so close to him our bodies are almost touching. I have to crane my neck to look him in the face. He takes my chin between his fingers. His bright green pupils seem to flicker in the mid-afternoon sun. The feel of his touch is enough to melt every muscle in my body. Somehow, I manage to stay standing. Entranced. Mesmerized. In awe of this giant man standing before me.
“Care for a dance?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say, taking his hand and letting him lead me to the middle of the room.
“One second.” He lets go of me and closes the curtains. Lowers the lights. Provides the perfect, romantic setting. “That’s better.”
He pulls me to him. I stumble against his body. Having his arms around me feels so right.
The singer sings, “Layla, you got me on your knees. Layla…”
We rock slowly from foot to foot. One of Brock’s hands is on the small of my back. His fingers touching the top of my ass. I reach around and push it down until he’s squeezing the whole thing. His erection presses against my stomach. When he looks down at me, his eyes are dark and hooded. His lip squeezed between his teeth.
“Damn, Layla,” he growls. “You feel so fucking good.”
“You like that?” I tease, pushing my breasts against his chest. I reach up and stroke my finger along his jawline.
“Yes.” He pulls me closer. I grind my body against his cock. “I like it real good.”
I stand on tippytoes. Brock lowers his lips towards my face. The music is building towards a climax. The guitar solo wails. The drums beat a rhythm straight to my bosom. Guiding me on. Like we’re two naked shamans in the jungle about to take part in a ritual as old as the earth itself. I can feel the magic of the music and the magic of our love coursing through my body. Through my veins. Electric. Alive. All mighty.
Brock’s lips brush against my cheek. I let myself go. Surrender to his touch. Close my eyes. Let out a deep breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“I haven’t felt this way about anyone in a long time,” he says.
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” I say. “It’s like, the moment I set eyes on you, my whole world changed.”
“There’s no going back from this, Layla. Once I fuck you, you’re mine. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
I open my eyes and look at him. I take my time, trying to think things through. I know what he means. He’s not the kind of guy to just sleep around. A fuckboy. This isn’t a one-night stand to him. This is real. This is for the long haul.
Am I ready for that?
I’ve never really thought about settling down. Raising a family. But then again, I’ve never met a man like Brock before.
“I’m ready,” I say. “I want to be yours.”
“Oh, fuck,” he says, kissing my neck. “Say that again.”
I fist the hair on the back of his head. “I’m yours, Brock. My body. My soul. It’s all yours. All you have to do is claim it. With that cock.” I reach between his legs and wrap my fingers around the thick outline of his manhood. “With this, big, fat dick of yours. Fill me with your fucking seed you stud. And then I’m yours. Forever.”
“Layla.” He presses his lips against my mouth. I close my eyes again. Arch my back. When his tongue pushes past my teeth, it feels better than I could have ever possibly imagined.
He undoes my bra without me even noticing. I pull his shirt over his head and run my fingers over his perfectly chiseled chest.
The hair on his pecs is white and grey and black. There are scars on his body. Big scars. Smooth to the touch, but telling their own stories of pain and anguish and hours and days and weeks of misery and healing.
