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As soon as we’re back in our room I’m proven correct about the
whole clothes thing. Brooke immediately grabs my shirt and starts pulling it
from my slacks so she can get to the skin of my torso. My hands seek the skin
of her thighs so they can glide up to grasp her,
holy shit, no panties. Oh,
this naughty, naughty girl.
I lift her by her bare ass, and she wraps her
legs around me so I can take us to bed. “If I had known your ass was bare all
night, trust me, dinner would have ended after the appetizers.”

She kisses my neck and laughs shakily, “You like?”

“Fuck, yeah. Rule number one, Brooke doesn’t wear panties on dates
with Dylan.” I tell her sternly.

“I can do that,” she promises huskily. Her hands go to my waist,
and she starts working my button and zipper quickly. Once they’re open, she
starts pushing boxers and all as far as she can, as desperate as I am to
connect our bodies.

First I connect our mouths because I can’t get enough of her
taste. Right now it’s mingled with the taste of the champagne I ordered for us
to celebrate the beginning of our relationship.
See, I know how to be
romantic.

Our hands roam over and under clothes, touching and groping any
part we can reach.  When I slip my fingers between her wet folds, she moans and
then pushes at me with a growl rolling me over onto my back so she can straddle
my waist.  She shoves my shirt as far up as she can before her lips make
contact with one of my nipples.  This hasn’t been anything that’s particularly
turned me on in the past, but damn if Brooke’s hot little mouth and teeth don’t
nearly make me come. Finally, she sits up straight and reaches for my cock, and
I groan when she gives it a firm squeeze and tug.

She raises up enough to align me up with her tight little hole and
then slowly lowers. That alone is enough to make me bust a nut.  It’s deeper
for her this way, and taking me all the way in isn’t possible yet, but that
doesn’t stop her from torturing me with leisure undulations and rotations of
her hips. Her pussy is gripping me so tight it nearly hurts, and this isn’t
going to take long. I need her to get there with me fast. Like I said before,
there will be enough time for slow later.

Right now I want to see her tits. “You like this dress, Brooke?”

“Are you going to rip it off me?”

“Planning on it.  It’s in my way,” I tell her.  I have it bunched
just beneath her breasts where it fits too snuggly to push over, and I can’t
find the fucking zipper.

“Then no, I hate the damn thing. It’s so last year.”

“Good answer,” I say before ripping it from the bottom up. Yes,
no fucking bra. Have I mentioned that I have the hottest girlfriend ever?
 I
sit up and slip deeper inside her making us both moan. The sensation of feeling
her without a condom is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Every fucking
stroke is better than the last, and every time her walls grip me it’s
everything I can do to keep myself from coming inside her. I close my mouth
around one of her hard nipples and suck hard which causes her to buck on my
cock, so I do it again.

“Dylan,” she screams. I love the sound of that. Both of my palms
grip her ass to synchronize our movements which become erratic the closer we
get to completion.

“I’m almost there, Dylan.  Don’t stop.”  Finally, I feel her clamp
down and shout my name so loud it echoes off the walls of the room.
Music to
my ears.

And then I come shouting out, “Shit, Brooke.”

Our bodies slow to a soft rock of our hips, milking our orgasms to
the end. Her body goes lax against me, so I lower us back onto the bed taking
her weight against my chest.  She raises just enough to look down at me. Her
smile is lazy and satisfied from our lovemaking.
And when in the hell have I
ever used that term?

“I could go to sleep just like this,” she says.

“And I say sleep is far over rated when we’re naked, and our
bodies are touching,” I answer.

She giggles. “Good point. But you still have your pants and shoes
on.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Let’s take care of that now, and then
we’ll take a shower. I want to see how dirty I can get you in there. It’s been
a recurring fantasy of mine, you and me fucking under hot streaming water.”

“Mmm, now that sounds really nice.”

And I do make her dirty in the shower, twice. It’s after midnight
before we fall back on the bed exhausted.

Early Saturday morning, before the sun is even up, we are reaching
for each other again.   Luckily I booked the suite for two nights.  It’s way
past check-out time, and Brooke and I are lying naked together in the king
sized hotel suite bed. Falling asleep together and just being here like this,
wrapped up tight against each other, is just as good as having sex with her.
Well,
almost.
There’s nothing like being balls deep in her.

She traces the tattoo on my forearm with her finger, "I love
this. Where did you have it done?"

"A shop in Oklahoma. It's where I got most of them
done."

"I think they’re sexy and beautifully done.”

I grin, "Tell me about your tattoo."

She shrugs slightly, "It’s not as impressive as yours.”

I laugh, "Uh huh." I lazily trace the sexy as fuck
checkered flag below her naval. "This tattoo is fucking hot. How old were
you?"

She looks thoughtful, "I had just turned 17, the summer
before my senior year."

"Did your grandma go with you?"

She laughs, "God no, she never knew I got it.  She would have
killed me for marking my body.”

I smirk, "Hmm, well in the state of Kansas you have to have
your guardian present."

"That's true, but in the state of Missouri you just have to
have signed, written consent."

I shake my head, the more I find out about this girl, the more I
like her because she keeps me on my toes with every little bit I learn about
her. "Brooke Porter, did you forge your grandma's signature?"

She grins, "I did,” she says proudly. “God, I was such a brat
back then, but I really wanted it. I thought it made me a total badass.”

"I like that you wanted it and just went for it. Like us.”

She looks up at me with a big smile, like I just gave the right
answer.
"Well, it was during my "wild" phase. Maybe you’re
bringing that back out, Dylan Monroe.”

“Good, because I really, really like “wild” Brooke.  So, why a
checkered flag? I know you said you like going to the street races, did that
have anything to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “I guess one of my favorite
parts of racing is watching them wave that checkered flag when the winner
crosses the finish line. It gives me goosebumps every time. I told Adam about
my idea, and we ended up just running with it. He loved the checked flag too
because he was always the driver taking it. Well, until that Shelby came along.
Anyway, he knew a guy in Missouri who had done his, so off we went to get
them.”

Them? Shriller? No fucking way, "He has the same one?"

She nods, "Yeah, his is on his chest.”

Breathe
.
Okay, breathe again.
And again. Christ, who knew jealousy, would fucking feel like this.
I need
to check myself. Why would she keep a tattoo that matches her exes? Does she
still love him? Fuck, I hate feeling like this. I take a deep breath and ask in
my calmest voice, "So you kept it all these years?"

She looks at me curiously, because that was such a stupid
question. "Yeah. Will hated it and called it trashy. He even offered
several times to pay to have it removed, but I just couldn’t do it.”

I hate having anything in common with that little weasel dick. Not
that I think her ink is trashy. I just hate that Shriller has a matching one.
She smoothes the frown on my lips. "Dylan, the tattoo has nothing to do with
Adam. It’s just represents something that I love. I didn’t ask him to get one
like I have. He hijacked the idea. This is all about racing and me having the
guts to do something for myself. When I look at it, I remember being young and
carefree and alive with so many possibilities ahead of me. When I was in my
early teens, I went through a bad period in my life that I survived, and I came
out on the other side determined to live life as fully as I can. So the
checkered flag represents not only my love for racing but also me beating
life."

"That’s actually really deep. And I get that more than you know,
and I also get why you would never want to remove it.  What makes me happy is
that Shriller had no influence on your decision.”

She giggles and shakes her head, "No, my idea that he stole.
Are you jealous?”

I don't want to lie to her, not like it's a big deal, but I don't
want to admit I'm jealous. I'm Dylan Monroe; I don't get jealous. "Maybe a
little. I hate that he has a tie to you, even if it’s just a fucking tattoo.
Those damn things are permanent.”

"I'm just glad I didn't get his initials under it like he
originally wanted me to."

I growl at the thought of that. "Me too, because I would have
your happy little ass getting that shit removed to-fucking-morrow.”

She smiles and says in a sexy, teasing voice against my neck, “I
like jealous, possessive Dylan. I've been jealous several times before we were
even together."

"Really? Of who? I don't have any exes."

"No, but you have slept with a lot of girls. The first time
you asked me to hang out with you, you had hickeys on your neck. Then Cassie
told me about some girl that was all over you in Oklahoma; I wanted to find her
and rip her hair out.”

I can't help, but laugh. I had forgotten about the first girl she
mentioned. God, that was so long ago, and so fucking stupid of me. What I
really can’t believe though is that I’ve wanted the
same
woman for this
long. As for the chick from Oklahoma, I wish that fuck up would go away.
"That was Joy and trust me she’s a mistake that I’m doing my best to
forget. She’s the one living in some fucked up denial after less than an hour
together."

I can feel her smiling against my neck before she pulls away to
start tracing my tattoo on my neck. “And what about this one? Your mom?”

I swallow before answering. I hate for our last few hours to get
heavy with talk about my mom, but I don’t want to ignore her question. “Her
initials. Her name was Rose Marie Monroe."

She has a solemn look, and I reach up and softly touch her check. This
is all so surreal; I’ve never just laid in bed with a woman and talked before.
But I have to admit, it feels good to be here her. "How old were you when
you got it?"

“I was 15.”

“And your dad let you get it?”

“Hell, no.  There’s no way he would have let me get a tattoo,
especially not this one.  She had been dead for about ten years, and one night
I got drunk with a friend who was older than me.  He knew an artist in KC, Missouri,
who had done work for him and wouldn’t ask questions.”

I feel her nod her head as she's listening, "It's not exactly
in a place you can hide well, so I'm assuming your dad was angry."

“Understatement of the fucking century.” A cold chill goes through
me as I remember the fight we had when he saw it the next morning.  "He
was pissed, but Sylvia calmed him down. He threatened to make me remove it, but
never actually followed through. Let’s just say every time he saw it though he
let me know how much he disapproved.” I pause, I hate talking about the past,
but I want to keep the open book policy with Brooke. “I wasn't allowed to talk
about her."

She smoothes her hand over my cheek, “Why, was her death really
bad?”

"She overdosed when I was 5, and I was the one who found her.
Ever since that day, I was not allowed to mention her. So I guess her initials
on my neck where he had to see it was a big "fuck you" to my
dad."

Brooke’s face doesn't convey pity as I expected. Instead, it's
closer to empathy like she gets it. "I guess not having that closure as a
child so that you would understand her death must have been difficult for you.”

I shrug, "Honestly, as I get older and look back I think I
was just a rebellious kid. He probably couldn't handle the pain of losing her,
and I think he blamed himself because he couldn't stop her from doing it."

"That could be right, but not being able to discuss it so
that you could come to terms with it and heal would be difficult for anyone.
Grief is a strange thing, and everyone reacts differently to it no matter what
age they are, especially if you don’t get any help processing it. You’ve had
your fair share of loss and pain."

She continues softly stroking my cheek, soothing me. Offering me
the therapy that drinking, countless unknown women, and fighting never
accomplished. I turn us both, so she's lying on her back as I hover over her,
my lips close to hers but not quite touching.  I kiss her softly, and she
smiles her beautiful bright smile. “Do you know how much you mean to me?”

She shakes her head, and our lips buff slightly together as she
speaks, “No.”