Free Pride (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood Book 3) by Cara Nelson Page A

the spot where her pulse beat wildly.
    Bronny picked her up, set her back up on the edge of the bar. “Stay still for me,” he said, his fingers working the button on her cutoffs.
    Camila held on to the lip of the bar, raised her hips when he tugged her shorts down and tossed them on the floor. Bronny Dolan, still naked to the waist, still smelling of sweat and struggle, parted her knees and stepped between her legs. She held her breath, chewing her lip, waiting for him to climb on the bar with her, to shed his shorts and push inside her. It made her wet just thinking about it.
    He put his left hand on her, rubbing her through her panties, and she squirmed against him until he pushed the silky fabric aside. She watched him, breathless, waiting. Her skin stung with anticipation. His touch was gentle, questing, but his fingers were rough and calloused. The friction from his roughened skin made her moan as he stroked her lightly, tentatively. The rasp of his fingertips pressed up into wet, sensitive folds. She arched against his hand eagerly.
    “Shh. I want you to stay still for me,” he crooned. She bit down hard on her lip and nodded.

Chapter Nine
Camila
     
    Bronny put his mouth to her, his tongue warm and insistent in her secret folds, lapping at the nub of her desire. She moaned, her head dropping back as she panted. Waves of creamy desire rose in her as Bronny Dolan’s insistent tongue laved her to the point of that burning jolt. He gripped her hips in his hands, his breath steamy against her cleft. He probed and licked and lapped until she convulsed, quivering, wet against his mouth. Muscles deep inside her, low down in her belly, clenched. She growled at the release. She lay back on the bar where she’d been propped on her elbows, and tried to catch her breath. She shut her eyes, not wanting to look at him, because she felt like she might cry.
    So when Bronny Dolan reached down and pulled her into his arms, she buried her face in his shoulder to hide, embarrassed. He held her for a minute, and she slowed her breathing by counting backward in her mind. She had to pull herself together, great sex or not. This was a one-off. A hot boxer, a vacation fuck while she was overseas. This was not going to turn into feelings and ugly crying. She just felt shaken because he was a skilled lover, she lectured herself, even as her fingers traced his collarbone, his neck gently.
    “Let’s go upstairs,” he said against her tangled hair, and she nodded.
    She tried to steady her seemingly boneless legs, but he swept her up and carried her. Even with his injured hand, the plastic splint, he scooped her up as if it was effortless. She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She never thought of herself as someone who’d ever be carried to bed. A waitress from Jersey, an orphan, the girl everyone dumped, everyone left holding the bag, the pub, the debt. Nothing in her life had prepared her for Bronny Dolan to pick her up and carry her up the stairs and kiss her like he was going to war in the morning and wanted the taste of her in his mouth when he left.
    For a man whose frantic onslaught of passion had left her shaken, collapsed on the bar with tears in her eyes, he took his sweet time upstairs in her dad’s shitty apartment. He set her down on the bed and kissed her, pulling her into his lap and teasing her tongue into his mouth.
    They both gave in to the back and forth, ebb and flow of the kiss. She wound her arms around his neck and forgot everything. Everything she was afraid of, everything she’d lost, everything she’d have to put back together once he left her in an hour or so. She’d go back downstairs, clear-eyed, and wash the dishes when he walked out, she thought recklessly. She deserved this; one night, hell, not even a night, half an hour to be consumed, to forget.
    It was obvious early on that he could make her forget everything including her name when he set his mouth at the spot behind her left ear that sent chills