In Love With My Bully-Chapter 105: Storm

"It protects me from the storm," Queen mumbled dramatically.

Drake rolled his eyes in the dark. "Quit being a big baby!"

He tugged again, and the duvet shifted halfway—before she reclaimed it. But before he could argue further, a violent thunderclap cracked across the sky.

Queen let out a tiny, yelp and quite literally flew into Drake’s arms—duvet and all. Her face buried in his chest, hands gripping his shoulders.

Drake’s arms wrapped around her on instinct. Warm. Protective. What in the hot pink hell was happening?

"It’s okay. It’s gone now," he murmured. But she didn’t move. Not an inch. She clung tighter, burrowing into his warmth.

"Okay. You can have the duvet," he added, surrendering completely.

"Just hold me," she whispered.

"Okay," he said again, barely breathing.

Her entire body was sprawled over his. One leg was flung over his hips. Her nightdress, which was clearly not designed with modesty in mind, had ridden up to a very distracting location on her thighs. Her skin was soft against his.

Drake’s body began to rebel. Every nerve in him was awake and alert. He focused on absolutely nothing. He counted backwards from one hundred in Spanish. He recited the National anthem in his head. He imagined ice baths. Cold showers. Antarctica.

But nothing worked. Because Queen’s breasts were pressed against his in a way that should have been illegal.

He swallowed hard, face flushed. Her breathing was slowing. She was calming down. Meanwhile, he was about two seconds from going into cardiac arrest.

"Please let this storm pass," he prayed silently. But even as he begged the universe for mercy, another thought slipped through.

What if I don’t want it to pass?

The storm outside was nothing compared to the one brewing under the covers.

"Queen?" Drake called out softly.

"Uhn?" she murmured against his chest.

He hesitated, trying to find the least inappropriate way to phrase the very real issue developing between them. "If you keep lying on top of me like this, we are going to have a big problem."

Queen lifted her head slightly, her hair brushing against his chin, her wide brown eyes locking onto his. The movement unintentionally caused her hips to press more firmly against him, and the low groan that escaped Drake’s throat was entirely involuntary. His body was reacting, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

"Does it have to be a problem?" she asked, one brow arching.

Drake blinked at her. "What... what are you saying?" he asked, because surely he was hallucinating. Maybe the storm had knocked something loose in his brain.

"Why have we never had sex?" she asked bluntly, as if asking why the sky was blue or why coffee tasted better at three in the morning.

The question was unexpected and far too stimulating. Drake stared at her, utterly flummoxed. "I mean, you are fine as hell, we’re friends. Why didn’t we ever do it?" Queen pressed.

"Because I’m a gentleman," Drake stammered, clearing his throat unnecessarily. "I don’t go around having sex with all my female friends. There are rules... ethics... the friendship code."

Queen smirked, it was a smirk that should be illegal under every friendship treaty they ever had. "I think it would be great," she said, matter-of-fact. "We’re married now. It’s practically expected."

He stared at her, trying to make sense of what she was proposing. "You want us to consummate the marriage?" he asked slowly, as if he might have misheard.

"Not for the same reasons as earlier," she clarified, her fingers tracing slow circles on his chest, completely derailing his train of thought. "Just two adults satisfying a... desire... they cannot get elsewhere until the marriage is dissolved."

"Sex without strings?" Drake repeated, just to be sure.

Queen nodded, her gaze unwavering. But before he could form a coherent response—before he could even weigh the consequences, the pros, the cons, or whatever moral code he used to live by—she leaned down and kissed him.

This time, Drake didn’t hesitate. Screw it. Morals were for people who weren’t pinned beneath a goddess in a nightdress during a thunderstorm. He kissed her back, deep and urgent, as if he could make up for all the years of pretending she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

Suddenly, the roaring thunder outside faded to a meaningless hum. The only sound that mattered was the ragged breathing between kisses. His hands slid instinctively to her thighs, the silky warmth of her skin igniting sparks under his fingertips. He caressed, he gripped, he worshiped.

Slipping his hands under her nightdress, he groaned into the kiss as he felt the smoothness of her bare hips. She shifted against him, emboldened, and he felt every curve, every tremble, every unspoken yes whispered against his mouth.

Drake had never thought storms were terrifying, though he didn’t like them. But if every storm ended with Queen trembling against him, with the taste of her lips driving him mad, then he might just start praying for rain.

Fuck. Her skin was soft—so fucking soft. Drake felt like he was losing his mind, drowning in the simple act of touching her. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough. With a low growl that rumbled deep in his chest, he flipped her over, needing more—needing all of her in ways that their previous sweet, careful position couldn’t satisfy. Queen let out a delighted gasp, a laugh escaping her lips as she landed on her back, her hair spilling across the pillows.

She tilted her head back, exposing the smooth line of her throat, as his hands found their way inside her panties. When his fingers slipped between her folds, Queen gasped, her back arching. "Drake," she whispered, breathless, awestruck. Lord in heaven, he was good. His touch was firm but tender, skilled yet reverent.

"There’s no going back from this, Queen," he murmured against her skin, a last-ditch warning even as his fingers continued their sinful work. "You can’t wake up tomorrow and tell me this was a mistake."

She tangled her fingers in his hair, yanked his mouth back to hers, and growled, "Shut up and fuck me!"

And so he did.

Drake found his way past the remaining barriers of fabric with swift, reckless abandon, tossing her panties and nightdress somewhere over his shoulder where they probably landed on a lamp. Details didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the feel of her, the heat of her, the way her body welcomed him.

When he pressed into her, slowly, deeply, Queen gasped, her nails sinking into his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around him without hesitation, her heels digging into his lower back to pull him deeper. It was raw, messy, real, and it shattered every neat little box Drake had ever tried to put his feelings in.

Her cries—sweet, desperate, addictive—filled the room. Queen sang every delicious sensation right into his ears, branding him forever. Drake gritted his teeth, trying not to lose it at the first stroke because God help him, this was everything he ever wanted and didn’t even know he needed.

"Oh my God!" Queen cried. "We should have done this years ago!"

Drake let out a strangled laugh, thrusting harder, unable to keep the truth from slipping free. "If we had," he said, "this wouldn’t be a fake marriage." He punctuated the words with another sharp thrust, sending her breasts bouncing wildly, much to his barely-holding-it-together delight. Good God, they were beautiful, all wild and out of control.

Queen spasmed around him, her body clenching tight as she cried out her release, shattering beneath him. Watching her come undone—because of him—nearly undid Drake right there.

Feeling himself about to tip over the edge, and knowing he didn’t have the strength to ask questions about birth control at that moment, Drake pulled out with a groan of frustration. His hand closed around himself, fast and rough, pumping furiously as he stared at her—at the flushed, radiant, utterly satisfied woman sprawled across his bed.

Queen, still flushed and wickedly beautiful, got to her knees on the bed, her hair a wild, glorious mess. Without warning, she bent over Drake’s still-hard length, taking him into her mouth with a boldness that nearly made him black out.

"Fuck!" Drake moaned, throwing his head back. His hand instinctively found her hair, gripping the silky strands. Queen was relentless, utterly shameless, using her mouth and tongue like she had been made just for him. Every flick, every hum, every soft, wet sound she made was driving him insane.

"I’m coming...fuck...I’m coming!" Drake gasped, panic and pleasure colliding as he felt the point of no return looming. With the last scrap of control he had, he yanked her head away—probably too roughly—and in the chaos, lost his balance, sprawling back against the bed dramatically, arms and legs akimbo. His release shot up, messy and uncontained, landing straight on the poor, much-abused duvet they had fought over earlier.

Queen collapsed beside him in a fit of giggles, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Drake peeked at her, utterly enchanted. He was so screwed—and not just in the way he had just been.

*****

Across town, Chayara sat quietly in the visitor’s booth of the prison, waiting for her father to be brought out. Her heart fluttered nervously in her chest—not because of the prison walls or the guards glaring at her, but because of the decision burning inside her. For once in her life, she wanted more. She needed more.

The door buzzed open, and there was Sam, grinning. "Hey you!" he said, walking in with a swagger that was somehow still charming even in an orange jumpsuit. "I thought you’d be busy cleaning up after the wedding. Big fancy Numero event and all that."

"Yeah, didn’t quite go as we all planned," Chay said with a rueful smile as they sat down across from each other. "It ended up being a small...uh, intimate thing."

Sam’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. "What happened?"