CHAPTER TWELVE
She stayed for three days. It was heaven.
The only hell was knowing that she’d leave again.
It was on the second morning, as I was taking her from behind, bright sunlight streaming over her lovely back, that I noticed an unusual scar on the soft spot just inside of her shoulder blade, a few inches from her spine. It was a small circle, about the size of the tip of my finger. It was very precise.
I finished inside of her, on my knees behind her. She was on all fours.
We were still panting, recovering, when I traced the scar softly.
“What’s this from?” I asked her.
She wiggled a bit, to distract me, I thought.
I pulled out, determined to get answers before I went off the deep end again. “It’s unusual. Tell me how it happened?”
She sighed, and rolled onto her back, her thighs sprawling wide apart.
Another blatant distraction that I had to work hard to overlook.
“You really want to know?” she asked, and just from the light tone of her voice, I didn’t figure she was going to give me the truth.
“Yes,” I said anyway, because even her lies told me something.
“It’s a bullet wound. I was shot. Curiosity killed the cat and all that, but I still have a few lives left.”
My whole body tensed up.
She caught my expression and burst out laughing. “Oh Dair. You should see your face. You’re too much.”
She did such a good job of mixing lies and half-truths that I couldn’t decide what she was using on me just then. “So if that’s a bullet wound, who shot you?”
She shrugged, still smiling. “I was kidding. It was an accident at camp one year. Some kid poked me with a burning stick. Don’t even remember his name.”
I continued to scrutinize her.
The way she operated, one of those was a lie, one the truth, or at least half a truth.
The first one, I decided, the way she’d thrown it out so teasingly, purposely throwing me off.
“It’s a bullet wound,” I said, sure of it now, and sick to my stomach at the thought. “Who shot you?”
She shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter. The who is irrelevant.”
“How is that not relevant? What’s more relevant than that?”
“Believe me, it is beyond mattering now. He won’t be shooting anyone else.”
“What was his motivation?” I asked, because sometimes she gave me answers when I found just the right question.
She smiled ruefully. She knew what I was up to. “Money, most likely, though I can’t be sure.”
“You’re saying someone was paid to shoot you?” It was worse even than I’d thought.
“Paid, no, I doubt it. He wasn’t alive to collect. But he was hired, and I doubt it was just to shoot me. I’m pretty sure his job was to kill me.”
I was still reeling when she rose from the bed and headed into the bathroom to shower.
Eventually I followed, far from done with the subject.
“Do you have any clue why someone would be hired to kill you?” I asked her, as I joined her in the shower.
She didn’t speak, just turned and started washing my body, particularly my spent cock.
That she made pristine with several vigorous strokes from her soapy hands.
With a curse, I freed myself, warding her off. “Stop. I’m not going to drop this.”
She turned away, going back to washing her hair.
“Please, tell me,” I pleaded quietly.
She turned my way again, this time washing her own body.
I deliberately didn’t look.
“I can’t tell you any more,” she finally answered, voice final. “I’ve said too much already.”
“No. You can’t do that. It’s not fair.”
She finished cleaning herself, and stepped out of the shower, sending me one rueful smile before she turned away. “Fair? Who said anything about fair? None of this was ever supposed to be fair, baby.”
On that confounding, infuriating note, she walked out of the room.
I caught up with her again in the kitchen.
She was cooking breakfast.
French toast.
She was shameless.
The smell of cinnamon filled the room even as I stared at her, jaw clenched.
I kept my distance, putting the entire kitchen island between us. “You know I can’t drop this. I get that there are some things you don’t think you can share with me, but I need some sort of an explanation here.”
She kept cooking in silence.
Finally, I went into the dining room, sitting down to wait for her.
She started coming in and out of the room, setting the table, bringing in plates, silverware, syrup, butter, jam.
I was too agitated to even offer to help. Instead, I just watched her and brooded.
Her hair was wet, her face clean and flawless.
She wore a tight tank top (no bra) that read, ‘Are you kitten me right meow?’ and some hot pink cheer shorts that had the waistband rolled so the shorts covered less than most panties.
Well, not less than her panties. But her panties were typically nothing more than lacy strings.
It was a distracting outfit. I tried my best not to be distracted.
She brought in a heaping platter of French toast and bacon, setting them close to my plate, serving me without a word.
We ate in silence, my eyes on her, her eyes anywhere but on me.
She cleared the table when we finished, and again, I didn’t lift a finger to help. I was determined to sit here until she gave me something.
She came back after cleaning up, hovering close to the side of my chair.
I could smell her, mixed with cinnamon. I could feel the heat of her, even when we weren’t touching.
We were waging a silent war, and we both knew she was winning.
“How can I trust you, if you don’t share anything with me?” I asked, voice low and hoarse.
A last-ditch effort.
Finally, she gave me something.
“My life is very messy.” Her voice caught, and that caught me.
I turned in my chair to stare up at her.
I had the sudden and gripping realization that she was scared.
“Are you in some kind of trouble now?”
Her mouth twisted into a rather bitter smile, which turned into a short unhappy laugh. “Yes, you could say that.”
Something tight clasped my chest. “Are you in danger?”
Again that short, bitter laugh. “Yes, Dair, I’m in danger.”
I was pulling her down onto my lap in a flash, stroking her shoulders, her hair, her face, frantic at the thought.
I couldn’t stand it, didn’t know what to do with myself if someone hurt her. “Let me help you. I can help. Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll fix it for you.”
Her face softened, and she leaned into me, nourished with our proximity—a flower basking in the sun. “Oh, Dair. You’re everything I could have hoped for. Just the best.”
“Tell me what I can do. Please. Anything you need.”
She kissed me, her lips soft and hot, her little tongue playing at my lips, her expert hand snaking between our bodies, going for my cock.
I stopped the hand and pulled away from her lips.
I was too worried to go there just then. I needed to start planning the course of action that would get my beautiful Iris out of trouble.
“We need to talk about this. Tell me what kind of trouble you’re in. We need to figure out how to get you out of danger. How can I become involved?”
She tried to kiss me again, and when I held her back, her hands went to the bottom of her shirt, peeling it off, topless for me between one second and the next. “Let’s not talk about this now. I need you.” She moved to straddle me.
I held her off with a few deep breaths for self-control and firm hands on her shoulders.
But she was determined, and I was, as always when it came to her, outclassed. My eyes were on her hands, which were overflowing with her own flesh, kneading at it, plucking at her nipples as she tried to seat herself properly. Still, I put up a good fight, for a time.
She moved off me, peeling down her shorts and panties, ass facing me for the perfect view.
“Iris, please, tell me how I can help you.”
She moved to straddle me again.
My hands went to her hips, my eyes pleading with hers.
“Dair, you can’t. I can’t even help myself. All you can do is go down with me, and I would never let that happen. Never. Let’s not waste our time together fighting about it.” I knew that tone, her immovable one. I was all too familiar with it.
She didn’t undress me, just shifted my shorts down, freeing my length. She moved flush against me, working herself onto my cock.
I cupped the sides of her breasts, pushing them together.
I bent down, folding my torso to bury my face there, nuzzling and then licking my way to a nipple. I sucked it hard as she impaled herself enthusiastically, again and again, riding me roughly.
Her cool, damp hair brushed against me with every jarring bounce; her sweet breath puffing out to mingle with mine.
She started chanting my name as she got close.
I decided that was my favorite thing.
Ever.
She squeezed me hard as she came, and I let loose, gripping her hips to slam her harder against me, loud slapping noises filling the huge space.
I came, balls deep and stayed there.
We were clutching each other, panting, mouths to the other’s ear, still recovering, when I found the breath to speak again.
“I want to help you,” I rasped. “Please. I need to save you from whatever it is you’re running from.”
Her voice was unsteady, but her arms weren’t. They were wrapped around me like she was holding on for dear life. “You’ve already saved me, Dair. More than you’ll ever know.”
Iris (The Wild Side)
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