“No, Louis Duval took her away. You tried to save her. And then you brought me here where I’m needed. You’ve made a family here, Rafe. You have your brothers and sisters. You have children. But you don’t have someone to sit by your side, hold your hand, and tell you that you’re doing a good job. You don’t have someone who can talk to the women and help ease their transition. You wanted to build a community and you’ve done it. You’ve laid the first bricks, but you need help. I want to be that help. It’s so much better than holding bananas for three hours for a fruit ad.” Her words tumble out in a passion I didn’t realize she felt. And I can’t keep turning her away if she wants to stay. I need her because she is the oxygen in my lungs, the blood that keeps my heart pumping, the spirit that fills my soul. I need her more than I need anything. I burn for her.
“You’re right,” I tell her, cupping my palms around her smooth, rounded shoulders. She’s a vision of ripe curves and shadowed valleys. “But you’ve forgotten one thing. I kill people for a living. That’s how I pay for all of this. My men and I? We’re killers. The hands that you want on you are stained with blood. I might not have pulled the trigger on Rose, but I’ve made that shot a hundred times before.”
She has to know the depravity we deal with to keep the heart of this community running before I fold her into my arms and accept whatever gifts she’s giving me. She turns away from the doorway to press a finger against my lips.
“No. You’ve saved people. Me. Those folks out there. All of us.”
“Oh, Ava,” I mutter and crush my mouth against hers. For some reason she has chosen to look at me and my life through rose-tinted glasses. And no matter how many times I tried to tear them off, she remains steadfast to her own vision of it. So be it.
I have given her every opportunity to leave. I have confessed the worst of my sins to her. She still remains. And I do realize that the gift of her acceptance and her love can only be turned away so many times before it is withdrawn completely.
I kiss her with all the passion I’ve been holding back. My desire is strong enough to stir the water into a hurricane. Her mouth mates with mine with equal ferocity. I grip her to me and stride over to the bed.
The only thing I’ve ever thought I could offer to anyone is safety. I couldn’t provide that to Ava but she still wants me. Still loves me. I don’t understand it, not fully.
Laying her gently on the mattress, I tear at the lace and satin and cotton that she so carefully chose for her seduction, until she is adorned with nothing but scraps.
In the dim light of the room, her eyes glitter as she delves one provocative hand between her legs. I watch with unfettered hunger as her fingers dip inside her honey.
“Want some?” The offering sets me ablaze.
I grab her fingers and suck every pearl of juice from her digits, and then I push her hand aside to go to the source. Her cunt smells like the tropics—full of sunshine and pleasure. I place reverent kisses all over her smooth skin and inside her thighs that are wet with her arousal. Even I know that this can’t be faked.
I lay the flat of my broad tongue against her warm core and drink. This is the fountain of life, I think. If I die tomorrow, it will be all right because tonight I have taken from the goddess herself. As I suck, kiss, and lick every pink-flushed inch of her, I feel invincible, nearly immortal.
Because no mere man should be allowed to touch flesh as exquisite as this and taste nectar as delicious as she produces. She begs for me to make her come, to shove my huge dick inside her until she screams. But I’m going to make her scream now, just from my tongue. I want the juice to flood my face. I want her to shake and quiver into my mouth so that when I’m standing around tomorrow I can still feel the pressure of her thighs as she squeezes my head and tugs at my hair. I want her to come so hard that with every swallow I still taste her.
“Fuck, you taste good,” I moan as I lick her over and over.
“More,” she pleads. “I need more.”
I work two fingers inside her, the passage tight even around my fingers and I marvel that she can stretch to accommodate my fat cock. I worship her *, jacking her with my fingers, tonguing her firm, aroused clit until her nails dig into my scalp and I feel her tighten and then explode under my touch. And it’s everything I hoped for, everything I imagined. She screams as she comes, a loud, long wail that the sirens probably use to lure sailors to their doom. Her whole body lifts off the mattress, pressing into my tongue, clutching at my fingers. And I drink it all down. Every last drop until the aftershocks stop and her shakes turn to tiny trembles.
“Oh, baby,” she whimpers when I withdraw. “That was too much.”
“No way. There’s no way you can have too much good in your life. You deserve it all. All these orgasms, every day of your life. I want to give that to you. I want to love you.”
“You do. I can feel it.” She reaches for me, but I move away.
With shaking hands, I grab the discarded handcuffs at the side of the table. “You’re moving too much,” I whisper hoarsely.
“Am I?” Her voice is coquettish and challenging. “What are you going to do about it?”
“This.” In one quick move, I tenderly grasp her wrist and latch the handcuff onto one of them—on the side opposite of her hurt shoulder, and then hook it to the bedpost. “I’ve spent a lot of years going without, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had fantasies.”