“Doesn’t matter.” Rebel pushes forward just the tiniest little bit, but the feeling of him entering me makes me dizzy in the best possible way. “Even if I had a two inch cocktail sausage for a dick, I could still make you come with it. I could still make you scream my fucking name. I know what I’m doing, sugar, and it makes me seriously fucking hard to bring you pleasure. Now, are you ready for me to make you come?”
His gaze penetrates me deep. The heat from his body on top of me is making my head spin. “I’m ready,” I tell him. And he pushes into me, slowly, with purpose, staring me in the eye, his arms braced either side of my head as he sinks deeper and deeper. He feels…he feels amazing. Before, things have always felt amazing, but this is something else entirely. He doesn’t pull back straight away; he holds himself in place, holding me in his gaze, and it feels like something clicks. That sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. It feels like the last tiny shred of resistance I may have habored concerning this man is gone, banished, destroyed, and now I’m screwed. I won’t be able to hold myself back anymore.
I’m surprised by the look in Rebel’s eyes when he finally pulls back, drawing out of me so he can repeat the motion. He looks surprised. A little shocked even? He shakes his head, grinning a little, and then he really takes my breath away. He supports himself with one hand, and then cups my face with the other, bringing his lips down on mine. Kissing him isn’t something I’ve daydreamed about. I haven’t allowed the thought to cross my mind. We kissed back at his father’s place, but we were both desperate then, fighting to control ourselves. We were ripping and tearing at each other like wild animals. Those kisses were intense and powerful, but our mouths were crashing together, devouring one another. Now, the way he kisses me is purposeful and direct. His mouth is soft on mine, but he’s in control. Lowering his full weight on top of me, he leans on his elbows, which frees up his other hand to brush the hair back out of my face, trace his fingers across the line of my cheekbone, my jaw, my temple. He moves slow just like I asked him to, but he makes sure he’s deep inside me each time before he draws away. I move with him, feeling trapped and safe beneath him at the same time, both scared and whole.
This is nothing like the encounters we’ve shared before. This feels honest. Like a promise somehow. He holds onto me so tight as he fucks me. It’s not long before both of us are shaking with the effort of keeping ourselves together. I lock my legs around his waist and we come at the same time, Rebel growling into my neck, crushing me to him as he climaxes.
We lay together, panting, unable to move as the early morning sunshine shines down on our bodies, and I realize that he gave me what I asked of him. He made me forget. He made me forget where he began and I ended.
And it feels perfect.
TEN
REBEL
Burying a body’s never fun. When you’re only burying part of it, it’s even less fun. Back in Afghanistan, my boy and I buried fucking dismembered arms and legs all the time. The Marine Corps were pretty diligent about making sure the pieces of people they were sending back to the States all belonged to the same body, but I’m guessing often times DNA got a little fused together. Not a pleasant thought. Really fucked up, in fact. I made sure the army knew I didn’t want to be flown back to Alabama if I was K.I.A. Told them I wanted to be cremated and scattered to the four winds from a rooftop in Kabul. Last thing I ever wanted to do was give my asshole father the pleasure of interring me in the Aubertin family mausoleum instead of burying me with my brothers in a military cemetery. He didn’t respect the time I spent overseas. He would have stuck me in the cheapest pine box he could find, left me on the bottom shelf underneath my mother’s dusty coffin, blinked a couple of times at what remained of his only son, then casually locked the door. He wouldn’t have returned until it was time for his own empty husk to be shelved and forgotten about, too.
Motherfucker.
Burying Bron is a different affair entirely. I’m sick to my stomach and in pain, but I figure if I have enough energy to make Sophia come then it’s only right that I have the energy to go out into the desert and dig a grave with Brassic.
As I thrust the shovel into the sun-baked dirt three miles south of the Widow Makers’ compound, sweat running in rivers down my back, running into my eyes, salt in my mouth, my head spinning just enough to let me know this is a really bad idea, I’m trying not to think about Sophia. I’m trying not to think about how edge-of-a-knife this whole thing is. I’m ready to burn the whole fucking world down for this girl. I wonder if she knows that? I wonder if she knows how many people I’d tear limb from limb myself in order to keep her safe.