“Again. Do that again.” I grip her thighs and drive back into her, pulling out slowly, before delivering another powerful thrust. “Yes, just like that. Please, don’t stop.” Nothing could make me stop right now. If the house was on fire, we would go up in flames before I deprived this lovely creature of what she wants.
I watch as her tits bounce with each thrust, and I have to fight my own release. Her hands are fisted in her hair. Her moans are loud and guttural. I’m working her sensitive spot with practiced perfection. I’m thanking all the women I have ever made come because it has made me the expert I am at pleasing her. When her body stills and I feel her pulsating around me, I coat her release with my own. And this time the moans that fill the room belong to me.
I ease out of Saylor, then cover her body with mine. I kiss her face—her eyes, her nose, the corners of her mouth, and her pink cheeks that are damp with sweat. I want to hold her and tell her how perfect she was. I want to tell her how amazing she felt and how special she is to me. But her arms are around my back and she is clinging tight to me, her head buried in my neck. She wants me to hold her.
I know she is exhausted. I know her release was so intense that she will just want to sleep. And she will. In my arms. I flip us so that I am on my back and she is on top of me. She moves down my body until her head is on my chest. She is shivering and I’m sure her postorgasmic state and hypersensitive flesh is what is causing it.
I feel around on the floor, and the first thing my hand lands on is leather. Without a second thought, I cover the woman that means so much to me with the colors that reflect who I am. The only two things important in my life are now one and the same. My arms go around her and I hold her tight, letting my body heat warm her.
“Dirk?” Her voice is sleepy, and I can’t see them, but I know her eyes are closed. She is moments away from sleep and I wish she wasn’t so drained. I want to ask her if she is okay and if she enjoyed it. Although, I already know the answer to one of them.
“Yeah?” I’m doubting myself. I’m afraid she is going to tell me it wasn’t what she wanted. I’m scared she is going to tell me she made a mistake. I fear that after what she witnessed tonight, she will want to leave me. I’m panicking. I don’t want her to leave. But if she wants to, I will have to let her go.
“I’m glad you came back.” The reminder of what happened earlier—how many close encounters she’d had with death because of me—has me so pissed at myself. I want to hit something. “You really are the one for me.”
Saylor’s words are being tossed around in my head. I don’t know what to make of them. I thought we had already established that I was the one for her. That’s why she is with me. That’s why she is laying across my chest, thoroughly fucked and sated.
I think back to our first night together. Her words are just as clear now as they were then. She said she wouldn’t give herself to someone until she knew they were right for her. Herself. Was she implying more than just sex? Did that involve her heart too? I’m panicking again. There is no life in my own heart. How would I ever be able to handle hers?
I’m overthinking this shit. I need that therapy I can only get at a hundred miles an hour. But, I’m Saylor’s therapy. She said so. I don’t know what all that entails, but I do know that it includes holding her to my chest while she sleeps. So I don’t ride. I don’t abandon her and leave her here to fend for herself. I hold her and listen to her breathe, because now I know that she is my therapy too.
7
IT’S EIGHT IN the morning. I’m functioning on two hours of sleep. I want to lay on this floor with Saylor and forget about the constant fucking ringing in my ears. I know it’s Shady because he personalized his ringtone to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” just to piss me off. But I can’t ignore him. If I don’t answer, he might think I’m dead.
Saylor is awake and she is staring at me. I’m starting to believe she sleeps in thirty-minute intervals. Not only is she awake, she is bright eyed and bushy tailed—or whatever the fuck they call it. She is wearing that “just fucked” smile, and it suits her. I’m just waiting for her to say something because I know she will. And it will be totally off the wall.
“I like this tattoo,” she says as she traces her fingers across the red star at the hollow of my throat. It’s a reminder of my first kill. My brother was murdered, I avenged his death. A throat for a throat.
“I like this one too.” I feel her finger trail down my chest to the number 13 that is over my heart. It’s a reminder too. One that tells me to never lie to my brothers. “How many do you have?”
“Twenty-seven.” My voice is thick-laced with sleep. Her green eyes grow at my words. I like that I have the ability to shock her.
“I want a tattoo.” Her lips poke out and her voice is whiny. I can see the laughter in her eyes and I know she is only kidding, but there is some seriousness there too. “I want a tramp stamp.”