17. Chapter Sixteen #2
The conversation meanders, favorite movies (she’s partial to old horror, I prefer thrillers), foods we’d kill for (her: pancakes, me: rare steak), colors (she likes red, I like black). It’s the easiest thing in the world, talking to her. Every answer is a new piece to fit into my puzzle.
Eventually, she says, “Are we going to stay here forever?”
“No,” I say. “Tomorrow, I want you to meet my friends. They’re going to be our neighbors. Yes, we are going to live here, but not here here.”
She tenses. “Are they like you?”
“Some of them,” I admit. “But you’ll be safe. You’ll always be safe with me. Besides, they’ve got their women. Well, all except Slade, but he’s still in Africa doing God knows what.”
She nods, but I feel the worry in her muscles. I stroke her hair until she relaxes again.
“When?” she asks.
I gesture at the windows. “When the rain stops. Tonight, we hibernate.”
She laughs, a soft, happy sound.
She nestles in, molding her body to mine, the tension gone. I pull the blanket higher, cocooning us against the cold.
The outside world doesn’t exist.
There’s only this: two monsters pretending to be people, finding solace in the ruin of each other.
As the light fades, I feel her breathing slow. She’s almost asleep when she whispers, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making it hurt so good.”
I smile into her hair.
“Anytime, kitten.”
I watch the storm for a long time, listening to the silence inside us both.
Hours pass in peace. Eventually I move her to the bed. She’s still exhausted from everything she’s been through this week, so I let her sleep. Watching the storm from the kitchen, drinking a whiskey, pondering my life choices that led up to this exact moment.
The rain slows, then stops, and the clouds dissolve into cold, indifferent moonlight.
The storm leaves a hush in its wake, a pressure drop that feels like the bottom of the world.
Putting my glass in the sink, I head to the room, sitting across the bed on the old chair covered in shitty 80s florals.
She’s beautiful in peaceful rest.
Her hair is a dark river across the pillow, one arm flung out, the rest of her curled fetal beneath the sheets.
She doesn’t dream, or if she does, it leaves no trace on her face.
The only movement is the slow, even rise of her chest, each inhale deeper than the last. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, and watch her breathe.
I should sleep, but I can’t. I’m addicted to this: the act of watching, the ownership of every inch of her, the knowledge that nothing in this room matters except the woman within reach of my hands.
The moon is high, silvering the edges of the curtains, casting a pale wash over her skin. She’s still naked under the covers. The bruises are already looking better, the tattooed name on her collarbone sharp and proud. I wonder if she’ll ever regret it. I doubt it.
I reach for her.
Not to wake her. Just to touch.
I let my palm hover above the line of her hip, then lower it, slow, a test of will. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. I trace a circle over her lower back, watch as goosebumps chase my fingers up and down her spine.
She doesn’t move, but her body reacts. The breath, just a hair faster.
The thigh, tensing, then relaxing. I slide my hand lower, under the edge of the sheet, until I find the spot where her legs meet.
Her cunt is hot, already slick, and the idea that she’s wet for me in her sleep makes my pulse spike.
I slip two fingers inside her, gentle, cautious, not wanting to wake her. She moans, a small, broken sound. Her hips arch just barely, enough to let me know she feels it. I work her, slow and steady, until her breath comes fast, her face flushed in the low light.
I lean down, mouth at her ear.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper.
She stirs, but her eyes don’t open.
I ease her onto her back, part her thighs, and kneel between them. My cock is hard, aching, the want a physical thing now, too sharp to ignore. I line up, press the tip to her entrance, and slide in, inch by inch, until I am all the way home.
She gasps, a sweet, animal sound.
I hold still, savoring the way she clenches around me, the heat, the wet. I stroke her cheek, brush the hair from her face, watch her sleep even as I fuck her. The rhythm is slow, reverent, each thrust meant to worship, not to break.
She sighs, legs falling open, giving me all of her. I bend forward, mouth at her throat, breathing in the scent of her skin. My lips drag across her collarbone, my teeth dragging over the letters, marking her again, just for me.
Her hands curl into the sheets, fists tight. Her body tenses, then shudders, and she comes with a gasp, eyes rolling behind closed lids. I finish a second later, pulse racing, emptying myself inside her, sealing the promise I made when I took her.
“Even in your dreams, you’re mine,” I whisper against her skin.
I pull out, gentle, and gather her up against my chest. Her head lolls onto my shoulder, her breath ghosting over my clavicle. I wrap an arm around her, palm splayed over her belly, holding her close.
Soon, she will carry my little one.
She sighs, a low, contented noise, and tucks her face into the curve of my neck.
Closing my eyes, I let the darkness have me, and vow I’ll never let her go.