Chapter 66 - Jag
The motion of braiding Dove’s hair used to calm me. But I’m no longer staring at the back of my little sister’s head.
A woman sits between my legs. The one and only woman I’ve been jerking it to for years.
My desire for her grows layers as I lift a section of hair to my nose and sniff.
Fuck. I need to focus.
I thread the silky blue strands, passing them over and under each other, my hands remembering what they’ve always known.
As I sink into the old rhythm, I come clean about her childhood.
“Adrian Crowe,” Dove says slowly as if testing the name on her tongue. “He’s my father.”
“Only in DNA.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I promised Celeste that I wouldn’t. She depended on me to keep you away from it, to keep you safe.”
I tell her about the vow I made to her mother and how it ruled every decision for the next twenty years.
No police, no confessions, no telling anyone.
I don’t frame it as sacrifice. I don’t soften it.
I make sure she understands exactly how it unfolded and why I never broke the promise I made to Celeste.
“Why tell me now?” she asks numbly, not moving, barely breathing.
“Adrian Crowe is dead.”
“Oh.” Her hand spasms on my leg. “That’s where you’ve been for the past twelve days.”
“Yes.”
I finish the braids down her back, giving her time to absorb, dissect, and reshape her unforgivable childhood.
Any minute, she’ll spin around and throw a barrage of questions at me. I’m ready for it. Ready to tell her everything she wants to know. Then I’ll tell her about Wolf’s role in Crowe’s death.
At last, she twists to face me, her eyes glistening with tears that haven’t fallen. Her face doesn’t crumple. Her mouth doesn’t move. She just stares, her eyes darting between mine, perhaps looking at me through a new lens.
Her hands lift, and she places them on my face.
Slowly, deliberately, her fingers trail around my eyes, down the bridge of my nose, scraping through the rough shadow along my jaw, and tracing the shape of my lips.
Inspecting. Revising. Redrawing my features.
Redrawing the man in front of her, adjusting angles, updating truths, and fitting the past to what’s sitting here now.
When she’s done, her chin trembles. Her eyes soften, and a small whimper escapes her.
Then she’s on me, hands in my hair, and mouth crashing into mine, lips parting, tongue chasing, demanding and spectacularly fierce.
She climbs onto my lap in a fluid motion, knees sliding around my hips, thighs straddling, crowding me back on the bed as if proximity is the answer. She kisses with her whole body, no restraint or uncertainty.
Just like Dove to make the first move and choose physical contact over words to express her feelings.
For a heartbeat, I’m stunned by it. Then I take control.
I meet her heat and ignite it, one hand firm at her waist, the other supporting her neck as I angle her head where I want it. I deepen the kiss, diving into her mouth and guiding the rhythm until urgency turns into wild abandon.
Our mouths fit together the way they were meant to, passionately locked, tongues tangled, teeth clashing, and lips feasting. I claim the pace, feed her what she needs, and my hungry little bird bites and whimpers and goes wild in my arms.
Her hands grab at my neck, my shoulders, holding on. I hold her right back, anchoring her where she is, where we are, letting the kiss say what neither of us can manage yet.
Everything led here. Every cardboard fort. Every drop of blood I washed down the drain. Every line of code and bargain made. All of it brought us to this moment—her trust, my hands, and the truth finally between us.
The need for air forces us to ease apart. Breathing hard, foreheads touching, we stare into each other’s eyes.
I want more. She does, too. It’s written all over her mouth, her hands, and the electricity sparking between us.
There’s still too much left unsaid.
My attention drops to her wrist. Two hair ties. Familiar. They used to live on my wrist.
I hook a finger under them and slide them free. Then I start tying off the ends of her braids, lifting one, then the other, where they drape over her chest.
As I twist the bands to secure them, the backs of my fingers brush against her nipples, teasing her piercings. I do it again, letting my knuckles graze the sensitive buds and watching her reaction.
She swallows, eyes darkening, and pupils blown wide. Desire rolls off her in waves.
My cock thickens painfully, pressing against my zipper as I draw out the task, caressing the shape of her breast, and testing her resolve. She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
“I want to see your beauty mark.” My balls tighten.
“My… Beauty mark?”
“Your sweet little mole.” I rest a finger over its hiding spot on her collarbone beneath the shirt. “Show it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
“Bossy. I thought we weren’t going back to the way things were.”
“I’m playing with your nipples while fixing your braids. That is where we’re going. Now take off your shirt.”
She gulps, shivers, and slowly removes her top. My attention homes in on the tiny dark mark at her collarbone.
Exactly as I remembered it.
I lean in and set my mouth there, a reverent press of lips, lingering, worshiping. She answers with a breathy sigh that goes straight to my cock.
Without breaking contact, I guide her onto her back and stretch over her.
Braced on my elbows, I swirl my tongue around the beauty mark, licking, kissing, and drawing it into my mouth.
Then I firm my lips and suck hard, harder, pulling blood to the surface until her pulse answers and color rises to meet me.
She releases a quiet moan, and I hold the suction long enough to leave proof behind for Wolf.
When I lean back, a dark bloom encircles her mole. Wolf will see it, and he’ll know. Her beauty mark was instrumental in keeping me from breaking at the end. Wolf used it to pull me back from a false reality where she was brutally raped on a loop for ten days.
I brush my thumb against the love bite, watching her smile at the tenderness I left behind.
That smile… I can’t stop myself from devouring it. Shifting my weight, I take her mouth, and everything else falls away.
I kiss her with all the longing and desperation I’ve been storing for years. Goddamn, I hunger for her, my heart’s blood, my precious Dove.
The intensity climbs fast, burning from fiercely focused to rabid and out of control. I taste the metal at her lip and drag my tongue over the piercing, the sight of it driving me insane.
She answers with equal passion, matching me with clawing nails and heaving breaths. We roll across the bed, legs tangling, hands roaming, grabbing at clothes and hair.
My little bird is a wild animal. Nothing tentative about her. No brakes. Just need answering need.
My mouth leaves hers to chart a path lower, skimming skin and mapping her hourglass shape. My fingers follow, tracing curves and dips and pulling sounds from her that test the limits of my restraint.
I take my time sucking her pierced tits, then lower, lower, until my lips settle at the waistband of her shorts, thumbs hooked in the fabric.
“Just need a taste. Then we’ll resume our conversation.”
“Yes. Please, Jag.” She writhes beneath my hungry smile.
With a flick of a finger, I release the button and strip off her shorts and underwear in one motion.
Her hand falls between her legs, her eyes wide and searching as she watches me down the length of her flawlessly nude body.
“Show me your pussy, Dove.”
“Oh, God.” She moans. “Words I never thought I’d hear you say.”
“Let me see the cunt I’m dying to devour.”
“Fuck, Jag.” She removes her hand and covers her face.
“Watch.” I slap her clit, making her yelp. “Eyes on me.”
She lowers her arms to the mattress, fingers curling into the quilt.
“I’m going to make you very, very wet.” I drag my nose along the blond strip of hair on her mound, inhaling deeply. “You’ll be so messy when I’m done, you’ll ruin this expensive bedding.”
“Don’t care.” She grinds her hips in the air, seeking my mouth.
I give it to her. Lips, tongue, and hands… I give it all to her, burying my face and sinking my fingers into her tight, wet sheath.
Holy fuck, I’m eating Dove’s pussy.
I’ve seen her naked. I’ve watched her have sex through my cameras, calling it vigilance when it was actually punishment.
Year after year, I followed her from one lover to the next, punishing myself, forcing myself to remember my place. Guardian, protector, oath keeper. Never a participant. Not even a taste.
I told myself it was necessary, that it was discipline, and wanting her was a failure I could manage if I bled quietly. And I bled with every man she took to her bed, dying a slow death, over and over and over.
That ends now. She’s with me the way I dreamed, and I finally, finally, know her taste.
Rich, honeyed sweetness spills out of her, washing over my tongue and shaking the foundation of my world.
This is real. It’s fucking happening. I’m tongue-deep inside my little bird, lapping up her arousal, sucking on her clit, and edging her toward release.
She grabs my hair and fucks my mouth, chasing that hot, shimmering pleasure. No more prolonging. We’ve both waited long enough.
I shove a finger inside her, curling it just right, and stroke the spot that sends her tumbling.
The sounds of her growling, groaning, screaming pleasure make me harder than I’ve ever been. As her inner muscles spasm around my finger, I grind my aching dick into the mattress, seeking relief and finding none.
Christ, I need to fuck her. But I can’t until I’ve revealed every truth I’ve kept from her.
As she catches her breath, I slowly crawl up her trembling body. My hands follow the sinuous curves of her sides, outlining her hips and cradling her ribs. My fingers slot into the grooves between bones as if her rib cage was made for my grip.
I hold her close as my lips reunite with her love-bitten beauty mark. Then I fall into the lush heat of her mouth, deep and consuming, letting the kiss claim me as fully as I claim her.
There’s no end to this obsession. I love her madly, shamelessly, and could spend the remainder of my life with her mouth against mine, floating and buzzing in this blissful fantasy.
But I owe her answers.
“Dove…” I slow the kiss, despite her sounds of protest. “Sweetheart…” I ease back, cupping her face. “We need to talk. And if we stay in this room, I’ll have come dripping from your lips, your cunt, and your sweet little asshole.”
A moan vibrates in her throat as she lowers her gaze to the chub tenting my jeans.
“Don’t even think about it.” I grab her discarded clothes and help her pull them back on.
Once we put ourselves together, I follow her to the door.
“Is there a place where we can talk?” I glance up at the ceiling, looking for cameras. “The walls out there have eyes and ears.”
“I know a place.” She fits her hand in mine, just like she did all those years ago, and leads me outside to the citrus grove.
Jungle heat hangs low beneath a sky layered with thick, silver clouds. The fragrance of sweet orange blossoms saturates the air. Green leaves gleam dark and waxy, and fruit glows like small suns against the shade.
I follow her to a stone bench set at the center, worn smooth by years of quiet use.
“Matias grew this grove for Camila.” She smiles up at the canopy of fruit-bearing trees. “Long before she was his.”
“Matias would argue that Camila has always belonged to him.”
“Is that true for you? Have I always been yours?”
“Yes, Little Dove. Say it again.”
“I’ve always been yours, Jag.”
My dick hardens, ready to thrust that promise deep inside her body.
Her eyes glimmer, and she pivots toward the citadel.
“Second floor.” She points upward, indicating a balcony tucked into white and glass. “That’s us.”
We sit side by side on the bench. I shift closer until our shoulders meet, until her thigh rests against mine.
Our hands find each other, fingers threading together, settling on my lap and taking me back to another time, to all the other benches that cradled us in the dark at night.
“All right.” I draw a slow breath and tip my head toward her. “Ask what you need to ask. Or I can start back when it was just us and the streets.”
“Tell me about you, Jag. I want to know about the man you worked so hard to keep hidden.”