21. Samson
SAMSON
Not a weakness…
Not a weakness…
Not a weakness…
I fuck her, fuck her, fuck her. Her tangy flavor is still on my tongue. God, she’s delicious. Every part of her. Her body is beautiful—long and lean with tits just the right size. Her nipples are brownish pink and feel like heaven under my lips and tongue. And that pussy… So fucking tight.
Thrust, thrust, thrust…
I ache for her. Fucking ache for her.
I look into her eyes—those post-climactic eyes. God, she’s beautiful. Everything about her, but especially her courage. Her defiance. Her fucking impudence.
“Come,” I grit out. “Give me one more, my beautiful little bitch.” I hold myself steady on one arm and give her breast a hard slap.
She gasps, but it accomplishes my goal.
She clenches around me, and I thrust once more, releasing.
It ends the same way it started.
Abrupt.
Uncontrolled.
Finished before I decide it should be.
My breath is rough. Too rough. But hers is worse. I’ve taken her for a hell of a ride.
But as much as I’d like to sink my dick into that tight ass of hers, this can’t happen again.
I don’t move.
Not right away.
I’m still on top of her, bearing my own weight so I don’t crush her.
Still feeling her.
Still too close.
That’s the danger.
Not what just happened. The fuck? Nothing wrong with that.
The danger is if I stay.
The silver scales of justice catch a light from above.
She rolls out from under me and turns, facing me. Her body is flushed an enticing shade of pink.
And I’m still dressed.
“Are you going to level with me?” she asks.
I don’t reply. I simply move off the bed, stand, and adjust my boxer briefs and jeans, zipping them.
She stares at me. No fear in her eyes. Her just-fucked look is hot as hell, but it’s clear her brain is in control now rather than her body.
“Did you kill him?”
Wow.
That was out of left field.
Neither of us has mentioned Victor Halstead before now, but we both know his death is what she’s investigating.
She’s back to business.
Like what just happened doesn’t change anything.
Like I don’t change it.
I shouldn’t care. Caring makes a person weak. So I tamp down any emotion, and I feel something colder.
I look down at her.
Really look this time.
And I see it.
She’s not backing down. Not from me. Not from any of it.
“You don’t want that answer,” I say.
And I walk out of her bedroom.
Because I know if I stay here… If I touch her again… If I let this go one step further…
I won’t walk it back.
So I leave before I take more than I already have.
And before she does the same to me.