17. Law
17
Law
When Restraint Fails
T his is the third gig in a row where Derringer has actually shown up. On time and sober enough to perform. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a new someone in his life who’s a good influence on him, but his eyes aren’t stopping on anyone in particular in the crowd, and I don’t see a smitten young woman on a barstool, staring at him with hearts in her eyes.
I’m afraid to let myself believe he might be straightening up for his own good. Few twenty-one-year-olds do, but miracles happen, I guess.
I stay until he’s safely off the stage with a local beauty hanging on him at the bar, but I leave him with some parting words of wisdom.
“If you plan on getting stupid tonight, please do it away from here. You sounded good up there. Don’t follow a good performance with a bad decision.”
“I won’t. I’m just going to have a few drinks and then head home.” He smiles with a quick sideways glance at the young woman attached to his side, as if I might not have understood why he’d be wanting to head home soon.
“Be safe. See you next weekend.”
“How much longer, Law?”
“I can’t predict the future, Derringer.”
His question keeps bugging me on my drive home. I’m not convinced what I’m seeing from him lately is real. Was he asking how much longer until he gets a shot because he’s ready or how much longer he has to keep up an act because it’s getting harder for him to behave? It’s only been a few weeks.
I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but my gut says to trust my instincts. And my memories.
Greta’s bedroom light glows behind her blinds. She’s still up. I sit in my truck for a few minutes, debating whether I should text her or leave her alone tonight. We’ve spent a lot of time together since the night she lost the bet. I love every minute of it, but she came here for space, and I don’t want to smother her.
I kill the engine and walk to my own front door.
When I step out of the shower, my phone lights up at the edge of the sink. I towel off enough to check the notification. It’s Greta.
How’d he do tonight?
Surprisingly good. How are you doing tonight?
It’s been productive. But I’ve run out of things to do . . .
If you’re trying to hurt my feelings, you should know I’m not too proud to be your last resort.
Get dressed and come over.
Why would I bother getting dressed?
So you don’t have to go back home wearing nothing but a towel in the morning?
Again, you’ve overestimated the depths of my pride.
She doesn’t text back, but I hear her laughing on the other side of the wall. I love the way she laughs out loud even when she’s alone.
The moment she opens the door, I say, “You look tired.”
My regret is consuming, but thankfully, she laughs.
“See, this is why I invited you over. I was feeling pretty good about myself, and I thought, hmm, what would remedy this? And for the record, I am tired.”
“What I meant to say was you look beautiful when you’re tired.”
“Nice towel. You look tired, too, by the way.”
“I am. Can I come in?”
She opens the door wider, and I step into her place. It smells like her laundry detergent, fresh and clean. When I hug her, I smell her shampoo, too. She’s all soothing scents and body heat.
“You been working tonight?” I ask, still holding her in my arms.
“Yeah, but I’m done. My eyes burn, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have any words left in me.”
“If I guess what you’re working on, will you tell me?”
“Three guesses.”
“A novel about a school teacher?”
“No.”
“A novel about a woman who seeks revenge on her cheating ex?”
“No.”
“Your biography?”
“That would be an autobiography, but also, no. You’re all out of guesses.”
“Well, damn. What are we going to do now?”
She tiptoes to kiss me, making it much easier to squeeze her ass.
“Have I ever told you what a great ass you have?”
“Every time you have a handful of it.”
“Which is not nearly often enough.”
“Listen, me and my great ass have shit to do sometimes. We can’t just wait around for your squeezes and compliments.”
I can’t remember the last time a woman made me laugh the way she does. Her ex is an idiot, but I’m glad he cheated. I’m sorry for the pain it caused her, but it’s what brought her to me, so I’ll always be secretly grateful. Words I’ll never let slip from my mouth, no matter how tired I am.
It’s hard to believe she’s the same woman who flipped me off through her car window. But I’ll never forget the fire in her eyes when she did that. I genuinely had no idea what I’d done to piss her off, but when I caught up to her again, a part of me hoped we’d be taking the same exit. When she passed it, I figured I’d never see her again, thought she was probably bound for someplace more exciting.
For once in my life, I actually got lucky.
I scoop her up in my arms and carry her to the bedroom. She looks into my eyes, and I can see the exhaustion in hers, but I see something more there, too. Maybe it’s all in my head, but I can’t question it because I want too badly to believe this is real. To believe she feels exactly what I’m feeling.
We’ll talk about it when she’s ready. For now, I’m just going to keep on believing it.
Setting her feet on the floor next to her bed, my eyes linger on her nipples, straining against the soft cotton of her thin tank top.
“You should strip for me sometime.”
“How many twenties you got in your wallet right now?”
“Maybe three?”
“Looks like tonight’s not sometime.” She whips her tank top over her head in one quick maneuver, no teasing gyrations, no build up at all. I drop my towel, and she drops to her knees.
Fuck, the way this woman owns me.
The tip of her hot wet tongue touches the base of my cock, and my balls and my spine tighten in tandem. I look down to watch as she attempts to throat me. Her gag reflex stops her short of the goal, but having her try feels better than the few women in my past who could. She’s good. She’s so good.
I pull her up before she makes me come. It’s late, and we’re both too tired to go multiple rounds, and if I’m only going to come once, it’s not going to be in her mouth. Or before she comes on mine.
Her hair fans out over her pillow, and her watery eyes and soft smile make me afraid to blink, afraid the tenuous thread that’s binding us might break. I know from experience this could all come unraveled in the blink of an eye.
We haven’t known each other long enough for these feelings to make sense, but it’s already stronger than what I lost before. We’ll make sense of it as we go along. I tell myself if it’s meant to work, it’ll work.
As I kiss my way down her body, all her swells and dips, the tiny scar between her ribs, and every sporadic freckle is familiar. I know every inch of her.
But I barely get a taste before she tugs at my hair. “No. I want to know how it feels to come with you inside me.”
“I thought you said it couldn’t happen like that for you.”
“If I make it happen, it can.”
“So, I get a show after all.”
“I mean, you can watch, but I’m not doing it for you,” she teases.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure watching is going to do it for me.”
Her soft whimper when I push inside her sweet pussy is my favorite sound. Her knuckles graze my skin as she moves her hand into position to rub her clit.
I lengthen my strokes to give her more room. “Is this okay?”
“Don’t worry about me. Focus on you. Just fuck me the way you would if I’d already come. I’ll worry about me.”
There’s no way I’m not going to worry about her pleasure, and my eyes can’t help but be laser-focused on her. The sight of her thin fingers working her clit is so fucking hot. I want to maintain long, slow strokes, but when her fingers circle faster, my pace increases as well.
She rubs frantically as I fuck her harder. Her hips buck, and her back arches beneath me. I could blow right fucking now, but I need her to finish first. She’s so close.
I don’t want to change anything that might ruin this for her, but goddamn, her pussy keeps getting wetter and hotter and tighter. Looking away helps, but her walls are already squeezing me. I’m not going to be able to hold out for much longer.
I want to talk her through it, but I also don’t want to interrupt whatever’s going on in her beautiful head right now. Her other hand glides over her chest. When her fingers pause to pinch her nipple, I have to close my eyes.
Not that it helps, because I can still see her swollen pink nipple being squeezed and her glistening clit swelling under her touch . . .
She sucks in a quick breath with a shriek, and I force my eyes back open. I need the image of her coming on my dick for the first time seared into my memory forever.
My restraint shatters while she’s still shuddering through the last phase of her orgasm. The spasms of her pussy milking my cock trigger primal instincts. I’m absolutely feral as I fuck my way over the line.
I hope chasing mine didn’t cut her release short. I’d hate to think I just experienced something that euphoric while cheating her out of any part of hers. I’ve never had a bad orgasm, but that was fucking rapturous.
“Sorry if I came too soon.”
“Did you come?” she says through ragged breaths. “I didn’t notice.”
“You finished, right?” I tease back.
She shrugs. “I think I got close.”
“If you’d gotten any closer, I’d be trying to revive you right now.”
“Did you just admit that you’d have nutted first, and then tried to revive me?”
“I want to say that’s not true, but . . .”
I’m lucky she shares my twisted sense of humor. That comment might’ve been too much for another woman. Not Greta. She laughs along with me, but she pinches my side. I grab her wrist and pull it to my mouth, where I pretend to bite it before I kiss her smooth skin.
I bring her a towel, and then I crawl back into her bed. When she disappears into the bathroom, I know I’m probably going to be asleep by the time she gets back from brushing her teeth. I rearrange her pillows and roll to my side, smiling when I notice the glittery purple pen on her nightstand.
She wanted me to believe she was so hard and no-nonsense when we met, but despite all her heartbreak, she’s still drawn to sparkle and shine.
The pen rests on top of a blue notebook, and I know that whatever she’s working on is in those pages.
She turns on the shower. She’s going to be in there longer than I thought.
I shouldn’t look inside. She’ll tell me what she’s working on when she’s ready. It’s none of my business.
The notebook is in my hand before I can talk myself out of reaching for it. Propped up on my elbow, I open the cover and flip a few pages. That’s all I intend to do, just thumb through, scan a few lines here and there for a quick glimpse into this part of her life.
But some of the pages only have a few lines, some a single paragraph . . . a stanza? Are they poems? She’s a poet?
Why wouldn’t she tell me that? Did she think I’d make fun of it? Is she ashamed for some reason?
This page is full. Several paragraphs.
And a refrain?
The light from the bathroom spills onto the bed, and my fingers fly off her notebook as if it’s burst into flames.
“What are you doing?”
“Are these . . . are you writing songs?”
“Why would you open that?”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me? Can I keep reading?”
“No, you can’t! You need to leave.”
“Greta, come on—”
“Get out, Law.”
Fuuuuuuuck!