“Guess so,” Ronnie admits, sounding at least as desperate as I feel. He reaches over and grabs my plate, stacking it on top of his and setting it on the floor. “So no humping, but … ” He trails off and I take a deep breath as his gaze travels down low, coming to rest right on my snatch. Oh yeah, baby. “I don't know, maybe if we're gentle, a good orgasm could aid in the healing process?” I swallow hard.
“I think so,” I whisper as he reaches over and turns off the light. The flickering of the TV is the only source now, a bright wash of color that highlights the tattoos on Ronnie's neck and side, his arms, his hand. So much ink to explore. I haven't gotten a single proper moment to really trace it out. I'd like to. I really, really would. I lean back and spread my legs, sighing as Ronnie scoots between them and pushes the jersey dress out of the way. The black fabric bunches around my hips as he takes hold of my panties and strips them off, tossing them to the floor unceremoniously.
Without hesitation, he gets comfy, lying out flat on the bed, legs dangling off the end as he finds a good spot, breathing hot breath against my body. I shiver as his fingers trail down my thighs, teasing me with the softest touch of flesh on flesh. I'd give anything to have him ram me with his hard cock, fill me up, make me scream while he shot his seed inside of me. I hate to admit it, but I'm jealous, just a little, of those other women. They had Ronnie's babies, and I can't even have his bare cock. I groan as his mouth makes contact with my heat, lips pressing gently against me before I feel a sharp burst of tongue.
I lift my hands up and fist my fingers in the fabric of the pillows, squeezing tight, biting my lower lip as Ronnie switches between the soft, barely there brush of lips and tense swipes of his hot tongue. I have to actually focus on my muscles, force them to relax. If I squeeze too tight, my body responds with a white hot burst of pain that curls my toes – and not in a good way.
I let out a long breath, letting my body melt into the sheets, enjoying the feel of Ronnie's hands as he takes hold of my hips and pulls me a little closer. He takes his time pleasuring me, and I've got to admit – I'm amazed. I haven't known many guys in my life that would be so eager to go down on a girl, particularly with the knowledge that they wouldn't be getting anything in return. Fuck. I don't deserve this, any of this. I'm a fucking murderer for fuck's sake. While I can convince myself that killing Joel was an act of self-defense, I have no excuse for the roadie girl, Marta. I might not have struck the final blow, but I was there, and I helped. Nobody can ever forgive me for that.
I feel my body tensing again and have to force my muscles to relax, letting my mind drift away to a pleasantly neutral space. The only emotion I allow in when I take my next breath is the love I feel for Ronnie. It's brand new, just a little sprout, but I know if I nurture it, it'll turn into something bigger, better than I ever could've imagined.
Little spirals of pleasure swirl through my body, starting down below where Ronnie's mouth brushes my swollen flesh, and climbing upward until his touch is like a drug I can't get enough of. I force myself to breathe slowly, fighting my body's natural inclination to start panting. My muscles relax one by one, coming undone and laying me open and bare for only Ronnie to see. I let my fingers curl into the pillow next to me before I drag it over my head and bite down, draining the last of my tension out through my jaw. I want to beg him to fuck me – no, to make love to me – but I can't. Seriously, I got shot last week. My body promises that I give two shits less than none, but I manage to keep quiet, pressing the clean cotton fabric into my mouth as a shiver washes through me. Like any good drummer, Ronnie can read the rhythm in my body and knows exactly where to put his sticks – or in this case, fingers. He slides them into me like he's starting a new song on set, nice and slow, warming up the crowd for some grand finale. Only this time, the only person Ronnie's playing for is little old me.
I moan and it turns into a sigh as I drag the pillow away and toss it to the floor, lifting my head just a bit to stare at Ronnie, to see him buried between my legs, shirtless and beautiful. I grab a hold of his dark hair, still damp from the shower, and squeeze tight, pressing him down with a fluttering of my lashes and another sigh. When his tongue circles my clit, I feel my spine arch and my grip tighten. One more, brilliant little lick later and I'm groaning and collapsing into the pillows, shuddering as a wave of contentment washes over me and the orgasm kicks my ass to the curb, draining my energy in the best way possible.
“Bloody hell, fuckface,” I whisper as Ronnie climbs up beside me and crosses his arms on the pillow, gazing at me with his beautiful brown eyes. I roll over and lift my face up for a kiss, tasting the wetness of my own body on Ronnie's full lips. “Mmm, that was nice,” I murmur, “a little tame, but nice.” He laughs at me and reaches up to ruffle my hair, and my heart skips a beat.