Once Upon A Half-Time 2(101)

She arched under me, offering more of her to slam and seize. After a full-night of fucking, my body ached and my balls swelled and yet I wanted only to bury myself deeper in her.

I grunted, steadying myself hilt-deep until we were flesh against flesh. She tensed. Her words crashed with a soft agony, and her body betrayed her into another crackling and uncompromising orgasm that racked her in utter surrender to me.

Nothing looked so beautiful.

I would take her. Ruin her. Possess her.

Start a life with her.

Create a life within her.

This was my chance to take back what was mine, and it began and ended with her. Too much time wasted while I served my sentence. I wouldn’t lose another moment before beginning that journey with Josie.

She fell limp against the bed, panting my name. I erupted inside her. I growled too harsh and frightening for a woman who deserved none of my aggression but endured every punishing strike. I let the desire overwhelm me, and I filled her with my every hope, secret fantasy, everything I wanted in life.

Our life.

Together.

I collapsed over her, rolling to her side to avoid crushing the woman who offered her body for my delights. In prison, I remembered her scent. Her eyes. Her heat. But I’d forgotten how much she loved me. I wasn’t insecure, just realistic. Josie Davis had no reason to want me.

But she did. She hadn’t said it, but she couldn’t hide it. Not from me.

I’d fucked her for hours, but the softness of her cheek against my chest was the real pleasure. Her breathing lengthened, and her eyes fluttered closed. Either I fucked her too good, or she felt safe enough to pass out beside me. I hoped it was both. Problem was, I shouldn’t have stayed. Shouldn’t have even come to her.

I had nothing to offer her. Hell, I was nothing. The only thing I promised her was a night of animalistic fucking, and I did my only deed well. But I wasn’t looking to win her back. I only wanted to prove she hadn’t made a shitty mistake falling for me in the first place.

And these days, I wasn’t so sure.

She rolled away first.

I didn’t expect that.

Usually she was quiet after sex—a polite word for subdued. I never cuddled, but Josie didn’t fuck like a rented whore. When we were dating, after I took her, I kept her against my muscle. Made sure she knew how much I loved her, even if I couldn’t show it beyond rutting her into senseless oblivion.

The sheet fluttered over her body. She tried to wrap it around her curves. Failed. Sometime during the night we tangled every blanket inside the other. She fought with the fitted sheet and lost as it snapped over the mattress.

Why the hell did she cover herself? I’d already memorized every part of her body—petite, slim, dark, and sexy. She tripped over her unsteady feet and lunged for a pair of panties. In a rush, she tugged them up. Backwards. She might have tried again, but instead she tossed a shirt over her head and attempted to cover the mistake.

What the hell was she doing?

“Get in bed,” I ordered.

I’d have dressed too, but I hadn’t come that much in a year. For all I knew, my heart would explode in exhaustion or relief.

Josie ignored me.

“It’s late,” I said.

She brushed her hair from her face. Without her usual headband or scrunchies or pretty little scarves, the curls bounced everywhere. She smoothed them down. Didn’t work. They bounded and teased, as playful as ever.

“It’s not late…” She wagged her phone at me. “It’s early.”

Like I could read the numbers. No blood stayed in my head. “All the more reason to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure, you can. Get in bed. Pull the covers up. Rest your head right here.” I pointed to my chest. “You used to do it all the time, Sweets.”

“No, really, I—”

“It’s me, Josie.” My voice lowered.

Her gaze snapped to meet mine, but I didn’t trust how far she moved from the bed.

Was it the scars? They were ugly, only a year to heal the burns. The flames ruined my tattoos, but at least they’d disfigured me and not her.

“It’s me,” I said again. “Come to bed.”

She didn’t hesitate, not even a fake reluctance. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Where else would I go?”

She nibbled on her bottom lip. Anxious?

“I don’t know,” she said. “I had no idea you were out. I thought…you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

Her voice hardened. “It’s my apartment. Do I have to explain why?”

I snorted. Where the hell was this firecracker coming from? My girl wasn’t confrontational, she was resourceful and adaptive. Two years ago, Josie couldn’t even return a bucket of the wrong colored icing for her cupcake orders. Valentine’s Day turned blue, and everyone in Saint Christie kissed each other with indigo-tinted lips.