My mouth finds hers and we kiss; the intimacy is foreign to me, but it feels so right. I couldn’t imagine fucking her any other way. I want to kiss her. I want to take my time. I want to explore every part of her body with my mouth, my hands, and my cock.
When I feel her tighten around me, her eyes close, but I want to see her when she lets go. “Open your eyes, Diem. Look at me.” Surprisingly she does. And I’m thankful. I was prepared to stop and force her to look at me. But she’s letting me control her. And when her eyes lock on mine, there is no doubt—no fear, no walls, no ice, and no indifference. They tell me everything. They burn with desire and trust. The impact of what I see on her face is more powerful than the way her pussy squeezes my cock as she comes.
Her moans fill the room, drowning out the song completely. The sound alone is enough to have me coming too. With her, my feelings are heightened, and the fight for control is the hardest battle I’ve ever faced.
I lean down and kiss her, feeling her body shake as I rock my hips inside her a few more times. I move to lay beside her, and she folds her body into mine. Her head rests on my chest, her leg is tangled with mine. My arm goes around her waist and I hold her. Just like I hold her when we sleep. And when she sits in my recliner. Just like I should. And just like I’ve never held anyone else.
17
“WHAT’S YOUR LAST name, Diem?” The thought that I don’t know it suddenly coming to mind. We’re in the kitchen and she is cooking me breakfast. One I’m sure will be just as disgusting as everything else she has ever cooked.
She turns to look at me, leaning against the counter. Her eyes survey me in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts and I can’t help but smirk when she blinks a couple of times to gather her bearings. “What’s yours?”
“Would it make a difference if I told you?” I ask, grabbing the OJ from the fridge and drinking straight from the carton.
“Well that depends.” She turns her back to me as she asks, “What if it’s Dahmer? Or Bundy or Sells? Then I might think you were a serial killer. That would make a difference.” She finally turns around so I can see her face. I study it to see if she’s serious. Thank fuck she’s not.
“You caught me.” I smile. She’s knows I’m joking. What she doesn’t know is that I’m worse than any serial killer she’s ever Googled.
“Unless you plan to marry me, why do you want to know?” I laugh at the thought of marrying her crazy ass. That would never happen. A lifetime with a nut like her wasn’t in my future plans. But my eyes move to her ring finger and I imagine how it would make me feel seeing her wear one. One that I gave her.
I really can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with her. It seems unreal. But the thought of not having her in my life hurts in places I don’t like feeling pain. Dead in my chest. In the center of my fucking heart. I don’t want her to think about anyone else. I don’t want her to be with anyone else.
“You and me,” I start, narrowing my eyes on hers. “We’re something. I don’t know what it is, but when you said you were going to wear those heels for another man, it drove me fucking crazy. Those shoes, and every other pair you own, they belong to me. Those tiny little feet of yours, belong to me too. All ten of your toes, your fingers, your smile, your laugh, and that sweet pussy . . . it all belongs to me.”
She smiles, trying to appear unaffected, but her eyes widen at my admission. “Getting attached, are we?” My silence speaks for itself and the moment she realizes her assumption is true, all humor is lost and her cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. “Oh,” she says, busying herself with the burnt eggs in the skillet.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that the feeling is mutual.” I walk up behind her—noticing how she stills when she feels my presence.
“Hardly.” She attempts to scoff, but it comes out as a whisper. A very unbelievable whisper.
“Then why can’t you look at me?” My pulse is beating faster than it should. I feel like I’m on a high. I’m fucking giddy when I let the realization settle inside me that she is in my kitchen, half naked, recently fucked, and cooking me breakfast. Then I feel murderous when I think about her in someone else’s house doing the same. Is this what infatuation feels like? If so, I’m fucking crazy about her.
She finally turns around, and a hint of fear is in her eyes. Along with that same burning need I feel inside my chest. “Because this is something. And the feeling is mutual . . . and it scares the shit outta me.”