Page 90 of Play Dirty
“You turned me in, Shi.”
“I know.”
She finally looks up at me with puffy, bloodshot eyes, and her lips tremble. “I’m sorry.”
Those eyes almost break me. It would be so easy to forgive, to fall apart, and let her in. But I don’t.
Instead, I nod somberly and let the silence speak.
The wheel slows before fully coming to a stop.
Shiloh turns to fully face me, letting me see everything in her all at once. Her fear, remorse, and love. That’s what nearly undoes me. Then she stands, causing our chests to brush against each other.
“Say something.” She breathes.
So I do.
I kiss her.
Hard. Desperate. Full of every word I couldn’t say in that cell or that night. My fingers slide through her hair, undoing her messy bun as she gasps against my mouth, fingers fisting my shirt. I walk her back against the edge of the workbench. Her hands find my jaw, my waist, my back — pulling me closer, anchoring herself.
I could have milked her apology. But we have already wasted so much time as it stands.
We don’t speak.
We don’t need to.
We’re covered in clay, in grief, and somewhere in between—something that almost feels like forgiveness. When I push the straps of her top down, she doesn’t hesitate. If anything, she helps me, unbuttoning her pants and kicking them off with ease.
I rip my shirt over my head with one hand while the other slides up her hips, my thumb tracing slow, lazy circles along her skin. She makes the sweetest little sounds, her breath hitching as goosebumps rise beneath my touch. I smirk at the sight, at the way her body reacts.
Her fingers fumble at my belt, and I let them. We close the last bit of space between us—nothing left between our bodies now but heat and everything we never said.
On the bench in the low, dim studio with only the soft hum of the drying fans, our breath, and some Ariana Grande melody— Shiloh becomes mine again. I dip in between her legs, inhaling the sweet scent of her, “Mine.” I growl against her cunt, lapping the damp spot on the fabric of her panties as her hand fists my hair.
“Yours.” She breathes, hips grinding into my face as I nudge her pink panties to the side with my teeth, tasting her slowly– like I've been starving. “Yours.” She moans again, sending the sweet sound straight to my aching cock.
I lap at her, tongue circling her clit. I continue my slow circular movements, pressing, claiming all of her while she gasps above me like she’s drowning in the moment. Her legs tremble against my shoulders, hands pulling at my roots, and when she shatters, I taste her on my tongue.
I follow her there.
I’ll follow Shiloh Johnson anywhere.
The sound that spills from her lips is not a scream. It’s not even a moan. It's a sob.
Of relief.
Of release.
Of return.
I kiss the inside of her thigh, climbing up to kiss her chest, the hollow of her throat, and the corner of her mouth. Not caring about the uncomfortable feeling that comes from coming in your pants. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into her like she’s been dying to shove me back inside her. To memorize the feel of my body pressed into her. It’s perfect, just like I always knew it would be.
I guide myself into her, slowly savoring the sweet sound that falls from her lips. Her head falls back, lips parting in a silent cry. “I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m not leaving.”
She pulls me in deeper using the heel of her foot. And we move — not fast, not frenzied– but like we’re trying to rewrite every bad memory with the way we fit. Perfectly imperfect. I pull out of her warmth only to look down as I push back in.
Fuck, seeing my cock disappear inside her looks just as amazing as it feels.
