Page 16 of Penalty Kiss
The way she felt—soft curves and lean strength, passionate but somehow innocent at the same time. The way she moved against me, unpracticed but eager, like she was following instinct more than experience.
I start stroking, slow at first, trying to make it last. But every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Those blue eyes looking up at me like I was her salvation. Her lips parted, breath coming fast. The flush spreading down her neck.
"Damn," I mutter, picking up the pace.
I imagine what would have happened if she hadn't run. Picture myself spinning her around, pressing her against the brick wall, sliding my hands under her shirt to find soft skin and perfect full breasts. I can almost feel her nipples hardening under my palms, almost hear the sounds she'd make when I rolled them between my fingers.
My grip tightens, and I stroke faster.
I think about dropping to my knees in that alley, pulling down those running shorts, and burying my face between her thighs. About making her come with my mouth while she gripped my hair and begged for more. About the taste of her, the way she'd feel falling apart on my tongue.
The fantasy shifts. Now we're here, in this shower, water streaming over both of us while she wraps her legs around my waist. I'm inside her, finally, and she's perfect around me. Tight and wet and making those incredible sounds while I pound into her against the tile wall again and again.
I breathe hard, my hand moving frantically now.
I imagine spreading her thighs wide, running my tongue along her slit until she's begging for more. I'd make her come on my face first, then flip her over and take her from behind while she screams my name loud enough to scandalize the neighbors.
I'm close. So close I can taste it. But I want to savor this, want to hold onto the memory of her kiss, her touch, the way she looked at me like she needed my cock more than air.
I want her to ride me on this bathroom floor, her tits bouncing while she takes me deep, her pussy so tight and wet I can barely last thirty seconds. I'd fill her up until she's dripping with me, then do it all over again.
My orgasm hits like a freight train, and I come hard enough to see stars. My knees buckle, and I have to catch myself against the shower wall as I ride it out, her name on my lips even though I don't remember what it is.
When it's over, I lean against the tile and laugh at myself. Thirty-two years old and jerking off in the shower like a teenager. My neurologist would probably have thoughts about blood flow to the brain, but right now I don't give a damn about medical advice.
For the first time since I woke up in that hospital room, my head feels clear.
I finish washing and drag myself to bed, my body finally loose and relaxed. But as I'm drifting off, panic hits.
What if I don't remember her tomorrow?
What if the concussion fog rolls in and takes her with it? What if I wake up and she's just another gap in my memory, another piece of my life that got lost when my brain decided to scramble itself?
I grab my phone from the nightstand and open a new note.
Alley kiss. Dark hair, blue eyes. Knows who I am. Taste like mint and sweet. Said her name but can't remember what. Find her. Don't let the fog take this moment.
Dr. Martinez said write things down. Pretty sure this wasn’t what he meant.
I stare at the words for a long moment, then add:
She's in trouble. Someone looking for her. Keep her safe.
It's not enough. It can't capture the way she felt in my arms, the way her kiss rewrote an operating code in my chest. But it's what I have.
I set the phone aside and close my eyes, her face floating behind my eyelids. Tomorrow I'll find her. Tomorrow I'll make sure she's safe.
Tomorrow I'll remember.
I have to.
Chapter 4
Decaf Betrayal
Tara
"Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, bacon extra crispy for Mr. Davies!" I call over my shoulder to the kitchen, already sliding a fresh pot of coffee toward booth Four where the Peterson sisters nurse their daily ritual of tea and gossip.
