Page 64 of Some Like 'Em Burly
I pause, breathing slowly through my nose, waiting for the static in my head to clear. Because she just said that, she did—sweet little Jem begged me to fuck her, and it was so hot I forgot my own name.
When I line up with her entrance, we’re both quiet. Tense. Like we’re both scared that somehow this won’t happen after all; a SWAT team will burst through the window and drag me off her, kicking and cursing. Because this can’t be right, it can’t be allowed, neither of us is used to this kind of luck. We can’t get everything we’ve been hoping for.
Teeth gritted, I sink forward an inch. Jem’s tight heat welcomes me, gripping my shaft, her inner muscles fluttering.
“Oh,” she says, her eyes heavy-lidded, and I duck down to kiss her throat. Her skin tastes like salt and fresh rain. “Oh, god.Please.”
Swallowing a groan, I push even deeper.
Anddeeper.
In… out.
In… out.
My muscles strain against my bones as I work myself gently inside, stretching Jem’s virgin channel. It takes a good long while, because I’m savoring every single second, and ‘cause I’d rather poke my own eyes out than hurt her, but eventually, I’m wedged as deep as I can go.
“Finally,” Jem mumbles, and I know she doesn’t mean that I took too long getting inside. Not when she wraps both arms around my neck and hugs me tight; not when she turns her head to kiss my cheek.
Yeah, finally.
It’s been a long old road to each other.
The moment is soft. Precious.
Then we’re moving again, sweat beading on my back, the mattress plunking gently as our joined weight shifts. Raindrops patter the windows, and wet noises float from where our bodies smack together, and Jem’s hungry little grunts are the best thing I’ve ever heard. Can’t wait to draw a whole new litany of sounds out of her; can’t wait to taste her on my tongue.
But for now, I thrust inside my girl so hard her little tits jiggle, and I squeeze every part of her I can reach. She’s mine,mine, and I’m hers to do whatever she wants with, to ride, to suck, to boss about and wrap around at night.
“Axel,” Jem gasps. Her eyes have turned hazy, and her nails dig into my back. The smell of sex is in the air.
“You’re mine,” I growl, and that does it for her—that’s what snaps her final thread. Jem arches up, head tilted back, and clamps down on my shaft like she’s never gonna let it go.
Pleasure crashes over her in waves, and I feel every tremble and twitch. When she collapses back on the bed a moment later, I am not the same man I was before.
My hips snap forward, and I thrust a few times, chasing my own pleasure. The tension in my gut ratchets tight.
“You’re mine too,” Jem says, stroking tiredly at my chest, and goddamn—
I’ve never come so hard in my life.
* * *
Three years later
The market’s busy this Saturday night, with the food stalls open late for the weekend. The crowd buzzes with laughter and conversation, everyone jammed shoulder to shoulder as theymove slowly between stalls, the shared heat of everyone’s bodies rising up to fog the domed glass ceiling.
I cut through the crowd easily, like a hot knife through butter. I may spend my days building custom motorbikes these days, rather than as a bodyguard, but I’m still a mean-looking bastard. When I want to walk somewhere, folks skitter out of my way.
Old habits die hard, so I scan the area as I walk, searching for threats. Part of me’s still on the lookout for Peter the prick—don’t think I’lleverbe able to forget the man who threatened Jem—but really, I’m sure that he left the city three years ago, hurrying out of town with a sloppily packed case and a broken wrist. It’s not just hopeful thinking on my part, either. I’d never risk Jem that way.
Cerberus may not be my boss anymore, but he has eyes and ears everywhere. If I want to know where Peter the prick is and what he’s up to, I only need to send a text.
A wok hisses as I walk past, the scent of noodles making my stomach growl, but I hold the two pizza boxes I just picked up aloft. It’s easy to weave through the crowd to the back left corner of the market, where my wife waits patiently behind her table of candles. When she looks up and spots me, smiling over our baby’s fluffy head, my chest burns with pride.
“Meat feast for me, and one ham and pineapple for the heathen.”
I slide behind the stall, lifting the pizzas over the display. The scent of hot mozzarella and oregano mingles with the vanilla bean candles. Jem kisses our daughter’s head and winks at me. The baby’s sleeping soundly against her front, a pair of padded headphones covering her ears.
