Page 111 of Painted Scars
“Did you get these?” She glances at the chocolate box.
“Do I need to eliminate competition sending you gifts?” I brush her nape.
She giggles, then groans and presses a hand to the water bottle over her stomach. “I’m not courting other stalkers.”
“Good. No one’s dying tonight, then.” I rub her leg through her flannel pajamas. “I hear chocolate calms dragons.”
Phase Two complete.
She blows on the steaming liquid in her mug. “Can you get any more perfect?”
Fuck. Every time she says that, it hammers another nail in my coffin.
“As a matter of fact, I can,” I croak, alluding to Phase Three. “You have to finish your drink first.”
She pouts and slowly consumes her drink.
When she’s done, I start massaging her shoulders, working my way lower. Every groan, every little tilt of her head, every slackening muscle sings to me. My cock is painfully hard, but this isn’t about me.
“I love being pampered, Daddy,” she murmurs.
“Get used to it, Glitter Bomb.” I undo knots in her arms from sitting at her computer all day. I used to get them too from hunching over case files and reviewing evidence to crack a case.
She hums again, and I think I permanently dent my zipper.
“Alright. I can’t take all this perfection. It’s giving me small dick syndrome.” She smacks my thigh. “Confess your darkest secrets. Do you have a criminal record?”
I laugh. “Not officially.”
“Sex scandals?”
I snort. “Just this one.”
She pats my leg. “Good answer. That’s a green flag I’ll accept.”
I kiss along her neck and reach for the buttons of her top. “Glad you think so.” I flick open the flannel and slide my fingers over her belly.
“You’re distracting me,” she whispers.
I pull a small bottle of almond oil from the tray, squirt it on my palms, and warm it between my hands.
“The lady in the aromatherapy shop said it’s good for menstrual cramps,” I tell her, pressing it to her skin.
She hisses and flinches. I start gently, working in circles on her stomach.
“Oh, that’s good,” she breathes. “Don’t stop under penalty of death!”
I won’t. Not until she’s comfortable and asleep. And maybe not then.
She falls asleep in my arms. I hold her, brushing her hair, her arms, her belly. An hour later, I slide out from beneath her, remove my clothes, and jump into bed with her, wrapping myself around her.
I wake at sunrise as I always do, and brush the hair from her temples, and press a kiss to her hair. She rouses and gives me a sleepy groan.
“Morning, Glitter Bomb.” I smile into her hair.
“You didn’t just call me that before sunrise,” she sasses.
I crush her to me, smirking into her silky hair. “For someone who’s so full of color, you’re grumpy when it comes to sunlight.”
