Page 100 of 23 Hours

Ignoring the fact I’m mostly naked in front of Gunz for the first time since Adam was conceived, I coolly collect the book from the nightstand, prop my back against the wooden headboard, stretch my bare legs out, and read.

By page three, I gather enough courage to glance over at a quiet Gunz. Propped on his side, he stares at me. Pupils dilated. Breathing labored. Cock straining the cotton of his boxers. A dot of precum soaks into the fabric, changing the gray to a darker color in that spot. I turn back to the book before I do or say something stupid.

“Love?” His voice sounds like chewed-up gravel.

I keep my attention focused on the book. “Yes?”

He draws a single digit down the side of my arm. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

Oh. Damn.

I blush down to my toes, my heart pounding a thousand miles an hour.

* * *

Gunz

If the Devil was real, Kit would be his muse. He’d protect her from everything. Fuck her for eons. Worship the ground she walked upon. Drink her fucking bath water. Because this is what perfection looks like. This is what men go to war for. What men die for.

Christ.

Locked in a fucking trance, I listen to the goddess read. Words don’t permeate, but her tone sure does—light and airy. Articulate. Smart. She knows what she’s doing. So fuckin’ brave. So fuckin’ exquisite.

Soft, handful-sized tits hang the slightest, with big ripe nipples, needing to be sucked on, chewed on. I gorge on her form as Kit pretends I’m not as hard as a rock over here. As if I’m not ready to suffocate in her pussy. As if I’m not fucking addicted.

Keeping my hands to myself, for her sake and my own, I listen, and I savor, every inch, every second. Colorful ink coats her body in a tapestry of art. Legs and arms, part of her side. Jeweled lace beneath the breast, making those tits even more mouthwatering.

In the warehouse, I caught a glimpse of this. But it wasn’t the same. Years ago, when I fucked her into oblivion, it wasn’t the same then either. That was the girl. This is the woman. A grape turned into wine. A road map of life… of experience.

For hours we hang. Every now and again, I lean in and kiss her thigh, liberating the smallest of sighs from her—a soft, throaty, content sorta sound. On her side, in the juncture between hip and ribs, I drop another kiss, atop one of her biggest stretchmarks. Not wanting to pull away from her peaches-and-cream scent and her warmth, I linger there, needing to remain close. To touch her in any way she’ll allow, without crossing lines.

Cupping the back of my skull, Kit presses my head to her stomach. “Rest.”

Curling up to Aphrodite incarnate, I relax a cheek on her belly and slide an arm underneath her legs to get extra comfy. My hand cups the meat of her ass cheek on the opposite side. I open my mouth to ask if this is alright, but her slight shiver and a pat on my hand communicates all I need to know. This is good. She’s happy. I’m fuckin’ happy. Rhage is fuckin’ happy.

I could do this shit for eternity.

And I will.

Come Hell or high water, this woman will stay mine.

If I don’t fuck it up first.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

KIT

Six Weeks later

Standing in front of the kitchen sink, sipping the last bit of tea from my favorite hand-thrown mug, I rest a hip against the countertop, and watch Gunz load our dishwasher. “Would you just talk to me?” I beg. “Please tell me what’s going on.” My voice cracks alongside my poor, achy heart.

He says nothing. He won’t even look at me.

A person clears their throat.

I blink and then frown, trying to remember why I’m here.

Centering myself, I draw circles across the arm of the couch I’m seated on.

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