I picture her.
Salem on her knees in front of me, lips parted, tongue flicking out to taste the slit before she takes me deep. Her eyes locked on mine while she sucks, cheeks hollowed, throat working around me. The little moan she’d make when I hit the back of her throat.Fuck, that sound.
I speed up. Water sluices down my chest, my abs, over my knuckles as I stroke harder. I imagine flipping her onto her stomach on the bed, yanking her hips up, spreading her open with my thumbs so I can see how wet she is for me. Pink and glistening. I’d tease her first. I’d rub the head of my cock through her pussy, making her whine and push back, and then I’d slam home in one rough thrust. Her cry muffled in the pillow. Her walls fluttering, clenching, milking me while I fuck her deep and relentless.
“Ozzy—” I can hear her say it, breathy, broken. “Please—harder?—”
My balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious. I grip the base hard, trying to hold it off, but the fantasy keeps coming.
Her riding me now. Straddling my hips, hands braced on my chest, tits bouncing with every roll of her hips. She’s soaked, dripping down my shaft, coating my balls. I’d grab her ass, spread her wider, watch myself disappear inside her over and over while she gasps my name like a prayer.
I’m stroking fast now, fist flying, water slapping against my skin. My breath saws out in harsh pants. The need is everywhere. It’s burning in my gut, pulsing in my cock, and clawing up my spine.
I want to come inside her. Fill her up until it leaks out around me. Want to flip her over after, lick her clean, then do it again. Want to mark every inch of her until she smells like me, tastes like me, carries me inside her for days.
A low groan rips out of my throat. My hips jerk forward into my hand. Once. Twice.
“Fuck—Salem?—”
I come hard. Thick ropes spill over my fist, splatter against the tile, washed away instantly by the spray. My knees nearly buckle. Pleasure spikes so sharp it’s almost painful, rolling through me in brutal waves until I’m shaking, forehead pressed to the wall, breath ragged.
It’s not enough.
The ache dulls for maybe thirty seconds, then creeps back in, heavier than before. Every day it gets worse.
I soap up, and rinse off. I shut the water off, stepping out, and toweling off hard.
She’s still out there. Probably sipping coffee, maybe humming under her breath, completely unaware that I just came so hard I saw stars thinking about burying myself in her until neither of us could move.
I pull on boxers, then sweats. I take one last steadying breath.
I can do this. I can walk out there, smile, act normal. Pretend the only thing I want is a cup of coffee. But God help me, the secondshe looks at me with those eyes, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep lying to both of us.
FIFTEEN
SALEM
I woke up early. My body hummed with need. Need for one sexy, gothic bodyguard. Ozzy.
God, I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. Not after the trafficking ring, not after that white van with its blacked-out windows, not after every shadow in this safehouse still makes my pulse spike like I’m being hunted. I should be curled up in a ball, terrified of every man on the planet. But my body didn’t get the memo. Last night, falling asleep in Ozzy’s arms, hearing his heart beat through his chest, feeling the heat rolling off that big, solid frame… I got wetter than I’ve ever been in my life. Throbbing. Aching. So turned on I had to clench my thighs together and bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The thought of sliding my hand under his waistband, wrapping my fingers around him while he was still half-asleep, God, it nearly made me come right there.
I couldn’t stay in that bed another minute. So I slipped out at the first gray hint of dawn, heart racing like I’d been caught stealing, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft creak ofold floorboards under my feet. I pulled on the oversized T-shirt I stole from his drawer—the one that smells like him and hits me mid-thigh—and started the coffee. The rich, bitter scent blooms as it brews, but it does nothing to calm the slick heat between my legs. I shift my weight, pressing my thighs together again, and the friction only makes it worse.
By the time the machine gurgles its last drop, I’ve already replayed last night’s almost-touch a hundred times in my head. The way his voice dropped when he said “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me.” The way his eyes stayed on mine in the dark, dark enough to drown in. I’m pouring myself a mug when I hear the bathroom door open down the hall. Footsteps. Bare feet on hardwood. My stomach flips.
He walks into the kitchen and every coherent thought in my brain short-circuits.
Ozzy’s fresh from the shower, hair still damp and dark, water droplets clinging to the ends and sliding down the strong column of his neck. One perfect drop traces the line of his collarbone and disappears under the neckline of the thin gray T-shirt that’s molded to every ridge of his chest and abs like it was painted on. Gray sweats hang low on his hips, the drawstring tied loose, and the soft fabric does absolutely nothing to hide the heavy outline of him. He’s not even hard—not fully—but Jesus, the size of him is obscene even at rest. My mouth goes dry. My nipples tighten against the soft cotton of his stolen shirt.
“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep, and the low timbre vibrates straight between my legs.
“Morning,” I manage, but it comes out breathy. I turn back to the counter fast, pretending to fuss with the sugar I don’t even use,just so I don’t stare. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Every inch of my skin prickles.
He moves behind me to grab a mug, and even though there’s plenty of space, his arm brushes mine. Bare skin on bare skin. Heat flares up my arm and sinks straight into my core. I suck in a quiet breath. He smells like the same soap from last night but warmer now, mixed with the clean scent of his skin still damp from the shower. I want to turn around and bury my face in his chest. I want to lick the water off his neck. I want things I have no business wanting.
We move around the tiny kitchen like we’re dancing around landmines. I pull eggs and bacon from the fridge. He reaches over my head for the skillet, his chest brushing my back for half a second. I nearly drop the carton. He cracks eggs one-handed while I flip the bacon, and every time our hips graze, every time his fingers accidentally touch mine passing the salt, the tension coils tighter. It’s unbearable. Delicious. I can feel how wet I am, the slickness coating my thighs because I’m not wearing anything under this shirt. If he knew, if he just reached down right now and slid his hand up under the hem?—
“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice casual, but his eyes flick to my mouth when I answer.