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I’m soaked. So soaked.
“I’m clean too,” I cry into the ground. Before Nate, I hadn’t had sex in a long time, and had visited a clinic since. I feel his hands ghosting my waist as he drags me back down into the water, his mouth on my shoulder.
“You’re a delicate flower I’d like to smash to pieces, Pea. But only with permission.” He pushes his boxers down and off. I see them floating beside us.
“Smash me,” I groan.
And he does.
He smashes me.
The first thing I notice is not that he slams into my ass—not starting with the tip—going all the way in, but the fact that my face hits the edge of the pool and my lip splits open. The exact same place Seb left me bleeding. But the experience is anything but similar. I suck on my own blood and shriek in a mix of pain and pleasure as he guides my face up, his palm on my neck, so my head is flush against his chest.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not in this way.”
Slam.
“Fuck, Prescott, fuck.”
Slam.
“You’re killing me.”
Slam.
“And I’m loving it.”
Slam.
Words so beautiful, spoken in such an ugly place, under the same stars that are watching the people who want us dead. He drives into me like he’s trying to mold us into one, and with every thrust, I’m beginning to believe that it can actually happen. My heart cracks open a little more with every push.
I’m falling in love with this guy.
I’m going to kill two people with this guy.
Soon, this guy will hate me when he figures out that I have no way to pay him and fulfill my commitment to him. That I lied to him about the money, and kept the truth from him when he asked me about other things, too.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.
We need to hurry up and go our separate ways before it backfires on us both. Nate Vela is not an easy guy to read, but our ending is still written in the sky. It reads heartbreak and death.
Slam.
“I’m coming,” he says, and I arch my back in response. I would have probably come too, had I not been so occupied with my stupid feelings for him.
“Are you close?” he produces a guttural hiss through his teeth. I shake my head, no.
“Come inside me, Nate.”
He slams into me a few more times before stilling, and I feel his warm release pouring into me. We stay like this for a few moments—him standing on the pool’s floor, holding my ass against his groin, his favorite position, before he spins me to face him and nails my back to the wall. My ass is sore and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to sit down for at least a couple of months.
“Did I hurt you, Cockburn?” His full eyes cut to my split lip, and I’m filled with horror, because I can actually feel the tears stinging the backs of my eyeballs again.
I’m taking this partnership way too far.
“No. Well, yeah, it hurt, but I still enjoyed it.”
“Then why are you crying?” He pushes his hair back, furrowing his brows. “Tell me.”
I shake my head no. It’s starting to get a little chilly in the pool, but I don’t budge.
“Hey, Nate, can I ask you something? And don’t get offended.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too. What am I not getting offended about?”
“When exactly are we parting ways? I need to have a real date in my head, so we can. . .you know, plan everything and make sure we’re ahead of the game.”
Nate moves his hand over his beautiful wet hair, drops of water decorating his thick eyebrows, eyelashes and strong jaw. God, his face. It’s only been twenty-four hours and I’m already addicted. How will I live without seeing it every day?
“How about next Wednesday I take off to Mexico? It leaves us plenty of time to take out those two clowns. Camden will have to come to the States once he hears his father dropped dead, so maybe I can even help you out with him. A whole week is enough. Trust me.”
I nod silently. There I have it. A date. A deadline. A defined, obvious end to whatever it is I’ve built with this guy.
“Thanks.”
“You’re shivering,” he says, rubbing my arms up and down, splashing water around us. “Let’s get back to the presidential suite. Order some room service,” he jokes. I laugh a little on the outside and die a lot on the inside.
Hell, I’m in love with three men.
Beat, the felon.
Nate, the poet.
And Christopher Delaware, who I don’t even know yet.
We’ve got them. The motherfucking passports.
It’s bittersweet to see my ticket to freedom clasped in Pea’s small hand. I’ve never had a passport, so I’m no expert, but this one looks legit. It has my face on it, and the identity of Christopher Delaware is real. Meaning, the poor motherfucker does exist. Only now, I’ve regressed back to being twenty-five and apparently I was born in Nebraska.
