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“We can’t, can we?” she says a moment later.
“No.” My voice is grave. I don’t know if I’m telling the truth. “We have to pretend this never happened. We have to try and forget how we feel.”
Those are a fool’s words, spoken as though for someone else’s benefit. Not Rayla’s… like there’s an audience watching and I’m trying to make myself look noble. There’s nothing noble about the things I want to do to Rayla’s young body.
But there’s something noble about wanting to be with her afterward, to raise a family together, to watch as she ignites into motherhood.
“I think you’re right.” She flinches as Tanker stirs and climbs from her lap. “I guess… you just work on your book. And I’ll work on my rehearsal and my play.”
“You’re writing a play?” I ask, interest sparking.
“Yes. Or I’m trying to. I haven’t really started yet. I’m trying to think of a scene to start with, but, yeah. It doesn’t matter.”
It does. It blazes through me, the thought of my woman writing and starring in her own play, setting the world on fire with her unique vivacity and beauty and genius.
But if I let myself ask any more questions, I know I won’t be able to resist the animal urge to fist her dark hair and bend her over, grinding my swollen cock between her ass cheeks. I’d slip in deep, hard, right to the base, so her ass cheeks pressed against my belly. She’d whimper and shiver and beg that she’s too tight, her young slit is too small.
But then I’d pull out slowly, making her feel every tiny movement until she begged to be filled again.
I turn away, rising to my feet, stalking over to the window, and looking out upon the shimmering blackness. The rain distorting the darkness.
“I should say goodnight then, right?” she murmurs, rising to her feet behind me.
No, no, no, a voice roars inside of me, trying to compel my pulsing body across the room and over to her. Throw her onto the bed and tear her hoodie off, revealing those plump tits, and then pound her virgin hole as those nipples danced for me.
“Y-yes,” I snarl, having to force the words past my instincts. “Goodnight, Rayla.”
“Goodnight, Roman.”
She turns and walks away, her footsteps slowly receding until their sound is lost beneath the rain.
I take in a deep breath, but there isn’t enough air.
I feel empty, hollowed-out, as I think about a future without Rayla in it.
Chapter Thirteen
Rayla
I wake the next morning to the sound of rain, with the room so dark I lean forward to check the bedside clock. It’s eight AM and yet it looks like it’s midnight. Yawning, I turn on the light and look around, as though expecting to find Roman in here, as though he would’ve come to me in the night.
We agreed to ignore what happened between us, to pretend like it never happened, because that way it’s easier to live with ourselves. We don’t have to face what we did, the betrayal. We don’t have to carry the weight of it.
“Motherfucker,” Roman roars, so loud I can hear him over the rain. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I’m on my feet straight away, running through the cabin, almost slipping down the hallway in my socks.
I knew Millie was right when she teased me about sleeping in socks.
Up the stairs, I sprint, running down the hallway toward the sound of Roman shouting.
“Fuck.”
I push the door open to find him standing shirtless at a punching bag, sweat sliding down his body. His chest muscles bulge and his back muscle, from this angle, are like a sheet of pure rock. Everything is tight, beads of moisture sliding down into the crevices of his ripped body. Tanker sits on the other side of the gym, head resting on the treadmill.
“Oh,” I say, as my eyes shoot up and down his body.
He’s wearing baggy gym shorts, light blue, and they show me how excited he’s getting as his manhood hardens and makes the fabric tent.
“What’s up?” he snarls, taking a step back.
My eyes flit to his knuckles, grazed and bloody. He’s not wearing any gloves, just pounding bare-fisted at the bag like some kind of savage.
“You were swearing,” I say, trying to look anywhere but at his enflamed manhood.
But that just means looking into his glinting wolfish eyes, into the desire burning brightly there, calling to me.
“Was I? I didn’t realize.” He smirks. “I was imagining this punching bag was those fuckers who hurt Tanker. I guess I got carried away.”
A shiver courses through me as his mouth twitches again. It’s that smirk, so cocky and confident, so filled with certainty that he could claim me at any second he wanted. He knows that I’d start to gasp and shiver if he shoved me up against the wall now, pushing his finger inside of me and pumping his hand.
