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I collapse on top of her, groaning incoherently into her neck. She threads her fingers into my hair with one hand, while her other lightly draws circles on my back. I want more. I’m addicted, and the thought of her leaving snaps me back to reality. I lift my head and gaze into her beautiful eyes.
“Tell me we aren’t friends.”
She giggles, the sound reassuring. “We definitely aren’t friends.”
I try to put on a serious face. “Good, because I don’t like you.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “I don’t like you, either.” She lifts her head and whispers in my ear, “But I do like the fucking.”
I groan. “And I like your dirty mouth. A lot.”
She winks and kisses my cheek.
I roll to my back and bring her close to me, positioning her against my side where she fits perfectly. Her cheek is warm on my chest. I trace a finger over the tattoo on her arm. It’s an Indian girl with an expression as sad as Maria’s often is. “Tell me about your tattoos.”
“My mother was half Indian,” she says dismissively.
“That isn’t telling me much.”
“There’s not much to tell, Tug. I was young and naïve and trying to figure out who I was. At that time, the tattoos expressed who I thought I wanted to be. Now they remind me of who I don’t want to be.”
She’s still young, and her answer holds far deeper meaning than she intended it to. I squeeze her tight.
“They’re beautifully done.”
“Yeah, there’s some kick-ass tattoo artists in the ’hood. Unfortunately, there are some seriously jacked-up people, too.”
She clearly doesn’t want to talk about “the ’hood,” and I drop it. When we met, she’d tried hard to project the strong, “don’t mess with me” type, but underneath her hard exterior is a softer, mild-mannered, and vulnerable woman. And I can’t wait to peel away every layer and discover who she really is.
“What about you? What’s with the name Tug, and why did you tell me your name was Ryan?”
“Same reason you used Monica at the club. I didn’t want you to know who I really was.”
“And why do you only allow certain people to call you Tug?”
“It’s a stupid nickname I picked up as a kid, and it stuck. I allow my family and close friends to call me Tug.”
She peers up at me. “You let me call you Tug, and we aren’t friends, remember?”
“Oh, and I let dirty-mouthed girls I don’t like call me anything they want.” I’m totally using sex as a distraction. Talking about me won’t end well.
“Hmm. Anything? What if I want to call you ‘asshat,’ or ‘fuckwad,’ oh, or ‘needle dick’?”
I reach up and grip her face in my hand, inserting my thumb into her mouth. “If you choose to call me ‘needle dick,’ it won’t be my thumb in your mouth.”
She sucks hard on my thumb, releasing it with a pop.
“And how’d it start?” she probes, going back to the discussion about my dumb nickname rather than acting on my hint of a request for a blow job.
“For someone who doesn’t enjoy the third degree, you’re sure good at dishing it out.”
She suddenly looks sad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was a difficult subject for you to talk about.”
I sigh. She’s taken my teasing seriously, and now to ease things over, I’m forced to talk about myself.
“I’m the youngest and used to tug on Liv’s and Tori’s shirts all the time. They hated it and started calling me Tug. No biggie.”
“You’re the youngest? I would have guessed Liv. You seem older.”
