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Her words go straight to my cock and get me so damn hard, I’m about to bust open my zipper.
“Your every wish is my command.”
I take her against my bike, sinking deep into her with a growl. And when she comes on my cock and sags against my Harley, I join her.
I drop my head back and let my orgasm crash through me, and my growl of pleasure echoes across the valley as I pump and pump until I’m empty and we’re both shaking. But when I’ve finished coming, I remain inside her. I’m not done yet. I want this moment to last because chances are I’ll never see another moment like it in this lifetime. Not like this. Not as perfect as now. The view. The golden light. The sight of my girl bent over my bike. Her luscious pussy milking me and keeping me hard.
And as I start to fuck my girl slowly again, I watch the sun sink deeper into the hills and realize I’m not falling for her anymore.
I’m already crazy in love with her.
It’s dark by the time we get back to her apartment. We shower together, and when she’s pressed against the tiles, I make her come with my tongue until her knees buckle and she can’t stand. Then afterward, we cook dinner in her tiny kitchen, and I get struck by how much I enjoy domesticated life and how easy it would be for me to leave the old life behind.
I’ve never pictured myself doing any of this—cooking dinner, talking into the night, falling asleep every night in a pair of warm, comforting arms.
But I’m here for all of it.
After dinner, we take our drinks onto the terrace and sit under a star-scattered sky. The night is warm and peaceful, and I’m fighting with the words on the tip of my tongue.
I want to tell her I love her.
But something is holding me back, and the words never come.
Even later in bed, when I pull her into my arms and she wraps her luscious curves around me, I’m still hesitant. Instead, I fall into a heavy sleep where I dream about a future with my girl and forget about the gnawing feeling I have growing in my gut.
A gnawing feeling that tells me something isn’t quite right.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I get up for a glass of water.
In the kitchen, something hidden behind the coffee canister catches my eye.
It’s a gun—specifically, a Ruger SR1911 handgun.
I don’t touch it. When DNA gets you wrongfully imprisoned once, you get shy about leaving your fingerprints and skin cells in the wrong place at the wrong time. And something about this gun being carefully concealed on the kitchen counter tells me this is one of those situations.
My gut churns with unease.
Why does Rory need a gun hidden behind her kitchenware?
I know she’s afraid of her stepfather finding her, and I get that she wants to protect herself if he does, but it’s not the presence of the gun that disturbs me. It’s the placement of it that gives me concern.
It screams unusual.
Too specific.
Like something I’d do. I push back on the thought.
Rory is as much a killer as I’m the Pope.
Still, something doesn’t feel right.
I don’t say anything when I return to bed.
Instead, I try to convince my instinct I’m wrong. That there’s no reason for Rory not to have a gun, given the circumstances.
The next day, Jack wants me to ride out to the grow barn.
The grow barn is a massive brick and timber structure that used to be a canning factory back in the 1930s. Flanked by two cornfields, it looks empty and abandoned, nothing like the growing facility where we nurture thousands and thousands of marijuana plants from seedlings to mature adults.
