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I’ve had her hot little lips wrapped around me a dozen times, watched her struggle to swallow me, and it’s not nearly enough.
I’ve jacked myself off between her perfect tits and painted her face.
Mostly, I’ve stayed balls deep in her pink, fucking her every which way from Sunday, plus several new days of the week having sex with this woman just invented.
Ludicrous?
Fuck yes.
Before, I never bothered hooking up with the same woman for a full week.
Life was sex and duty, and sex was a chore.
Barely any different from blowing my nose whenever I’d feel a sneeze coming on.
Now?
Now, it’s not so simple.
Delia has her hooks in. She’s crawled up my skull and hot-wired my brain.
That’s the real reason I want more after we’ve fucked more times than I can count.
That’s why I can’t keep my paws off her even when we’re not naked and gasping and tangled.
It’s not just because my dick never wants to rest.
When we’re out, I’m always holding her by the waist or guiding her through the glittering casinos and meandering crowds with my hand wrapped tight around hers.
It’s partly that protective instinct.
After what happened with the cartel men, she’s never leaving my sight.
But keeping her this close only makes me rage more about the men who almost stole her away.
I keep waiting for a call from Sex, something to break this holding pattern.
I want to know the coast is clear. Or better, we’ve made plans to gear up and haul ass south of the border to neutralize the threat forever.
Over breakfast, I scan the local news, but there’s nothing else about the men I killed or the follow-up investigation.
The minute I feel two slim hands on my shoulders and a throaty “good morning” in my ear, I push the paper away, falling back into her spell.
“You looked worried,” she whispers. “Is everything okay?”
My hand covers hers, grasping her fingers tight.
No. Things are not o-fucking-kay.
Not while I’m a hunted beast and too caged up to do anything about it.
“All good. Just need more coffee,” I lie.
My heart crashes against my ribs as I watch her reach for the carafe and refill my cup. Then she settles into my lap, her face pressed to the nook of my shoulder, breathing me in.
Goddamn.
For a second, without the cartel’s axe over my head, the illusion fools me.
