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Skylar's hand on my chin yanks me out of my trance. It's too easy to get lost thinking about my kid, but the second I hear that voice––that throaty, low voice that filters through my dreams day and night––all I can think about is her. And then her lips are back on mine––that heart-shaped mouth that gets her into trouble––and I can't think at all.
My hands move on autopilot. It's crazy, after all this time, five years together, and every part of me still knows instinctively how to please her. She's always been a book I can read this way, before we even spoke. They say that time dulls the senses, but for us, it's only gotten better. I know how to push her. I know how to make her feel better than she ever has, every single time.
With Skylar, it just comes naturally.
"Please," she breathes, hot and heavy against my lips. Fuck, I love it when she begs.
"What do you want, baby?" I whisper into her ear as I press just a little bit into her.
I've already given her a taste, and now she wants it. Bad. I nip the upper edge of her earlobe. She shudders, her thighs clenching around me. I almost come right there. Fuck,I need to be inside her again.
"You," she says, barely able to get the single word out. "Just...you. In me. Now."
She doesn't have to ask me twice.
I start to move slowly, but my girl is impatient tonight, jerking her hips against me, seeking a pace I'm not quite ready to give––mostly because I won't last long enough for her to come with me. She leans back on the counter, and fuck me, it's like she's serving up her body on a fucking platter for me. I reach down and brush her clit softly with my thumb, exactly the way she likes. Her body jumps in response, and eventually she starts to hum in time with my hips, thrusting back against me to take me as deep as she can.
Like I said: sexiest fucking thing on the planet.
"Come on, baby," I growl as I wrap an arm around her waist to leverage myself deeper. "I want the neighbors to hear you tonight."
I keep the insistent pressure going with my thumb while I pick up the pace with my hips. She moans and bites my shoulder as she collapses forward, all hot breaths and goosebumps. That breathy sound just about undoes me, and before long, she's shaking in my arms herself.
"Oh God," she cries as her body starts to tense up. Her fingernails dig into my back, and I feel her contract around my dick. I could lose it right now, but she's not quite there yet, and I want us to come together. Just...a little...bit...more.
"BRANDON!" she shouts as her body explodes around me, and thank fucking God, because I can't hold it back any longer either.
I shatter completely, cry her name as I empty myself into her. The woman makes me feel like I don't exist anymore––like there's no more Brandon, just this nameless core inside me whose only purpose it to give itself to her. I belong to her. I always did, even before I met her.
Slowly, gradually, we return to reality. The kitchen reconstructs itself around us––the familiar white marble, the atrium furniture, the wood floors that should probably be refinished sometime soon. But it's all a little blurry when I'm with her.
I pick my shirt off the ground and help her wrap it around her shoulders with a smirk before I locate my boxers. When I stand back up, Red is watching me with a queer look on her face. She's looking at the scar on my side––the one from the knife wound I took almost five years ago now.
While the rest of her face is still relaxed in a post-orgasmic daze, her eyes are slightly watered over. I know that look. It's the look that says I better get over there right fucking now.
"Hey," I say as I pull her into me. "I'm good. You're good. I'm here."
As much therapy as I've been in over the past few years to dig through my issues, Red is still dealing with her own traumas. The deeply ingrained trust issues that come from her mom and dad's neglect of her over the years. She doesn't like to hear it, but Danny was neglectful too. You can't have addiction nearly ruin your life and not fuck up your kid at least some.
But it wasn't until after Jenny was born that the panic attacks started. Paranoia plus postpartum blues is not a pretty thing, my friends, let me tell you. It didn't matter that Messina was dead and his organization had fallen apart without him––she was terrified his friends would come after us again, that someone would take Jenny the way they'd taken her. Lucas and Craig have been permanent fixtures in our family since the night Messina died.
It took her a while to come to terms with the fact that she was suffering from PTSD of her own––not as blatant and horrific as mine, but there nonetheless. Now that she knows it, the attacks, just like my nightmares, have become less and less frequent. And if I'm around, I can usually head them off using the same tool she uses with me: simple touch. I don't sing, though. Both she and my daughter have made it very clear that I have absolutely no musical talents.
After a moment, Red sits up and dabs at her eyes.
"I'm good," she says. "I'm good now."
I brush away the loose hair at her forehead and then kiss her. "Okay."
Then I step back, since Red usually wants a bit of space after these kinds of moments. I ramble around the kitchen, getting her a glass of wine, me a beer. She watches me from her perch on the counter, oblivious to the fact that even in my now-button-less shirt, her hair a slightly tangled mess from my hands, she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
When I turn back, she's grinning at me, like she sees something funny.
"What?" I ask as I come back around and hand her the wine.
She takes a sip and then combs back my hair with her fingers. "You need a haircut too."
I close my eyes and lean my face into her hand, enjoying the way it feels. "I thought you liked it long."
