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I twist my hand around the crop’s grip, changing the angle before she has a chance to know what I intend, and I land a single leather slap to her clit. At the same time, I repeat the magic word, short, sharp, an unmistakable command: “Come.”
She cries out and collapses, letting her knees bend, pressing her thighs against the edge of the bed. She’s coming again, deeper, harder, so intense she’s lost the capacity to sigh, to breathe, to chant my name or call on God.
I toss away the crop and rip my belt loose. The sight of her, the smell of her, the taste of her still on my tongue… I don’t have time to shuck off my jeans.
I shove my pants down with my boxers, just enough to free my raging cock. My fingers close around her hips, posing her, warning her. My dick moves like a heat-seeking missile, and I plow into her, balls-deep.
She finds the air to gasp then. Her fingers clutch beneath their ropes, greedy, longing. I pull back, almost leaving her tight, trembling pussy, but when she whimpers, I give her what we both need. I ride her hard.
I can’t last long, not with the memory of her breaking beneath me at the fair, not with the scent of her filling my room, not with the heat of her clutching me, pulling me in on the ebbing tide of her own release.
Five long strokes, each deeper than the one before.
One endless moment when my cockisher pussy, when we’re so completely joined, so utterly locked that I don’t know where I end and she begins.
A single second when something cracks inside me.
And then I’m coming harder than I’ve ever come in my life. I’m deep inside her, and my shout or my grip or my flood of white-hot heat brings her back to the very edge. One last time, I order her to come. She screams my name and bucks beneath me and her slick needy cunt milks me dry.
A century later I can breathe again. A thousand years, and I can open my eyes. Another millennium, and I can plant my hands on either side of her sweat-streaked back, pushing myself off of her, finally slip free of our mingled, puddled heat.
I climb onto the bed and fumble at her ropes, freeing her left hand first, then her right. I brace her as she lowers her arms, absorbing the stretched ache of her body with mine. I pull her spine against my chest as she starts to shiver, throwing a leg over hers to spoon her back to warmth.
She sighs and wriggles closer. Her ass presses against my cock, which for once is too spent to do anything about the very welcome attention. Folding her close with my left arm beneath us, I work the fingers of my right hand through her short hair, finding a place at the nape of her neck that makes her purr.
I’ll give her a few minutes. Then, I’ll get her a glass of water. Feed her a square of dark chocolate. Bring her some salve for the marks I left on her ass and take care of the—
“Oh sweet fuck.” I say the words out loud, because I’m too shocked to lock them inside.
I’ve never fucked without a rubber. The Beast’s seen to that. The Beast, and my fifth-grade health teacher who drilled into my impressionable little skull the twin certainties of disease and fatherhood.
Sex has always meant convenient foil squares. I keep one in my wallet. I’ve got a box in my nightstand. I never travel without a strip tucked away in my Dopp kit.
I don’t drive without keys. I don’t fuck without condoms.
And it never crossed my goddamn mind to stop and get one tonight. I never had a moment’s hesitation. I never had a single, solitary instant where I thought I should pull back, hold off, suit up.
Alix murmurs something. I miss all the words but her final lilting, “Okay?”
I nuzzle a soft kiss to her temple. “I’m fine.” But I have to go on. It’s only fair for me to say, “But I fucked up. I didn’t wear a rubber.”
I’m not sure what I expect, how she’ll freak out. She might be furious. She might be terrified. After everything Herzog put her through, she might cry.
But she rolls toward me like she’s waking up after a full night’s sleep. She shifts her legs to capture my thigh between hers. She folds her hands between us, planting her palms on my chest.
I try not to stare at the stripes my ropes left on her wrists as she asks, “What will make you feel safe?”
“Makemefeel safe?”
She reaches for my hand, lacing her fingers between mine. “Is it enough just to tap? Or do you need to punch something to clear the compulsion?”
I just pumped my jizz into her unprotected body, and she’s worried about how I’ll calm the fucking Beast? “No,” I say. “It’s not that. I’m fine with that. But I don’t want to hurt you. The last thing you need to worry about is getting pregnant.”
Her laugh sounds like the snort of a tiny dragon. “Not a problem,” she says. She guides my fingers to the soft flesh inside her upper arm. “The one gift Herzog actually gave me.”
I feel a hard ridge, like a couple of matchsticks nestled beneath her skin.
“Five years,” she says. “No babies. No visits from Aunt Flo.”
