She looks up through spiky lashes. I close my hand over hers and show her what to do.
I lay my forearm against the tile and rest my forehead on it, breathing hard as she jerks me off. Her free hand slides over my stomach, and I lean into her.
“Faster,” I mumble.
She strokes me harder and faster with her right hand, and her left slides around to my back. She slaps my ass and digs her nails into me. The pain’s nothing, and it does nothing.
I open my eyes, and she’s staring at my face. She moves her left hand to my chest and my pecs clench. Her thumb brushes my nipple and she whispers, “Stay. Stay with me.”
A memory hits me full on. Of being on the brink of death, of pain and fire so deep that I just want it to end, but I keep holding on, keep fighting the end, because she wants me to.
“Fuck,” I choke out as I come.
I let her stroke me until I’m empty, then I sink to my knees. I lick her tits and then move my mouth lower, kissing her belly and wrapping my arms around her. I’m gutted.
It’s unreal, like witchcraft, the way she can reach phantom fingers into my body and squeeze my soul until I’m breathless.
After a few moments, she rubs my shoulders. “I’m the one who got you shot. But I’m the one who saved you, too.”
I let go of her and force myself up, regaining my feet.
She grabs my forearm. “I saved your life, right? That’s why you can’t hate me?”
I wash the cum off my body and then push her in front of me to rinse her off too. Then I reach around her and turn off the water.
I lift her up and push the shower door open, stepping out and setting her on the floor. I towel off and then hold the towel out to her.
“Sasha?”
“What?” I say gruffly, rubbing the towel over her skin and hair.
She grabs the towel and jerks it from my hands. “Sasha!”
“What?” I growl.
She slaps a hand on my belly and glares up at me. “Tell me you don’t hate me.”
“You know I don’t,” I say, low and frustrated.
Her voice softens. “Because I saved your life?”
“No. Because you could.”
“What does that mean?” she asks, pulling my T shirt back on.
I move her aside and stalk out of the bathroom.
“I’m trying to understand,” she says, following me.
I lift a duffle onto the kitchen table and yank out some clothes. I drag on a pair of boxers and trousers that need to be ironed, staying silent, but tempted to talk. This is the way it is with her. When I ignore her, it’s an act, and an act of will. I raise a custom black shirt and pull it on, buttoning it without looking at her.
“Hey,” she says.
I glance her way. Her hair is spiked in all directions. I give her a comb. She shakes her head, but then drags it through the inky black strands.
“Did you bring me here to get even with me?”
“Why do you call me Sasha?”
