“Your mind,” I whispered, pinching the head of his cock in my palm. “Your dreams.”
He made a weary, but amused noise.
“Foster.” I said his name even though I wasn’t sure what to say next. I knew what I wanted, what lived in my chest, but there was no way I could admit that.
Thankfully, he interrupted me, “Come back in one piece.”
His request was scratchy and rough, like the way his fingers scrabbled against my waist as I rubbed what was no doubt a barely satisfying orgasm out of him. Hot wetness seeped through the denim of his jeans, and Golden’s entire body shuddered as he came beneath my fingers.
“I’ll do my best.” I lowered him onto the couch since it didn’t seem like his knees could hold him up any longer. He finally looked at me, confirming everything I’d said to be true. I lived in his chest, in his brain, in the marks I’d left on his neck, his ass. I squatted between his legs, reaching into my back pocket and pulling out my Sig Sauer. My daily. The gun I trusted to save my life when I needed it to. I pressed it into his palm until his shaking fingers wrapped around it.
“I’ll come back in one piece,” I promised him. “And youstayin one piece. The only person who gets to take you apart is me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Foster
The familiar staccato buzz of a work message vibrated against my thigh. Sage had been gone two days and I hadn’t heard from him, though I hadn’t really expected to. I’d spent too much time alternating between memorizing his file and watching the news and worrying. I was a mess.
Which…
That was ridiculous.
I’d killed more people than I could count, more people than I cared to remember. I’d taken paychecks on most of them, bought this house, the car in my driveway. I’d built my life on the shit I’d done with no guilt. And yet Sage was running around…alive. Sage was taking up air in the world and space in my head, and much like the last time I saw him, the aftermath of our pairing had me jerking off more times than I would want to admit to anyone.
Worst of all, I’d given him my fucking favorite gun.
I ignored the work text and called Rich.
“Foster,” he greeted, “hang on a second.”
Rich spoke away from the phone in hushed tones, and I picked at invisible dust on the leg of my pants. My 1911 sat on the dining room table in front of me in pieces, neatly arranged alongside Sage’s Sig Sauer, which I’d also taken apart. I’d been trying to clean them, but my brain was too distracted by things it had no right being distracted by.
“Everything okay?” Rich’s voice was back in my ear.
“Everything is fine,” I lied.
“Then why are you calling?” he asked, sounding entirely too amused. “Arranging another slave auction?”
“No.” I sighed.
“I assume this call is about Sage.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted.
“Oh.” Rich made an unsurprised noise.
“I think it’s…I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Sage?” he asked.
“Him or anyone.”
“Love isn’t a bad idea, Foster.”
“In this line of work it is.” I folded a microfiber cloth into a tight square, then flicked it back open.
“If your job defines everything about you, Foster, you’ve got to find something new.”
