COTTON
December 09
Dear Shiloh,
I had a panic attack today. I was working, trying to act as normal and together as I could, and I saw him across the floor. He’s been good about avoiding me—I guess his father is making sure of that—but he was there today. Watching me.
Out of nowhere I had the thought—what if, by allowing him to run me off, I leave the door open for Justin to do this again? To hurt some other girl?
I can’t.
I have to tell.
I can’t I can’t I can’t
He’ll kill me.
And suddenly my vision went black around the edges and I couldn’t catch my breath. It was like someone punched me in the stomach as hard as they could, knocking the wind out of me.It was the first time it had ever happened, and I thought I was having a heart attack. It was awful. Humiliating. I passed out and when I came to, I was in a fucking ambulance.
I should have recorded the general when he came to issue his warning, but I wasn’t thinking beyond the fact that holy fuck, he looks just like him. Those pale, cruel eyes, the thin lips. The long, thin fingers that pressed and clenched and pinched...
I fucked up.
Shy, I have to tell someone. I don’t know what I’d do if—
I couldn’t live with myself.
IAWOKE TOBRODIE’S FACE BETWEEN MY LEGS.At the first touch of his mouth, a tender, close-mouthed kiss on the heart of me, I jolted into awareness. His hands, one splayed in my lower belly, the other cupping my ass, held me in place, and with a wicked look across my torso he began to lick.
His tongue flattened against me, applying exquisite pleasure as he lapped at my juices, then rolled and speared into my channel. Moving one hand, he inserted first one finger, then two, moving his tongue to tease the taut nub of my clit.
I groaned, shifting against his mouth with restless movements. A distant part of my brain wondered at his enthusiasm, while another, more present one told me to shut the hell up and enjoy the ride.
I could feel sensation coiling in my gut, a pressure building low and insistent, demanding release. I didn’t want to come on his mouth, though. I needed him. His flesh, hard and powerful, reaching every depth. Every hidden part of me.
I reached down and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up my body. “You. Now.” I managed to tell him what I needed, and then I was grabbing his silken length and positioning it at my opening. I closed my eyes, lifting my hips to meet his.
Instead of the thrust I expected, I felt his fingertips, feather light, on my cheeks. “Look at me,” he said, and my eyes opened to his, inches above me. There was a question in their whiskey depths, and I settled beneath him, lifting my face to kiss him softly, sweetly.
“It’s you,” I told him. “You above me, you inside me, you surrounding me. No one else.” He thrust as the first word spilled from my lips, withdrew, and returned. I met his pistoning hips thrust for powerful thrust, until we clenched and trembled together, and all there was, was the sound of our breaths, soughing hard and violent into the morning stillness.
Brodie rolled us until I lay, limp and unmoving, atop him. I couldn’t help but marvel at this connection that had seemed to spring up out of nowhere. Aside from his sensitivity with the trauma that plagued me, he understood me in ways that no one ever had. Even before the rape, sex had been easy, fun. Something to take the edge off after a rough week. It had never been intimate, and until now, I hadn’t even realized I was lacking that closeness. Closing my eyes had been a way of focusing on myself and what I needed to get myself off. I’d never had anyone refuse me that shield, demand to be invited in.
And it was even harder to do so after the rape.
We stayed like that until our breathing had almost returned to normal, his hand stroking my back absently. Then he groaned and slapped my ass. “Shower. And then food. I need fuel.” After sliding from beneath me, he scooped me into what I was quickly coming to realize was his favorite position, my legs wrapped around his waist and our hearts separated by skin alone. He was a romantic, I realized, as he fused our mouths together and walked us into the shower.
Then he turned the water on cold and I yelped, realizing he was also a man child.
Still, showers with a man child could be awfully fun.
Afterwards, we made breakfast—or at least, Brodie made breakfast and I sat on the counter and watched, swinging my legs and sipping a cup of coffee. “The only thing that would make this better would be you in an apron,” I mused. “And nothing else.”
He shot me a cheeky smile. “Come now, luv, my feet would freeze.”
He was good in the kitchen—more, he was comfortable in the kitchen. He could have sliced bananas into a bowl of cereal and I’d have been happy, but instead he made bacon and French toast, complete with a sprinkling of powdered sugar and sliced strawberries. We ate at the counter from the same plate, him standing between my legs.
“This is disgustingly domestic,” I said, wiping my mouth and allowing Brodie to pull me off the counter when we were finished.
