She falls apart as soon as I make contact; her body quakes and her hot little cunt tightens around my cock while she groans through her orgasm, bringing me right the fuck along with her.
God, she’s perfect; and I don’t just mean the sex. Sure, that deserves its own brownie points, but it’s not just that. It’s who she is. The only other person in my life that I’ve been able to open up to or trust in any way that actually mattered is my best friend; and that’s a very fucking different scenario than this is. I’ve never had this kind of connection with someone on this level. I’ve never let someone see me cry. I’venever told them about the worst things that I’ve done, the worst things that I’ve seen. I couldn’t.
She somehow managed to break down a wall built up around me that I had no idea even existed. She looked inside and saw the shitty past and the usually-even-shittier choices, and god knows why, she decided to stick around for more of it.
I wish I could tell her what I think, what I feel about her, but I can’t. If I told her that, it would be real and it would matter.
With her body finally free of the rope, I sit behind her and bring a cool cloth to her skin, running it carefully over the red marks left on her body. “A couple of these are gonna bruise,” I tell her. “I’m sorry, Sugar.”
She lets out a little giggle, twisting her forearm to inspect the rope’s pattern pressed deep into her skin. “I don’t mind. That was a fun game. I’ve never played with rope before.”
“I don’t like the idea of you bruising.”
Her, specifically. I’ve never given a shit if my ropework left bruises on anyone else; it comes with the territory. You play rough, it leaves marks. Hell, I even like the way the bruises look; on me and anyone else. I think they’re beautiful. But onSophia?
She turns to face me, wrapping her legs around my waist, and her hands cup my face. “I asked to play. I could have tapped out if I didn’t want it; Iwouldhave tapped out. Besides, the bruises will be hot.”
“You are something else,” I laugh. “So, what’s your prize?”
Pulling her lips together, she taps a finger on her chin, making a big show of thinking through her options. “I thiiiink…”
“Yes, Sugar?”
“Hmmm.” She trails her eyes from mine, down my body and back up again. “I think I’m gonna save it for later.”
“That wasn’t in the deal.”
“Winner’s choice,” she winks. “So the winner makes the rules.”
My hands finds it way to her throat, wrapping firmly around it, and I bend to meet her lips with a laugh. “Better make it a good one then, you little scammer.”
•
Laying in my bed, I scroll through Netflix until I find a show that would make for good background noise, and I press PLAY. I turn the volume down enough that it won’t bother Sophia, but it’ll make enough sound that I can get some half decent sleep.
Sophia lays draped across my chest. I lay here quietly for a while, listening to be sure that I hear the little breaths she takes when she’s dead to the fucking world asleep.
I don’tcuddle;I’m not the guy a woman comes to when she wants someone to hold her after we have sex. I don’t mind falling asleep after a long night, but if a woman - or women – wind up sleeping on me or using me like their human pillow, I slide out from under them, roll away, whatever it takes to activelynotcuddle with them.
I like having Sophia on me, though. I like smelling her hair while her head rests on my chest. I like the feel of her weight on my body. Hell, I even enjoyed the way she kissed her own lips tattooed onto my chest, and how she played with my nipple jewelry until she fell asleep.
“Sophia?” I whisper, waiting for a response that doesn’t come. “You awake?”
She doesn’t say a word, she just keeps taking those little breaths. They come slowly, just every now and again, and sometimes they’re interrupted by a mumble or a whine, if she’s having a dream. Tonight, it’s just the little breaths. Soft and quiet, like a fucking kitten. I wrap my arm around her and hold her tight.
“I do love you,” I whisper to her. “And that scares the shit outta me.”
Her body shifts a little bit on top of mine, and I hold my breath for what feels like five fucking minutes before I can let it back out; if she’d heard me, I don’t think I could take it.
TWENTY-NINE
Davis
Colt stands in front of the tee, lining up his shot before pulling his club back. When he swings it forward, it makes contact and sends the ball flying, landing just a few inches from the twelfth hole. We were finally able to have the layout redone last year, and we’re now working our way through the course again, trying to hit a hole in one at every stop.
I reach down to set up my own tee, dropping a monogrammed golf ball onto it, then stand to get my shot lined up. I swing the club back, throwing it forward to whack into the ball. It shoots off of the tee and flies far, landing right in the damn rough.
“You’re off your game today, asshole,” Colt jeers.
