I’ve overwhelmed him for sure. But there’s no hate in his energy.
“Does it hurt?” I ask him gently but I already know the answer.
“No…?” His throat sounds parched, “I don’t know?”
“You came so much,” I turn his head to kiss the tears on his other cheek, “so it couldn’t have hurt.”
“Ngh.” His hole tightens with my movement, “You’re still… inside me.”
A small smile touches my lips, “Can’t I stay inside you?”
“No! Take it out!”
Fine, fine. I slide my cock out of him and there’s another low wail from his lips as he seizes up from the movement.
“You’ll get used to it with practice.”
“I don’t want fucking practice.”
I chuckle under my breath and it’s so strange that I don’t feel uncomfortable—that even now, I’m still holding him in my hands after fucking him.
He watches me weakly, and all I can think about is how adorable he is—how vulnerable he is in front of me.
… I really do like you.
“Uncuff me.”
“No.” My response is immediate. “What if you run away?”
“I don’t even think I can walk.” A sudden low groan leaves his lips as he turns away, “Did Wesley… hear everything?”
“He parked the car somewhere in between and got out.”
I was a little too preoccupied, but I did feel when the car stopped and heard when he got out.
I vaguely remember him cursing me too.
“Now I have to quit because of you,” Christian mumbles and I growl.
“Don’t even joke about that.” I nip his neck. “I’d fire him first.”
I’m peppering small bites across his neck, adding to the marks I’ve already placed there until finally taking my weight off him and rummaging around the duffel for the key to the cuffs. The steel has formed a sexy bruise across his wrist and when I’ve freed him, he rubs the area with his fingers gently.
I’m looking down at the state of him when suddenly, a frown touches my lips.
His energy is pretty with satisfaction, his cheeks are tearstained, his hair is wild and there are pink bites all across his neck and collarbone… Still, it differs from the visions in my fantasies. I can’t put my finger on it.
I raise his shirt to expose his skin, unblemished by my touch and it finally clicks into place.
My fingers brush the wound at his stomach and suddenly his fingers are snapping out to tighten around my wrist.
The wave of unwelcome in his eyes and sudden tension in his body feels like a slap to the face and when I blink, I know he notices my expression. His eyes soften and he moves his hand away but there are conflicting emotions now in his energy that weren’t there before.
A fierce stroke of guilt. Of self-loathing, uncertainty, panic.
“Not there.” Another plea. A different kind.
Survivor’s guilt. I’m sure that’s not all it is, but I’m certain it’s one of the things that haunts him.
