Just like any other night she wanted me to pay for the pain I caused. I’d accepted my fate. I knew who I’d laid down with. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted everything that came with Royce, even if that meant an occasional bullet. I’d slid into her pussy. I knew it was worth the ER visits. My body would sort itself out. My heart couldn’t if she wasn’t in my world.
Slowly, Royce slid her Glock across the table, drawing it closer to her chest. Still, her fork entered her broccoli and brought it to her mouth.
My mouth.
I blinked away the images of what she loved to do with that motherfucker. How wet it was. How skillful it was. How warm it was. How good it felt.
“I come in peace, my baby.”
I lifted my hands, gifts in tow.
“You can’t come in any other fashion,” she assured me.
In a house slip, she was stunning. Her nipples pressed against it, hardening as I closed the gap between us. Royce was utterly alluring. My feet weren’t moving because of me.
It was Royce. It was always Royce. Without words, she demanded so much of me.
My stomach rumbled as I drew closer. She’d prepared dinner, but my hunger was mostly due to her absence. I needed a serving of Royce.
Her voice.
Her laughter.
Her pussy.
The way she put that motherfucker on me so effortlessly.
Her confidence.
Her care.
Her.
“I’m starving, Royce.”
“Food is in the kitchen. Fix your own plate.”
Her voice was cold. She’d iced that pretty heart of hers.
“Not for food, my baby.”
Silence.
“Royce–”
“You break into my house… you disturb my dinner… and continue to call my fucking name as if I can’t hear. Ishmael, I’m trying really hard not to put one in your arm. Your healing won’t take too long.”
“If that is the first step to forgiving me, then let that motherfucker rip, Royce.”
Silence.
I grimaced. The pain of her silence was far more excruciating than a flesh wound.
“Talk to me.”
I pulled out the chair next to her and slid it across the floor. I winched, remembering the first bullet she’d lodged in my side.
“Please.”
