Mine.
Em twists her face around, burying it in the pillow. Hiding from me the same way she used to hide behind that glorious mane of hair.
But I’m done with her running away from me. Even this tiny attempt to skitter from the spotlight of my eyes.
Done.
I let go of her hand and twist her head to the side, checking her nose is clear, the pulse beating in the side of her neck is strong.
I pull her back up to her knees, trying for restraint, trying to be gentle. To give her what she needs while I take my fill.
But I’ve spent too long imagining this, dreaming, longing for it. My fingertips sink into the flesh of her hips as I slam her back against me as hard as I thrust forward into her.
They sink in as I hold her steady, panting as my cock convulses, then spills its seed deep inside her, pumping until there’s nothing left.
I can’t stand to withdraw. My erection still intact enough to stay buried deep inside her body as I roll her onto her side, cradling her close, my lower arm curling up across her chest, cupping her breast as I drop kisses along the line of her shoulder.
There’s an old proverb. When you save somebody’s life, you become responsible for them.
I saved Em’s life. That means she’s all mine.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
EM
Caylon falls asleep, still resting inside me. The sensation is strange, not unwelcome, but different from anything I’m used to.
I want to fight him, impress upon him he’s not a hero, not to me, that rescuing me from something I need to do isn’t any sort of rescue at all.
It’s hard to hold on to that anger when his body is using mine to create a symphony of pleasure. The rush of sensations he unleashes chase my anger into hiding, shepherding my fears into a holding pen.
He rouses after a few minutes, clenching his muscles so his cock jerks inside me, making me giggle. He slowly withdraws, then fills me up with the entirety of his length again before pulling out for real. He slaps my butt cheek and holds on, jiggling it while his palm warms it to a moderate heat.
Then he’s gone. His weight leaves the bed and even when I go to the trouble of turning my head it’s just to watch him disappear into the bathroom. He comes out again a moment later with a damp cloth.
“You should pee as well,” he says, carefully wiping between my legs, cleaning me with his strange, fixed attention, bending to plant a kiss right on my pussy before he retreats and rinses out the flannel.
When he uncuffs me from the headboard, I shake my wrist free and turn towards him, burying my face in his chest. I clutch his shirt with one hand even though he’s not my hero, not my rescuer, not my salvation. I throw my other arm around his neck, an all-consuming fear chasing me into his embrace.
He kneels awkwardly, letting me find a comfortable position before he returns the pressure with his own, nuzzling into the crook of my neck as I reciprocate.
“It’ll be okay, Em,” he tells me with such supreme confidence that I want to believe him. I know the real world doesn’t pierce his orbit any more than it does with Zach or Trent, so his opinion isn’t trustworthy, but the fantasy takes hold hard. It doesn’t want to let go.
I go to the bathroom, coming back with the expectation he’ll cuff me to the bed again. Instead, after dressing me, he secures me to his wrist, facing each other, with my uppermost arm left free to roam. It immediately clutches him again, wanting him to move closer even when he’s pressed so hard against me we’re practically one.
Sleep seems impossible but hours later, I jerk awake with the faint outline of dawn creeping its way in through the windowpane. Morning.
Caylon’s arm remains wrapped around my waist, but it’s loosened while he’s asleep. I try to turn over, to see his face, but when I tense my muscles with just the slightest hint of movement, he stirs, nuzzling into the back of my neck and pressing a kiss where the heavy cardigan stops covering me.
A few minutes later, his breathing slows, becomes heavier as he falls back to sleep.
There are so many pain messages broadcasting from so many stations that I struggle to take stock of them all. My throat is the worst. My neck feels like someone pulled it apart and put it back together using blocks of Lego rather than vertebrae.
Stiff. Dysfunctional.
I swallow and have to set my jaw as the pain turns sharp, pointy, stabbing needles the length of my throat. Worse than the time I had bronchitis in year eight and coughed so hard my lungs nearly flew out my throat.
My head aches. Not the namby pamby pain of the tension headaches that plague my life but something far more widespread. Like headquarters threw a rager and every synapse was invited.
