Those girls don’t love him. I do. They don’t know how to take care of him. But I do.
He’s my Arrow.
So if anyone’s going to ease his pain, it’s going to be me.
Arrow watches me, studies my face. My messy hair, my nose, my lips.
He even goes down to my heaving chest, my bow-shaped body. My thighs that are spread out around him.
It’s both a lazy perusal and over so quickly that I’m left abandoned when he comes back to my face, my skin throbbing and tight.
“No,” he clips.
“What?”
“I’m not going to fuck you.”
“Why not?” I almost whine.
I mean, I’m willing and available and I want to.
It’s my right.
And I’m ready to explain that to him again but I notice something.
A change in him. A change in the air, even.
It becomes heavier, darker. More heated.
Like him.
“Are you pouting at me?” he asks softly, his eyes on my lips.
At his low tone, a hot shiver skitters down my spine and I arch up even more.
I wasn’t aware of it.
I wasn’t aware that I was sticking my lower lip out in disappointment. Maybe because I’ve never done it before.
I’ve never pouted. Ido notpout.
But somehow, I’m doing it right now.
Somehow, I’m doing it for him.
“Youarepouting at me, aren’t you,” he concludes.
He is right. I am.
And it feels so… provocative, so seductive to be doing that. To be pouting at the guy I love because he won’t fuck me.
Like he’s the man of the house and I’m a naïve teenager.
He is the man of the house though, isn’t he? He always has been.
Big and protective.
He even saved me from those girls and took me on my first motorcycle ride.
