I nodded, he could have all those things, and Woodrow could keep my heart.
“I love it.” I wasn’t lying. . . I really loved what he was doing now.
“Do you want to come again?” he broke off the suction of my left breast to ask this question.
I nodded, hungry for another orgasm and eager to please. And eager to get his hot lips back on me.
“Then beg for it.”
“Please, please let me come again,” I pleaded, giving something in return.
I ground down against him, twisting my hips in a way that had his desire spilling through his mouth in a trail of vulgar language.
The sound of it pleased my ears, and the feel of his cock thickening pleased my body.
I came again, my breathing ragged, like his, as he shot his milky cum inside me.
“Fuck, Jolie,” he grunted against my clammy skin.
I found it a small blessing that he was clammy, too, and no longer cold.
He continued fucking me for another minute, pushing his cum deeper and deeper inside me, like he was trying to gift me with an eternal present. A tiny version of him that would be pure.
If only he knew that could never happen. After the last experience, my body made sure I’d never suffer that trauma again . . .or the joy of seeing a pregnancy to term.
But I’d made peace with that a long time ago.
His raspy breaths filled my ears as he held me close, slowing to a stop. He didn’t abandon our joining, keeping me in his arms. Keeping me as close as possible.
This was all new to him, but it was now or never and he knew that.
And he wanted the experience before it was taken away from him.
I moved my mouth to his, ready for another kiss, but as my lips landed on his, he pushed me away, only catching me before I slipped off his dick and his lap.
The action hurt us both, and I groaned. He pulled me back quickly, desperate to stop me from bending his shaft further.
His face was twisted, like there was an ugly taste in his mouth.Was it me?I wondered.Was that why he didn’t want another kiss?
Figuring it was probably the pain, I moved in again, but he leaned back as my face neared, the same grimace on his face. His reaction hurt me, convincing me it was my scars, but he hadn’t had a problem with them all night.
“What is it?” I asked, daring him to tell me. “Is it my scars?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then why won’t you kiss me?”
“I can taste blood.” His words knocked me back.
Nothing could have prepared me for what came next, either. Hell coughed, his hand quickly catching a clot of blood from his lung that would have hit me in the face if he hadn’t moved as quickly as he did. He shook it off his palm, the reddish-brown clump dropping to become worm food.
My thumb brushed at his cheek, rubbing away the flush of worry.
“Are you okay?” I asked again, praying he’d have the same can-do-anything-attitude he did earlier.
But he didn’t, and he didn’t answer because he didn’t want to lie to my face.
“You’re getting cold again,” I told him, as my other hand felt over his heart. The racing beat showed the fear he didn’t verbalize. “Do you want to do something else with me?”
