Pushing. Pulling. Giving and taking.
Amara whimpers with each thrust, but in the same shaky breath begs me not to stop.
With a gun to my head I wouldn’t stop.
I can feel her tightening around me further, the inside of her growing wetter as she pulses. The need to let loose surges through me, hot and almost painful, rushing from my lower stomach to the head of my dick.
The orgasm tears through us like the beast has been unchained. We both cry out. Sweat drips from my brow onto her breasts, glistening in the moonlight pouring through the windows.
After we peel ourselves off the floor, she tugs her shorts back on and I change into a fresh pair of gym pants. We lay on the bed, me on my back on top of the blankets because I’m still hot from the workout and her under the covers, laying on her side, her unfinished wine in hand.
“Are you always this quiet after sex?” she asks.
“Do you always need to talk after sex?” I ask, my eyes closed.
“I’m a woman,” she says.
“And I’m a man,” I answer.
I don’t need to open my eyes to know she’s smiling.
“What are you thinking about?” she presses. “And don’t lie to me. I’ve made a living off of being able to read your expressions.”
I let out a heavy breath before opening my eyes and looking at her. Sure enough, she’s got a sassy smirk on those pink lips of hers.
“I was thinking about your brother,” I tell her, and her smile falters.
“What about him?” She takes a sip of wine.
“He’s working on a car.”
“He is.” She circles the tip of her finger on the rim of the glass. “He loves cars.”
“You know he plans to race it,” I state. It’s not a question.
Amara shrugs. “He’s an adrenaline junkie. Always has been. But don’t worry, he’s fast but not furious.”
I don’t laugh at her joke. This topic has a way of killing my mood. “It’s dangerous, Amara. Not just racing, which in and of itself can get the kid killed. But the people in that world.”
“Oh, trust me, I know.” She takes a sip. “Our dad used to be a cop.”
I sit up. “Your dad worked for the NYPD?”
I suddenly feel like an idiot for not knowing that. I looked him up, but only his last few jobs, which were all at liquor stores and convenience stores, plus a bowling alley at one point. I had him pegged and didn’t see a point in digging deeper.
Sloppy mistake.
“Yes. My mom hated it. He says that’s why she left. He used to be clean. Though it was so long ago I am the only one that remembers it.”
She left.
Amara’s mom didn’t die or get sick or anything like that. She left. She left her husband and four kids, all because her husband was a cop? It doesn’t track. Police work is dangerous, for sure, but not leave your kids dangerous. Not unless he wasn’t a normal cop working for the normal part of the PD.
I get up.
“Where are you going?” Amara asks.
“I need to check on some work things,” I answer dryly.
