I pull out, with a slap to her ass, and let her drop down to the ground.
“Not until you fucking talk to me.”
It takesa while to get cleaned up as best we can, using bottled water and cloths I brought from the kitchen.
Right now, I need her to fucking open up to me.
And if those heavy-lidded eyes, that pouty mouth, and her exhausted demeanor are any indication, she’s ready.
I tended to her scraped up knees the best I could, but there’s not much I can do for those, or her temple, which took most of the rug burn. Her hair covers it. Mostly.
Curled up in the back of the SUV—clothes back on, trays of food stored safely again, and the car still running for AC—her breathing has finally calmed down, her eyes glassy from pleasure, not tears, and it’s time.
Her curvy frame is molded to mine, as I hold her to me, stretched out along the back. One hand draped over her waist, she plays with my fingers, studying the tattoos there.
“Y’know,” she starts, husky voice sounding oddly fulfilled. “You’re feeling awful attached for someone who hasfree lovewritten on his knuckles.”
I chuckle in her ear, five o’clock shadow grazing her hair and cheek as I nuzzle into her.
“You think that’s what my tattoos say?”
“They literally do.” She picks up my right hand. “Free,” she says, then swapping hands. “Love.”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Free.” I swipe the backs of the fingers painted with the reminder along her soft cheek, not missing the way she reacts to the touch.
Pausing to let that word be the only thing that fills the inside of the car for long enough to sink in, I bring up my other hand. “Love.”
Even from this angle I can see how uncharacteristically soft her eyes are right now. Like her walls are finally down and I’ve gotten in.
It feels like victory. Like I could almost delude myself in this moment into thinking this thing between us won’t end when the summer does.
When she can’t extend a permanent position, and I’ve got my dream one waiting back in the city.
She holds my hand in place with one of hers and traces the letters on my fingers one at a time, her soft puffs of breath hitting my skin as she does.
“Love is for my last name,” I tell her, nibbling on her earlobe and pulling on it with my teeth as she stares at my hand like she’s never seen it before. “Amante meanslover. And I try to make it the core of everything I do.”
My free hand slides over her stomach, down to her hip, and holds onto her.
“My cooking, when it comes to the restaurant, withyou,” I tell her, letting my mouth follow her jawline with teasing nips and kisses until she turns her face back toward me enough that I can kiss her.
Our mouths mold to one another’s, moving together with enough pressure that it stirs my cock back to life at the feel of her. Kiss deepening, I let my tongue come out to play for just a quick visit. Just one little exploration, reminding her of the feelings I give her, the way she buckles under my touch.
When I pull back, I can feel her resistance, and I can almost hear the complaint from her puffy lips.
“And free?” she whispers, when she finally gets her breath back.
All the fingers of one small, feminine hand hold onto my pointer finger, the one with the last E on it in FREE.
My voice drops down into the bottom of my register, the coldness of those years coming back to me, despite my current surroundings. “Being behind bars, it felt like I was an animal. Eventually I realized they thought I was one. Saw me as a threat to the safety of normal civilians because I didn’t have the same moral guidelines they did.”
Her eyes go wide as I talk, but she doesn’t ask for more.
My shoulder pops up as I say, “Black and white were a little more gray to me, and that made me a target. Someone to keep away from good people.”
Lexi’s breaths slow, like she’s scared to disrupt my story.
“There’s a lot I haven’t told you,” I say, voice gruff. “The shit I was involved in back then…”
