Bambi holds my gaze as I pick up my pace, pushing into her deeper, faster, and harder. Her eyes roll in the back of her head a few times, but she never shuts them again.
We hold each other’s gaze even when it gets hard to. Even when her breath turns to gasps and tears fill her pretty brown eyes. Even when her moans turn into screams and her nails claw against the old scars on my back. Even when my control finally snaps and I slam into her pussy so hard, we both come, cursing each other’s names.
I stay there for a second, breathing hard, hovering over her as the last of my orgasm tears through me. Her body is still trembling beneath me, her breaths coming in thin, uneven pulls, and when I lift my head and look at her, she still doesn’t look away.
So I keep looking at her. At her flushed skin. Her swollen mouth. At the tears still clinging to her lashes, and the softness in her glossy eyes.
Even like this, wrecked, breathless, and thoroughly fucked, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“You should probably go.” She whispers, swallowingas her eyes shift to the patio door. “It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning.”
“Yeah.” I nod, furrowing my brow. “Right.”
I back off of her, and as soon as I’m out of bed, she pulls the sheet up over herself.
I find my clothes in the dark and get dressed slowly, listening for any sign that she’s changed her mind. By the time I tug my shirt on, she’s already turned away from me.
“Goodnight, Bambi.” I say, hesitating near the door.
“Night.” She says softly, not even bothering to look back.
I step out of her room and gently slide the door closed behind.
A few minutes ago, she let me bury myself inside of her, and we watched each other come. Now she won’t even turn to look at me.
I’ve felt like an object my whole life. A weapon. A solution. A tool. Something to reach for when there’s a problem, then set back down when the problem’s gone. I know that feeling. I expect that feeling. I just never expected to feel it from her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dahlia
The second thepatio door closes, the room goes painfully still, and the air feels colder than it did a minute ago. For a moment, I just lay there staring at the wall, listening to the sound of my own breathing.
What the hell was that?
Not the sex. I went into tonight knowing exactly what I wanted, and Echo more than delivered on my expectations.
I’m talking about that moment afterward.
The one where he stared into my eyes while he was still deep inside of me. The one where he didn’t say anything, but the soft, almost reverent look on his face said everything. He was looking at me like this meant more to him than just sex. And for a second, it started to feel like more than sex for me, too. Then I panicked.
Was it a dick move to kick him out seconds after he came inside of me? Absolutely. But I didn’t want either of us lying there in the dark, saying something stupid and turning one reckless decision into a much bigger mistake.
I sit up and drag both hands through my hair.
I don’t know what the hell is going on with me.
I’ve done this before. Not with Echo, obviously, but the concept of hooking up with someone isn’t new to me. I know how to keep sex simple. I’ve kept it simple with men who said all the right things and looked great on paper. Men who were charming as hell, and who were significantly less dangerous than he is. Keeping feelings out of it has never been an issue for me.
So why is my stomach twisting itself into knots right now?
I fall back against the pillow and stare up at the ceiling. Maybe it was the eye contact. I think I let it go on too long, and my brain started misinterpreting things. Attaching feelings to something simply because of the intensity of the moment.
It didn’t mean anything.
I mean, this is Echo we’re talking about. The same man who breaks into my apartment, watches me sleep, and says deeply deranged things so confidently that my brain forgets I’m supposed to be alarmed by them. Of course sex with him was intense. Of course the aftermath felt even more intense. Everything about him is intense. He doesn’t know how to do anything casually, but that doesn’t magically turn one hookup into some grand emotional revelation.
If anything, it just proves that we need to keep doing it.
