He shifts a little, and I feel a pang of regret as he starts to withdraw.
But he doesn't go far.
He pulls out slowly, carefully, and I can't help the soft sigh that escapes me.
He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, a simple, tender gesture that makes my heart ache.
"Stay here," he whispers. "Don't move."
As if I could.
I watch as he gets out of the bed, moving with a surprising lack of awkwardness for a man who was just shot.
He is a study in controlled power, even now. His body is a work of art, all lean muscle and taut skin, crisscrossed with a map of scars that tell a story of a life lived on the edge.
Each one is a question I want to ask, a story I want to know.
I watch as Adrian goes to the door and checks it, then the window. He disappears into the bathroom, and I figure he's checking the window in there too, though he probably already did that.
I curl up on my side, pulling the sheet around me, and smile sleepily.
Ever vigilant, my Adrian.
The room is a mess, a testament to our passion. The pillows are scattered, the sheets are tangled, and my robe is a small pile on the floor.
It looks like a bomb went off.
It's wonderful. The evidence of my recklessness, of our recklessness, is strewn across this room.
I am reckless. I'd never thought of myself as reckless before. I've always been the careful one, the responsible one.
But with him, all my carefully constructed walls come tumbling down. All the rules, all the inhibitions, all the fears... they all just melt away.
He comes back into the room, stops at the table to pour a glass of water, and brings it over to me. "Here," he says.
I push myself up, wincing as my sore muscles protest. I am not the only one feeling the aftermath, it seems.
He sees my wince, and a flicker of something—guilt, maybe?—crosses his face.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gruff.
"I'm fine," I say, taking the glass. "Just a little... used."
A wicked look comes into his eyes. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
I take a sip of the water, my eyes never leaving his. "A very good thing."
He smiles, slow and satisfied. My stomach does a little flip, and I want him to do me all over again.
It's insane, impossible, that I could want him again.
Every inch of my body was ravaged, and I came more than I've ever come before, harder than I've ever come before. My clit is sensitive, my pussy can practically still feel him sliding in and out of me. My lips are swollen, and my hair is a mess from his hands.
Hell, I can still feel him dripping out of me and coating my thighs.
And I already want him again.
It's a sickness. It has to be.
