Page 72 of Kiss Marry Kill
“What are you doing? Don’t stop,” she said, pushing him back down.
“Dick had never eaten your pussy?”
“Nope. He didn’t like doing it.” She nudged him with her heel. Why the hell was he talking about Richard? She didn’t want to think about Richard. Hell, she didn’t want to think of anything other than the way his tongue felt against her clit.
“Damn, I wish I’d known that before.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know . . . I would’ve paid more attention, or done it again, or . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, you can shut your mouth now and go back to what you were just doing.”
He chuckled before sliding back down and without hesitation latching on to her clit. “Ah . . .”
He hummed in response and held her thighs open with his hands. “Dick missed out,” he said, as he sucked, licked, nipped. “I can do this all day. It’s sweet like honey, just like you.”
“Less talking.”
His grip on her thighs was unrelenting and she tried to squirm but he just pushed them further up and apart until her legs were by her shoulders and he wasn’t laying down anymore, he was bent down, on his knees, completely engrossed. His saliva slid down her ass and when she was close—so close she could feel her thighs shake—he slid two fingers inside of her, working them in and out in sync with his tongue until she fisted his hair and pushed his head against her, coming hard and intensely on his face and tongue.
“Jesus,” he said. When he pulled back, his beard was wet and sticking out all over the place. But he didn’t hesitate or let her recover, because he slid his cock right inside of her, still holding her thighs apart. “How am I ever going to stop fucking you when you feel so good?” he said, breathlessly. “I can’t stop, Meg.”
Was he talking about now or the future?
She never wanted him to stop, she almost said.
* * *
I never want to stop, he almost said. He wanted this to be something they did all the time, whenever the mood struck. She was so perfect for him, in every single way. “Come with me. Again. Come, baby,” he said, thrusting in and out until he had one arm on the mattress by her head to get purchase, the other arm holding her thigh, her knee by her ear. She was twisted like a pretzel but the look of pure ecstasy on her face was enough to tip him over the edge. She followed seconds behind before he collapsed on top of her. Wiping his beard with a towel, he threw it aside and slid into bed with her.
“That was pretty fantastic,” she sighed. “Can we do it again tomorrow?”
Sliding strands of hair off of her face, he leaned in for a kiss. “I hope so. And the day after that and the day after that . . .”
“Mmmm,” she said lazily. “I like the sound of that.”
He settled into the bed and, in spite of all the shit going on around them, with Megan resting her head on the crook of his shoulder he fell asleep sated and content—a feeling he hadn’t known in far too long.
Nausea, sweat, and a pounding heart startled him awake in the middle of the night.
It was the same dream he often had. He was in the middle of the desert when there was a sudden explosion from somewhere behind him. Leaving his platoon behind, he ran around aimlessly trying to figure out the source of the explosion. But he couldn’t find anything, even as he chased the smell of fire and the screaming of his buddies burning. And the more he ran the more alone he felt. When he finally stopped running, he looked around and it was just miles and miles of sand. His skin was hot and dry, and the air he breathed was arid. There was nowhere for him to go. No water, no buildings, no people . . . just more desert. But his friends were screaming for him over and over, needing help—and he couldn’t find them.
But this time, for some reason, the dream was different. In previous dreams, he’d just given up . . . too thirsty, too tired, and too hopeless to keep going, eventually waking up feeling that hopelessness in the pit of his stomach for the rest of the day. In this dream, he never stopped. He had a determination to continue moving forward no matter what. In this dream he didn’t feel hopeless. But he did feel fear. A deep-seated fear of failure. What if he never found the end? What if he was stuck in the desert forever?
Careful not to wake Megan, he slowly peeled her arms off of him and slid out of bed, the clock on her nightstand reading 3:30. Immediately, Rambo went on alert and ran to the bedroom door. Fumbling around, Jax found his shorts, slipped them on, tucked his gun into his waistband, and went to the kitchen. Having the gun on him was second nature. Rarely was he unarmed.
He took a detour on his way to the kitchen, deciding to go check the gate for the hundredth time that day. When Dawson arrived later that week for a consultation that would be priority number one. By the time they were done there was no way Ryan would be able to get through it again.
“Stay,” he whispered to Rambo at the house’s threshold. The dog continued wagging its tail, immune to any command, so Jax shrugged and allowed the puppy to follow him out.
From the front door to the gate was a trail; a long walk that used to be lined with palm trees. It was now a bare expanse of space, without a single place to hide. “Come on, Rambo.”
Exploring the darkness, the puppy ran ahead of Jax toward the enormous ornate metal fence and the ten-foot-tall thick hedges that ran along the entirety of the property and hid the house from prying eyes. They were the only trees he’d left standing, in order to give the house some privacy.
Jax followed behind the puppy. It was hard to see anything more than a few feet ahead of where he walked, but he could just make out the energetic wagging of Rambo’s tail as he sniffed everything in the yard. Maybe the dog had been a good idea, if only to provide Megan with comfort.
Rambo’s sharp, high bark suddenly broke through the darkness. “What is it, boy?” Jax whispered, feeling suddenly exposed in the middle of the yard with nothing to shield him.
