Page 47 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
I knew he wanted to by the way his hips rocked forward as if testing the waters. Coming up dry, he pulled out and sprawled across the bed, catching his breath.
I felt hot and cold at the same time. And raw. As if the physical barricades had been burned away, leaving me exposed. Helpless. All I could think about was ending this night so we could get back to normal—at least our version of normalcy.
The room was silent except for our breathing, and I had the inappropriate urge to giggle. I managed to restrain myself. All I needed was another bout of hysteria for him to peg me as crazy, not that he’d be wrong.
Colin broke the silence. “Was I too rough?”
“No.” And before he could ask anything else, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
For the second time in our relationship, I retreated to the bathroom after sex. I slammed the door to let him know he wasn’t invited this time. To ask him to follow me again.
From on top of the toilet seat, I watched the doorknob. My ears listened for footsteps or the turn of the knob, but none came. I wanted for him to come, but he never did.
I should be grateful that he’d listened to me. After feeling invisible at Philip’s, after raging for control over my body for years, the fact that he’d granted my request should be bliss.
For the first time since I’d met him, I felt truly alone.
Hard
Skye Warren
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Enjoy the story…
Chapter One
“Do you want pancakes?” I asked Colin, imploring him with my eyes. Let’s be normal. Just pretend.
His eyes narrowed, but he nodded.
Thank you.
I couldn’t talk about what had happened last night, not when it was so fresh. More than that, I wasn’t even sure what had happened.
I’d gone cold during sex before. In fact, I’d been cold during every sexual encounter I’d ever had, except with Colin. Never with Colin, until last night.
I piled three pancakes, the top one fresh off the skillet, onto a plate and carried it into the dining room. Colin sat, not at the head of the table, but near the foot, next to Bailey. Right in the syrup splash zone.
“Waka!” said Bailey. She was coated in syrup and pancake crumbs, from the tips of her sticky hair to her grubby, outstretched fingers.
“Good morning,” Colin replied to her, with the same gravity with which he’d accepted my offer of pancakes and peace. Satisfied, Bailey returned to sculpting her soggy pile of pancake. I set the plate down in front of Colin.
“Coffee?” I offered.
“Please,” he answered.
I returned to the kitchen, which I already knew like my own, and brewed the coffee. More baby talk trilled from the dining room, but I figured I’d best let them get on without me. I would try my hardest to keep Bailey in line, but if Colin was truly averse to the mess or the noise of a child, then this wasn’t going to work.
A string of warbled sounds. Low tones. The bang of tiny fists on the high chair tray punctuated with a shriek.
I rushed into the dining room, prepared for the worst. Bailey fussing or throwing a tantrum. Colin angry and splashed with syrup.
What I found was Colin sliding a handful of pancake squares onto Bailey’s tray. A slice of the pancakes from his plate was missing, now replaced with Bailey’s pancake lump.
He turned to look at me, all seriousness. “She wanted to trade.”
Bailey giggled.
