Page 59 of Doozer
He kissed my neck, then ran his tongue over my pulse, burying himself deeper inside of me. “I love you too, Stephanie Palmer. That will never change.”
“You don’t have to make me promises, honey.”
“And I don’t say shit I don’t mean,” he countered, sliding a hand between us and fingering my clit.
Our physical connection in the past had always been frantic, lustful, passionate. And it wasn’t as though it wasn’t that now, it just happened to be slow and gentle as well. Doozer made love to me and we connected on a level much, much deeper than we ever had before. It was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.
He rolled me onto my back and rocked into me slowly, kissing me as a climax built. “I can’t wait,” I rasped.
“I’m close, baby.” He moved faster then. Slamming into me over and over until I could no longer hold back my orgasm, screaming his name as my walls contracted around him.
He wasn’t far behind me, his cock pulsing as he came, then rolling us onto our sides facing each other.
“That was otherworldly,” I whispered.
“Fuck, yeah it was.” He chuckled, kissing me gently, then pulling out of me and stepping into the motel’s tiny bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and cleaned me up, kissing me gently before pulling me back into his arms.
“Training can’t be over soon enough,” I complained.
“Agreed.”
“What were you and Taxi talking about earlier?”
“Nothing important,” Doozer said, unconvincingly.
“Really?” I challenged. “Because, it looked like some macho, he-man bullshit was going down between the two of you when I walked in.”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Which means it wassomething.”
Doozer sat up and faced me. “You didn’t grow up with siblings, so you might not relate to this, but every Thanksgiving, the wishbone was a big deal in our house.”
“The wishbone?” I chuckled, sitting up to face him, surprised by Doozer’s left turn.
“Yeah, you know, the wishbone from the turkey.”
“I know what a wishbone is, but what does this have to do with your conversation with Taxi?”
“When we were kids, my sisters and I would fight every year about which two of us got to pull the wishbone apart. It was supposed to be fun, but to us it was blood sport. A primitive ritual to find out which one of us would be bestowed with good luck for the year. Every year, no matter how good the meal was, or how well we’d be getting along all day, the moment that wishbone came out, it was war.”
“I’m still lost,” I said.
“I don’t want you to be the wishbone in between me and Taxi,” Doozer said, softly.
“Is that what was going on earlier? A game of tug of war with me as the prize?”
He sighed. “Yes and no.”
“Okay, you need to start speaking ’Merican, buddy, because I’m about to lose my mind.”
“I’m having a hard time letting go,” he admitted. “I don’t like that I’m being replaced—”
“You’re not being replaced.”
“Let me get this out. I need to verbally process.”
“Sorry,” I grumbled.
