I stop giggling and watch him.
“Never, Leila. Do you understand that?” His eyes are serious.
I slowly shake my head, hoping he’ll elaborate.
“I’ve been searching for something to hold me together for a long time. And I just found it.”
Kenneth’s words resurface from memory.Go away, Kenneth! Not now, when I’m lying naked with the man I just fucked.
“Are you sure it’s not your orgasm or your newly discovered kink talking?” I try to bring some humor, but he ignores it.
“You’re mine, Leila, and no one else can have you.”
I should be scared of a declaration like that, but I’m not. I’m a woman of the twenty-first century, and it sounds too possessive, archaic, and unhealthy.
And I’m fucking loving it.
“Don’t you want to ask my opinion?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll change it in my favor.”
His body suddenly turns rigid. “Lei,” he says in a whisper.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, confused.
“We didn’t use…” His words trail off as he looks down at my legs.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I wave him off. “I’m on birth control and I’m clean.”
“I’m sorry, I should have asked before.” His voice is full of self-loathing again.
“You didn’t have time because I was holding your cock hostage.” I chuckle at my own phrasing. It’s not far from the truth.
“That you were.” His chest rumbles with a laugh. “But I’m clean too. In fact, never done it without protection, and quite frankly, wasn’t planning to. But you can be distracting.”
I turn into his chest and laugh, tickling his skin. Nibbling on it, I feel a stir under my thigh thrown over his most manly area. Because yes, Stephan is all man, butthat, right there, is something extraordinary.
“Really? Already?”
“What did you expect?” His arm squeezes me tighter.
“We had sex a few minutes ago. Your balls should be empty.”
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “I love when you talk dirty.”
I smile and relax, feeling content deep in my bones as I trace the cut scars on his chest. They’re barely visible because of his tattoos, but I can feel them with the tips of my fingers.
“How long have you been doing it?”
I don’t need to explain what I’m asking about because he knows. Sighing heavily, he says, “A few years.”
“And everyone was okay with it?” I hate that I ask about the women in his life, because I know for a fact there have been plenty. Kayla used to tell horror stories about how he came home every night with a new lady on his arm but was always a gentleman about getting them a taxi the first thing in the morning.
Bile rises up my esophagus, but I need to know.
“Yes,” his reply is curt.
“I hate them.”
