I was still in the throes of my attenuating orgasm when Chad roared out an expletive and pulled out of me. Hot bursts of semen fired out all over my ass as he emptied himself there, one hand gripping my waist either for support or so I didn’t “move a muscle” and ruin his big bang moment.
As soon as he let me go, my feet gave out and I slid down the wall onto the ground. Chad collapsed with me, chuckling lightly as he rolled over onto his back.
Once my breathing got back on track, I rolled over on top of him and kissed from where his cock lay half-erect on his lower abdomen, right up to his chest, up his neck, until I got to his lips, where I whispered against them, “Thank you. That was amazing.”
Down on vigor, Chad hooked his arm around my neck, kissed me soft and gentle, then whispered back, “I hate you.”
I grinned and kissed him back, wanting to get the last one in. Then I dropped kisses back down his body and sat back on my heels to undo the laces of his boots. Pulling his boots off and socks, I tossed them down the hallway, which was completely littered with all-black garments. His jeans joined the All-Black Litter Crew a minute later.
Leaving him as bare and unhidden as I was, I stood up and dipped my right hand between my thighs, inserting two fingers inside myself. Looking down into his smoldering eyes, I withdrew those two fingers, brought them to my mouth and licked them, then sucked them off. When that little move gave me the reaction I desired—Chad’s cock hardening, growing, stretching further up his abdomen, wanting inside me again—I gave him a wicked half-smile then spun and hip-swayed down to the guest bedroom. “Meet me under the shower head, bad boy.”
We fucked while we showered.
We fucked after we showered, got all hot and sweaty, then had to shower again. Where we also fucked.
Lying in bed now, wrapped loosely around each other, weak-limbed, we were red-flagged for fucking too much. Placed on suspension. Penis and vagina blocked and frozen until further notice.
I trailed my fingers through and through the ridges of his rock-hard abs, thinking about the suspicious empty birdcage inked on his left pectoral. Walking my fingers up to his chest, I tapped my index to the pectoral tattoo. “When did you get this?”
When a full minute eased by with no reply, I raised my head to check if he’d fallen asleep. But those black eyes were wide open, staring at me.
I tapped his tat again, non-verbally re-asking the question.
“Six years ago,” he said, voice still and quiet.
“What does it mean?” I kind of had an idea what it meant, but wanted to hear the words out loud. To feel special. “Why is the cage empty?”
Flinging his arm over his eyes, he made an annoyed sound in his throat. “Really, Jhay? Are you really this egoistic?”
Taken aback, I braced up on my forearms. “Egoistic?”
Angling his arm from over his eyes, he arched a challenging brow at me. “Lie to me and say you don’t already know what this tat means, Jhay. Lie to me.”
Okay. I guess I was an attention-seeking, biggity little brat with Chad sometimes.Onlywith him, though. Because I wanted to be the center ofhisattention at all times. I wanted to know I meant a lot to him. I wanted him to feed me some Prince Charming line like “the sun rises and sets with you”. And after almost strangling me to death, I think I deserved that much from him, dammit.
So I tipped my chin up and said, “Yes. I do know. But I want you totell me. I want to hear.” I mock-pouted. “Pwetty pwease?”
As though he couldn’t help it, he cracked a smile, then cupped my face and raised his head a little to give me a quick kiss. “The cage is my heart. The missing bird is you, Tweety Byrd. The cage door being open is a sign of hope. Hope that you’d forgive me and fly back home one day. To where you truly belong. Inside my heart.”
The confirmation sounded even better coming from his mouth, and I kicked my feet out next to his like an excitable all-pink teenager. This made Chad laugh and shake his head. “And now that I’ve flown back home, what’re you going to do?”
“What do you think? Lock you inside the cage and melt the fucking key.” His palm glided down the curvature of my back, paused on my ass, then squeezed. “You’re stuck with me, Jhay. It’s me, or no one.”
See, most blind-by-love women would find that sweet and completely miss the threat in that statement. But “me, or no one” was a dangerously obsessive love and ownership proclamation. Especially when spoken from the mouth of a cold-blooded murderer.
Even though I was cross-eyed blind with love for this man, I didn’t miss the meaning behind that “it’s me, or no one” threat. It was a simpler term for “till death do us part”. And not in the marriage kind of way, either. The ones exchanged in wedding vows had no weight; “death” in that sense was a mere scrawl of a signature to a divorce paper. “Death”, in an unconventional relationship with a girlfriend-murdering criminal, wasdeath.
The thing with me, though, was that I felt his words were fair enough. How? Because my sentiments were exact. For him, it was me, or no one. He was stuck with me. We were both a detonating threat to each other. Both hardcore danger. Two horns wrestling atop the Devil’s head.
However, if ever a man should whisper the words, “it’s me, or no one”, don’t sigh and think it’s sweet. It’s not. It’s not sweet. It’s bitter as gall. Painful as a piercing bullet to the heart. Fuck around and you’ll end up like Liz. Mark my words.
Run.
Love does not threaten. Love does not test, try or compete. Love does not challenge, claim or dominate. Love does not strangle. Love does not suffocate, debilitate or erase. Love does not kill. Love does not end.
Love goes on. Love flows.
Love simply loves.
