"Can you memorize my number?" I ask, and she nods; I rattle off my burner phone's number and make her repeat it back to me several times.
"This feels an awful lot like goodbye," she says.
"Cause it is. You ain’t safe with me, honey. "I point at the men bleeding on the service hallway floor. "That's what you can expect, stickin' with me. That and a whole hell of a lot more of it. On my own, I can lose 'em, get back to Vegas where I'll be safe and don't have to deal with these fuckin' loser assholes. Out here, it'll be that. Fuckers with guns showin' up and tryin' to kill me. You want that? Course not. I can’t give you romance, babe. It just ain't in me."
She stares up at me for a long time, her expression shuttered, inscrutable, unreadable. "I asked for romance, when? I didn't. I've known you for what, thirty minutes? You don't know the first thing about me, and I don't know the first thing about you. The only thing I know is you gave me the best orgasm I've ever had, bar none, and you made it seem easy." She closes the gap between us, brushing her chest against mine. "I'm not asking for romance, Saxon. All I'm asking for is a shot at being alone with you, in a bed, for at least an hour. Just to see if fucking you is as good as I'm imagining."
"I'm down for that, sweetheart. And let me tell you, I want to know the same thing. Because I’m imagining the fuckin' between you and me would be world-class, and I gotta admit it's been a hot minute since…well, never mind that. You don't wanna fuckin' know. But to get there, you're risking your life, every minute, nonstop."
She looks up at me, her bright turquoise eyes bold and fearless. "You won't let anything happen to me."
"What makes you say that? You miss the fact that I fuckin' murdered motherfuckers for a living?"
"Yeah, I caught that. I grew up on the streets, big boy. I know people. You're a badass motherfucker, all right. You can put the hurt down, but I know down to my bones, you won't hurt me, and you'll die before you let anyone else hurt me. So, call me crazy, call me stupid, but I'll take my chances. And no, I don't expect shit outta you on the other side, okay?"
I assess her—she hasn't freaked out, hasn't panicked. And I keep thinking about the line she gave me when we first met—she can suck a marble through a straw. I'm legit jonesing for a sample of that shit.
This may be the dumbest decision I've ever made, but as long as I don't die before I've felt those luscious, pouty lips wrapped around my dick, it'll be worth it.
And she's right about at least one thing: I’ll be double goddamned if I let anyone lay a finger on her.
Other than me, that is.
All An Act
Terra
My legs are jelly, still. I'm doing my best to hide from him exactly how fuckin' wrecked I am, but…Jesus. He ate me out like a man dying of starvation faced with a gourmet meal.
I feel sexy. Beautiful. Desired.
Things I don't normally feel.
Most of my conquests leave me feeling meh at best. Yeah, they appreciate my giant honkers. Nice. Cool. But I'm always left with the feeling that I'm not much more to them than the sum of my parts. Tits and ass, pussy and mouth. No brain, no heart, no personality required. Just my girly bits.
Saxon…yeah, the first thing he did was look at me like I'm something to eat. And then…he ate me out.
And so far, hasn't said a damn word about what he wants in return. A good cock sucking, I'm sure. And Jesus, after the earth-shattering orgasm he gave me—or, series of earth-shattering orgasms, more accurately, because I swear I came at least three times in succession, although I admit I lost count—he's damn well earned it.
In fact, with what I felt brushing against me, I’m kinda eager to give it to him.
I have the distinct feeling that I've just gotten myself into something crazy, though. I mean, dragging him off the street to stand up in the wedding… that was crazy. But armed men shooting at us? That's a whole other level of batshit that I'm not sure I'm ready for. Sure, I grew up on the streets, but not like that. Not with gangs and drive-bys. Or, not routinely, at least. I've seen people killed, and I've known dudes who were killers. But those dudes were, as Saxon put it, two-bit thugs. Saxon is something else. Something more. A lot more. He made it look easy—and he was going out of his way to not kill them. Which seems harder to me.
A thought occurs to me, then, and I gasp. "EMILY!" I take off at a sprint back the way the way we came, kicking off my heels. I reach the door and prepare to Hulk-Smash through it, only to feel a thick, hard, powerful arm hook around my middle and swing me 180 degrees like a rag doll.
"Hold up, there, hot stuff. Let me check it out first." His voice, fuck. Low, raspy, and brimming with confidence.
