“I know. You were in the military. I assume you’ve killed people.”
“Could say that.”
“Worse than that.”
“Rev.” That soft call, forcing my eyes to hers. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Should be.”
A shrug. Which, god help me, does amazing things to her tits against my chest. “I know. I probably should be. But I’m not. You can tell me everything, and I’m not going to run away.”
I laugh, bitterly. “Yeah, you say that now.”
“Try me, then.”
I hold her eyes. “You’ll bolt.”
“I told you my stuff. Most of it.” She traces my jaw, like she just can’t get enough of touching me. “I’ll tell you the rest. I’ll tell you all of it, if it’ll help.”
“You really wanna know my shit?”
“I want you to trust me.”
I choke on that. “Trust one person on this planet.One.”
“Chance.”
I nod. “Been at my back since I was fuckin’ ten.”
She keeps quiet.
I swivel us on the bed so my back is to the headboard, shove pillows behind me. Myka arranges herself on me, one leg next to mine, the other slung over them so the soft silken weight of her thigh drapes over my crotch. Her body is entirely on me, one breast flattened against my ribs, the other hanging against my chest. Partially on her side, partially on her belly, giving me most of her weight, her arms tucked in, one hand curled under her chin, the other on me, tracing a wandering path from belly to chest to shoulders to neck to face and back at random. My arm is around her, beneath her, one hand casually cradling her hip, the other resting on my hip; once in a while, her wandering hand pauses at mine, there at my hip, and makes a journey over my knuckles, over my fingers, over the knob of my wrist bone.
Good god, the way she touches me. The affection. It guts me. Sets me alight. Makes me want something I don’t have the words, experience, or emotional capacity to even frame in my own mind.
Just….this.
Her.
Always.
Fuck.
11Not Like Me
Myka
He’s as at rest as I think he can get, and he still holds himself somewhat tensed, ready, hardened. Like he literally does not know how to fully relax.
Maybe it’s me, my touching him. I can’t help it, though, and I don’t have it in me to try. I love his body, his muscles, his size and strength. I love the brown of his skin, naturally dark and tanned darker by a life spent outside. His eyes, his cheekbones, his jawline. All of him. I like it all and I crave it all. Need to touch it all, to remind me that I’m here, that I’m experiencing this.
And also, I touch him for him. Because I get the impression he’s never had this, ever. Which is utterly heartbreaking. And I want to heal whatever wounds in him I can, even if it’s just with the way I’m intimate with him and through physical, nonsexual affection.
After arranging us on the bed and draping the blankets over his knees, he’s silent for a very long time.
I wait.
I’m in no hurry.
