With that, I cooked. He moved around me, pulling tags off things, unwrapping and unwrapping other stuff, helping me set up house while we casually kept up conversation about the town, about the job openings Jules had emailed to me (along with the information on how to get into said email) for to look into when I was ready.
I had time, he reminded me. I had a nice nest egg to live off of for a while if I didn't find anything I liked right away.
"I think I will go stir crazy if I don't work," I admitted. "I have always worked. I don't think I'd know what to do with myself if I didn't work."
"Draw. Paint. Do shit that makes you happy."
"Work made me..."
"Secure," he cut me off. "Work made you secure, not happy. Some people find it easy to confuse the two."
He wasn't exactly wrong about that. I had, somewhere along the line, started to confuse security with joy. Because it meant I would never have to go to bed hungry again. It meant I would never have to wear hand-me-downs or clothes from the Good Will. It meant that no one could ever confuse me with that little beat-down girl I had been growing up.
Because it felt good to have a full stomach, to be able to afford whatever I wanted, to be respected.
But that wasn't exactly happiness, was it?
Contentedness, maybe.
Security, absolutely.
But not happiness.
If you asked, I couldn't say when the last time was that I was truly happy.
Honestly, the closest I had come was when he held me in the cabin, when he held me up when I was drunk, when he pried my walls out of his way so he could see inside.
Little tastes of something I would never have again.
That thought seemed to assure that I wouldn't know much happiness for a while.
"I plan to draw and paint," I told him. "I got some supplies. I think there is a craft store a few blocks away too. I can stock up if I don't find a job right away."
"Good. That's good," he said in that soft voice of his. And it was weak and needy of me, but his approval made my belly go liquid. "Smells good," he told me half an hour later as he held out my new plates to me to fill up.
"Fuck, duchess," he said after cleaning his plate for the second time, rubbing a hand over his stomach, filling me with a surge of primal, feminine pride at having filled him up, given him that small bit of enjoyment. "That was banging even without cheese."
"And with all the veggies," I added, smiling.
"That too," he agreed. "Nah, leave it. I'll deal with it later," he told me when I went to reach for the plates. At my confused look, he shrugged. "Got another few Fast & Furious movies to finish, don't we?"
And so we did.
And so I had to admit after the sixth movie that he was right; the couch wasn't exactly that comfortable. But it did have the advantage of being nice and small. Cozy. Meaning the entire four hours we sat there, we were touching from shoulder to knee.
It had been wreaking havoc on my system since the moment we sat down.
When my behind couldn't take the hard cushions anymore, and I pulled my legs up to sit cross-legged, my knee went up on his thigh.
There was a second of nothing, just a tense silence, just me wondering if I should pull away.
But then his wide palm clamped down on my kneecap, squeezing, and then staying put.
It wasn't until the credits rolled that my head finally turned, eyes questioning. Feeling them, his head turned.
The guards were fully gone.
All that was left was pure, undiluted need, something I felt acutely within myself as well.
His hand slid slowly up my thigh, curving outward at the last possible second to sink into my hip, pulling, as his other hand rose to slide around my neck, pulling as well.
There wasn't even a hint of resistance, of second thoughts, of logic as I lifted up and moved to straddle him.
His arm went around my lower back, crushing me to his chest as my lips pressed down on his.
In that moment, everything melted away.
Everything.
My past.
His.
The guards we both tried to hold onto when it most suited our insecurities.
The fact that we both knew this was fleeting, that this moment, this night, this was all we could ever have.
All that existed was the here and now.
The pressure of his lips as he deepened the kiss; the way his fingertips slipped upward so they could slide into my hair at the nape of my neck; the feel of his hard body against my softer one; the sound and vibration of a low, primal growl as it moved through his chest and into my own.
This was all there was in the world
The feelings.
The rightness of them.
The odd mix of calmness and exhilaration that overtook me simultaneously, mingling with the desire that was like a live wire through my body, creating a heady combination that there was no word that I was aware of that could do it justice.
His tongue moved inside to claim mine, drawing a throaty moan from me as a shiver coursed through my body, making his fingers tighten on my skin.
When his hands sought the hem of my shirt, my arms went up, my lips pulled away, allowing him to slowly drag the material up, exposing my skin inch by inch to the hunger already in his eyes.
Once it was discarded to the floor, my greedy hands yanked at his too, a bit more clumsily than his had, a bit too frantic to be smooth or even sexy, just needy, just desperate to feel his skin on my skin, to get what we had both been craving almost since we met.
My hands were on his chest even while he was still tossing the shirt to the floor, fingers tracing over the tattoos there, wondering fleetingly if they had significance, personal meaning to him, wishing I could know what that was if they did.
My fingertip teased tentatively over one of the raised, puckered bullet holes in his chest, a moment of kinship coursing through me, knowing that there weren't many people who knew the feel of an enemy's hatred boring holes into their skin, knew the fear of wondering if you could make it.
From such different worlds, we somehow had a lot in common.
"Ancient history," Gunner's voice rumbled when, I imagined, my eyes started to convey some of what I was feeling.
With a small nod, my hand moved over the strong muscles of his chest, then shoulders, fascinated by the way they seemed to tense under my fingers.
His hands couldn't stay still any more either, drifting up my spine to find the clasps of my bra, unfastening them with a practiced ease, fingers sliding up to snag the straps, sliding them down my shoulders, then arms, until they drifted off my wrists and hands, discarded to the side of the couch.
"Fuck," he growled as his fingers shivered up my sides to cup my breasts, small in general, smaller they seemed in his giant palms, the skin a bit rough and calloused as it claimed the soft, sensitive swells.
My hips ground down on him in response, feeling the hard outline of his cock straining against the confines of his jeans, pressing where I needed it most, making my head fall backward on a moan.
His fingers squeezed and rolled the hardened points before his fingers planted at the sides, dragging me up and forward so his lips could close around one.
Needy, beyond reason, my hips started to move across his hardness, stoking my desire, promising an end to the torment of unfulfilled desire churning in my core.
His head shifted, claiming the other nipple for a moment before his lips claimed mine again, took everything I offered, demanded more, until I was whimpering against them, mindlessly begging for more.
His hands slid down my back to sink into my butt, grabbing hard as he moved to take his feet, holding me against him as he moved through my small apartment toward the bedroom.
It was the least decorated of the rooms, just an ugly overhead light, a closet, and the bed we had needed to settle for because it was all the store had in stock - a metal frame with no head or footboards. But the mattress was a thick memory foam
and comfortable. The bedding set was a pink champagne color that Gunner had scoffed at, but I thought was really sweet and simple.
He turned as he got to the edge, slowly folding forward, lowering me back onto the mattress with the utmost care, like I could shatter if he didn't.
It didn't seem like a man as strong as him could be so soft, but he could. And it made my insides liquify.
He pulled slightly against my hold, demanding a little space, allowing his body to slide so his lips could press into my neck, moving downward slowly, infuriatingly slowly, teasing down the center of my chest, my belly.
He shifted once he reached my navel, his lips pressing gently down on the center of my raw, ugly scar, somehow softening my feeling toward it in such a sweet gesture.
But all ideas of sweet flew out of my mind as he found his way back to his path down the center of my stomach, his hand reaching downward to start tugging my pants down my thighs, over my knees, then down off my legs, leaving me in nothing but a pair of black and white lace panties before him.
His fingers teased up the insides of my thighs, coaxing them open, teasing over the super soft spots at the tops.
The next thing I knew, his mouth was closing over my cleft, his tongue pressing into my clit through the rough material of my panties.
My hands slapped down on his back, fingers clawing in, one going to the back of his neck, begging for more. Answering my demand, his hand slid between, moving my panties to the side, sucking my clit into his mouth for a long second, long enough to make my back arch up off the mattress, before his tongue started moving over it - fast, relentless.
"Don't stop," I heard myself beg, feet planting, knees moving upward, hips rising up to meet his hungry mouth. "No," I whimpered when he moved suddenly away, hand dragging my panties down.
"Shh," he demanded softly.
His fingers moved back up my thigh, tracing the seam where it met my hip before moving downward, sliding between my lips, and thrusting inside me.
"Fuck," he growled again, planting his other hand beside my shoulder so he could watch me. "Was this what you were imagining?" he asked as his fingers started lazily thrusting. "Back in the cabin that day?" he asked, making the memory of what he was talking about shoot through my mind with blinding clarity. "No, shh," he demanded again when I started to stiffen. "Don't tense up," he added. "It was hot," he went on. "Hearing that, knowing you were thinking of me touching you like this, got me hard as a fucking rock," he told me. "Even after I thought I had just gotten you out of my system while I was in the shower."
"Gunner..." I started, then choked on a whimper at the end, not even sure what I was about to say.
"That sounds good," he he rumbled. "It will sound better when I'm inside you."
"Gunner, please," I begged, my hands going down his sides to slide over to the front of his pants, unfastening them, reaching inside. My hand barely got to brush over the hard head of his cock before he was suddenly yanking away from me, standing up to full height, looking down at me as he pushed his jeans off his hips. With a swoosh, they hit the floor, leaving him in a pair of navy blue boxer briefs that did nothing to hide his straining cock.
Sliding down, he ran his hand over the tip before reaching to drag the waistband down.
My sex fluttered as a strange, swirling sensation moved through my belly.
And in just seconds, he was as naked before me.
I decided right then and there that nothing could ever be quite as breathtaking as him.
His hand moved down, grabbing his straining cock, stroking it once while he looked at me before stooping slightly, snagging his wallet out of his jeans, grabbing a condom, then making short work of protecting us before lowering back down, lips to belly, tongue up the center, warm breath on my hardened nipples, each touch, lick, kiss, sigh, growl sending shivers across the surface of my skin, making the pressure of desire on my lower stomach almost painful to endure.
"Gunner, please," I begged again, legs folding across his back, pulling his body flush with mine, fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Please what, baby?" he asked, voice all gravel in my ear as his tongue traced the lobe.
"I need you inside me," I told him, lips pressing into his throat.
His cock slid between my lips, just stoking my desire for a long moment before I felt the wide head press against where I needed him most, pausing as he lifted his head to look down at me before sinking inside with a slight pinch.
"Like this?" he asked once he was buried deep, voice strained as his body went even more rigid against mine, trying to hold onto control.
"Yes," I moaned, grinding my hips upward into him, needing the friction, needing the oblivion he was promising me.
"You're so fucking tight," he growled, pulling back before pressing fully inside again, taking every inch of me, claiming me in a way I was sure I had never actually felt before.
Sex was sex.
This? This was more.
This was something different.
This was something I had no name for.
Because I was sure I had never felt it before.
Everything felt new. Every sensation stronger, heightened, more intense, different from anything I had ever known.
Even when his thrusts got faster, harder, as the demands of our bodies made slow and sweet and loving impossible, it felt new, exciting, like something precious I wanted to remember every second of.
"Come for me, Sloane," he demanded, voice nothing but a deep hiss, a desperate plea. "Let me feel you squeeze my cock," he added as my walls tightened harder, as his words seemed to push me right to the edge. "Come," he told me again.
The world went white as my orgasm crashed through me, making me cry out loud enough for my throat to hurt, my entire body going taut as my walls tightened around him.
"There you go. I got you," he promised as he kept thrusting through it. "Give it all to me," he added as I choked on the end of crying out his name, burying my face in his neck as the final, deep, almost painful pulsation moved through me. "Fuck, Sloane," he growled as he slammed deep, coming as hard - it seemed - as I just had.
His weight came down more fully on me after, face buried in my neck, heartbeat slamming into my chest where my own was at a frantic pace.
My body felt almost numb for a long couple of moments after, before a strange trembling sensation starting moving through my insides, making me shake.
"Aftershocks," Gunner said, pressing up, looking down, seeming to take in the confusion on my face. "It's been a while," he reminded me as though I could have forgotten. "You're just... worked up," he added. "Come on," he demanded, slowly sliding out of me, then pushing me further up on the bed. "I'll be right back," he promised, moving out of my room into the bathroom, giving me a great view of his perfect, muscular ass as he went.
Alone, I slid up and under the covers, figuring maybe I was cold, and possibly wanting to cover up a bit.
Gunner was back in a moment, still gloriously, un-self-consciously naked, going around the other side of the bed, lifting the sheets with a purely masculine disgust at the pink, then sliding inside.
"Come here," he demanded, curling an arm under my pillows, then pulling me toward him until I was nestled against his chest, his warm skin and heartbeat an immediate comfort, taking the building tension out of my body. "Breathe, duchess," he reminded me, fingers shivering up and down my spine before traveling upward, toying with my hair. It wasn't until I felt it fall around my shoulders that I realized he had been working my hair free.
"Hey," I objected, turning my head up on his chest to see his chin ducked down so he could look at me.
"I like it down," he told me, shrugging as another, smaller tremor moved through me. "You good?" he asked, his somewhat blunt way of wanting to make sure I was alright, that I wasn't having some existential crisis about the whole thing.
"Yeah," I agreed, turning my head back away so he couldn't see the smile, the truly, completely, uncommonly happy sm
ile that curved my lips until my cheeks hurt. "I'm good."
And I was.
Perfect really.
The aftershocks faded.
His hands, breath, heartbeat, warmth, and strength lulled me slowly to sleep.
I woke up alone.
As I guess a part of me knew I would.
The dishes were washed.
My file was on the counter.
And he was gone.
Forever.
ELEVEN
Gunner
I was such a fuck.
I knew that.
I had always known that.
But it had never bothered me before.
Before I slid out from underneath a peacefully sleeping Sloane, her body soft, warm, pliant, way too tempting, shrugged back on my clothes, washed the dishes from dinner, then ran out of actions to do. To occupy my time. To drag it out. To delay the inevitable.
I had to go.
I should have gone before.
Before I got to know her taste, her touch, the sounds she made while I was inside her, the way she cried my name as she came.
I should have gone before then.
I knew it as we sat on the couch.
I knew it, but I couldn't stop it.
I couldn't help it.
I didn't even try to fight it.
Even though I knew I had to leave.
I could have waited.
Until she woke up, so I could explain.
But I fucking sucked at goodbyes. And what was there even to say?
I need to leave now. After sleeping with you. Like some common douchebag.
There wasn't a way to soften the blow.
So I didn't even try.
And I felt like shit about it.
For the five days it took me to drive back to fucking Navesink Bank. As I tried to settle back in, find my normal groove.
"Leave."
That was Jules as she stood over my desk, dropping down a pile of the files that were being worked on by all the team members, so I could get caught up.
"What?" I asked, turning my head up to find her standing there, her red hair pulled back in a way that was severe, but with her delicate features, she somehow pulled off. Her hand was at the hip of her gray slacks, something I noticed she only did around me.
The Ghost (Professionals Book 2) Page 15