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I try to find the words to accept his apology, but I can’t, and instead the only thing I can say is his name. “Oz.” I shake my head.
“Listen to me, Etta. Our past is fucked up, and I’m guessing your opinion of me is pretty low right now because it’s tainted with all the memories of the messed-up things I did to you. But I take care of the things that are important to me, and you’re the most precious thing I’ve ever owned. I promise I’m going to take the best fucking care of you, you just have to give me a chance to prove that to you. You and our baby”—his hand covers my stomach—“are the best fucking things that have ever happened to me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but I must have done something right to bring you back to me, and now that I have you, I’ll fucking cherish you and our kids until the day I die.”
“Oz.” I try to deny his words, but he covers my mouth with his, silencing me.
“I’m sorry, Little One, I can’t wait, I need you again,” he growls, lifting me and running up the stairs with me in his arms. Placing me down in the middle of the bed, he pushes my sweats down my legs, kicking them off my feet with his foot. Unfastening his pants and pushing his boxers down, he shuffles between my legs, then spears his tongue into my sore sex.
Pushing his tongue in and out of me, he finds my clit with his thumb and works it until my hips are jerking against his mouth and my core is flooded with arousal. I come so fast I barely even realize it’s happening before my back arches off the bed and a cry is wrenched from my lips.
Positioning himself between my thighs, he forces his dick into my swollen core, relentlessly pushing forward until his hips touch mine. Instead of pulling out and slamming back into me, he fucks me in slow, languorous slides that hit my G-spot every single time. Each time he fills me, a surge of pleasure starts to build inside of me, only to fade away as his dick retreats. The hint of pain that follows each thrust somehow only heightens the pleasure, and before I’m even aware, I’m tumbling over the edge into bliss.
The orgasm isn’t an explosion like the others he’s given me. Instead, it’s a slowly mounting tide that splinters into fissures that elongate along each of my nerve endings, making it feel like my entire body is tingling with pleasure.
“Oh fuck, Little One, you’re so fucking perfect, you feel so fucking perfect. Your tight little pussy is drinking up my cum, and I couldn’t leave you without knowing you were full of me. You’re such a good girl, so fucking good,” he rasps against my ear as he pumps his release into me for the fifth time since he barged into my room.
8
OZ
The need to turn my truck around and drive straight back to her burns inside my chest. I’ve never had a problem leaving a woman before. Hell, half the time I’m watching the clock and counting down the appropriate hour after sex when it’s okay to get dressed and leave without making me look like a jackass or her look like a whore. But with Etta, if I never left our bed again, I’d be happy as long as she was in it with me.
Some of the anxiety I’d felt when I’d gotten back to base and realized she hadn’t texted me has abated, but a fresh worry has quickly taken its place. I was mean to her when we were kids. No, I was more than mean, I was cruel. I don’t have an excuse. Being an angry kid doesn’t justify me bullying a little girl years younger than me.
I know she wants me, even though she’s trying to hide it. It’s obvious that she’s as consumed with me as I am with her, but she’s scared of me too. I can see it in her eyes. She might be looking at a fifteen-year-older version of me, but sometimes I know she’s seeing the kid who destroyed her things and called her names.
I don’t know how to make this better. How do you even start to make up for the fucked-up stuff you did as a kid? The only thing I can think to do is to bind her to me so tightly she forgets what I did back then. I plan to show her over and over that the only things I want to do now are to love, worship, and breed her.
Pride swells in my chest when I think about the fact that right now my baby could be sparking to life inside her womb. A tiny little version of me and her combined. I can’t fucking wait to watch her belly swell and her tiny little tits fill with milk.
My mouth waters as I wonder what her milk will taste like. I wonder if she’ll let me steal a little. My dick hardens and my balls ache as I fantasize about how it’ll feel to push my dick into her, feeling her pregnant belly between us while I suckle the milk straight from her tits.
When I slow to a stop behind Danny’s car, I turn off the engine, then sit for a moment, pulling my cell from my pocket and opening up an app I installed while Etta was in the shower for the second time this morning.
She’s going to kill me when she realizes that I put a tracking app on her cell, but I don’t care. I hid it inside a folder she’d got on her home screen that was full of rarely used apps, including games, an investment banking app, and several yoga workout program apps, so it’s doubtful she’ll find it for a while, if ever.
I’m not trying to keep track of her whereabouts; I just want to have the ability to find her if she runs from me. Hopefully she won’t, but the annoyingly observant voice at the back of my head says there’s a chance that the echoing trauma of our shared past will overwhelm her view of the future I can see so clearly ahead for us.
If she finds the app, she’ll be able to track me too, because apparently I’m an equal opportunity stalker, but I plan to be wherever she is, so I doubt there will ever be a time that she’s searching for me and I’m not right next to her.
When the app opens, I see the little blue dot that indicates her location flashing inside of my house. Relieved, I close it down, then open Google and search for the Rockhead Point Courthouse web page. It only takes me a minute to find the marriage license form and fill out all of my details. But when it comes to Etta’s, I stumble to a stop. I don’t remember her birthday or her middle name.
For a moment, I consider texting her, but I don’t want to have to lie to her if she asks why I need the information, so instead I do something that I haven’t done in fifteen years. I call my dad.
“Oscar?” Dad answers on the first ring.
“Hi, Dad.”
“What’s the matter? Has something happened? Are you okay?” he asks so quickly the words almost jumble together.
“Nothing’s happened, everything is fine.”
“Oh.” The word bursts from him in a panicked huff.
“Henrietta has decided to move in with me permanently, and I need to add her to my insurance. There isn’t great cell service at my house, and I’m at work, so I can’t go ask her. But I need to know her middle name and her date of birth.”
“Oh,” Dad says, his voice now jovial and excited. “Well, I think that’s just wonderful. Mom has been so worried about her moving all the way across the country to a new town where the only person she knows is that odd girl she used to work with.”
“Her middle name and date of birth,” I prompt, swallowing back the urge to tell him that his wife is most definitely not my mom.
