Page 70 of Life Or Death

I’ve been telling myself for weeks that I’ve got this under control. That I can tease her, edge her, whisper every filthy thing I want to do to her into her ear and then walk away.

It’s all a bunch of lies.

I open my eyes and look at her again.

It would be so fucking easy for me to roll her onto her back, push inside her, and take what I’ve been craving.

But the whole reason I brought her here was so she could sleep. I’d be a real piece of shit if I woke her just so I could bury my raging cock inside of her.

She stirs in my arms, and I hold my breath. Her body shifts, rolling toward me, and her face burrows into my chest. One of her hands slides up my stomach, her palm flat against my skin where my shirt has ridden up, and she makes this soft, contented sound that goes straight to my cock.

Fuck.

She settles against me, her forehead pressed to my sternum, her knee drawn up between mine. Her breathing evens out again, and a soft snore escapes her, and for some reason, I find that to be the most endearing sound I’ve ever heard.

It’s intimate in a way that I’ve never experienced, and I’m guessing that has a lot to do with the fact I’ve never slept with a woman before. I get what I need, and I kick them the fuck out. There’s no holding them while they sleep. I don’t memorize the sound of their breaths, or how they feel against my body. It’s almost transactional.

I reach up and trace my fingers over the scar on her forehead. The skin is raised and smooth under my touch, and she doesn’t flinch. Just keeps breathing against my chest like my hand belongs there.

I’ve convinced myself she isn’t ready for me. That she’s still healing, and her body needs time. That the grafts need to finish doing whatever grafts do. This idea that she’s fragile, and I could hurt her if I let myself have her, it’s all a fucking crutch.

There isn’t anything fragile about Jess.

The girl is a fucking phoenix.

Her eyes flutter open just then, and for a moment, neither of us move. She just stares up at me with those big, sleep-soft eyes, her lips parted slightly, her breath warm against my skin. My hand is still on her forehead, my thumb tracing the edge of her scar, and I can feel her heartbeat against my chest where she’s pressed against me.

She tilts her chin up, and her gaze zeroes in on my mouth. Her lips part, and she moves to kiss me, but I catch her jaw in my palm before her mouth can land on mine.

“Don’t,” I rasp. “I’m barely hanging on by a thread, baby. You touch me and it’s over. I’m not going to be able to stop.”

Her eyes darken, and something shifts in her expression. It appears my unsuspecting wife likes the idea of me losing control. Her palms flatten against my chest and she pushes. My back hits the mattress, and then she’s moving, swinging her leg over my hips, settling herself on top of me.

Her confidence makes my cock throb against the denim, and when her bare pussy presses against the hard ridge of me through my jeans, I hiss through my teeth.

She’s fucking killing me.

“You promise?” she whispers.

My hands find her thighs, and I stroke my palms up the smooth skin. When I reach her hip, my fingers pause, and my gaze drops to the donor site. I trace the edges of her scars with my thumb. They’re raised and rough in places, but she doesn’t shy away from my touch. If anything, she presses harder against me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I manage, lifting my eyes back to hers.

“You won’t.”

There’s no way either of us can be sure. I fuck hard—that’s just how I am. I don’t know how to be gentle, and the thought of losing myself inside her and hurting her makes my stomach turn. Her grafts look healed, but what if the friction tears something? What if I fuck up her recovery? What if she’s not ready and I’m too fucking selfish to notice?

She rolls her hips, grinding her bare cunt against me through the denim, and my hands tighten around her hip. My head drops to the pillow, and a strangled sound tears from my throat.

“Jess,” I warn, gritting my teeth.

“If I can’t handle it, I will tell you.” Her voice is breathy as her hips keep moving. “I just want you to fuck me, Lucifer.”

She reaches for the hem of her tank top and pulls it over her head in one fluid motion. Then her fingers find the clasp of her bra, and the fabric falls away, baring her tits to me.

No man could survive a temptress like this.

I stare at her tits, my mouth watering. They’re smaller than what I’m used to, but they’re perfect. Full and round with pink nipples that are so hard they could cut glass. I want to feast on them, and after I’ve come all over her, I want to fuck them. I want to watch my cock move between them and feel those nipples brush against my thumbs.