Page 81 of Pistol Whipped

I mean, look at what happened the last time I was in love? Can you really blame me for being afraid?

Still, I want to give the man holding me everything he deserves. I want to lift the worries from his shoulders the way he does for me. I want to make his smile, this smile, the one he’s giving me now, appear over and over and over again. I just don’t know how to do that.

A tongue-in-cheek attitude is the best I can offer as I say, “I’d probably be more lovey-dovey, oh Dutchy-boy, if you made us some sandwiches.”

My tummy plays along and growls as if on cue, causing Dutch to laugh.

“What kind of sandwich, my Rainy-girl?” he teases.

This time, there’s no need to force my smile. I beam, “A grilled cheese!”

“I think I can just about manage that,” he laughs. “Good thing I keep some bread in the freezer.”

Agreed. To be fair, I doubt there’s much beyond a few odd bits in his fridge because it’s not like he’s been here grocery shopping. He strokes my back lightly, and it prickles my skin. At first, but then I hear the release of the zipper at the back.

“Hey!” I object, “What about my sandwich?”

He swats my ass and chides, “I’m making it, but I figured you’d need at least a little help getting out of this dress.” Then he steps back and starts maneuvering around the condo kitchen. He grabs a frying pan first and uses it to point me toward his bedroom.

“Go get comfortable. Take whatever you want from my closet.”

I skip my way to his bedroom and fling open the closet. The rich tobacco-and-wood smell of Dutch hits me as I rifle through his collection of T-shirts. All of which are hung neatly on matching hangers, before selecting an ancient T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. In swapping my sexy little dress for the comfortable cotton, I realize Dutch was right. I never could have gotten out of this thing without his help. My short arms couldn’t have reached the top of the zipper.

However, thanks to him, I make quick work of changing and am grateful for the soft, loose material rather than constricting pleather. My stomach growls, and I decide to forego any bottoms in favour of getting back to where the food is.

Tip-toeing my way back into the kitchen, my heart squeezes at the sight of Dutch curled over the stovetop. It’s so fucking domestic. Something I’ve not really experienced since Grams died. Before I can stop myself, I’m running up behind him and throwing my hands around his waist. My cheek presses into his back, and though I don’t say a word, I hope he senses what I’m trying to convey with this hug.

“I thought you were hungry?” he teases. “Go sit down, and I’ll bring your sandwich over.”

As commanded, I head for the couch. Like most of the furniture in this apartment, it’s small and clearly a bit dated, with fabric fraying at the edges of each armrest. But I couldn’t give a shit. It’s still way more comfortable than anything on the tour bus, and I happily pop my bare ass down on the cushion. Only to be greeted a second later by a plate full of not one, but two grilled cheese sandwiches, dripping with ooey-gooey goodness. And thank fuck, the next thing Dutch drops is a huge bottle of hot sauce.

“You’re the best,” I manage before my hunger takes over and I proceed to chow down. Dutch joins me a minute later, and we eat together in silence. It’s comfortable. Soothing, even, after all the dramatics.

My food is long gone, and I use the opportunity to watch Dutch eat. His eyes close as he savours his last bite. I’m not sure what comes over me; maybe it’s gratitude, but more realistically, it’s the melodic hum of satisfaction he makes at the taste.

I want to hear it again. I want to be the thing that elicits that sound from him. Sliding from the couch, my knees hit the floor with a soft thud. Thank God there’s carpet in here, thin as it is; otherwise, my knees would be screaming at me for this. I push his legs wide and move myself between them. His eyes spring open, and his gaze instantly turns scalding when he realizes where I am.

“Rainy,” he groans appreciatively. Like I’m personally torturing him, in a good way. His body gives away his appreciation as much as his voice, given the obvious bulge of dick versus denim.

My mouth waters, and I goad him into giving me what I’m craving. “Are you just going to stare at me, Dutch? Or are you going to put this mouth to good use?”

He smirks. “Still hungry, Rainy?”

Call it hunger, call it lust. Whatever it is has me squirming worse than in the truck, and my cunt pulses as those thick fingers of his flick open the button of his jeans.

“You want my dick, babygirl?”

All I can do is nod, because my every nerve ending is alight with that want. Worse still, when his hardening cock springs free, I reach for it like the greedy slut I am. And I’m rewarded with the exact moan I wanted when my hand and mouth each wrap themselves around the thick, rosy-coloured skin of his dick.

He tastes like Dutch, smoky and salty. My tongue swirls over every inch, and there are inches, learning every vein and ridge. Or at least, the bits I can reach. My lips have to stretch to accommodate his size but, like always, I welcome a small spark of pain with my pleasure. I welcome it even more when my tongue brushes the underside of his shaft, and he can’t help but thrust deeper with a groan, “Fuckkkk, that pretty mouth.”

The heat from his stare never leaves me, but his verbal encouragement has me opening further for him, until his cock hits the very back of my throat. It causes me to gag and spit, so I back off a hair, but Dutch must like the sight because his low voice turns commanding.

“Do that again.”

Bossy Dutch is one I’ve rarely seen, but it’s sexy as hell, so I’m happy to do as I’m told. I swallow his dick as far back as I can. Over and over again. The thickness of it makes tears well in my eyes, and my pussy is weeping too. The thin fabric of my thong slides between my folds, and I long to reach down and relieve some of the building pressure.

As he senses my desire, Dutch fists his hand in my long hair and pulls me back until my mouth pops off him. He seems entranced as he winds his fingers through my purple strands.