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I can’t bear the thought of him being like this with anyone but me.
And yet I can’t let go. In fact, after what he just told me, I think I love him more than ever.
***
It’s Sunday morning. Sunday, I repeat to myself as I roll on my back and stare at a low ceiling. A faint crack winds diagonally through it. I don’t have classes today, or anywhere to be.
So where am I? This isn’t my bedroom.
Wow, I’m brilliant this morning. I snicker as I roll onto my other side to take in the small room. Need my daily caffeine injection to make sense of things.
The small window lets in just enough morning light to let me see. The bed I’m lying on is barely wide enough to be called a double. There’s a plastic chair with some clothes thrown over it. A trunk? A plastic trunk, open. Inside there are more clothes, folded, and some papers. A few pairs of shoes are piled beside it.
I sit up, look around. There’s no closet. These are Riot’s clothes, his shoes.
I’m in Riot’s bedroom.
Last night comes rushing back: my call to the agency, the bar, Gale, coming to Riot’s apartment, finding out he’s been hurt.
Throwing back the covers, I cautiously get up. I’m naked, and then I remember taking a shower with him. Images, sensations and heat shoot through my body as it all comes back to me: Riot moaning as I washed him, as I touched him, then pushing into me, taking me against the wall of the shower stall.
God.
And then of course I remember all the other stuff. The things he told me about his past. Crap, it is true. He’s Riot Callahan, one of the star fighters of the Hellfire Fighters club. Or he was. Markus, Kyle, the debts, his resolve not to leave the agency so that he can keep that family afloat.
His guilt. His pain. His loneliness.
As I stand there, my heart heavy, I hear a bark from somewhere inside the apartment. Batman, Riot’s dog that I have yet to meet. Last night I was more concerned with taking care of Riot himself.
My clothes, which I shucked in the bathroom last night, have been laid out on a rickety table on the other side of the room. I smile, thinking of Riot gathering them, smoothing them out, placing my panties on top.
Like a message.
My face is aflame, more details from last night flashing through my mind: how he stroked me, how good he felt inside me, how he filled me with his hot seed. I drag on my clothes and pat my hair down.
Exiting barefoot, as silent as can be, I open the next door. Bingo. Bathroom. I pee and brush my teeth with a blob of toothpaste on my finger. My cheeks are red, my eyes bright, and a smile keeps tugging on my lips.
Christ. Like a love-struck teenager, despite not seeing any happy endings up ahead. Riot is an esco
rt and will continue meeting women for money, and no matter how noble his cause, I can’t imagine a scenario in which I’ll accept that and be his girlfriend.
Sobering, I walk out of the bathroom and into the living room, making a beeline for the kitchen. A scent of fresh coffee is in the air and I follow it.
I pause at the kitchen door. Someone is talking. Riot. I peek inside.
“Yeah, that’s it. You can let me touch you. You know I won’t steal your food. Fuck yeah, boy.” He’s crouched on the floor, beside a pretty wolf-like dog, petting its back. “See? You trust me. As you should. Been wiping your ass and feeding you, so why would you—?” The dog snaps at him, growling. “Whoa, okay. Easy does it. I’m backing off, okay?”
He almost falls on his ass as he scoots backward, and a ball of black fur on his shoulder rises on tiny legs and hisses.
Dexter. When the kitty let me feed him yesterday, he only approached his dish when I was well out of the kitchen.
Riot reaches up, pats the kitten’s head and yelps when sharp teeth nip at him.
Oh God. I clap a hand over my mouth not to laugh, even as warmth spreads in my chest. Riot’s boys. I think I might melt into a puddle of goo watching the three of them on the kitchen floor.
He turns and oh shit, his jaw is blue and black, his eye swollen shut. Didn’t get around to putting a cold compress on it last night.
“Hey.” He smiles at me and my heart does a little backflip in my chest. “Good morning.”
