Page 25 of The Act of Trusting
I slowly ease back the covers, place my feet flat on the floor, and glance over my shoulder at Dex. Her red hair is fanned out over my pillow, both her hands clasped beneath her head in mock prayer. Despite my aching body and sore cock from so much fucking, the damn thing jerks to life just from watching her sleep.
I can’t remember the last time I fucked a woman through the night. How many times had I plunged inside her? Four? Five? They all blended into one another, because no sooner had I come than my cock stood at attention once more, like a starving dog begging for scraps.
A few strands of her hair have caught in the corner of her mouth, wafting in the air each time she breathes out. I carefully disentangle and tuck them behind her ear. She murmurs something in her sleep.
Quietly, I move away. Not that I would mind if she woke and then reached for me, but she needs to sleep. I’m not being benevolent. I want Dex well rested because I plan to keep her right where she is for at least the next few hours. I haven’t drunk my fill of her yet.
Once I’ve tugged on my discarded boxers, I pad into the kitchen, fill a glass from the faucet, and drink it down in one go, then refill it. Wandering over to the window, I gaze out into the street. The breeze has picked up, confirming the weather reports of an incoming storm—another reason to stay in bed and wait for the bad weather to pass. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday than buried inside Dex, with her warm, pliant body moving against mine while she makes those delicious sounds as I drive into her.
Dex… what a fucking surprise she’s turned out to be. For a second last night, I thought she was going to bail. And if she had, I’d have had no choice but to stop her. There’s something different about this pint-sized little fireball. She makes me feel, and I’m not about to let someone go who can do that. I stopped feeling much of anything seven years ago. Some things are too painful to keep poking at with a blade coated in poison.
I’m about to go back to bed when my phone buzzes. Irritated, I snatch it off the kitchen counter, but when I see the sender of the text, my heart makes a dash for my feet. I don’t need to swipe the screen to know what the message will say.
Four weeks, Nate. And don’t even think about bailing. I know you got the invite.
Yep. As suspected, it’s from Declan. I thought he might have stopped texting me after he sent the official invite by special delivery, but no. Every week, another text comes, like a fucking countdown clock.
It’s my own fault. I should have shown more enthusiasm when he called a few months ago with the news that he and Indie are finally getting hitched. But because I’d been ambivalent about making the trip out east, he’d started texting me weekly.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for my brother. Fucking ecstatic, actually. Declan is one of the good guys. He deserves all the joy in the fucking world, especially after what he gave up for us. But I hate returning to New York. Everything that had been good about my childhood, despite the gruesome death of my parents when I was twelve, turned to shit with the discovery of that letter.
But that cross is mine to bear. I have a lot of faults, but I refuse to destroy my brothers the way I’ve been destroyed.
As I’m standing there wondering how the hell I can get out of this fucking trip, another text arrives.
It wouldn’t be the same without you.
Goddamn Declan and his emotional blackmail. He’s the one brother I find it impossible to say no to. It had been Declan who’d stayed up with me through the night when I mourned our parents. Declan who’d brushed away my tears and tenderly kissed my forehead. Declan who’d climbed into bed beside me, gently rocking me until I’d fallen asleep, my cheeks still wet with grief. There’s no good time to lose a parent. All my brothers suffered immeasurably, but to lose my anchors at the tender age of twelve gave rise to scars I still carry with me today.
With a resigned sigh, I toss my phone onto the counter. Five days. I can survive that long in New York without wanting to rip my heart out, along with everyone else’s. That’s the problem with betrayal… once it’s gotten its claws buried deep, it’s virtually impossible to disentangle without causing serious damage to some vital organs.
I take my glass of water back into the bedroom. Dawn has broken now, the yellow light from the sun lancing through the gaps in the blinds. Dex has turned over and buried herself inside the comforter so the only thing visible is the top of her head. I sit beside her, the mattress moving under my weight. She gives a soft sigh and burrows farther into the bed.
An idea pricks at the back of my mind, inching forward as I watch her sleep. Maybe New York won’t be so bad if I have a companion—someone who can distract me with her captivating body and sharp wit.
Though if I mention it too early, Dex will refuse, I’m sure of it, and my instincts aren’t usually far off the mark. I need to prove that I want to get to know her, which isn’t a lie, and let her see a little of me, too. Not enough that I risk letting the wrong thing slip when doped up on her sweet pussy, though.
She stirs, drowsily lifts her head, and blinks a couple of times, then rubs her eyes.
“Morning,” I say, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. It’s the kind of intimacy I’ve never shown to any of my other bedmates. But Dex looks so petite, so fragile, so fucking gorgeous lying there with her tousled hair and flushed face, I can’t resist showing her a little tenderness.
“What time is it?” she says, stretching. The covers slip, revealing her pert tits and rose-tipped nipples, the areolae pebbled from the cool air blowing through the AC unit overhead.
I bend over and suck one hard nub into my mouth. Dex groans and clasps the back of my head, her fingernails grazing my scalp. I nibble the tip, not enough to cause too much pain, but enough to make her gasp.
“Jesus, good morning to you, too,” she breathes.
I smile against her skin, then raise my head. “Half past six.”
Another groan, this one not steeped in desire. She turns on to her stomach and pulls the pillow over her head. “It’s Sunday.”
Her voice comes out muffled, and I grin. She’s adorable, funny, sweet, and deliciously different. I rarely allow women to stay the night, but on the odd occasion I have, after a quick—and usually unsatisfactory—morning fuck, I’ve never been able to get them out of here fast enough.
With Dex, I want the exact opposite. Not the morning fuck part, obviously, because that’s non-negotiable. But the part about wanting her to leave? Yeah, not happening. Not for a good few hours, anyway.
I tug at the covers, but she holds on, her fingers curled tightly around them. Guess she isn’t a morning person. Trying again, I yank them, and they come away easily, revealing her nakedness and allowing me to slap her ass.
She squeals and flips over, hitting me with a stern glare. “That stung.”