Follow Me Always (Follow Me 3)

This man of mine eats pussy like no other, and even though we fucked only moments earlier, I’m wet and ripe and ready to go again. I resist tugging on the silk. I don’t want to pull the hook out of the drywall. So I stand, not suspended but nearly, as Braden licks me, tantalizes me, eats me like I’m a feast.

I slide into a climax, my core throbbing, and then another. My whole world shatters around me and implodes between my legs. He licks, and he licks, and he licks, and when I think I can’t take one more tug on my clit, he sucks it between his lips and jams two fingers inside me.

And I come once more, this time not in my clit but inside. My G-spot. The climax surges through my body, lighting every cell on fire.

“Braden!” I cry out. “Braden, I love you! I love you so much!”

…

Braden and I share a shower so I can wash the sticky crème brûlée off my body. He didn’t take me after my ultimate orgasm, so he lifts me in his arms and fucks me hard against the shower wall, and another orgasm shoots out of me.

He thrusts harder, my back slapping against the wet tile in the shower. “Fuck, Skye. Fuck, you feel so good.”

I’m still in the clouds of my climax when he erupts, his words buzzing in my head.

I love you. I fucking love you, Skye.

And I’m not sure those words have ever sounded so sweet.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Since Braden came straight from New York, he has his luggage with him. He puts a pair of lounge pants on while I cover myself in a satin robe. He holds my hand as we walk to the couch where we fucked only a little over an hour earlier.

I don’t say anything. I promised I wouldn’t push him, and I’ll stick to my guns if it kills me. He has to make the first move.

He takes my hand and rubs circles in my palm with his thumb. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“I know. It’s okay. Take your time. Or don’t say anything. It doesn’t matter.” And it doesn’t. Oh, I’m still curious. Nosy as all get-out. But this isn’t about me. It’s about Braden. About what he’s comfortable with.

“I loved my mother,” he says. “So did Ben.”

“I’m sure she loved both of you, too.”

“She did. We were all that kept her going sometimes. I’m not sure she’d have had the strength to go to the food pantry if she didn’t have our two mouths to feed.”

“It couldn’t have been easy for her.”

He pauses. Inhales. For a moment I fear he may clam up, but then he continues.

“After the fire, she spent several weeks in the hospital. She was in constant pain. Ben and I weren’t allowed to see her because she had to be kept in a sterile environment until her skin grafts took.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not looking for sympathy, Skye. I never am.”

“I understand. Can’t I still be sorry that your poor mother had to go through all that?”

“I suppose.” He sighs. “Anyway, before the fire, we always had enough to eat. It wasn’t gourmet food, by any means, but we didn’t go to a food pantry, and we weren’t on government assistance.”

“Beef stew,” I say quietly.

“Beef stew?”

“That evening when you showed up here unannounced and I served you leftover beef stew. You said your mother used to make it.”

“She did. Tough stew meat was a staple at our house. She’d cook it forever, and it was delicious. That was before the fire, though. After the fire, we couldn’t afford even the toughest beef.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Still not looking for sympathy. Anyway, like I told you before, insurance wouldn’t pay even though the fire was an accident. My mother eventually came home, and I think she would have been okay if…”

“If what?”

Braden buries his head in his hands.

I wait. And I wait.

He needs time, and I aim to give it to him.

Finally, he looks up and meets my gaze. “Ben and I weren’t able to visit her at the hospital. So when she finally came home…”

I gulp. Instinctively, I already know what’s coming.

“I cried when I saw her. Screamed even. The scarring was so…so… The word that comes to my mind is ugly. Scary. I was seeing it through the eyes of a six-year-old. I expected to see my beautiful mother, but…”

“Didn’t your father prepare you?”

“He tried to. But have you ever seen a burn victim, Skye?”

I nod. “Yes. Not in person, but I once went to a photo exhibit where the artist’s subjects were all burn victims. It was beautiful work. Their humanity shone through.”

“You were an adult, then.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t know any of the victims personally.” He threads his fingers through his hair still wet from the shower. “You can’t prepare a young brain for that. This was my mother.”