There’s no alarm clock cutting through the dark. I gave up carrying my phone around when I could no longer afford prepaid minutes. I don’t know what time it is. The darkness and the rain make it feel like we’re locked in an eternal night, even though it must be morning soon.
Most of the loft is a wide-open space. Only a few rooms are walled off—this bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen. I find West on the same couch that he comforted me on, the afghan have covering his jean-clad legs, his chest bare.
One arm is flung above his head, the other dropped over the side to the floor.
He looks comfortable and secure, the opposite of how I feel in these clothes I used to betray him. They’re comfortable enough for sleeping, but they’re a reminder of how I broke us apart.
His tattoos are barely visible in the darkness, only shadows whispering over his skin. I’d seen hints of them before, peeking out from his T-shirts, and I can’t see much more now. I trace one dark line down his bicep, but he doesn’t stir.
What would he do if he woke up? Would he send me back to bed? Or maybe I would have gotten enough rest for his conscious. He could send me away then.
I have no illusions that we’re going to last. That anything could happen between us now.
There’s an intimacy between us after what happened last night. After he put his mouth on me and protected me. That intimacy will fade under the cold glare of a winter morning, but it’s still here.
And I want to return the favor.
I let my finger keep going, ove
r the ridges of his abs, down to the bulge in his jeans. Morning wood. He didn’t let me touch him last night. That damned sense of honor strikes again. It can’t stop me now. I’m not tied up, and more importantly, I’ve already proven I don’t deserve any honorable treatment.
His cock swells beneath the zipper as I stroke him, but his arms and face don’t move. He’s feeling the pleasure, but he isn’t waking up. I prefer it that way, because he can’t judge me while he’s sleeping. He can only feel what I give him.
The denim is stretched taut now, so tight it’s hard to pull the zipper down without hurting him. His cock springs free, heavy and hard in my hands, warming me.
This answers the boxers-or-briefs question. Neither.
My thumb brushes over the tip, finding a well of salty liquid. I smooth the precum over the head of his cock, and his hips push up in unconscious response.
I kneel beside the couch, fisting him.
I don’t imagine that I have some special talent in this area. I’m only eighteen, which doesn’t leave a lot of room for experience, despite the fact that I started early—not every con goes smoothly, after all. Or someone needs a little extra incentive to provide a security code or guard schedule. My innocence was bartered early and often. Because we had to. Necessity. The same excuses Maisie had last night, but I’m done believing her. Even if it means I have to be alone.
I’m not alone now. For now I have West. I have his harsh breathing and his tense body. I have his cock that feels like molten steel against my palm.
Leaning forward, I taste him—a sharp, salty flavor that I know I’ll never forget.
A low groan comes from his chest, more of a rumble than a moan, but he still doesn’t stir. I might be in his dreams right now, a girlfriend from his past or some fantasy creation. Or I might be any one of the girls he’s brought home for the night. There must have been many.
It’s not really me he’s feeling, but I’m feeling him. The silky softness at the crown of his cock, the velvet thin skin that covers his shaft. The tight black hair that brushes against my hand every time my fist presses down.
His rough sounds fill the air around me, a symphony of sex and man.
He’s close to coming. I can tell by the way his thighs are trembling, by the hard bunch of his abs. His whole body is canted on the edge of climax.
That’s when I realize his arms are no longer flung carelessly over his head or over the side of the couch. They’re held tight by his body, hands curled into fists. He’s holding himself back.
He’s awake.
I pause, my lips sliding over the ridge of him as I look up. His eyes are still closed, his face taut—he looks like he’s in pain. When I stop moving, his eyes fly open. They’re black in the darkness, but I can read the hunger in them. The need.
“Bianca,” he says hoarsely.
There’s desperation in that word. Affection too.
No surprise. He knew it was me all along. He might have been awake the whole time. When will I learn that I can’t catch him off guard? I’ve conned a hundred men out of their money, in lots of different ways. I always knew that one would eventually catch me, hurt me, break me.
West has done those things, but not like I thought it would be. He doesn’t hurt me.