No Saint (Wild Men 6)

“I didn’t mean anything,” I hedge.

“No lies, Ross. Tell me.”

I shift on the sofa, groaning when my hard-on presses on the inside of my jeans. She has to know I crave her like a drug when she’s around, that even when she’s not, my dick is still so hard it can drive nails through a wall, always ready to go.

But it seems I will have to answer this question that seems so important to her—if I can keep my dick in my pants long enough for an intelligent conversation, that is. Even if it’s one I’d rather never have.

“When I was in prison,” I start and have to stop, bury my fingers in her curls for something to ground me as the black maw of memory threatens to open and swallow me whole, “I went... through some bad shit.” Understatement of the year. Faces sneering down at me, pills rattling in a bottle, distorted voices and a hospital room... “After I was released, I couldn’t... couldn’t feel much. Not here,” I rock my hips a little, just to hiss in pleasure when my hard dick rubs on the inside of my pants, “or... here.” I lift my hand, rub at my chest. “I felt so fucking empty.”

“And the metal helped?” Her voice is small. I scared her, I think, uneasy, when I look down and find her eyes round.

“No.” I chuckle. “Nothing helped.” I tug on her curls, pulling her head back lightly until I can bend and kiss her mouth. “Until you.”

***

Morning finds us tangled up on the sofa, as I come up for air from the viper pit of dreams I keep falling into. Telling her bits and pieces seems to bring the memories closer to the surface—though sleeping with her molded to me helps me go back to sleep whenever I wake up. So it’s been a restless night, for both of us.

This time, though, I’m wide awake and sleep doesn’t seem like an option. Instead, I lie there, gazing down at her, memorizing the fine lines of her face, her body.

It’s the first time we’ve just slept together, no sex, no getting off in any way. It was...nice, my mind supplies the word. Pleasant. Peaceful. Well, as much as my dreams allowed.

My arm that’s trapped underneath her is numb, but I don’t wanna move. Her lashes flutter, her mouth is soft and rosy. A stray curl rests on her cheek. I want to brush it away, stroke her face.

Sunlight slants through the window slats, turning her hair to burnished copper, her skin to porcelain. Her dress has ridden up her legs and her panties peek out at the curve of her hip—pale blue lace. My body is tired from the lack of deep sleep, but my dick has a mind of its own, and just that glimpse of skin and lace is enough to get me from half-hard to granite in the space of a damn second.

Eventually I have to shift. My hard-on is a painful throb where it’s trapped awkwardly in my jeans, and I need to get some feeling back into my arm. I do my best to slip away from under her without waking her, but the moment I move, her eyes blink open.

Shit.

She smiles, though, and uncurls slowly, stretching her arms over her head—giving me a nice view of her cleavage. Fuck, her tits are almost spilling out the top of her dress, and I can’t quite swallow a groan of need. “Morning,” she whispers.

“Rise and shine.” I wink at her, and then groan for a different reason. My bladder is full to bursting, though how I can take a piss when my dick is hard like a rock, I dunno. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah. But you...” Doubt enters her gaze. “You barely slept at all.”

“I’m fine.” I shift again and she sits up, a frown creasing her forehead. “Swear to God.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Need to take a leak.”

Her gaze drops to my crotch, the tent there, and her smile widens, teasing. “A leak, huh?”

I shrug, grin. “Your fault. You’re too damn sexy.”

She lowers her hand over the bulge in my pants, cupping my erection, and I jerk, a surprised moan escaping me. “Need help with this?”

“Is that a trick question? Hell yeah. But...” I don’t know why I stop her, lifting her hand, not letting her unzip my jeans. “Luna...”

“What is it?”

“Come here.” Ignoring my unhappy dick, I gather her in my arms. “I... need to hold you.”

I don’t recognize myself. Asking for these things. A guy doesn’t ask for hugs, to be held, doesn’t show weakness, but as she falls into my embrace and clings to me, I know that it’s okay. I’m allowed. She doesn’t mind.

And I hang on to her until the last wisps of the dreams and memories fade.

“You’re still hard,” she whispers against my shoulder, and I almost laugh, but I’m afraid it will turn into something else. My throat feels clogged, my chest tight.