No White Knight

Fisting her hair to help her along, I drink her sigh from her lips sideways while the rest of me pounds her into submission.

We fuck together nice and hard in a smooth, gliding stroke, trembling as I own her heat and wetness, letting her envelop me, making her clench down hard on every thrusting inch of my cock.

That timeless feeling falls over me again, a river of flesh and heat.

Also a rhythm guided by my pulse, the rising whimpers pouring out of her.

After she comes on me again, balling up the sheets in fists tossed over her head, I know I can’t go much longer. So I flip her around, push into her, and go the fuck to town surrounded by beauty and the hellfire tearing up my spine.

I can’t stop kissing her, biting her, raging heat building in my balls.

My eyes slip open to watch her as so many expressions flicker across her face each time we meld together in perfect, rolling movements. Mutual pleasure that belongs to us.

And it only feels right that it takes us both together.

Libby tightens at the same time it crashes through me, this sudden sharp bolt skipping up my spine, igniting every inch of me.

I don’t know who screams whose name first.

I just know it’s my turn to see stars under the ceiling, watching her combust, and coming myself blind in searing, bone-deep heat.

* * *

Lying in bed with my hellcat afterward always feels better than even the best afterglow cigarette or shot of whiskey.

Coming down is pure bliss, melting my thoughts away and just leaving me blank and boneless. I can’t remember the things I’m supposed to be stressed over.

All I can remember is that I’ve got the only thing that matters here in my arms, naked and sweet and soft against me.

We drowse in bed, watching the sun set through the window, the light turning a rusty red. Makes me think about that rock at the root of this shit.

How much could a meteorite from another planet really be worth?

That reminds me…

“Hey,” I say, jostling Libby with a shrug of my shoulder. “You awake?”

She moans softly, then opens one eye, peering at me. “Am now.”

I offer an apologetic smile. “I just remembered something. You know how I went down Nowhere Lane for a checkup yesterday?”

“Mm-hmm.” She’s already drifting off again.

“I brought some more of your dad’s things back. The journals from that room in the church. They’re in the back of my truck. Have you ever looked at any of them?”

Her eyes snap open.

She looks at me oddly, then pushes herself up to lean on one hand, her gold hair cascading down over one shoulder and coiling against the curve of one full, heavy breast.

“Oh, crap. With everything else, I just totally forgot,” she says.

“You want to have a look now? If he was studying the town and the impact crater, we might find something useful.”

“Hmm. Okay, sure.”

“You don’t sound so sure.” I cock my head.

She presses her lips together, curling a hand against her chest, her eyes lowering. “It’s just the same old thing. I always feel like pushing to know things one way or another opens me up to finding out the worst.”

“It’s a chance to find out the best, too,” I point out. “If you don’t want to, it’s all right. I don’t want to bring up bad memories.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Let’s look at them together.”

I reach up to brush my knuckles against her cheek, hoping to be reassuring.

I lever myself out of bed, snagging my jeans from the back of the chair under the window. “I’ll be right back.”

I step into my jeans, then drop downstairs and head outside barefoot and shirtless to fetch the small box I’d packed the journals into, hidden safely under a tarp in the back of my truck.

By the time I’m back inside, Libby’s gotten up and come downstairs, dressing herself in one of my flannel shirts that’s so big on her I can barely catch a glimpse of the tiny denim shorts she’s wearing under it.

Yeah, maybe there’s something stereotypical about a man getting all hot and snarly possessive, seeing his girl wearing his clothes.

Don’t care about being a stereotype.

When I see her like that, it punches me in the gut.

I try to ignore it as I thump the box down on the dining room table and toss the flaps open, exposing a small stack of leather-bound journals.

“Here we go,” I say.

The journals are dusty enough to make me sneeze. I brush a layer of grey off one and flip it open, while Libby takes the next.

The moment she opens the cover, though, she lets out a soft, warm laugh.

“Uh-oh. I don’t know if we’re gonna find much useful here.”

“Eh? Why not?” I look down at the first page of the one in my hand, then blink when I realize what I’m looking at.