“Shit,” I said. “Fuck. That pussy.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling, laughing slightly, still clearly out of her mind. “I feel the same way.”
I grinned at her and pressed her body against mine. We sat like that together on the couch, sweating and breathing together, bliss still lingering in our brains from the heavy orgasms, pleasure and more all mingling with each other.
Nothing outside that room mattered. There was only Tara and that fucking incredible pussy I remembered. She was mine, her child was mine, and everything was right in the world.
Fuck whatever else might happen. I was good in that one moment.
15
Tara
I woke up on the couch alone.
I stretched lazily, wearing only my T-shirt. Someone had put a blanket on top of me. The sun was setting outside the window, and the room was flooded with low, red light.
The memory of Emory’s body against mine came back in bits and pieces. I stretched again, groaning to myself, and felt the dull, amazing ache he left between my legs.
He was incredible, insatiable. He made me feel things I never knew I could feel, and hadn’t felt since I last saw him.
But it had been different this time. Before he had been some stranger who rocked my world and changed my life. We’d had no real connection other than our overwhelming desire for each other.
This time though, he was the father of my son. Not to mention he had just saved my life and the lives of my parents. He was someone I actually knew, someone I really trusted, even if he had brought this difficult pain into my life I felt a buzz around my body just thinking about him and what he could make me feel. I thought I knew him a little bit better now, or at least I felt closer to him. He was still an enigma to me, and pretty much the biggest asshole I knew, but he had told me things about himself. Maybe he wasn’t such a stranger anymore.
As quickly as Emory came into my mind, it shifted into a memory of earlier that morning. The man’s gun pointing at me, the explosion of Emory’s weapon, the red blooming along his chest. The gripping fear I felt watching Emory kill those men with only a knife. The looks on my parents’ faces, the total fear and concern.
My day had started with intense and fast violence. As much as I wanted that memory to go away, it wasn’t going anywhere. I had never seen something like that before, didn’t really even think it was possible, but there it was. Emory had done those things, those horrifying, intense things. There had been so much blood covering the floor of the kitchen.
I didn’t know a person’s body had so much blood inside it.
And suddenly, I thought of Mason. My heart skipped a beat as I sat up. The baby monitor on the table was switched off, and a stab of fear jolted me up.
“Mason?” I called, standing.
Where was Emory? In the few blissful seconds when I was still between sleeping and waking and thinking about his body, it hadn’t occurred to me that he wasn’t on the couch anymore.
I spotted my pants nearby and grabbed them, slipped them on, and then hurried to the bedroom. My mind was full of the worst kinds of thoughts. The terrorists could have attacked again, maybe snuck inside and took Mason away. Or maybe Emory had taken Mason and run off, leaving me here alone. Maybe Emory wasn’t who he said he was.
Terror jolted me forward. I threw open the bedroom door.
“Mason!”
Emory looked up at me. He was sitting on the bed holding a bottle, Mason in his arms.
“Looking for someone?” he asked.
“Uh, hey.”
I blinked. Emory was holding Mason, and he was feeding him.
“I hope this is okay,” he said. “Kid started crying, so I thought he was probably hungry.”
“You didn’t wake me up?”
“We have a long night ahead of us. Thought you needed the sleep.”
I stared at Emory as the fear slowly subsided. I felt a little silly for being so afraid and quick to assume the worst.
In fact, I was a little more than surprised to see him feeding Mason. Emory was not a father, and he didn’t seem to have a single nurturing instinct. The fact that he’d found a bottle and fed Mason was amazing.
I walked over to him, holding my arms out. “Here. I can take him.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got him.”
“You don’t have to do that, Emory.”
He shrugged. “He’s my kid. Might as well.”
“You don’t owe me or him anything.”
“Maybe,” he grunted, “though I did get you into this.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
He stared at me, his eyes hard. “I could have. We don’t get close to people often, and for good reason. Shit like this tends to happen to people when we get near them.”