Page 72 of Chicago Sin

Armando’s arm tightens around me. I expect him to freak out, thinking he hurt me or something. Or worse, to pull way back because I got too intense. That’s what usually happens. This is usually where the guy freaks out and bails.

He doesn’t say a word, though. Doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. Just holds me against his rock-solid chest and lets me cry into his shirt.

When it finally passes, he eases away and wipes my tears with his thumbs. “I fucking love your tears,” he murmurs.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Ugh, that sounded wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. He’s already distancing—doing the thing that always happens. But his words—those were different.

I catch his hand. “Say it again. What did you mean?”

He cradles the side of my face with his calloused palm. “You’re okay, right? That was just... you? Or did I fuck up again?”

The again makes my stomach twist. In a good sort of way. Because he cares about screwing up with me.

I shake my head. “Yeah, just me being… too much. As usual.” I say it in a defeated tone, not because he’s made me feel defeated but from the accumulation of a lifetime of feeling everything too much.

He lowers his head to catch my eyes. “Nah. Not too much. I fucking loved it. You’re like… some wild mythical creature—” he stops, looking up like he’s searching for words. “I don’t want to say unicorn because that’s dumb. But something like that.”

My heart spills over, coming out my mouth, filling my chest. A couple fresh tears come out of my eyes. Armando thumbs them away again.

“I don’t know, Flowers. You’re wide open. You take it all. You just fucking receive from me. And I think it’s beautiful. And if I’m supposed to say sorry now, I will. But it would be a lie because I love seeing you crack apart and bleed your essence all over the place then gather it up and start over again.”

I stare into Armando’s hazel eyes, drinking up his praise. Expanding. Expanding into myself. Who I really am. The person I am with Armando—that’s the real me. I’m more myself with him than anyone else. Possibly even including myself. He celebrates the parts of me I don’t even like.

And knowing that, believing that he thinks I’m special, changes me. Makes me stronger. More whole.

He glances around the shop and smirks. “Something about the Garden of Eden. It makes me want to sin. Over and over.” He kisses me. “And over again.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Armando

Coming down from post-orgasmic euphoria, I decide it’s time to discuss something that’s been weighing heavy on me since I woke up.

I lean my forehead against Hannah’s. “Am I bad for you? Do you want me to go? Honestly?”

She rolls her head against mine in a negative. “No,” she whispers. “I never wanted you to go. This is what I was afraid of—what I was trying to avoid. But it’s already here.”

“It’s already here,” I repeat. I understand logically, but I have no idea what she feels. I’m empty, and she’s too full. Maybe that’s why we fit. What works for us.

There’s no comprehending Hannah because she’s so different from me and the people I’ve known. That’s why she seems mythical. Her capacity for acceptance is monumental.

I stroke her unruly curls then scrunch them when I find them not so strokable. They were made for fisting, for sure. “So, am I forgiven? I’m sorry I was a dick.”

She lets out a puff of air like a laugh. “We’re good.”

I ease out of her and dispose of the condom in the trash beside the desk. “What can I do around here to help?” I put my dick away and zip up my pants. Retrieve her panties from the floor and squat down to thread them over her ankles.

“Um…” She looks afraid to ask me something.

“Yeah? What? Name it, Flowers.”

“Wanna help me clean out the cooler? That’s what I usually do on Sundays before I open.”

“I’ll clean it. You do whatever else you need to do.”