Page 45 of Kane

There is very much there, in that statement. Instead of pushing it, I nuzzle closer to him.

“That is an honesty,” I say, after a moment. “Thank you for it.”

He grunts in response.

“I will earn your trust, Kane,” I whisper. More to myself than to him. “I will. Just you wait and see.”

I fall asleep then.

I wonder if I dream it, when I hear his voice, murmuring nearly asleep. “That’s what scares me.”

6Making Camp

Kane

Wake up like I always do, all at once. Long habit from the way I grew up, and then the Rangers. So, there’s no disorientation, no trying to remember where I was or what happened.

Anjalee is in my arms. Soft brown skin pressed against my chest and belly and thighs, her nose nuzzled into my throat, soft breaths gusting warm. One small, delicate, bird-like hand rests on my pec. Her knees are together, drawn up—she’s not splayed over me, but I doubt greatly she’s ever shared a bed with anyone, let alone a man, so she doesn’t have the cuddle habit.

I look at her…just let myself soak in the beauty of her.

Her hair, in the elaborate styling from the aborted wedding, is, frankly, a fucking mess and a half. Frizzy, wild, wisps and streamers coming out of the many pins and whatever else, sticking to her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. Her skin is flawless. I mean, I don’t know shit about skin, other than to know hers is just…perfect. A rich, beautiful brown that’s just a shade darker than golden-brown, with a few spots and freckles on her forearms, and some along her shoulders and upper chest. Her face…I don’t have words.

Look, I’m a dude. A horn-dog dude, who’s all about the tits and ass. Since…well, for a long time, all I’ve ever cared about was a good-lookin’ chick with bangin’ curves who doesn’t mind not knowing my name and know it ain’t gonna be shit but a little bit of naked fun. Girls who know to get gone after they’ve got theirs. Meaning, easy ass.

Anjalee…

Saying she’s different is like saying the sun is a little fuckin’ warm. She ain’t all tits and ass. Not that she doesn’t have curves, fuck but she’s got ‘em. Her tits will be a handful, and just that. Tight, firm, perky. Her ass, though. Fuck me. So plump and round, so tight. Just enough to grab onto. Exactly, perfectly heart-shaped. Long, fuckin’longlegs, all smooth skin and sleek muscle.

I’m a simple man, not given to flowery words and fancy bullshit. I’m a man of nature. Dirt under my feet, sun over my head, trees around me. So the only real metaphors I’m good with are nature metaphors—meaning, don’t crawl up my ass when I compare her to an animal, yeah?

She’s a deer. A doe, moving with elegance and grace through a dawn-lit clearing, big dark eyes cautious and lively.

She stirs, rolling to her back, coming awake slowly. Her spine arches, shoving those perfect little breasts to the ceiling—the bikini top has shifted in her sleep, and one breast, nearest me, is about to fall out the side, showing me a tantalizing glimpse of the side, almost to the areolae. The stretch is long, luxurious, complete with a deep-throated groan and shaking muscles, and then slumping to the bed. This is when her eyes flutter open, and I watch her process where she is, how she got here, and that she’s not alone in the bed.

Her face twists to me, and fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck—she looks at me like I’m the only man there’s ever been or ever will be, like she’s happier than hell just to wake up and see me next to her.

Gut punch. Breath whooshing out of me. Heart cracking, pulsing, halting.

Deep down, in the very pit of my soul, I know as clearly as I know my own name that I’ll do anything—any-fucking-thing—to have her look at me like that again, every morning. To be the man who puts that expression on that exquisite face.

“Good morning, Kane,” she murmurs, a tiny smile twisting up the corner of her mouth. “Did you have a restful sleep?”

Haven’t been asked that question in seven years, six months, three weeks, and two days.

Sleep good, handsome?Those were the words. That morning. The last time I heard her voice.

I shove that nightmare back into its cage where it belongs and give Anjalee—who’s here, who’s real, who’s alive, who still remains unaware of the true scope of the filth I’m covered in—a smile. “Yeah, babe. Slept real good. You?”

She smiles brightly. “Yes. In fact, I do not know if I have ever slept so good.”

“Glad to hear it, beautiful.” I can’t handle the peek-a-boo her tit is playing with me, and she’s unaware of it, somehow, so I tug the bikini top down.

She frowns, suddenly becoming aware of her state of undress. “Oh, I am sorry.” She tugs the sheet up to cover herself. “Normally I am very modest.”

I shake my head. “Did that for me, babe.”

She just blinks at me, confused. “I…I would think you should want to see melesscovered, not more.”