Page 90 of Rev

I take that hand. Press my lips to the palm. He sucks in a sharp gasp, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Watching. Disbelieving. I kiss each finger. The web of his thumb. Each knuckle. And then, on a whim, I suck his thumb into my mouth, tasting skin, salt. Each finger in turn.

“Myka,” he grates out. “Fuck.”

I twist, bring his other hand from my hip to my mouth. Repeat, kissing, licking, until I’ve kissed and licked every inch of both hands. And then I twist back, place his hand on my hip again, and resume snuggling against him.

He crushes me to him, and I can feel him struggling with his emotions. A man like him, I don’t dare push any further. I keep silent, stay still in his arms.

I reach down, pull the blankets up over us both. “Try to relax, Rev baby. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Baby,” he hisses.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “That’s me.”

“Myka…honey.” Trying it out. Tasting the word.

I snuggle closer. Kiss his throat, cup his jaw. “Yes,” I breathe. “I’m your honey.”

He doesn’t relax. He remains tensed, holding me in his strong arms, clenched, clinched. I drift toward sleep, waiting for him to smooth out, to relax. His breathing slows, but his muscles never relax. As if he’s so conditioned to readiness, to hardness, that even in sleep he can’t let go.

I decide, then and there, nearly asleep, that it is my new mission in life to teach Rev about happiness, about joy, about peace—how to relax.

He’s mine, and I’m not giving him up, cartel be damned.

12It’s Called Joy

Rev

Ialways wake up instantly and totally. Mostly because I probably never get fully into a deep sleep. So, normally, my body and mind go awake at the same time. Five thirty. Always, on the dot. And I wake up from sleep to consciousness without any of that eye-rubbing, yawning, scratching bullshit. Up, and I could run ten miles.

So imagine my confusion when I find myself struggling to wake up. Like swimming upward from a great depth. Finding my body heavy, my brain sluggish. Not wanting to move. Not wanting to wake up.

I can’t figure it out.

And then, I do.

Myka is in my arms. She’s naked. She’s soft, warm. Cocooned in my arms. Her hand rests on my chest, the other tucked under her chin. Eyes closed, sweep of dark lashes against her cheeks. Ear to my pec, over my heartbeat. Thigh over mine, her other leg nudged against mine.

My heart cracks. Swells. Expands.

How thefuckdid I get here? This woman in my bed, allowing me to hold her, all night long. Giving me her body. Taking my cock and begging for more…and thenstaying.

Listening to my shit.

Fuckingcryingfor me. Likemypain hurther. How is that even possible?

I can’t breathe. Don’t dare move a muscle.

If I move, if I breathe, she might vanish. Puff, gone. A mirage.

I’ll wake up in a tent made of a tarp and a branch, in the high desert mountains of Afghanistan, wounded, feverish, delirious, my brothers dead in a gully miles down-mountain, enemies behind, above, all around, hunting me.

Fuck, what she did with my hands? Literally licked them clean, as if licking the blood away.

She makes a sound, a soft mew in the back of her throat, like a kitten. Snuggles closer, cheek nuzzling my chest.

Shit, shit, shit, my heart is gonna explode if she does that again. Too fuckin’ much.

And goddammit, she does it again. Mews, nuzzles. Her fingers tighten in my chest. Her thigh slides up, over my dick. Which, like the greedy, insatiable asshole it is, starts going hard.