Page 26 of Saxon

"Was this pussy-eating before or after he shot the three dudes who shot at us?"

"Before. Like, right before."

"So, he ate you, shot some dudes, you ran up here, he shot more dudes, and then he asked how you felt about being handcuffed to a bed. Do I have this right?"

I step into my skirt—it's made of faux crow's feathers sewed onto black leather. It sounds dumb, but it looks badass. My top is a black lace bustier that does truly incredible things for my boobs—I toss my bra into the bag and shove myself into the bustier, and then shrug into my black leather biker jacket.

"Yeah," I answer, "That about sums it up."

"So…you like him."

I wiggle into my fishnet stockings and then zip my feet into my big black Doc Marten shitkickers. "I'm glad I packed these boots," I say. "My whole outfit screams 'I’ll kick your ass and have fun doing it.'"

"The skirt isn't exactly practical."

"Maybe not. But it's badass." I spend a second primping in front of the mirror, tucking, stuffing, lifting, and prodding my tits to look their best for Saxon, and then fuss with my hair and reapply my lipstick. "And yes, I like him. But it's a weird kind of like. I mean, he scares me every bit as much as he does Tom. The man was a literal fucking assassin. He's shot like…eleven dudes since I met him? But he says he took a vow to never kill anyone again, and so far, he's gone out of his way to keep it. To the point that it's probably stupid, from his point of view. Leaving guys alive who want to and have tried to kill you? Takes big brass fuckin' balls."

"How's his cock?" Emily zips up my bag and rests her chin on my shoulder. "Pretty big, I'm guessing."

I turn to face her, biting my lip and grinning. "I haven't seen it yet. I’ve only felt it through his pocket, once, and when he had it rubbing up against me before he put me on his shoulders. But judging by that? Yeah. I’m guessing he's packing some serious heat."

"He went down on you but didn't make you return the favor?"

"I tried to," I tell her. "He wouldn't let me. Apparently, he'd rather wait till there aren't people actively trying to kill us or something."

"A man who has his priorities straight, even when his cock is involved?" She pulls a face. "Sounds like a keeper to me, hon."

"Yeah, and that's what scares me."

A fist pounds on the door, fit to break it down—Emily screeches and cowers behind me. "WE GOTTA GO, LADIES!" Saxon sounds annoyed.

"We'd better go." I grab her hand and haul her for the door. "I'll update you on all things Saxon, as I can."

I sling my purse across my torso—it's a black leather sack purse with a strap I made out of an old seatbelt from a vintage Corvette. It's not a simple strap, though. There are buckle receivers on either side of the purse, and I took a spare male part of a seat belt and sewed it to the other end of the seatbelt strap so it has two male ends. This way, I can unbuckle it on either side if need be…and, in an emergency, I can unbuckle both ends and use the seatbelt as a weapon…which I've done.

I open the door and run smack into Saxon. "We're ready." I push him backward. "It helps me leave the room if you're not in the way, you brick wall of a man.”

He stares at me without so much as blinking for several seconds. "What…the fuck…are you wearing?"

"My clothes?" I twirl, and the leather-and-feathers skirt bells out—it's super thin, supple, expensive leather. "You like?"

"Are those…feathers?"

I smooth my hand over the very realistic-looking and-feeling feathers. "Yep. Not real. But yes."

Saxon just stares. "Fuckin' hot as sin. Weird, but hot." His eyes—very, very reluctantly—leave my chest and skate down to my feet. "At least you’ve got sensible footwear."

Emily sweeps past me and tugs Saxon down to her by the ear, stage-whispering, "This is where you ask her who made the skirt."

His eyes bore a hole in me. "Who made the skirt, Terra?"

I roll my eyes. "I did." I pluck at my purse. "And this." I point at Emily. "And her dress. Well, I didn't make it, like from scratch—it was a real 20s flapper dress that I modified.”

"Modified it my ass," Emily snorts. "You re-made it entirely. Different hemline, all those pearls…"

Saxon frowns. "Wait. The pearls on her dress…you sewed those on? All of them?"

"By hand," Emily says, prim and proud. "She's one of Boston's most in-demand clothiers."