Page 37 of Saxon

"So many."

My eyes flicker open. "Just scars."

"Each one a story."

"Not fun ones."

"I know."

My pants are still hanging open, boxers tugged down. My cock, in the intervening conversation, has softened. She traces one fingertip over the telltale curving bulge, cheek on my shoulder. God, I'm too fucking tired to fight it, to argue. I want her touch. I'm not brave enough to tell her how worthless I feel, deep inside, how ugly. I’m selfish enough to accept this from her if she truly wants to give it to me. I just don't deserve it.

That inner conflict is my deepest, darkest secret: despite the bravado and bluster and arrogance, down deep inside, when it comes to the real core of who I am as a man, I'm deeply insecure.

That's not the right word, insecure. I know who I am. I know what I'm good at. I also know what I've done, and that's what haunts me.

I'll always have Dad's voice in my ear, telling me how fucking worthless I am.

My thoughts are scattered like bats bursting out of a cave when she traces my length with two fingers, thumb and forefinger gliding around me. Over the underwear. Unhurried.

Ticktock, ticktock. It's faint, muffled by exhaustion and arousal.

"Terra," I murmur.

"Hush." She nuzzles my jaw with her nose. "Close your eyes. Relax. Just for a few minutes. I've got you."

I've never been gotten before. Not sure how to feel about it. I hear the engine idling faintly. It's armored. Even if the Cabal's lackeys do show up, the armor will at least give us a chance to get away.

And fuck, do I want her. I crave her touch. I want more. I want…fuck, I want it all.

I'm too goddamn tired to resist.

I let my eyes close, rest my head, let exhaustion pull at me. "Just a few minutes. I just need to rest for a minute, then I can take over."

"I know."

Her touch skates over my chest from scar to scar, palm flattening over my pec, exploring the hard plane of muscle, brushing my nipple, shocking me momentarily when she flicks her nail over it.

Her lips touch my jaw, a soft kiss.

Fuck, that does something to my chest, my gut, my heart…everything tightens, heats up, thickens. Tenses.

Her hand glides over my skin, over my abs to the waistband of my underwear. Her lips press a kiss to my throat, just below my Adam's apple, the hollow at the base.

She hooks both hands in my underwear and tugs them down under my butt and then works my pants and underwear down my thighs and past my knees to pool on the floor around my ankles.

My cock unfurls in the cool air, and I hear her sharp, shocked intake of breath.

"Fuck me, Saxon. Your cock is perfect."

"Thanks," I mumble, half-delirious with exhaustion and arousal. "I grew it myself."

She huffs a laugh. Traces one fingertip down my length from top to bottom. "I’m serious. It's beautiful. A work of art."

I can't think of a response, so I offer none.

Another slow, exploratory touch of one finger, tip to root. I'm fully hard, now, and hardening further into painful ache territory. I couldn't stop her now if I tried, and I'm not about to. I'll just hate myself for this later. Add it to the pile of reasons I'm a piece of shit.

Shuffle that poisonous mindset aside—I see it for what it is and fight it most of the time. But moments like this, exhausted, worn down, confused by Terra and this thing that's erupting between us, feeling vulnerable and having shared deep shit with her, a stranger…the poison is hard to fight. So I don't—I ignore it.