Page 83 of Saxon

"Still counts." She gasps, letting go of me with one hand so she can finger herself with the other. "No—oh fuck…no saying the L-word at all till this is over."

"This, meaning us fucking? Or this, meaning this whole bullshit scenario I dragged you into?"

"This whole bullshit sceanrio we dragged each other into." She bucks, crying out. "Here's the—oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm gonna come—here's the deal. Once this is over, you're gonna bring me back to your club with your arrow dudes, and you're gonna let me put a woman's touch on whatever space you live in, and that's gonna be our home. When we're home, you’re gonna fuck me six ways to Sunday, and you can use the L-word as much as you want. Until then, it's off-limits. I know it's how you feel, and I know it's how I feel, so just consider it understood." She almost bucks and writhes out of my grip, almost knocks me off the couch. "Got me, big boy?"

"Got you, hot stuff." I pinch both nipples right as I feel her start to let go, and she screams out loud, coming hard.

It triggers mine, the edge hitting me hard and fast. I feel it, and I prepare to let go.

I pull her back upright and crush myself against her back, curling one arm around her breasts and the other around her belly, just above her sex. Bring my other knee up onto the couch. Lift up, surge into her, as deep as I can go. Again, and again, I restrain her against me as I fuck into her, gasping as I release inside her, my lips at her ear.

"Hear it?" I whisper, voice ragged. "Hear me saying it?"

She sags in my hold, boneless and thrashing, trusting my strength to hold her up. "I hear it, I hear it."

When we've both come down, I let her go and go through the process of cleaning her up again, and myself. This time, I get dressed immediately, and gather her clothes, bring them to her.

She reaches for them, but I demur. "Let me."

She makes a complicated face—somewhere between melting with affection, amused, and annoyed all at once. "I can dress myself, Saxon."

"Well obviously—I'd hope so. But still. Let me."

"Why?"

"I want to."

"I'll let you, but you have to elaborate."

I nod and kneel in front of her. Remove from my pocket the red thong she stuffed in there. Guide her foot through one side, the other. Slide it up, and she lifts her hips, takes it from me and snugs it in place. Stands up and cooperates with me to slide on her skirt.

She takes the bustier from me. "I think I'd better do this one. Now. Talk."

I watch, fascinated, as she stuffs her magnificent body into the complicated device. "Not much to say. I'm finding I like doing things for you. Spent my whole life just…surviving, really. Going through the motions day to day. Do the job in front of me, don't think about it, don't feel shit. Don't die. Occasionally, find a willing female to take care of my needs—and usually, she was someone I had to pay.

"You…you're different. You make me want…I don't even fucking know. Something I've never had and never thought I could have. Something a huge part of me doesn't think I should have. I'm just enough of a selfish bastard to want it anyway. Even though it's putting your fucking life in danger. You seem like you want it too, and it seems more likely that I’m seeing what I want to see, and I'm just deluding myself because you…you're strong. You're beautiful. You're brave. Resilient. A good friend. A smart businesswoman and a talented craftswoman, or whatever the right word is. And I'm just…" I wiggle a pistol in the air. "All I'm good at is this."

I glance at her, but I can't read her expression, can't read the silence.

"All that to say…I like taking care of you. It makes me feel like I'm…" My throat is tight, aching and burning. "Good. For something other than hurting and killing people, at least."

Silence.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Panic sears in my veins, in my gut. My heart hammers, and my head is caught in a vise, and my lungs tighten.

Not now, goddammit. Not in front of her. Fuck.

I pace—how I've always handled panic attacks. That, or hitting the gym and lifting until I'm about to pass out.

I shouldn't have said any of that. I didn't mean to, it just…popped out.

I'm hyperventilating. Panicking and I can't stop. I've fucked it up. I had a chance with her, and I fucked it up. Women want to be protected. How can she trust me to protect her when I'm so fucking weak?

I hear my father's voice. Feel his fists, which hit as hard as his words:

PUSSY. WEAK BITCH OF A BOY.

FUCKING SISSY. CRY SOME MORE, LITTLE BITCH._