Page 52 of Silas

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

No.

She doesn’t want that.

She’s been brutalized her entire life. Beaten, used, enslaved—abused in every way there is. The last thing she needs is my fucked-up caveman libido turning this thing between us into something it’s not and can never be.

I force my eyes back to the road and my mind to other things.

Like dead kittens. Like Sister Chastity Callahan, my third-grade teacher at the private Catholic school Sax and Sol and I went to growing up—Sister Chastity had to have been at least four hundred years old, with wrinkles so deeply etched into her face that they were more like canyons carved into the earth than creases in her skin. She was meaner than a cornered badger and goddamn quick with that thick wooden ruler, smacking hands and wrists and backs of heads for the slightest infraction.

Memories of Sister Chastity effectively drown out the arousal—as long as I don’t look over at Naomi.

As long as I don’t let memories of her naked body invade my thoughts…

Such as droplets of water trickling down her throat, running down between her plump, firm, round breasts, pink tips turned up, nipples hard. Her flat belly and bell-curve hips, her thighs pressed together with just the tiniest triangle of daylight at the apex. Her pussy, covered in a thick thatch of dark curls.

Fuck.

I bet she tastes sweeter than any dessert. I bet, shown the right tenderness and affection, she’d be responsive as all hell, bucking under my mouth, writhing against me in a silent plea to never never stop.

I wouldn’t, if I had the privilege of tasting her. I wouldn’t stop. Not until she’d come so many times she had to beg me to stop.

I wouldn’t fuck her. I would take my time. Slow, sensual, gentle. I’d kiss every inch, every curve, every line and crease and fold. I’d let her dictate the pace. I’d make sure she came a hundred times to my once. I’d hold her when we were done, and I’d never let go.

I don’t know what the hell it is about her that has me so fucked in the brain. I should never have stopped for her. I should have dropped her off at a women’s shelter and gone back to Vegas. I shouldn’t be doing any of this. I shouldn’t talk to her the way I talk to her, I shouldn’t crave her the way I do.

I’m not stupid—I know full well she reminds me of my mother in certain ways. It’s not physical, the resemblance: Mom was medium height at best and carried a few extra pounds in her hips and thighs—which Dad was always a dick to her about, even sober. She had red hair—I get it from her. Blue eyes. The resemblance is in the way Naomi carries herself: careful, delicate, withdrawn, and inward. It’s in the innate gentility, despite the brutality experienced. Mom possessed a beautiful soul, which shone brightly despite the way Dad treated her, and I see the same thing in Naomi.

I’m also fully aware that my drive to take care of and protect Naomi stems from the fact that I couldn’t protect Mom whereas I can Naomi.

I get it.

I just…I don’t know what to do with it.

She’s not in a place to be with anyone. And I’m…

Well, I’m damaged goods, in a lot of ways. For one thing, I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to properly treat a woman, let alone someone like her, who’s been through what she has.

I’m not that guy.

I’ve never wanted to be that guy.

For another, I have my own emotional baggage.

Once again, I try to shove all these stupid, ridiculous thoughts aside and just drive.

Naomi gives a soft, delicate little snore, which puts a smile on my face. Fuck, she’s adorable. She adjusts in the seat, twisting and scooting down. She scratches her upper, inner thigh, which hikes her skirt higher, baring a hint of yellow.

Shit, she’s wearing the yellow panties. They’re more than a thong, but less than full-coverage briefs, as sexy as fuck, between the bright color and cute-hot cut. I saw them on the rack and instantly visualized them on her, and had to fight the erection the image gave me.

God, she does something to me. No one’s ever turned me on so easily as Naomi. I mean, I’m a guy. I’m easily aroused, like all of us are. But Naomi? She just…affects me. Intensely.

This is going to be a very long drive.

* * *

We’re lessthan an hour from Cincinnati, stopped for gas at a Shell Station just off the freeway. Naomi is stretching her legs while I pump gas.