Page 112 of The True Garza

As the shower starts running in the bathroom, I put on one of the silken night dresses. It falls a few measly inches below my ass, but I forgo panties regardless. I get my phone and shuffle to the California-king mattress on the floor. Slip under the covers and check my notifications.

There are unread texts from Brook and Dennis.

Brook:Just saw a memo for a tentative late meeting tomorrow, so I might not be home when True comes by. Feel free to lend him your keys just in case.

Me:OK. Thanks, sis.

Dennis: Still not home yet?*sad face emoji*

Dennis: I’ll probably be asleep when you get home, but send me a message anyway so I’ll know you got in safe.

I’m about to send off a simple “Got in safe” text but abandon the idea and stuff my phone under the pillow at the sound of the shower cutting off.

That’s one fast shower.

A few seconds later, True emerges from the bathroom. Skin damp, towel around his waist. And as if it was on his mind the entire time he’d been in the shower, he stops, narrows his eyes on me, and asks, “Were you on the phone with that fucktwat?”

“Fucktwat? What are you, sixteen?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t owe you one.”

“You’re in my fucking bed!”

This is hardly a bed, dude. “You begged me to be here.”

Jaw set, he strides over and yanks the pillow from under my head, revealing the phone. Before I can grab it, he snatches it up and stomps out of the room.

I flip back the covers and get up to go after him. But by the time I reach the door, he’s back, sans phone, shoving me back into the room and kicking the door shut.

“That phone is not allowed in this room.”

Incredulous, I snort. “You can’t tell me what the fuck to do with my phone. And if it’s not allowed in here, then neither am I.”

I shove him out of my way and make a beeline for the door.

In the next second, my feet are pedaling air. And then there’s awooshof air against my ears as I’m airborne. Because the son of a bitchthrowsme like a goddamn frisbee across the room and onto the mattress.

What kind of superhuman shit is this?

Equilibrium shattered, I barely have time to gather my bearings before he’s there, flipping me over and spreading my legs.

“You know,” he starts, voice rough, “my world was perfectly fine before you showed up.” He slaps the inside of my thighs. Right, then left. “It’s like you were sent here to drive me fucking insane.” He rips away his towel as he watches my flesh redden. “What the fuck did I ever do to you, London?”

Breathing heavy, I bite my lip and point to where I want him to slap me next, farther up my thigh, closer to my pussy.

He obliges, delivering stinging blows that makes me want to weep from the beauty of it.

“Again. Closer.”

He gives me what I ask. Again and again, exactly how I want it.

This is why I love him. Why my body sings like a song for him. Because he never hesitates to fulfill my needs. Will Dennis be able to feed my mildly depraved needs without batting an eye and bitching about feeling “uncomfortable”? Why did the one person who knowsexactlyhow to please me in bed have to be a commitment-phobe?

“Are you mad at me?” I taunt.

He doesn’t answer, he just slaps me again. Sweet, delicious stings spreading across my skin.