Page 67 of Tortured Souls
“Nah, love. Let him take care of that himself,” Owen says to her, his lips dusting over her ear, making her visibility shudder against him.
“Whatever, fine. But don’t act so scared. I know she’ll say yes. I mean, she practically lives there now anyway, right?” She bounces out of the booth and makes her way back to Sage, Frieda, and Bristol, who are still dancing on the dance floor.
“She’s not wrong, you know.”
I look over at Saint, who’s giving me his signature smirk with his eyebrow raised as he takes another sip of his whiskey.
The rest of the night passes fairly quickly. The girls have begun whining about their feet hurting and how they want to run by the twenty-four-hour burger joint on the way home. I watch as all the guys divvy up who they will bring home, and once they all leave, I sit back and watch my girl. Her long chestnut-brown hair has found its way up into a messy bun as she focuses on washing the last of the glasses and deposits them in their rightful places.
The music is turned down to a reasonable volume, but I can still hear Sky humming one of her favorite tunes as she wipes down the bar one last time. Once finished, she makes her way to the register and begins her count for the night. Melanie, oneof my night managers, heads over to her to collect the drawer, and I watch them have a quick interaction. Melanie is thirty-nine years old with jet-black hair. She’s been managing clubs for most of her adult life, starting as a bartender and making her way up. She loves her job, and it shows. The night life is in her blood, and I trust her.
Once Melanie leaves the bar with drawers in hand, a pair of gorgeous caramel-hazel eyes meet mine. Her smile is instantaneous, warming her face and setting my chest on fire. As she makes her way around the bar, I scoot out of the booth and meet her halfway. She falls into my chest, her arms wrapping around my neck as she buries her face into my shirt, letting out a tired sigh. I lean down a bit and wrap my arms around her lower back, squeezing just enough to mold her body to mine.
“Busy night?”
“Nah, it was good. Just ready to get off my feet now.” Without a response, I scoop her into my arms and start carrying her to the elevator, wedding style. Her giggles fill my ears as she rests her head on my shoulder.
“I didn’t mean I couldn’t walk, you know.” She settles in even more against my body. “This is nice too though.”
I press the button in the elevator for the top floor, and once the doors finally open to her apartment, I deposit her on her couch before bending down in front of her. Lifting her foot, I unlace one of her boots and remove it for her before doing the same on the other side. I know she likes to shower after her shift, so after I remove her shoes, I kiss her forehead before disappearing in to her bathroom.
“What did I do to deserve this princess treatment?” Her voice filters into the bathroom as I’m adjusting the temperature for the water. Turning to face her, I see she’s removed all her clothes. Her slightly tanned naked body leaning gently against the doorframe about brings me to my knees.
“You’re no princess, baby.” Her brows furrow in confusion. My response was definitely not what she was expecting.
“You’re my treasure, my piece of heaven that will forever be cherished, guarded, and cared for until the end of time. I understand why pirates spend their lives hunting treasure, because I’ve been searching for you my whole life, and baby, I’ll die before I let you go. Treasure is more valuable than a princess. I’ve seen too many movies where the king or prince neglect their princess. However, they will do anything to safeguard their treasure. Their pieces of gold and silver, a rare gem, anything that brings them value. But you, my dear, are the world’s most precious. Besides, why lower your value to just a princess when you’re already my queen?”
My tesoro.
SKYLAR
Fairytales aren’t real. We learn this at a young age. However, I’m pretty sure this life with Saxon is the most beautifully chaotic, yet blissful, fairytale I never thought existed. When his hands finally rest on my hips, I’m thankful, because if he keeps talking like this, my knees will surely give out.
“Saxon,” I whisper. Very few times have I ever been left speechless, and this is one of those times. My mouth is opening and closing but no words are coming out. I eventually give up and press my lips to his, settling on showing him how much he means to me rather than speaking. His hand grabs my thigh andlifts it up to wrap around his waist. The room quickly fills with steam as the shower continues to run.
His jeans are pressing against my core, creating a delicious friction, and I can start to feel his bulge growing beneath the fabric.
“Let me shower first. I feel gross and smell like alcohol.” Without responding, he kisses down my neck, licking and sucking as he marks my skin. When he reaches my collarbone, I finally pull away.
“Please, five minutes.” I shimmy past him and step underneath the spray. I’m not at all surprised when he hops on the counter and gets comfortable, watching me wash and lather my body with soap. Rarely does he leave me alone to shower. In fact, the only time he’s not near me is when the girls and I have our Wednesday breakfasts or when I’m in therapy. Except, I always feel like he’s watching me, even though I can’t see him. It doesn’t bother me; in fact, I’ve been comfortable with the idea that he’s always watching me. Since all the shit went down, I’ve developed this weird phobia of being alone. I hate it. It freaks me out, and I, on more than one occasion, have suffered a panic attack. This has only happened a handful of times, and Saxon was always in the next room or in the kitchen when they happened, so he was able to help me through them. But still, this is a new development. My therapist says it’s a trauma response, and I may never fully stop having them. She said I need to be aware of how I’m feeling or what I’m thinking about when those attacks start. That way we can work on limiting those behaviors or thoughts that bring on the attacks.
It’s been rough, to say the least. Trying to sift through all the shit in my head and dissect how to safely deal with the issues from my past is no walk in the park. But I love my therapist. She’s wonderful and has helped me more than I ever thought she would.
“Right, sweetheart, your five minutes are up.” I chuckle as I rinse that last bit of conditioner from my hair and turn off the water. When I open the glass door, he’s waiting for me, towel in hand. Wrapping the towel around me snuggly, he kisses me softly before turning me around and ushering me to my room. Once inside, I make my way to my dresser.
“Don’t even think about getting dressed. There’s no need for clothes with what I’m about to do to you.” I turn around to face him. Removing his cut and then his shirt, followed by his jeans, my eyes focus in on the tent in his briefs, and my mouth starts salivating.
It hasn’t been easy finding intimacy again. For so long, I felt as though my skin was constantly tingling and bugs were running rampant beneath the surface. I could never take enough showers to help with the feelings I was having. We took things slowly, very, very slowly. He understood my hesitancy, and when I spoke about this to my therapist, she insisted Saxon come to my next session. She spoke with the pair of us and allowed us to talk about sex with one another in her presence so she could intervene if needed.
It was awkward at first, talking about sex with another person present, but she was able to coach us through it. Expanding on how I was feeling and bringing light to the dark when I couldn’t express my words and feelings properly. Saxon was so patient, so fucking patient. Even when we started getting intimate, I would freeze up at times, flashes of that night barreling into my mind and ruining the moment for us. When I thought I would never be able to be intimate with him again, he changed the approach.
He started taking me on “first dates” such as the movies, dinners, rides on his bike; we created new memories as if we had just started dating all over again. With time, it started getting better. I craved his touch more and more until we were finallyable to experience our passion for one another all over again. Like I said, he was incredibly patient with me, and I’m 100 percent positive I would not have been able to experience love again if not for him.
Saxon sits on the edge of my bed, patting his thigh for me to come over. Dropping my towel, I saunter over to him and straddle his lap. Warm hands roam up and down my back, massaging my skin ever so lightly. I rest my forehead against his shoulder and let him knead my back muscles with his fingers. A moan slips past my lips, and I settle into him deeper, my sex resting against his already fully erect cock. His lips find my neck again, and he inhales my scent.
“Move in with me, tesoro.” It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement. A wish. He kisses the crook of my neck, and I grind down against him before lifting my head from his shoulder.
“You want me to move in with you, Sage, and Saint?” Without any hesitation, he nods, leaning his head back to look up at my face with his stupidly handsome smile.