Last Breath

Seventeen

Regan

HIS SISTER.

A few things click into place, my brain suddenly making sense of things. He’s got a sister—a young, pretty blonde who was sold into slavery, like me. That’s why he’s hunting blondes. That’s why he’s in and out of brothels in the slums and knows people like Luiz and Pereya.

That’s why he was so giddy when we got the information from the snitch.

I want to laugh with relief. I’ve been trying not to think about the other mysterious blonde he’s so excited at the thought of finding. I’ve been having flares of jealousy, quickly tamped down again. What right do I have to be jealous of anyone or anything Daniel does? He’s not mine. He’s my rescuer that I’m forcing to stick with me.

But . . . I’m still glad it’s his sister and not a rival for his attention.

We leave Luiz’s art gallery and head onto the streets of Ipanema, mingling with the crowd. I look over at Daniel and he’s full of barely-leashed energy. If an assassin could be giddy, that would be Daniel. I wonder if it’s because he’s close to getting his sister . . . or close to getting rid of me? Or both?

I’m not sure how that makes me feel. The conversation at breakfast has left me a bit at odds with myself. I don’t know how I’m going to slide back into my old life and pretend like nothing has happened. I’m a scholarship student, and the company I’m slated to go work for has paid for a large chunk of my schooling. It’s one of the reasons I went into accounting as a major: a guaranteed job at the end of college and someone was willing to pay for most of the classes, provided I keep my GPA up. Of course, it’s mid-semester right now, and I’ve missed two months, which means I’ve now flunked out of all my courses unless I drop them. Either way, I’m screwed.

But I’m alive, as Daniel has pointed out. I should be grateful instead of anticipating problems.

As we head back into the rougher part of the city, the streets clear out a bit. There’s not as many people strolling the shopping districts, and there are a few people loitering in doorways of nearby rundown shops. We’re walking the streets of Ipanema, heading back to the hotel, when Daniel grabs my ass. “Damn, baby doll. I can’t get over how fine this is.” His voice is loud, his Texas drawl thick.

I’m startled, and I jump at his touch, scurrying away a few feet. What the hell? “What are you doing?” His touch, so callous and out of the blue, has made me jittery, and bad memories start creeping up in my mind.

“I don’t think I can wait to tap that again,” he says, and his arms go around me again. Before I can protest, he drags me over a few feet into the alley and pushes me up against the wall. His mouth presses down over mine.

A deluge of bad memories sweeps over me as his tongue presses into my mouth. This aggressiveness isn’t like Daniel. He’s always let me take the lead before, and the difference in his touch is like night and day. I’ve craved more of his touch and wanted to explore . . . until now. Now, I want him to get off of me before I suffocate under the thoughts crowding my mind. Memories of men with guns and sweaty bodies, forcing my mouth open, pushing me down on a dirty mattress . . .

I whimper and push vainly at Daniel’s chest, but he’s got me pressed against the wall of the building. I’m trapped against his body as he grabs my leg and pulls it to his hip, practically wrapping me around him even as I struggle.

“We’re being watched,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Quit fighting.” And then he goes back to kissing me.

My fists stop beating him on the chest as I realize this is all an act. My eyes open, and I look at Daniel’s hard face. His eyes are slits, and he’s watching a nearby doorway even as his mouth crushes against mine again.

I’m not responding. I can’t. This is too much like the times in the brothel. There’s no delicate lead for me to take. I need to sit quietly and accept. I need to trust Daniel.

But I can’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks—or the saliva from pooling in my mouth. I’m going to throw up if this continues for too much longer. Wait it out, I tell myself. It’s not like before. It’s not. But even as I tell myself this, I remember the gun pressed to my head and the awful feeling of futility as I dropped to my knees in front of the man who’d bought me.

“Shit,” Daniel says against my mouth. “So fucking sorry, fighter. Just hang on for me.” He hitches my leg against his hip again and grinds his pelvis against mine. Even as he does, I feel something jostle, and I realize he’s pulled a gun free of its holster and holds it against my leg.

When I think I can’t bear this any longer, he lifts his mouth from mine and scans the street, tilting his head. I swallow hard and wipe the back of my hand against my mouth surreptitiously, trying to scrub away the feelings.

“I don’t see the gunman anymore, but I don’t want to take chances,” Daniel says. He gives me a quick, apologetic kiss on the forehead. “Come on. We’re going this way.” He drops my leg and gestures that I should head down the alley.

Shivering, I do so, trotting a few steps ahead of him as he watches carefully behind us. My earlier buoyancy has been entirely deflated. I was feeling so good this morning, so normal. And now, poof, it’s gone again.

I want to curl up and cry, my go-to after I’ve been violated, but we don’t have time for that. We’re in danger—I can tell from the tense set of Daniel’s shoulders and the way his mouth is in a firm, angry line—so I choke back the feelings and let Daniel lead me on.

Eventually, he points ahead and leads me through an alley door. We’re back at the hotel, but the back entrance, where fresh laundry is delivered and food trucks bring in packages.

We head through the back halls of the hotel, up the fire escape stairs, and eventually make it back to our room. The hallways are empty, but Daniel presses himself against the wall next to the door, carefully pushing me behind him. It’s clear from his raised-gun stance that he expects trouble in our room, so I wait for his signal, pulling out the gun I now carry with me at all times. It makes me feel a little better to hold it, knowing there’s an option if a man other than Daniel tries to shove me down against another dirty mattress in the future.

I can always shoot someone, right? Or yourself, my brain reminds me, but that’s not an option. Then again, neither is whoring.

“Wait here,” Daniel says in a low whisper. “I’m going in. Shoot anyone that comes out of this doorway. Even me. If it’s clear, I’ll call you ‘fighter baby’. Got it?”

“Got it,” I choke out in a low voice, even as he heads through the door, gun at the ready.

There’s an incredibly long moment of silence, and I scarcely breathe, waiting to hear something, anything.

A moment later, Daniel says, “All clear, fighter baby. Come on in.”

I release the breath I’ve been holding and enter the room. Immediately, it’s clear to me that the room’s been ransacked. My clothes have been torn apart and strewn across the room, and the bed has been overturned. Thank God Daniel took the bag of guns with us. He refused to let them out of his sight, and I see now he was right to do so.

I swallow hard at the sight. “Good thing we went out for breakfast, huh?” I try not to think what would have happened if they’d have found me in bed with Daniel, rubbing up against him. Both of us could have been killed.

“Looks like your friend hasn’t given up on you yet.” Daniel’s mouth is set into the hard, angry line I’m becoming all too familiar with. “Goddamn it. Least we have most our ammo still on us, but it looks like you’re going to be wearing that outfit for a while.”

“At least there’s that,” I agree faintly.

“You okay?” he asks me.

My lower lip feels like it’s on the verge of trembling, but I nod. “I’m fine.” I’m not, but there’s no point in going into how fucked-up my head is at the moment, because it doesn’t matter.

“Let’s go,” Daniel says. “Pack your things again, and we’ll head to a new hotel. Change of plans. We’re heading for the best hotel money can buy. Figure since they’re going to know where we are anyhow, we might as well hide in plain sight. They’re going to have to work a lot harder to try and steal your ass on Main Street.”

“Okay,” I say in a small voice again.

“You sure you don’t know why Freeze is so hot for you? You great with pony play or something?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Never mind. I’m being a jackass. This shit’s not making sense and I’m getting riled trying to figure it out.” He rakes a hand through his short hair and blows out a heavy breath. “Fuck. Let’s go.”

I pack my things quickly, tuck my gun back into my belt, and try to remain calm while Daniel texts something into his burner. When I’m ready, I nod at him and we leave the room behind. As soon as we get back out into the streets, Daniel hails a cab and puts an arm around my shoulders, like we’re a couple. I don’t shrug him off even though I’m feeling so weird right now. I don’t want to be touched, not at the moment, but I don’t tell Daniel to take his hands off of me.

We get in the cab. Daniel tells the driver an address in Portuguese and then puts his arm over my shoulders again. “Can’t believe we’re finally Mr. and Mrs. Parker,” he says in that drawling fake Texas accent I’m starting to learn is his “let’s pretend” voice.

“That’s right, baby,” I say quickly and press a kiss to his cheek, even though my voice sounds a bit more wobbly than I’d like.

I tune out as Daniel keeps up a steady stream of chatter with both me and the cab driver. He’s playing the role of a young newlywed tourist with great aplomb, occasionally giving me affectionate little touches that keep reminding me of the surprise kiss I reacted so badly to a short time ago. I do my part to keep up the pretense, but I’m sure it’s clear to both Daniel and the cabbie that I’m miles away mentally.

We get to the hotel, check in, and head up to our room—all the while Daniel is yakking in my ear about sightseeing tours and the nude beaches of Brazil, hand at my waist. It rests close to my gun, a reminder that despite the smiling people and pristine appearance of this hotel, we’re no safer than we were before.

The room is gorgeous, though. It has a king-size bed with fresh linens, a stack of fluffy towels waiting on the corner of the bed, and a lovely view of the city from the balcony. The bathroom’s bigger than my old apartment.

As we enter the room, Daniel locks and chains the door behind us, moves a dresser in front of the door, and then pulls the curtains closed. Then, he turns to look at me.

“So,” he says. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Daniel

REGAN TURNS AWAY , HER FACE flushing with . . . embarrassment? Shame? I’m not sure. She doesn’t need to feel either. I’m damn confused. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“You don’t have to be sorry. I’m trying to understand so I don’t make the same mistake again.” I watch as she wanders around the room, opening doors and drawers to look for something. Or at least not to look at me. I dump our packs on the floor and head to the minibar. Inside I find a bottle of vodka. Perfect. Picking up the bag from the pharmacy with the superglue that we stopped at before hitting the hotel, I set up shop in the bathroom.

“What’re you doing?”

“Making a mess,” I joke, pouring the bottle of alcohol over the open wound that is now bleeding again. “Fuck that hurts.”

“Here let me help you.” She pushes my hand away. Handing her the bottle of vodka, I pull off my shirt and lean against the sink, watching her in the mirror. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth as she pulls slightly at the skin to open the wound. “Looks bad,” she comments.

“Looks worse than it actually is.” I gesture toward the bottle. “Pour that on and then glue me up.”

“Is this really safe?”

“Yup. Did it all the time in combat.” Truthfully we had Dermabond, a medical-grade glue, over there, but the only real difference is that the Dermabond burned less and was stronger. Superglue will do fine.

“Okay.” She grits her teeth as if she’s the one getting burning alcohol poured all over her open wound, but I’ve suffered worse so I tip my head back and bite the inside of my cheek as she sets my side on fire. Then cool air hits my side, causing me to glance down. Regan’s kneeling beside me blowing little puffs of cool relief onto my wound. The sight of her down so close to my groin is setting something else afire. I grab for some tissue and start dabbing at the wound so we can glue it up and she can get off her knees before I make an inappropriate suggestion.

She leans back on her haunches while I dry myself off. “Want to glue me shut?” I waggle the bottle at her. Nodding, she pulls the cap off. “Dab a thin line on both sides of the wound, and we’ll be good to go.”

Carefully, she spreads the glue in place and then I squeeze the flesh together, hissing a little as glue stings. I slap a gauze strip over it and hand her the tape. As she winds the tape around my waist, her breasts touch my back and that—combined with the touch of her soft hands—is enough to give me a semi. Worse, on the third pass, her arm brushes a little too close to my crotch and the semi grows into full wood.

“Sorry,” I say through gritted teeth. “Delayed adrenaline.” A total lie but given that Regan freaked out before in the alleyway, I’m working extra hard not to provide more fodder for her nightmares. “Let me finish up,” I offer to take the tape from her.

“No, I’ve got it,” she says, but on the next two passes she makes sure she’s well away from my lower region. It doesn’t matter. Just her nearness is making me dizzy with arousal and want. “How’s that?” she asks finally.

“Good,” I say and then nearly run to get out of the bathroom. I flop down on the sofa wishing I had at least a couple of those bottles of vodka down my throat instead of on my side. I’m going to need something so I don’t think about having sex with Regan every five seconds.

She follows behind and suddenly the big bedroom that I booked for us is way too small. I would’ve gotten two rooms if that had been safe, but I couldn’t protect her if she wasn’t within eye sight. Maybe she’s worried that we have to sleep in the same bed. “Don’t worry,” I assure her. “This sofa has a pull-out. You can have the bed.”

Absently she nods and then sits on the side of the bed, bouncing a little as if she’s not sure if she wants to sit or pace. Rather than worry about that, I close my eyes and let the exhaustion of the past few days roll over me.

“Tell me about your sister,” she says.

I’d rather make puppets with my socks because Naomi’s story will give Regan a legitimate reason to hate me but she probably deserves to hear all of it. “She’s seven years younger than me and a fucking genius. Like, when she was in elementary school, she could think circles around me. I went to her for math help, not the other way around. She skipped all kinds of grades. Graduated high school when she was fourteen and then started taking college classes. Not sure if she’s really autistic or whether her lack of socialization with kids her age hurt her, but she’s really socially awkward. Has a hard time relating to people, but she’s so damn sweet, Regan,” my voice grows pained as I think of what happened next. “I wanted her to have some fun, you know?”

“You can’t feel like what happened to her is your fault,” Regan protests.

“Really? Maybe you should reserve judgment until I finish the story,” I say shortly. Surging to my feet, I lunge at the minibar. I need some alcohol to finish this story. There are six more bottles of liquor inside. I take out the Jack Daniel’s and swallow the bottle in one gulp. In my absence, Regan has moved to the sofa and is patting the cushion. With a sigh, I head back and crack open the bottle of rum. Rolling the small bottle between my hands, I finish the story “So I’m telling her to get out and do some normal stuff. She’s studying at MIT, some kind of string theory shit that is more complicated than how the F16 is constructed. During one of our Skype calls, she tells me that some classmates of hers are going on spring break to Cancun, and I encourage her to go. No.” I stop and drink down the bottle, tossing the empty container on the coffee table. There’s not ever going to be enough alcohol to make the pain of this memory go away. “I force her to go. I tell her that she’s wasting her life in school; that the real world is passing her by—she’s gotta get out and live it.” Those last words come out with so much bitterness and self-hatred that even Regan leans away.

“She goes and on the second day is kidnapped. I get a Red Cross call—the line family members can use to inform you of an emergency—and fly twenty hours home. When I get to the ranch, my momma looks like she’s aged fifty years and can barely rise from the chair to greet me. My dad doesn’t want me to even step foot on the porch of our house. He tells me to find her and not come home until I do.”

“Oh, Daniel,” Regan leans over and starts rubbing my upper shoulders, which feels far better than I deserve at the moment. “Have you been saving girls for the last eighteen months?”

That and killing people.

“Every time I walked into one of those houses or pulled over a truck carrying fucking kidnapped girls I didn’t know whether I felt relief or disappointment at not seeing her face. Until a few hours ago, I believed she was dead.” I hunch over my knees, using my hands to cradle my head. “And now I’m feeling so much fucking relief, I can’t even tell you, Regan.”

“Do you need to cry it out?” she murmurs.

“What?” I crank my head around.

“Cry it out? You know, let it go. That’s how my, I guess, ex-best friend Becca and I used to deal with things.”

“I hope you know I’m not Becca.”

She smiles, a bit sadly. “I hate that you found me in that house. I hate that I’m a fucked-up victim.”

Turning swiftly, I grab her by both arms. “You are not a victim. You are a fucking survivor. You have more life in you than half the people walking around living their normal lives.” I shake her a little so she gets this. “You are not a victim.”

I don’t think this penetrates because she continues. “Earlier, in the alley,” she gestures in some vague direction behind her, “I freaked out because you were pressed up against me. I felt like I was back in that room.” Her breath catches as if she’s holding back some tears, but I don’t encourage her to cry it out because I don’t know if I can deal with her tears at this moment. “What if I can’t have sex like a normal person? What if all I can do is mutual masturbation?"

Her words are conjuring up wild erotic images which I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate. Swallowing hard, I push my lust away and attempt to speak normally. "I think you’ll move past that."

“I wanted you this morning,” she admits. “I mean, you saw me. I really wanted you. I was fantasizing about you touching me, you rubbing me, your dick inside me.”

Oh Christ. This sex talk is making my dick stand up. But what if . . . ? A thought occurs to me. A really selfish thought. One generated by my dick, but I can’t help myself. Standing up, I say, “Then take me.”

“What do you mean?” She sounds bewildered but intrigued.

I unbuckle my pants and then lie on the bed. “Why not come over and use me? Do what you like to me. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it. If all you want me to do is lie here while you feel me up, then that’s what we do. If you want to climb on top of me and ride me, that’s cool. Shit, you can even tie my hands up.” I shiver at the thought. “Use me.”

“But what if I get upset and leave you hanging?” She’s up off her feet and standing right at the edge of the bed, fiddling with the bottom of her shirt like she wants to whip it off. Do it, baby.

“So I have to jerk it myself. You’re okay with that, right?”

She nods.

“Then it’s all good.” I spread out my arms. “I won’t move unless you tell me to.”

“But what if I get on top of you and then I’m like, on you but have to, um, disengage?” She’s placed a knee on the side of the bed.

“So you’re saying you’re riding me, and your wet pussy juice is coating my dick, and then you decide, nope, this train rides too rough or I’m feeling queasy?”

Her head bobs and her breathing is a little more rapid, a little louder. “Then I guess you climb off and I take myself in hand, and I either jerk off with your hot little eyes watching every move or I go to the bathroom."

“But that seems so unfair to you.” This time she’s fully on the bed, kneeling right beside me. My dick is so hard I could hang a fifty-pound weight off of it.

"Making you feel good is a privilege, not a chore. You hear me? No matter what happens, you tell yourself that getting close to your pussy is a goddamn fucking privilege. Got that?"

I only get a nod, but this is important shit so I make her repeat it. “Say it. Say ‘making me feel good is a motherfucking privilege.’”

She giggles but repeats my words. “Making me feel good is a privilege.”

“No, ‘a motherfucking’ one. Say it again.”

She screams it. “Making me feel good is a motherfucking privilege.” Then she collapses on the bed beside me and we both laugh. It’s stress relief or maybe actual humor, but I can tell we both feel better.

“Wouldn’t it be hard not to want to keep going?” she asks, rolling onto her side. Her head rests on one of my outstretched arms. I’m careful not to move like I promised.

“I’ve gone without for a long time, baby. I can last a few more days,” I say wryly, knowing her next question is going to be how long. Because that’s Regan: always asking the follow-up. She should’ve been a reporter or investigator or something instead of an accountant.

“How long?”

I grin. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

She smiles back and shakes her head. “If you knew I was going to ask, why didn’t you offer it up?”

Shrugging, I sink into the bed a little more. She draws closer to me, her head now resting on my shoulder and her left hand absently stroking my chest. “It’s been . . .” I squint into the distance. “A couple of years? My last leave I was in a bar in San Antonio. Some cougar propositioned me, and I took her up on her offer to teach me some moves. And yes, before you ask, she did teach me a couple of things.”

“I don’t know what to ask you first. Like, why has it been that long and what is it that she taught you?”

“She taught me to listen to my partner and that making her happy was going to end in good times for me. As for the other . . .” I scrub my free hand across my mouth. “After my sister was taken and I started learning more about what happens to these lost girls, I kinda lost my appetite for it.”

“But with me, it seems like . . .” she trails off.

“That I’m always hard?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Don’t know how to explain it. You turn me on like no one else has ever cranked my chain.”

“Would you really let me tie you up?”

All I hear is genuine curiosity, and I want to feed it until it turns into desire, want, and unrestrained need that she fills at the fount of Daniel.

“Yeah, but I’m going to be honest: I'd be able to get out of any restraint you could think of, so tying me up will be illusory. You trust me?” I hold my breath because none of this is going to work unless she’s fully on board. Regan’s got to be able to embrace her own reactions—but even more, she has to believe that she is safe with me.

Her gaze is downward, and she’s silent. All I can hear is my own heavy breathing that sounds like harsh static on a radio airwave.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she says finally. “That’s the issue for me. I don’t know what I’ll be able to take or not until I’m there.”

It dawns on me that Regan doesn’t need to trust me; she needs to know that I not only trust her but I’m okay with everything that she does. I need to give myself over to her fully and let her do what I asked—which was use me, take me. I force my breathing to calm. “Here’s my promise: I’m not ever going to get angry for anything you do or don’t do in the bedroom.”

She bites her lip and then passes a hand over the surface of my body, and it’s more erotic than if she had performed a lap dance.

“I’m not sure what I should do. Like, should I take my clothes off?”

Yes please. But this is her show. “Whatever you want.”

She fingers the bottom of her shirt again and then casts a glance upward behind a veil of lashes, looking mysterious and coy but I know it’s her lack of surety. I give her my reckless smile, as if what she does is of no importance. As if I could take it or leave it. As if I wasn’t going to die if she didn’t put a hand on me.

I offer up some suggestions. “You could kiss me. You could let me kiss your sweet pussy. Or you could rub against me.” Or all of the above.

"I’m a little wet," she admits.

Me too.

"Climb on up then and let me kiss you between your legs and get you good and wet. You'd like that, right? Wouldn't you like my tongue lapping up all that juice?” The invisible restraints against my arms are chafing hard. I want to flip her over and bury my fingers and tongue in that hot, wet cunt but I promised her that I wouldn’t move until she told me I could.

But I’m still going to talk.

"I thought I was in charge?” she mock complains, but I can tell she’s more comfortable.

"You are, baby. I’m throwing out ideas."

Regan tugs off her shirt and then throws a leg over me so that she’s straddling my abdomen. Her damp panties are rubbing against my bare skin. My hands dig into the mattress as I fight the urge to grab her ass. This is so much harder than anything I’ve ever done before. My only outlet right now is my mouth, so I let it fly.

"Oh yeah. I can feel you, sweetheart. I can feel that you are turned on. If you were a little higher you could place one of those teacup breasts into my mouth. I'd love to suck one of your tits until each one is good and hard. Do you think you'd feel that between your legs? I can’t wait until my mouth is all over you and I’ve licked and sucked on every inch of your skin at least twice.”

She runs her hands over my chest, smoothing her palms along the planes of my pectorals and then down to my abdomen. I’ve never been a gym rat. I’ve worked out because it helped me survive on missions, but now I’m very glad that my body is cut because I can tell by the worshipful way Regan caresses every ridge, how she shifts on top of me, that my body turns her on.

“Tell me what you want,” I beg. “You are killing me.”

“Will you watch me again?”

I nod eagerly. She places three fingers against my lips and I suck them inside my mouth, coating each finger with my tongue. With a pop, she pulls her fingers away, and I’m reluctant to let even that contact go.

My eyes track those glistening fingers until they disappear into her panties. “Take your panties off, sugar. Let me really see you work your pussy.”

Her chest heaving, Regan does as I tell her. She slides backward between my legs and pushes her panties off her ass, lifting a little, and I catch a glimpse of her soft hair and the pretty dark pink flesh of her cunt. I lick my lips and saliva pools as I remember how good she tastes. I need more of that. I need to feast on her.

Then she’s back on my chest, a little higher now. “Am I too heavy for you?” she gasps as she rubs herself, the three fingers I sucked on now getting wet from her own juice.

“Not at all.” Her slight weight isn’t what’s killing me right now. It’s my inability to touch her. "But if you come up a little higher, I can help you out. I can suck on your clit and lap your come as you finger yourself.”

Her fingers stutter as she responds to my words. Biting her lip, she peers down at me indecisively and then gives me a small nod. I refrain from a double fist pump but this is better than a hole in one. Rising on her knees, she inches forward and I move downward.

“Grab hold of the headboard with your one hand, for stability,” I tell her. She does but her pussy is still about an inch too high. I think she’s afraid she’s going to break my face or something, but if anything is breaking off it’s my dick because it is so goddamned hard right now a stiff wind could shatter it. “Lower baby. Sit on me.”

“Won’t I suffocate you?” she worries but lowers until that juicy pussy is resting right on top of my mouth.

“Oh, baby, if only.” I give her one long lick—from her fingers rubbing the top of her pubic bone all the way to her tiny rear rosette.

“Ohhhhh,” she breathes out.

“This pussy is so gorgeous. It’s shaped like one of those white flowers, and every time I push away a fold with my tongue, I find a more tasty delicacy.” I’d tell her more but I’m too busy running my tongue inside her, scooping out her arousal, sucking on each cunt lip and then her clit. I can hear her panting above me, each quickened breath telling me how much she wants this, but even if I couldn’t hear her, I can see the visible evidence of her arousal in how wet she is and how engorged her flesh is. I spear her with my tongue and then lash her clit until she’s thrashing above me and her thighs are clenched against my cheeks. She’s given up fingering herself to grip my hair, alternatingly pulling on my hair and pushing my face closer to her pussy. I love it. I love her fierce touch and her physical exertions. She’s so into this, into me, that she has lost control of her senses and completely let go.

I would rend anyone limb from limb who tried to come between Regan and me. From now on, the only one who will hear her scream when she comes is me. The only man who will get to taste the nectar between her legs is me. The only cock that will ever pleasure her, from this moment until I never draw another breath, is mine.

I eat at her, lapping at her arousal and listening to the sounds of her pleasure as she comes and comes. My arms feel heavy with the desire to touch her and my dick is pulsing with need, but the promise I made to her is just as effective as bonds. I’d never hurt her, never break my promise to her. Not in this lifetime or the next.

When the last of her orgasm leaves her weak, she collapses against the wall and headboard and then slowly slides down until she’s prostrate on top of me. “Can I hold you?” I whisper against her ear.

“Please,” she says. And my arms band around her so tightly she squeaks.

“Sorry.” I force myself to loosen my hold, but I don’t let go.