7

IT’S EIGHT IN the morning. I’m functioning on two hours of sleep. I want to lay on this floor with Saylor and forget about the constant fucking ringing in my ears. I know it’s Shady because he personalized his ringtone to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” just to piss me off. But I can’t ignore him. If I don’t answer, he might think I’m dead.

Saylor is awake and she is staring at me. I’m starting to believe she sleeps in thirty-minute intervals. Not only is she awake, she is bright eyed and bushy tailed—or whatever the fuck they call it. She is wearing that “just fucked” smile, and it suits her. I’m just waiting for her to say something because I know she will. And it will be totally off the wall.

“I like this tattoo,” she says as she traces her fingers across the red star at the hollow of my throat. It’s a reminder of my first kill. My brother was murdered, I avenged his death. A throat for a throat.

“I like this one too.” I feel her finger trail down my chest to the number 13 that is over my heart. It’s a reminder too. One that tells me to never lie to my brothers. “How many do you have?”

“Twenty-seven.” My voice is thick-laced with sleep. Her green eyes grow at my words. I like that I have the ability to shock her.

“I want a tattoo.” Her lips poke out and her voice is whiny. I can see the laughter in her eyes and I know she is only kidding, but there is some seriousness there too. “I want a tramp stamp.”

I don’t know what that is. But just her use of the word tramp has me angry. That’s not as bad as pissed, but a little worse than mad, and not how I wanted to start my day.

For some reason, Shady decides to take this moment to call again. I’m just before smashing the damn thing when she pulls it from the pocket of my cut and hands it to me. And then I see what she is wearing—my shirt. And I didn’t fucking notice. I feel something in me. I know this feeling. I know it better than any other. Pride. Just the sight of her in my shirt makes my dick stand at attention.

Shady is talking in my ear, but I can’t make out his words. All I can think about is how good she looks in my shirt as she stands to walk over to the window. And how fucking good it makes me feel. And how the more I think about it, the more a feeling I don’t know keeps creeping up inside me. She is walking back toward me, and her hair is everywhere. The sleeves of my shirt are at her elbows and the bottom stops midthigh. Even against the black material, her skin is tan and flawless. I want to fuck her.

I tell Shady I’ll call him back and hang up, not bothering to answer his question of “What the fuck happened last night?”

“Come here,” I tell Saylor, and I watch her bite the corner of her bottom lip. Her face flushes red and she has a hunger in her eyes. A hunger for me. She walks to where I’m still laying and wastes no time straddling my hips. And she’s not wearing panties. And I can feel the wetness of her arousal and the sticky remnants of mine between her legs. Fuck.

I see her arms cross, grabbing the hem of my shirt to remove it. “Leave it,” I command. And she does. Her hands fall to her waist and I sit up, taking her face between my hands. Her lips are pink and full. Her small, perfect nose is dotted with just a few tiny freckles. Her eyes are wide and yesterday’s mascara still sits on them.

She is, without question, the sexiest fucking thing I have ever seen. And I remind myself to thank her one day for teaching me the real definition of sexy. It isn’t long legs, high heels, fake tits, red lips, and flawless hair. It’s tanned legs with scars, bare feet, tits that fit perfectly in my hand and mouth, lips that have been kissed too hard, and hair that is a perfect mess—all the time.

Everything seems average compared to Saylor, because she is anything but. I kiss her lips, softly. I taste the morning on her breath, and it’s delicious just because it’s hers. I kiss her slow, taking my time running my tongue through her mouth because I want her to taste just like me. Just like she smells. I know she is sore. I know I’m an asshole. And I don’t care about either. I want her, and by the way her hands are knotted in my hair, she wants me too.

I feel her hand between us, looking for what she wants. When she finds it, I’m hard and thick in her hand. She lifts her body and centers the head of my cock against her slick pussy. It’s hot and inviting, and I feel her heat sucking me in. I watch as she lowers herself onto me, taking me inch by inch. I’m saying something, a string of cuss words, maybe. I don’t fucking know. All I know is that she feels good. Great. Fucking amazing. And she looks just like she feels.

I see her eyebrows come together. I see her nose scrunch up slightly. I see her mouth gaped open and I feel her heavy breathing across my face. She is pushing through the pain, and my mind fucking thanks her. And so does my cock.

“Just give me a minute.” That’s my girl. Yeah, I fucking said it. My girl. I kiss her. I concentrate on fucking her mouth with mine so my hips don’t jerk and hurt her. Or make her feel rushed. Or show her my weakness of impatience.

I slide my hands under the shirt she is wearing. My shirt. And I find her tits that were molded for my hands. I rub them, squeezing them gently, rubbing my thumbs over her nipples—and it’s just what she needed.

I feel her relax and when she does, she moves. Only a little at first, and then faster. She is inexperienced and I don’t care. I feel her tensing and I think she is uncomfortable doing this. Maybe she doesn’t want to disappoint me. But there is no way she can. I slide my hands to her waist and hold her still, then pull away from her mouth.

“Just rock your hips. Like you’re dancing.” My voice is soft, and I like that I get to use it on her. She does as I say, and it’s better, but she still hasn’t relaxed. She is forcing this and I want her to like this as much as I do. I tighten my hold on her waist and she stops. She is avoiding my eyes and I know she is embarrassed, so I bury my face in her hair and whisper to her.

“Think of a song, baby. A slow song. Move to that rhythm. Don’t worry about what will make me feel good. Do what makes that sweet pussy feel good.” I keep my face buried in her hair, noticing how she sighed when I called her baby. She really likes that. I kinda like it too.

She sits on me, unmoving—thinking I suppose. She can take all the time she wants. As long as I am inside her, she doesn’t even have to move. I push her hair away from her neck and lick the soft flesh. It’s tender and smooth just like her pussy. I continue to lick up her neck, across her jaw and to her ear.

By the time I make it there, she is moving. And I know it’s to the beat of a song. She is working my cock with the perfection of a stripper—but better. Any man who has ever had a lap dance has dreamed of what it would feel like if she rode his cock while she danced. I’m one of those men, but I’m no longer dreaming. Saylor Samson is dancing on my cock that is buried inside her while the lyrics of some song are in her head.

I feel my balls tighten and I’m hoping she releases soon, or I’m going to explode. My thumb finds her clit and it moves in time with her. She works me faster, and I know she is close. I pull my head out of her neck so I can watch her face. Her eyes are closed and she is moaning, her mouth hanging open. She has to look at me.

I’m fixing to tell her to open her eyes, but she reads my mind, like the fucking witch she is. Her eyes open wide and I’m lost in a deep sea of green as she comes around me. That’s all I need.

I’m pulsing inside of her, and her moans are so pleasing to my ears that I bite my lip to keep my own from interrupting. Her head falls to my shoulder as we both try to catch our breath. Fucking feels good. Coming feels better. But this is a different feeling. It’s more. I don’t know what that more is, but I like it.

—

We need food, a shower, and I need coffee, but I have a job. So, we head out toward Nevada, where a bigger problem than last night awaits. Like what in the hell I’ll do with Saylor when I get there. I glance at her in my mirror and she is looking to the left. I wish I could read her thoughts.

Suddenly I can’t wait any longer to hear her voice. I’ve only heard her talk a few times today but it wasn’t enough. And we need to discuss what happened last night.

I’m exiting and we haven’t been riding an hour. Waffle House seems like a good place to eat, and I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that it is the closest restaurant to us.

I find us a booth in the back where I can see my bike, and she sits across from me. I like this because I can look at her. Like I always do. Or stare. Whatever the hell you want to call it.

When the waitress comes, she ignores Saylor and looks at me. I find her unappealing, but I see the look of lust in her eyes. I can read her just like I can read Saylor. The only difference is when I see it on Saylor, my dick gets hard. When I see it on the waitress, it’s fucking annoying.

“Coffee and water,” I grumble, and she hasn’t even asked. But she is a waitress. What the fuck else does she want? When she turns to Saylor, her look of lust turns to distaste. If I hit women, I would slap her. Saylor just smiles and orders chocolate milk. It’s not surprising.

I watch Saylor look over the menu, and I try to figure out what she would want. My best guess is a chocolate chip waffle, or an egg-white omelet. I don’t know why these two things pop in my head, but they do. She likes chocolate, and even though she has proven to not be a health nut, I’m sure at some point she does eat healthy.

I’m still looking at her, trying to burn a hole into her mind, when the waitress returns. She is looking at me again and it pisses me off. Everyone knows, ladies first. What a fucking idiot. But we need to get on the road and I don’t want her to spit in my food.

“Steak and eggs. Medium on the steak, over-medium on the eggs.” I’m telling her this while I’m looking at Saylor. Her head is cocked to the side and she is eyeing me.

“Are you in my head?” she asks with a curious smile. I wish Saylor, I fucking wish. “Same for me,” she tells the waitress, and she doesn’t look at her either. I’m glad she can’t take her eyes off me.

“When I was little, my mom had this boyfriend and he would never let me order for myself. Even when I was old enough to know what I wanted, he would always order for me.”

I watch as she takes a sip of her milk, and I’m so happy she is talking that the waitress could shit in my food at this point and I wouldn’t care. “He always made me get a waffle. Just because I was a kid doesn’t mean I had a bad taste in food. So my mom and I went out once without him and she told me to get whatever I wanted, so I ordered what he always had. Steak. And I loved it.”

She laughs at the memory, but even her laughter can’t help this feeling that I am just like her mom’s boyfriend. Not that I would ever make her get a fucking waffle, but I did think that was what she wanted. Do I label her as an immature adult? Do I consider her childish? I mean, she did order chocolate milk.

“Why did you order that drink?” I really need to work on my tone.

“Because it’s chocolate milk.” I’m confused by her answer. She said it like her reason was obvious, and I don’t know what the fuck that means, and I don’t like her being so damn evasive. It’s a first for her.

“Try it.” I look down at the milk. Does she think I’ve never had it? “Some things in life you just can’t pass up. Chocolate milk is one of them.”

I look at her and I see a sadness in her eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I’m an asshole and I hurt her feelings or because some old memory is triggered, but I’m drinking because I’m hoping it will take her sadness away. When I drain half of her glass without realizing it, I finally understand her answer. And I don’t know why in the hell I ever passed it up.

We’ve eaten and are now just staring across the table at each other when I finally address the big-ass elephant in the room. “About this morning,” I say, hoping she will take the conversation from there. I watch her face flush and I wonder if she had already forgotten about nearly dying this morning. “Before that.” Her cheeks darken further and she drops her head.

“What about it?” She is way too nonchalant.

“You could have been killed, Saylor.” My emphasis on the word kill does little to scare her.

“But I wasn’t.” I stare at her, wondering if I should lean over and shake her. Does she not realize the danger she is in as long as she is with me? “I was scared. Hell, I was terrified. But for some reason, it was kind of exciting.”

I watch her eyes grow at the memory and it makes me want to hit something. I don’t know what I’m more pissed at. Her for being so fearless, or me at being so proud that she is an adrenaline junkie—just like me.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” I say, more to myself than to her. She snaps her head up, then throws her straw at me. I’m starting to think she’s serious, when she smiles.

“I prefer the term ‘fucked up.’” She smiles wider and I just shake my head. I turn away from her and can’t help but smirk. Saylor Samson may very well be fucked up. But she’s my kind of fucked up, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.