Anxiety whirls through me, the same that touched me after the orgasm before.
Does he think I look stupid?
Panic batters me but then he smirks again.
“You’re not creaming,” he says. “That’s a big fucking problem. So you better pinch those pink nipples until you do. I want to see you turn them red until you’ve creamed all over this dick. Alright, Dakota?”
“Yes,” I moan, my fingertips snapping to my nipples as though magnetized.
I pinch and feel the sizzling sensation of it, mixing with the fireworks in my belly and my pussy as he thrusts harder and harder. His whole body is a shifting show of light dappling off his muscles as he thrusts, cutting the light in different configurations every time, eyes fixated, sweat coating him, beastly, mine.
“Mine,” I gasp, pinching my nipples harder.
“Yours,” he snarls. “But mine. You’re—mine. You’re mine and you better start fucking creaming now.”
He roars the last and I open my mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a tangled cry as I bounce atop his cock.
Our fleshy slapping noise fills the room, the song of our flesh and our juices make the air tangy and sweet and it’s all so intimate I can hardly stand it, my whole body shaky, my pussy pulsing and dancing and my womb throwing a freaking party as I squirt.
I’m squirting, writhing around on his cock, pushing my tits together, and just about make out the sight of him through my teary eyes.
He’s staring, bucking slightly, but mostly just gazing at me as if he can’t look away.
“I’m—creaming,” I gasp.
“Fuck, say that again,” he snarls.
He reaches around my sides, near what some people might call love handles. But something incredible happens. I don’t cringe away. I don’t think he’s playing a trick on me. Instead, I move so that he can slide his hands down to my needy ass, because I know that’s what my man wants, what he needs.
I gasp through the orgasm, stunned at this transformation, riding the euphoria of it like a wave that’s never going to hit the shore.
“I’m—c-c-c …”
I can’t finish the sentence as another atom bomb is detonated inside my pussy, the end of his cock hammering into some deep starry place now.
His shaft is stretching my pussy’s hole so that she’s whining softly with each savage thrust, his massive dick pushing at the edges. He fills me entirely, and then he explodes and I’m left shivering and gasping and not even sure what I’m doing.
“Cream,” he snarls, squeezing my ass so hard he must be turning it red, the contact adding to the tingling. “Cream. Cream. Cream.”
“Come in me, Damian.”
“Arghhhhhhh,” he roars, suddenly leaning over as though he’s taken a buckshot to the back of the head.
He collapses against me like I’m vital to him, bringing his teeth to my neck like a wolf and biting down as he growls through his teeth into my flesh, his breath hot, his teeth hotter.
Everything is burning.
“Come, come, come,” I say, pulsing against him, my own orgasm wrestling with his and indulging in the entanglement.
“Fuck, fuck,” he pants, his thrusts getting slower, his teeth releasing my flesh.
He rears up and looks at me, his cock still hard inside of me.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, thrusting slowly, and then picking up his pace, his face twisting savagely.
“Again?” I whimper in shock.
“Again. But you’ll cream quicker this time. I need to see that fucking ass. Turn over. Now. Don’t make me ask you twice.”
I gasp and turn over, my whole body shaking under the animal weight of him. He leans back to let me turn, and then latches onto my hips and just shoves his cock inside of me, pushes it in past his own seed and my juices.
He drives into me this time as if he’s forgotten how recently I was a virgin.
I cry out in pleasure as it twists through me, but all I can do is buck against him, letting my ass take the brunt impact of his abs against me.
“Cream,” he says, voice cold and commanding. “Cream on this dick. I want it to be fucking covered. Now, Dakota.”
His hand comes down in a light spank, and then he growls as if he likes it and he does it harder. I cry out and shift against him, but of course, he only likes that, and his hand whacks against my flesh again, stinging it red.
I let out a shivering gasp as my pussy is flourishing and tingling again, as though each spank is fuel for another eruption.
“My own personal fucking nymphomaniac,” he snarls. He brings his hand down in another hot euphoric kiss on my ass cheek. “You like it, don’t you? God, you’re a nympho just for me. Fucking say it.”
“I’m a sexy horny slut for you,” I moan, my womb guiding my words, my wetness, and his heat, and the thunderous way my skin tingles all over telling me that I don’t sound silly.
I sound like his woman.
“I’m a sex-hungry minx, Damian, but only for you, just for you.”
“You’re the mother of my children,” he roars, grabbing the slap-tinged flesh and gazing down as if his hot cock slamming into my tight hole is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
“Cream,” he gasps.
“Ah,” I cry, burying my face in the sheets and squeezing him tight.
He roars and lets his second load go at the same time, leaning over so that his bare chest is against my back. He cradles me as I buck and whimper against him, making lioness noises as my lion drapes his stony weight over me. He buries his hand in my breasts and twists with the motion of my hips, finally pulling out of me and rolling aside.
I immediately crawl into his arms, the post-sex haze settling over me.
Old fears return with the filter of the lust removed, as though what we just did was a dream. My thoughts were made all shimmery with the pulsing heat.
“Did I …”
“Popstar,” Damian laughs, leaning down and kissing my forehead softly. “You were amazing. I’m so happy I found you. When I saw you, I knew I had to put a baby in you. But Jesus Christ, I didn’t know you were going to be kind and sexy and talented and a little freak in the bedroom as well. You’re the whole package. And it’s all for me. Always. Say it.”
“It’s all for you,” I moan.
“I’ll have to make you say that often,” he snarls. “Because I have to remind you. I’d kill any man who tried to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper, resting my cheek against the hard beating of his heart.
“Good,” he says quietly, a growl in his voice. “Because I want that farm in Cali. I want our baby—the one that’s growing inside you right now. I want Sparky to run around in the sun and I want you sitting on the porch, Popstar, singing for the whole family. I want a life.”
“Me too,” I say, tears squeezing between my eyelids.
A movie plays at hyper-speed in my mind, my family’s murders – bloody gunshots – and then the loneliness, the way the other kids always ignored me as if I was a ghost. I see the lonely gullible girl I was.
And then I see the life he’s describing.
I see the woman I could become.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Damian
I sit in a world of hazy hard-to-grasp light, drifting along with birds chirping, Sparky cradled in my lap, his body warm and contentment radiating out of him. I listen closely and hear that the chirping is her voice, my woman, and when I look down I see that Sparky and I are floating on a raft on a river of glistening blue. Without having to ask, I know we’re going home, to her, to be with the mother of my children, to the most beautiful—
I jolt upright at the sound of her scream, my hand snatching to the bedside table and grabbing my gun on instinct.
I roll out of bed and look around the room, assessing it for threats, alert to any sign of what I have to kill, and when, and in what order.
But the room is empty, Dakota’s dress a
shadowy creature on the floor.
The scent of our sex still fills the air, musky, and welcome.
I turn to find Dakota sitting up in bed, gazing at me, her eyes terrified orbs in the semidarkness.
“Why do you have your gun?”
“You screamed,” I murmur, sensing in her voice that she’s still half-asleep.
Waking and sleeping in violent jolts takes some practice.
“Oh,” she says, still eyeing me like I’m somebody else. “I just need—just leave me alone for a minute.”
She hurries into the ensuite, slamming the door behind her. Sparky scratches at the door so I walk across the room and scoop him up. He whines and looks anxiously toward the ensuite door, as though telling me that my woman needs me, needs us.
“I know, boy,” I murmur. “I think maybe she had a nightmare.”
Leave me alone for a minute.
The phrase replays in my mind as I return to the bed and sit down with a heavy sigh. I let Sparky go around the room, sniffing like a madman, before he finally settles at the door to the ensuite, sat there like a good little soldier awaiting his instructions.
Leave me alone, that definitely sounds like her nightmare was about me or at least that something in her nightmare reminded her of me.
I sit and wait, a skill I’ve honed over the years.
I’m often stunned by the way people will fidget as they wait, their hands clawing for their phones, for a magazine they have no interest in, for anything other than being in the company of their own thoughts.
I breathe slowly and tell myself that no matter what Dakota says when she emerges I’ll be there for her.
She’s carrying my child now.
I can’t be sure of that … except that I feel sure, the same certainty that touched me when I laid eyes on her. I’m done questioning the feelings of fate and closeness and destiny, no matter much the labels might make me feel foolish.
Finally, the door cracks open and she walks out in a silk bathrobe, walking with small steps over to the bed and sitting close to me. But not next to me, as though she wants to keep some distance between us.
“Bad dream?” I ask.
She laughs drily.
“Yeah, that might be an understatement,” she murmurs. “It was …”
I lift my hand to reach over, but then remember the way she stared at me from the bed, the wide-eyed horror in her eyes. I let my hand drop. She sees me and shuffles closer, tentatively taking my hand. I grab onto her firmly and savor the feeling of this closeness, the way I’ll always savor it, even after we’ve held hands ten thousand times.
“It was just crazy,” she goes on. “I was in this house—I think. It’s hard to remember all the details now. You know what dreams are like. But I was in this house and the men who killed my family were in there. My mom and dad, they were already dead, and then I was running out of the house and into the forest and one of the men caught me and …”
“And you turned and he had my face,” I say. “Because I’m a killer, just like the men who killed your parents.”
She frowns. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to, Popstar.”
“I can’t help what I dream, Damian,” she says.
She snatches her hand from mine and walks across the room, standing at the window so that the moonlight shining through the diaphanous curtains frames her in silhouette.
“I know,” I say calmly. “But that’s what scared you when you woke up. You saw me holding the gun and for a second you thought I was going to hurt you. Which I’d never fucking do. Which I’d die before doing.”
“I know that,” she says, spinning back to me, fists clenched. “But maybe this craziness is finally hitting me, okay? Maybe being kidnapped and cutting somebody’s face with a letter opener and nearly being raped and then being saved and then being attacked and now this—now losing my virginity to you, to the man of my dreams, to a killer, to a handsome wonderful protector, to a big confusing lump of a man, maybe, maybe …”
She chokes on her sob, as if she didn’t expect it, and then coughs past it and starts to cry shakily. I rise to my feet and walk over to her, steeling myself for the possibility that she’ll turn away from my embrace.
But I have to try.
Thankfully she clutches onto me, burying her face in my bare chest.
“It’s just so much,” she gasps through the tears.
“Maybe I’ve been taking it too fast—”
Whack.
She brings her hand down on my chest with surprising strength for somebody who doesn’t lift weights. But then again, maybe I’m doing her a disservice by forgetting how strong she is.
“No, Damian,” she says passionately, staring at me hard through her tears. “You can’t say that. You can’t even think that, okay? Because—because—”
She breaks into tears again and I take her in my arms, leading her to the bed, then scoop her under the knees and cradle her to my chest.
I hold her close, rocking her softly, understanding that all the pain that’s built up in her needs to come out somehow.
Sparky climbs atop her, nuzzling at her face, licking her cheeks as her tears begin to slow.
“Because what, Dakota?” I murmur after a couple of minutes.
“Oh,” she says, giggling up at me. “Right. Yeah. Well, I don’t know. Maybe it will sound silly.”
“You were all gun-ho about telling me just now,” I tease.
“Yeah, when I was speaking from Sob Central.”
She sits up in my lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders looking into my eyes. I brace her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the bathrobe. Sparky lies atop her legs, draped over as though claiming a piece of this moment for his own.
“So what do you think, Damian? Now that you’ve seen me all snotty and icky, and now that I’m no longer a virgin, do you still want me?”
“Always,” I snarl. “But I also want you to tell me what you were going to say. Because otherwise, it seems my little princess is going back on her own principles. You’re the one who wants us to be able to talk to each other, remember?”
“Touché,” she says, giving my shoulder a playful pinch. “Fine, since you’ve backed me into a corner …”
“There’s more that I’d like to back you into,” I growl.
She giggles, a sound sweeter than sugar after her sobbing.
“Does that even make sense?”
“I don’t know,” I chuckle deeply. “It made you laugh, so missioned accomplished.”
“I was just going to say … Well, obviously I have just some unfinished stuff to do with Mom and Dad’s death. I mean, for one thing, the psychos who did it were never caught—”
“I can help with that,” I tell her.
“Really?”
I nod. “I can put some feelers out. It might have to wait until after this shit with the Bratva, though.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Yes, thank you.”
“Anything,” I tell her firmly. “Anyway, you were saying?”
“Yeah, basically I guess I’ve always been sort of paranoid, and then that wasn’t helped by how the Bratva got their hands on me. It’s so freaking embarrassing.”
I pause, sensing she needs to talk, to vent, and I’ll always give her that room.
It’s her right, as my queen.
“They contacted me and said they wanted to hear my singing. Apparently, their agent overheard me in the forest one day. It’s ridiculous. Of course, that didn’t happen. I guess they knew I was a singer from my Likes or whatever online. But I fell for it, really bought into their bullshit story. The second I walked into that so-called talent agency … blam, they had me.”
“Blam,” I tease.
“Well, bang, whack, whatever.”
“Nope, Popstar, you said blam.”
She wriggles against me, my cock thrumming with the need to be inside of her again, but somehow I fight the urge.
I imagi
ne myself striding into that phony talent agency and snapping their bones like toothpicks.
“So I guess I’ve always doubted my feelings, but then with you, it’s like you’re the only true thing I’ve ever felt. My need to be with you, Damian, I can’t explain it. But when I’m with you it’s like I’ve finally found my place in a puzzle, like all my life I’ve been this misshapen piece and with you I just …”
“Fit,” I say, emotion bubbling beneath the word. “I know exactly what you mean, Dakota. I feel exactly the same.”
“I don’t see you as a killer,” she says, bringing her lips close to mine, her breath washing over me, leaden with the scents of her desire. “It was just a nightmare. Really, I see you as the best thing that ever happened to me. Really, honestly, I think I’m—”
In love with you.
Is that what she was about to say?
The blaring of the phone cuts through her words, causing Sparky to leap to his feet, his tail erect and his posture ready for action.
I leap to my feet, too, Dakota sliding aside onto the bed.
“What the fuck do they think they’re doing?” I snap, fists clenched hard. “It’s three in the goddamn morning.
“They could have a good reason,” Dakota says quietly. “Be nice, Damian.”
“Nice?” I grin widely at her. “Oh, I’m always fucking nice, aren’t I?”
I grab the phone from the bedside table.
“Yes?” I snap.
“How rude,” he says.
Oh, fuck.
“What’s the matter, my friend?” Andrei the Wolf goes on, sounding way too damn pleased with himself. “Were you expecting room service? I am sorry to have to disappoint you.”
I pause.
I listen.
I try to think.
“Ah, I can hear the cogs in your brain turning, my friend,” Andrei goes on. “You are thinking that the Bratva would never march into a hotel in the middle of the night, not one in this part of town. Maybe you’re thinking that my little brother, he was the careless one, not me, not good old Andrei. Maybe you don’t believe that I would take the receptionist and several of the staff as hostages, hmm?”
Her Hitman: An Instalove Possessive Older Man Younger Woman Romance Page 11
