"What are you talking about?"
"If you are liking starting over, don't want to go back to the way shit was, then I can go. You can forget about this."
"About you?" I asked.
"Yeah, duchess, you can forget about me."
I snorted out my breath, something completely classless and unlike me - or unlike the old me - as I took a step forward toward him, watching his eyes as they tried to read me, tried to know what I was about to say or do.
Clearly, his usual penetrative gaze was failing him because he seemed surprised when I took another step closer, and placed my hand on his stomach. "I could never forget about you, Gunner. I've spent the last few weeks trying. And failing. Over and over. I wake up thinking of you."
"Yeah?" he asked, voice staid, like he was actively trying not to sound hopeful.
"Yeah," I agreed, giving him a small smile. "Some nights, I still have nightmares about Cortez. But most nights... the dreams are about you."
"Tried to get you out of my system too," he told me, hand raising to land at my hip, fingers curling in. "Went to the woods. Still didn't work. And, duchess, you don't need to have nightmares about Cortez anymore. He can never get to you. No matter where you choose to live."
"You killed him," my voice whispered, not quite believing it, not able to reconcile that this man had taken street justice that way.
"Yeah," he agreed, just as quietly. "I'm not a good man, Sloane. All of us at the office, we seem good. We aren't. Sometimes we do good things. But we all do bad things too. We're all guilty as a person can be."
"Guilty," I rolled the word around on my tongue. And, on the surface, that was the right way to put it. He had done it. He was guilty of it. But could a person truly be guilty of removing a man like Rodrigo Cortez from the world?
The law-abiding side of me said yes. Maybe even hell yes.
The other part of me, though, had seen other sides to the world lately.
I had watched a man beg for, then lose, his life. Brutally.
I had watched a man laugh as he took that life.
I had seen the bloodthirsty determination in him when he came after me.
I had felt a blade plunged inside my body because he wanted to silence me.
I knew the ugly, awful things he had gotten away with for years.
There had never been justice for that.
All those men, and especially those women, had lost their lives, or lived with awful memories, never feeling safe again.
This man was guilty of inhuman things.
So could you really be guilty of exacting justice on such a person? In the same way that you would be guilty of taking an innocent life?
I think there were gray areas of life.
This was one of them.
And I wasn't naive.
Gunner had killed people. Possibly many people. Was it really all that different because that was war, and this was on home turf? He took out bad people.
Cortez was a bad person.
"What's that look, duchess?" he asked, head ducked to the side, eyes curious.
"I'm just... processing," I admitted.
"Do it out loud," he suggested, trying to draw me out, as he was prone to do.
"I'm just trying to figure out how I feel about this. You killed someone."
"Who almost killed you," he agreed. "Who would have done worse, who would have made you beg for death."
My stomach churned at that, the stories coming back to me. "I know," I agreed.
"He's suspected of eight homicides, but people on the street put that well into double-digits. The law has failed to do justice."
"But does it give you the right to be the judge, jury, and executioner?" I voiced out loud.
"Picture this for a second," he offered, backing up to lean against the kitchen counter, pulling me with him. "You are putting groceries away in the back of your car. It's late. No one is around. Cortez walks up. What do you do?"
"If no one is around to hear me scream?" I clarified. He nodded. "And he's too close for me to run?" I asked. Again, a nod. "I guess I see if I have something to defend myself with."
"You have a tire iron. What do you do? Do you gently tap him with it because you don't want to hurt him. Or do you take that motherfucker, and slam it into his head with everything you have, knowing damn well that you could kill him?"
"I get your point."
"Everyone is capable of killing, Sloane. In the right situations. Taking a man out of the world who has done the things he has done to many others, and in this case, especially to you, it is the right situation."
"But what if someone saw you or..."
"No one saw me."
"Or the bullet could be traced?"
"It couldn't, first. And I took it out, second. No one is going to know it was me. Honestly, duchess, not a single fucking cop is putting in work to figure out who it was. A scumbag they have been chasing for years is off the streets. A new leader will rise up. They have better things to do than chase me down. Even if they had something to go on. Which they don't."
"But why?" I insisted, needing him to spell it out, not willing to let myself hope for things that could end up hurting me.
"Because you called me crying."
"But..."
"Didn't like hearing that," he cut me off. "And I get you, Sloane. I know that it took a lot for you to open up."
"A lot of wine."
He smirked at that, but shook his head. "You were drunk, sure. But you could have called someone back home. You could have reached out to someone you used to work with. That is what most people do. But you reached out to me. You trusted me with that."
"I didn't mean to do that," I told him. "I shouldn't have put my problems on you like that. That isn't fair."
"Your feelings aren't an inconvenience, Sloane. I get that your mother taught you exactly the opposite. But you aren't a little girl anymore. You need to realize that you have a right to feel the way you feel, and to express that. Without feeling embarrassed or guilty. Especially with me."
"You aren't responsible for dealing with my outbursts."
"First, that wasn't an outburst. Second, it's not about being responsible; it is about being interested and concerned."
"You don't have to be concerned about me. I can take care of myself."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he hissed, looking up at the ceiling like he could find strength there. "Can you take a hint already?"
"What hint?"
"That I give a shit, okay? That I want to hear what is going on in here," he said, reaching up to tap me on the temple. "That if you need to vent, you can do it to me."
"I... appreciate that," I said, not sure if I was reading this correctly or not. If maybe he was just offering me friendship that it was so blatantly clear that I needed.
"I didn't offer to drive you to the fucking airport, Sloane," he told me, seeing right through me.
"What did you offer me then?" I asked bluntly.
"I'm offering whatever you want from me," he told me. "You want a friend, I'm your friend. You want more, I'll give you more. You want to tell me to get the fuck out of your life, I won't like it, but I'll go."
My heart felt like it had suddenly swollen in my chest, making it feel tight and heavy.
Not sure I could find the right thing to say, I took the final step between us, resting my cheek against his chest. "I want more," I told him, my voice small.
"You sure?" he asked, feeling me nod. "Then how about you say it like you're sure?"
I laughed a little bit at that, shaking my head. "You're a jerk."
"I'm afraid you'll have to get used to that," he agreed, arm going around the center of my back, holding me tighter. "If we are gonna do this."
Do this.
That overly simplified it, didn't it?
Do it.
As though getting into a relationship was the easiest thing, the most normal thing.
Maybe for some people, it was.
For
me, and I suspected for him, that wasn't really the case.
"Everything has to change again," I told his chest.
"Everything can be however you want now. You want to go back to the city, get back to your old life, do that. You want to stay here and start over, do that."
"I like Auddie," I admitted. "But I don't think I want to stay here."
"Good. 'Cause it would have been a pain in the ass to fly out here every time I wanted to see you."
"You'd fly out to see me?" I asked, hearing it in my voice for maybe the first time ever. Hope.
To that, he made some rumbling sound in his chest I took for agreement. "Known a lot of women," he started, giving me a squeeze. "Not a single fucking one ever got in like you have. I figure it means something that you were able to. I'm gonna hold onto that. Figuratively," he said as his hands suddenly moved downward. Then sank into my butt hard. "And literally," he added, making my sex clench at the promise in his voice.
"Well, I can get behind that."
That made a rolling sound move through him as his hands grabbed my butt harder, lifting me up by it, then turning to drop me down on the kitchen counter, lips claiming mine in an instant. Hard. Hungry. Completely uncontrolled.
His pelvis pressed between my legs, his hard cock sliding up my cleft through his jeans, making a ragged moan move through me.
His hands went up my thighs, sides, then inward, snagging the hem of my shirt, ripping it up roughly, making my hands shoot up to free the material. There wasn't even a pause before his fingers grabbed the cup of my bra, yanking it down, exposing the small mound to his hungry mouth, his lips closing around the nipple, sucking it until I arched backward, pressing further into his mouth, demanding more.
Which he happily gave me.
Until my bra was discarded to the floor along with his shirt. Until his hand landed in the center of my chest, pressing me backward until my back met the cold of the counter, making my nipples tweak harder, goosebumps to move across my skin. His hands went down my torso, his finger tracing the healed scar on the side before he snagged the waists of my pants and panties, pulling downward, yanking hard to make them move over my ass then down my legs until I was completely bare before him.
His hands spread my thighs, pushing my knees down against the counter, gaze pinned between my legs, making the urge to close my thighs overtake me. But he wouldn't allow it, holding onto my knee, keeping me spread before him.
A low growl moved through him as one of his hands moved up from my knee, massaging over my thigh before it traced between my slick lips, rolling my clit, making me cry out, the sound echoing off the walls in my apartment, making anyone around aware exactly what was happening behind my door.
"Couldn't get the thought of your pussy out of my mind," he told me as his body lowered down, as his fingers moved down my cleft to press against my opening. "Fucking sweet," he told me a second before his tongue traced upward to seek my clit, circling it as his fingers thrust inside me. "And tight," he added, thrusting lazily as his tongue worked my clit, as the desire became something other level, something indescribable. "Been thinking of me too," he half-asked, half-told me.
"Yes," I whimpered, hand going to the back of his neck, trying to hold him to me, demanding an end to the coiled torment in my lower belly. "Thinking about what?" he asked, releasing my clit as his fingers kept thrusting inside of me, a bit faster, more demanding. "About me licking your pussy?"
"Yes," I moaned, hand grabbing the wrist of the hand planted on my knee still, fingers digging in, feeling like I had to hold on.
"Is that it?"
"N... no."
"Did you think about my cock here?" he asked, fingers suddenly curling inside me to tap against my G-spot. All that came out of me was some ragged, almost pained sound. "That's not an answer, duchess," he informed me, smirk wicked, but his eyes were as needy as my own.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" he asked, fingers starting to pull out of me, making my walls tighten to try to hold onto him, a futile mission.
"Yes," I said, folding upward in my desperation, almost clawing at his button and zip, "I thought about you inside me," I told him as my hand finally moved inside, grabbing his hard cock, stroking my thumb across the wet tip, head tipped up to watch the way his eyes closed as he took a deep breath, tried to find more control.
But I didn't want him to find control. I wanted him as needy as I felt.
I stroked him to the hilt before pushing him backward with my other hand, demanding the room I needed to slide down in front of him, taking him into my mouth before he could even guess my intentions.
The ragged groan that escaped him pushed me to work him faster, suck him deeper, work my tongue over the head at each pass.
His hand went to the back of my neck, curling into my skull, the pain an almost crushing thing. But in a good way. In a way that said I had the kind of control over him that he had over me.
Then his fingers sank into my hair, yanking hard enough to drag me backward, his cock leaving my lips with a pop, making his eyelids get even heavier as he dragged me back onto my feet by my hair, something wild, primal, irresistible.
His other hand went to my hip, turning me as his other hand moved down my neck to plant between my shoulder blades, pressing until I had no choice but to bend forward, to rest my chest and belly against the cold counter in front of me, my breasts crushed to the unyielding surface, my butt pressed out toward him.
As if the thought was spoken aloud, his hand went to my cheek, slapping hard, the sting making an unexpected jolt go through me again, having me somehow pressing back at him as though I was asking for more.
That couldn't have been possible, though. I wasn't the kind of woman who enjoyed rough sex, getting spanked, who got off on pain.
Except maybe I was.
Maybe I had just never known it about myself before.
Maybe Gunner was just bringing it out of me.
He was happy to oblige the demand, too. His hand pulled back, then slapped down harder, making the skin heat even as I felt the head of his cock press between my lips, stroke through my wetness, coat himself in it, pressing it into my clit, making my hand slap down on the counter as the pleasure moved through me.
"Gunner, please," I demanded, trying to take a deep breath, but the pressure in my chest was making it impossible.
"Please what?" he demanded, pressing his cock harder against my clit, making my walls clench almost painfully with the need for fulfillment.
I knew what he wanted to hear, the only words he would accept to end the torment.
"Please fuck me," I demanded, wiggling my backside to try to get more of the friction he was giving me.
But he pulled suddenly away, making a cry move through me before I heard the crinkle of a condom foil as he protected us.
And then he was inside me.
Hard.
Rough.
Borderline brutal.
Making me take every last thick inch at once, without warning.
Even through the slight sting inside me, my walls tightened around him, demanded more.
A growl moved through him in response as his hands sank into my hips, dragging them up slightly to give himself more control.
And then he was doing as I demanded.
He fucked me.
Hard.
Fast.
Relentless.
Not giving my body a second to have the desire ebb, taking every last inch of me, demanding an orgasm that promised to make me shatter apart.
"Come, Sloane," he ordered, voice rough and low, getting to the point of no return himself, wanting to take me with him. "Come," he demanded again, his hand slipping forward and then between my thighs to work my clit in frantic circles, pushing me to the edge.
Then, without warning, pushing me over.
It happened too.
What was promised.
An orgasm that seemed to explode through my system, breaking me into a million little pi
eces as I heard myself mindlessly crying out, calling his name, whimpering through the waves as they kept overtaking me, as they made me feel them in every inch of myself, top to bottom.
"Fuck, baby," he growled as he slammed deep on the tail-end of my orgasm, coming with a groan and shudder before collapsing over me, his breath frantic in my ear, his heart slamming in his chest.
We stayed that way for a long time, both of us too spent to even think of moving, of forcing life back into our limbs. If we even had the strength to do so. I was sure I didn't. I felt boneless, a mass of mush that would never be able to move again.
"Fuck," Gunner growled, taking some of his weight back as he sucked in a deep breath. "You alright?" he asked, leaving me completely, his hand gently stroking down my spine.
"I don't think I have legs anymore," I told him, feeling silly, but it was exactly how I felt.
I could hear him moving away from me, pulling open the cabinet under the sink where the garbage was located, and letting out a low chuckle.
"Come on," he said, putting his arms under my knees and back, pulling me to his chest, lifting me, then carrying me to the living room, dropping down on the couch with me on his lap. "Were those cookies in the kitchen?" he asked after a long minute.
And that, more so than the sex, more so than the thing with Cortez, more so than just showing up here after I had fully given up hope that such a thing was even possible, that was what made my heart feel like it was about to burst through my chest.
"Yes," I said, smiling into his chest.
"You made 'em?"
"Yes."
And it was maybe then that I realized that learning to do so, my steadfast determination not to give up on the baking thing, it was because of him. Even though, logically, I knew I wouldn't see him again, something within me needed to know that I could bake for him somehow.
"Alright, you sit your pretty ass here," he told me, dropping me down on the cushion with very little ceremony so he could stand, and move toward the kitchen, still shamelessly naked. He came back a moment later with a plate completely loaded down with cookies... and a cup of milk. "These are fucking banging," he informed me as he dropped down. "For this, you get to pick the movie," he told me as he put his glass down, and threw the remote at me.
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