Page 126 of Savage Lover

I love being inside Nero’s car. It smells like him. It feels like him. The gearshift and steering wheel have been worn by constant contact with his hands. His shape is indented into the driver’s seat.

I love the way he lays my seat back and climbs on top of me, pinning me down in the confined space. I love how close his face is to mine, as he slides his cock inside of me.

He’s fucking me slow tonight, more gently than usual. His arms are wrapped around me, his hands thrust into my hair.

Our lips lock together in one long kiss that goes on and on.

I run my hands down his back, beneath his shirt. I’ve never met a man with skin so phenomenally smooth. The softness of the skin and the hardness of the muscle beneath is a dichotomy I never tire of exploring.

Every time he thrusts into me, I can feel his back flexing, as well as his ass. I run my palm down the hard curve of his ass cheek, thinking what an under-appreciated part of a man this is. The Greeks and Romans knew how to take an ass like this, and immortalize it in marble.

Nero should be a statue.

If he were, I would worship it.

I press my face against the side of his neck, inhaling his scent. That’s all it takes—that’s the catalyst that pushes me over. I start to cum, and he’s cumming too. It almost always happens at the same time now. Whether he starts first or I do, the clenching and squeezing of our flesh puts the other one over the edge.

Every time we do this, I fall more and more into my obsession with this man. I realize that I could never feel this way about anyone else. If I lost Nero, I would spend the rest of my life remembering what it was like to experience desire on this level. Pleasure on this level. Connection, admiration, love, on an all-encompassing scale.

That’s the harrowing thing about falling in love.

I’m Eve in the garden. Once I eat the fruit, I can never go back. I can never forget what I tasted.

And I don’t care. I would give a thousand gray and lonely years for one hour of this.

I would give anything to have Nero.

We lay together in the cramped passenger seat, wrapped up tight in each other’s arms.

After a while, Nero says, “I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“I found something out about your mother.”

The silence in the car seems enormous. Even in the warmth of Nero’s arms, I feel cold. I already know what he’s trying to tell me. I can read him so well by now. I feel the stiffness of his shoulders, and the tension in his voice.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

The finality of that is like a door slamming in my face. All the things I wanted to say to her, all the things I hoped she might say to me one day . . . it all waited on the other side of that door. Now it’s closed, and it can’t ever open again.

“I think I knew it. When she hadn’t called in so long . . . not even once. I guess I knew what it meant.”

“Still,” he says. “Knowing for certain is different.”

I bury my face in his chest, clinging to his arms wrapped around me. He’s the only thing holding me steady right now.

“What happened?” I ask him.

“From what I could find, it was an overdose.”

I sigh.

I had a fantasy in my head that she might have gotten clean. Moved to another city. Changed her whole life. I thought she might come back one day, looking as beautiful as she used to. She’d knock on the door, just like the night she brought Vic. But this time she wouldn’t run away. She’d come into the kitchen and sit down with us. And tell us where she’d been.

I almost believed that I could make that happen for her, just by holding that picture in my head. A possible future that she could step into, as long as I kept it ready for her.

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