Page 39 of Aim Assist

Her eyes are still closed, her face relaxed. Red still flushes her cheeks. Hell, it's all over her face.

Her make-up is smudged, and that arrogant asshole inside of me loves it. She looks like she's been fucked. By me.

Like she should be.

"Liam."

"Hmm?" I lean down to nuzzle her neck.

"You're crushing my belly."

"Oh." Shit. I roll immediately, pulling her into my arms and breathing in the scent of her hair. It smells like fruit, something citrus-adjacent. Not quite the oranges I can smell all over her.

The scent of sex is everywhere, a musky, not unpleasant smell. Too bad I can't bottle it and spray her down everywhere she goes, so every man knows she's taken.

I have to clean us off. Shower. Take care of her.

But for now, I'm enjoying the cuddles.

"I need to go," Amy says abruptly, rolling out of my arms without warning.

Sitting up, I watch as she gathers her clothes. She's not quite frantic, but she's not… normal.

"Go? Go where?" Confusion draws my brows together. We had a great date. An insane connection. Amazing sex.

Now she wants to go?

Fuck, did I go too far?

My stomach hurts as the questions flash through my head. Was I too much for her? Too demanding?

"My room, of course." The look she shoots me over her shoulder seems like Amy, but she wiggles on her panties without even wiping herself off. "Lucky's going to need to be let out, and I have work in the morning. You know I can't stay here."

Actually, no, I didn't. I'd kind of expected she would. That I'd wake up to her in my arms.

"Oh," I say, not sure how else to respond.

She's out the door only a few moments later.

No kiss goodbye.

No lingering glances.

No regret at having to leave me.

Amy

Waking up the next morning is torture.

Pure torture.

I'm sore in places I didn't know it was possible to be sore. Who the fuck gets sore between their thighs? Since when is that a thing?

Lucky does her business in seconds once I get her downstairs—thank God—because I don't need the entire world seeing me with smeared make-up and shorts that barely peek out from beneath an ex-boyfriend's t-shirt.

Every bit of me is focused on trying not to think about last night.

Which was hot.

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