Page 70 of Gilded Fake

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” I say, blinking back tears.

“I do,” he says. “I saw this documentary about lions once. This lioness got hurt, and her male lion stood over her licking her better. If anyone came up and threatened to get close, he’d scare them off, baring his razor-sharp teeth and snarling and roaring. And once they knew not to fuck with her and left, he’d go back to licking her like a kitten.”

“And you’re going to be my lion?”

“Damn right, I am,” he says. “Let someone try to get near you, and you’ll see.”

“You made that up,” I say, laughing despite myself. “You can’t lick someone better.”

“Or can you?” he asks, a wicked gleam in his eye. He pulls out the elastic in his hair, shaking his head to make his blond mane fall in waves around his face. “Want to be my lioness and find out?”

“How can I resist, when you let down your hair, you temptress, you.”

He growls and circles an arm around my waist, pulling me close. “I know, I look all majestic and shit. I’m a lion already. I’ve just been waiting for my lioness.”

We kiss.

We set our drinks aside without breaking contact, and we kiss.

Colt lays me back on the blankets, and we kiss.

After a while, he scoots me up and closes the tailgate, and I climb under the blanket, and he slides in with me, and we kiss.

He rolls on top of me, and we kiss.

He pulls my shorts aside and works his fingers into me, and I whimper through our kiss.

We fumble past our clothes, our breaths heavy and hot, our movements frantic, until our bare skin connects as intimately as our mouths. I wrap my legs around him, and he pushes into me, slow and deep, and still, we kiss.

We kiss until we’re both dizzy, and drunk, and dumb. Until we both shiver, and break, and cum.

Finally, he lifts his swollen lips from mine, burying his face in my shoulder. His breath is ragged in my ear, his heart racing mine, his cock still full and deep inside me, our bodies locked together in sweaty, primal need.

“I love you,” he whispers, his cock throbbing deep inside my core as an aftershock wracks his body. “God damn do I love you, Gloria Walton.”

“I love you too, Colt Darling,” I whisper, stroking his hair, my heart soaring and shattering at once, so full of love I think it’ll kill me. It takes me higher than any climax can, higher than racing in June Bug can, higher than any feeling in the world. It’s addictive, and crushing, and absolutely fucking terrifying.

I squeeze my legs around him, and he growls and grinds, his piercing tormenting mine.

“Can I stay inside you until I get hard again and fuck my own puddle of cum inside you?”

“Is that possible?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, butterfly. It’s possible. And it feels so fucking good. Like fucking a tube of hot yogurt.”

“Not even going to ask how you know what that feels like.” My voice is light, but I’m thinking about how he knows how much he likes this, waiting inside someone, fucking his own cum in and out of her. He must have done it with Dixie, and suddenly, I hate her with a newfound bitterness so intense I almost choke on it.

“Hey,” he says, rolling us onto our sides, still locked together. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “I’m fine.”

“And you told me that when you say that, you’re never fine.”

I curse myself for saying that, and him for remembering. He’s supposed to forget and ignore everything I say, to fuck me like everyone else, like I’m a secondary being, not human but a vessel they can fill with their hurt and hatred, unleash their desires and disgust upon, imprint with their most twisted fantasies and Freudian nightmares.

Colt taps a fingertip softly against my temple. “Knock-knock,” he whispers. “Let me in.”

“Sorry,” I say. “You can keep going. I just got in my head.”

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