Page 20 of Watcher

His kiss is deep and sensual. His fingertips slide up and down my arms. Though I was a virgin, I thought I was experienced. I’d kissed and groped with the best of boys. But they were precisely that—boys. Watcher was not.

His fingers stop, and he holds my arms, lips still together, the night’s heat a pleasant assault. I remembered what he said earlier: I would never want him to stop once things started. He was right. At least, that’s how I felt on the porch. I understand he’s holding on so tightly because my knees are weakening.

Our mouths open and meet, his tongue long but not suffocating. I want to touch him. Want to feel his skin against mine. Tears well in my eyes, and I fiercely fight to hide the tears despite them being tears of happiness.

Watcher breaks the kiss and stares, his dark blues zone in on my green. He wipes my tears with his thumb and smiles. Fuck, he’s mythologically god-like.

“This is not what I expected,” I say.

“Which part?” He crosses his arms and smiles. Although I don’t think I’d want to see him angry, I wonder if he ever is. Even when he dealt with the four men who tried to take me, he showed no anger.

“Honestly, I was expecting a trailer with a broken screen door, beer cans in the yard, and your granny sitting on the porch smoking a pipe.” Saying it was much worse than thinking it. “I’m sorry.”

Watcher turns away and unlocks the door. He pushes the door open and steps out of the way. “Welcome to my shithole.” He winks and walks in behind me.

No beer cans. No leftover pizza still in the pizza box sitting on the coffee table. No posters of naked women or used condoms on the floor.

“Yes, I did it myself.”

“Fuck.”

“Everything in the living room is real leather. The wood from the coffee and end tables came from a designer in Crystal Falls, Kentucky. There’s something special about the type of wood. Big Kentucky suggested the woodmaker.” He puts his gun and keys on the coffee table and removes his boots. “I’ve got beer, wine, and water.”

I follow him to a kitchen that shouldn’t belong to a man who rides a bike and beats people up. “I’ll have a beer.”

“Can’t do it. You’re underage.”

“That going to stop you from having sex with me?”

He hands me the beer and we head back into the living room for the couch. “You are eighteen, right?”

“I don’t know. Am I?”

We clink beers together and take a couple of swallows, putting our bottles on the table simultaneously. As I lean back, Watcher moves me onto his lap, my legs straddling his waist. He lifts my shirt over my head and tosses it to the side.

“You’re a beautiful young woman,” he says, hands resting on my waist.

I don’t tell him, but it is the first time a man has said those words to me. I’ve been told I have a killer body, but nobody complimented me on my looks in such a romantic way.

“Thank you,” is all I manage to say.

His thumbs rise up the center of my stomach, his fingers on my ribs. For a man who works on bikes and punches people, his touch is gentler than anything I’ve ever experienced.

“A woman’s body is truly a temple.”

“Thank you.”

Watcher reaches around me and unsnaps my bra, letting it fall from my arms. He tosses it next to the shirt.

I stare at him, staring at my breasts. He licks his lips, and then his thumbs are rubbing my nipples. Not hurting, caressing.

I press a little harder on his lap and feel the hardness of his cock pressing back. I’m scared of having him inside me. I think about leaving and feel the rush of tears working upward from my soul.

“No reason to be afraid,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes, babe. I won’t lie. It will hurt, and I will do what I can to lessen the pain.”

“Okay,” I whimper, unconvinced. “Can we go to the bedroom?”

Watcher nods and, in one quick movement, gets up with me wrapped around his waist, our lips coming together as he carries me down the hall.

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