Page 57 of Root

The look she gives me is the kind of lethal that makes my cock ache.

Armor, pure and simple.

I fucking love it.

Never thought someone like her would rev the motors in me like she does. I’ve appreciated punk chicks, biker chicks, hardball downright killer chicks. But I’ve never wanted one the way I want Jess.

I want to peel off her armor and lick the sweetness beneath. Dine on her.

And I’m ashamed to admit I peeked in the sealed bag when she got ready. Photos, trinkets. Birth certificates for her and her brother. Social security cards. And a burner phone with a bunch of SIMs.

The bag holds the treasures of someone who has nothing, and I just sealed it up and put it back. I’m not letting her know I looked.

Because, yeah, I’m ashamed. Those things have nothing to do with me. They’re beyond private.

“How much longer?” she asks.

“For what?”

The flashing look she gives burns. “Your people to go through my stuff I handed over.”

“Jessie, I watched you pack, unless you’re a master spy with secrets sewn into your underwear, I don’t think they’re going to find much.” I cheers my drink against her empty one. “They’re making sure it’s safe for you, that’s all.”

“And you? Looking in the bag?”

I go still.

“They weren’t in the same order, I know.” Her gaze hits severely. “So are they now doing a deep dive on the birth certificates? The bottle-cap painting? The two superhero plastic rings?”

“No.” I take a sip. “No one’s doing that.”

We look at each other and I brazen it out.

“Then why so long?”

“They’re making sure the place I’m taking you to is safe, like I said.”

“So you took me here?” she asks. “To a bar where I don’t fit in?”

“I like this bar.”

“You would.”

“You fit in.”

She totally doesn’t. She’s exotic in here, she pulls the eye. She’s real.

“What’s your plan?” she asks. “Other than show me off to your people?”

“That sounds more like a death wish than a plan.” I shift a little closer to her, breathing her in. “You don’t strike me as the type to tolerate being made the star of a one-woman parade.”

She moves so her tits brush against me, and I put a hand on her waist. “I’m not your type, apart from the fact that I’m a woman.”

Really, she’s right and wrong. Sure, she’s female and I fucking love females, the way they taste and smell and feel and the things they can do to my cock.

But not all females. The reputation she’s painting for me isn’t me. I’m no saint, but I’m also not a one man fucking machine.

As for her not being my type…

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