Page 82 of Protector

“We’re clear.”

“Good.” I’d just put my hand on the door handle leading upstairs when she took my legs out from under me, sending me down to the concrete in a tangle of limbs.

“It’s jiu-jitsu,” she panted, planting her hands on my chest. “Not fucking karate. And, as you can see, it’s highly effective.”

She tugged the bloody sweatshirt up and over her head, lifting just enough to tug her jeans down past her wide hips, but not enough for me to move.

“Celia?”

“Don’t move,” she commanded, kicking her sandals off and freeing her legs from the denim. My heart thumped painfully against my chest at the sight of her tight nipples and feel of her pussy grinding against the front of my jeans. “Are we clear?”

The sound of her voice was muffled by the blood rushing in my ears, and she lowered her head, letting her teeth graze against my shoulder. “Jamie…”

I nodded, and her fingernails dug into the center of my chest. “Answer me.”

“Understood,” I bit out. She was using my words against me, but I couldn’t say a goddamn thing out of fear that she’d suddenly stop.

I’d been wrong.

About all of it.

Killing Manny was never going to bring her peace, but I’d assumed it’d at least help with the next stage of her healing. Instead, I’d set her monster free and worked her up into a frenzy of lust.

Same as me.

Her delicate hands moved down to my jeans, yanking the belt buckle away from my body as she worked to unfasten it. The sound of my zipper coming down was punctuated by the short bursts of air she was exhaling, and I ached to sink my fingers into the flesh of her ass, forcing her to let me lead. The only thing stopping me from making my move was the desperate need reflected in her eyes.

Freed from the confines of denim, my cock sprang up into her waiting hand, and she gave it a rough tug before rolling her hips forward. Her head fell back in a loud moan as she sank down over me, flooding the space between us with her juices.

“Fuck,” I forced out through clenched teeth.

As if reading my mind, Celia reached for my hands, bringing them up to cup her ass cheeks. The truth from the books I’d read barreled through my mind.

Intimacy with a victim should be done in a well-lit setting where there are no reminders of the assault.

Any objections I had died on my lips when the muscles of her cunt clamped down around me like a vice.

My wife was fucking me on the concrete floor of a dimly lit hallway, less than ten feet from the rapist she’d just put down.

There wasn’t a single book in the entire goddamn world that could help me navigate that.

“I need,” she pleaded with a whimper. “I just—please…”

“Who’s in charge here?”

“Me,” she whispered, her teeth sinking down onto her lower lip, begging.

Knowing what she needed, I pulled my hand away before bringing it down in a punishing slap against her ass. She immediately tightened around me with a soft moan before bucking her hips, as if begging for more.

“Good girl.” I brought my palm down again and again until the pleas became moans and her cream coated my cock. She came with a strangled gasp, and I gripped her hips, pulling her up and off of me.

“Celia,” I groaned as my orgasm ripped through me, fisting my cock before coating her tits and belly.

Her eyes went heavy, and she leaned forward, placing her head against my chest with a contented sigh. She hadn’t once questioned my decision to pull out.

Maybe we both knew that neither one of us would survive it a second time.

We were in the middle of a fucking war; a war that had been going on for years. If I wanted to keep her safe, I couldn’t put her body at risk. I’d failed her once. The breath would leave my body before I failed her again.

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