Page 49 of The Challenger

Unclench, and say adios to my boundaries.

Fireworks lit and fizzing with frenzy, an unspeakable, unstoppable rip-snort of awakening blasts through me. The sensation is like nothing I’ve ever felt, and it blows my circuit breaker to hell.

And damn if she isn’t there to take it all.

* * *

I wakeup to a darkening sky and the eternal lightness of a naked Flynn spooning me. Her nipples kiss the skin on my back with every slow breath, and I remember how sweet those pink and creamy wonders tasted before we drifted off. She was a sneaky one, undressing to slip into bed when I showered and tried to make sense of the world. In need of a recharge after the physical day and her titanic takedown of my goods, I crawled under the covers to join her. Even though my eyelids felt like they had anvils hanging off them, it was inhumane to fall asleep without giving her a taste of my suckling powers. I promised her rounds two to infinity would be blockbusters, and we fell asleep on that pledge after I got rid of all the stupid frilly pillows cluttering up the bed.

Life isn’t meant to be littered with useless or complicated shit.

Flynn is slowly becoming less complicated. She settled down after the weirdness with the photographer when we first arrived and there is no denying we make a good team. Her mental strength is right up there with her oral skills and who knew rekindling my inner mojo would be this off-the-charts amazing?

Flynn suddenly stirs to life behind me, as if my awakening telegraphed into her.

She circles a hot palm over one of my ass cheeks. “Hey, stranger. You awake?"

I logroll to face her and brush curls away to engulf her mouth with mine. Even her sleep breath tastes nice, not stale like Sofia’s, who freaked out when I told her to rinse in the morning.

"How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Like a stick of melted butter.”

Now you tell me, what beautiful creature says that when, last I recall, I was the spasming mess, and she was writing the book on how to breathe and swallow at the same time? She can’t be real, and yet she is.

I slide my hand into the warm skin between her thighs. “Where do we go from here? Work you back up into a solid?"

"No,” she says. “We work our waydownthe list."

"Was me making love to you in your top ten?"

She giggles and nibbles on my lower lip. “Number two.”

We have the rest of the night to compare notes, but a few things on my list are guaranteed to match up with whatever remains on hers. What hadn’t crossed my mind suddenly becomes clear when the curtains draped around the patio door billow out like a liquid ghost and the sweet, ripe scent of a summer night rides in with the breeze. I do some quick math. The width of the doors, the stupid size of this bed. And Charlie said the nearest neighbor is a deaf woman in bed at nine every night.

He was thinking ahead, that kid.

“How about this?" I ask. “I could push the bed onto the balcony and have you seeing stars in more ways than one.”

Her eyes go wide. “Do it outside?”

“Or not. Your call."

She pushes up on both elbows to gaze out at the blue-black sky. The yard is desolation row with no moon and is smothered by a quietness that probably never goes away. As if she’s stumbled onto the very reason that brought her here in the first place, she looks over with a smile that a less informed person might think unimportant but speaks volumes to me.

“I never imagined you were such a romantic," she says. "You are a gentlemananda gladiator.”

The softest kiss brushes the tip of my nose and whatever is holding me together right now disintegrates as she burrows closer. I should clutch her tightly and never let go, but genius me rolls onto his back because it's easier to lie in silence, shoulders touching, hands together under the covers, and listen to the call of some strange bird in the distance than fumble through my limited vocabulary only to find something that would fall short of what I really want to say.

When I do speak, the words stumble out after a hard swallow. “No one’s ever called me a gentleman.”

“It’s a compliment,” she says.

“I know.”

Praise the Virgin for the dark, because I am too vulnerable right now for light and scrutiny. I stare up at the canopy, calculating what it will take to remove that dust-bunny party house without a million spiders crawling out of it.

“Have you given any thought to Europe?” she asks, out of the blue.

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