Page 148 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

Through all of it, each interrogation, each phone call; each bullet fired, each name added to their respective hit lists, even the desperate night in Walsh’s old cabin by the train tracks, she’d needed him. And now, finally, here he was, where he belonged.

Ava made a wordless, pleading noise, and lifted her hips in offering when he sat back on his heels and hauled her lower body up into his lap. She had no leverage in this position, but it didn’t matter. Despite the scars still fresh and gleaming on his arms, the tiny dots still visible where his bicep had been stitched, Mercy pulled her down onto his cock over and over again, maddeningly slow, breathtakingly easy.

She let herself bask in it, for a while. The delicious friction of being filled again and again. She loved watching the bunch and flex of muscles as he moved her. The way his pecs threw shadows down onto his stomach, bowed out with effort as heground forward into her. His expression was worshipful – but his brows were harsh and slanted with want; the tendons and veins stood stark in his throat, in his forearms. He wasn’t careful, but he was gentle with her, conscious with each touch and each roll of his hips of his size, and his strength. He was the portrait of savagery, a wild beast that had clawed his way indoors, and there was love in every single point of contact. A mindfulness of her pleasure that left no doubt that she was precious to him.

Orgasm ripped through her like wildfire. Her pleasure spiked, sudden and unexpected, and she closed her eyes as it seized her, and wiped her mind clean in a bright, white flash.

When she floated back to reality, skin buzzing, insides all liquid and hot, she first became aware that Mercy was still gripping her hips – tight enough to leave bruises; the good kind that she would admire in the mirror later – and was still moving inside her, no longer thrusting, but grinding into her, the sound obscene where she was sopping wet around his cock.

He was murmuring: “…God, you…baby, fillette…oh my God, I hadn’t even touched you yet. You’re so gorgeous, I love you so much…” From there it devolved into French, low and purring, and he stroked up the center of her stomach with one hand, soothing pets slippery with sweat.

When she had enough wits to gather, she hooked her ankles together behind his back, and said, “Felix. Come on. Fuck me for real.”

His chuckle came out breathy and shocked. His gaze was feverish as it raked her head to toe. He shifted forward, and stretched out above her, hands braced on the mattress; it shifted his cock inside her in a way that, hypersensitive now, left her gasping.

He breathed against her lips. “‘Fuck me for real.’ And here I am trying to make love to you.”

She pinched his ribs, and he grinned. “Such a gentleman.”

“I sure do try to be, baby.” He circled his hips forward and she made an undignifiedguhsound in the back of her throat.

She gripped his hair in both hands, and he went easily when she angled his head into a kiss. This time, his tongue and his hips worked in tandem. “Shit,” she breathed, when he pulled back to nudge her nose with his.

“What was that? You wanted me to fuck youfor real?” He thrust hard, and oh God, she was going to go off like a bottle rocketagain.

He pressed a laugh into her throat, and chased it with a kiss. “Hold on to me, fillette. I’ve got you.”

All told, he made her come three times. The second time, he came with her, bathing her insides with heat. After, while she was still catching her breath, he prowled down her body like a panther, shouldered her thighs wider apart, and cleaned her up with his mouth. The third time she came, she turned her head and bit the pillow to muffle the scream that built in her throat, wrung out and painfully sensitive.

Then they sprawled together under the ceiling fan, splayed out on sweat-gummy sheets with the covers kicked all the way off.

“Oh my God,” Ava murmured, still catching her breath. “I don’t think I can move.”

He grunted something that sounded agreeing, and she laughed. “What? No story, storyteller?”

“Sex good. Me tired.”

She lifted a shaking arm and patted his chest, pleased by the damp smacking sound of it. “How’s the nerve damage?”

“Better.”

“Horseshit.”

“Well, they’re notmoredamaged.” With a groan of effort, he rolled onto his side, hooked an arm around her waist, and kissed the side of her head. “Don’t worry so much, Mama.”

She snorted. “Every time you call me that, it reminds me that it’s my job to worry.”

But she wasn’t worried now, skin itching as the sweat dried, gravity pulling her into Mercy, always Mercy, again and again. Now, she was basking.

The sky beyond the sheer drapes began to lighten, a slow silvering that turned the room luminous, shining along their bare limbs. “Big day today,” she said, finally, and tipped her head back in the cradle of his arm to peer up at his face.

He looked contemplative. “Yeah.” His gaze dipped down to meet hers, and he smiled, soft and worn-out. “A good day, though, I think, no matter what happens.”

She smiled back. “Yeah. Me, too.”

~*~

When the alarm went off at six, Emmie sighed, and rolled reluctantly away from Walsh so she could lean over and slap the clock silent. When she sat up to swing her legs over, he caught her around the waist and dragged her back.

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