Page 31 of A Shot in the Dark
This is heaven.
My neck aches at the site of his bite but there is something blissful—magical—about it, the way his mark already calms me. Usually by now the fire of my need would already be moving back to a slow simmer in my blood; there’s something calming about being here—being now—being with Boots. Something tingles in the air between us, fierce but sweet at the same time. It’s almost as if something as bright as starlight, soft as a feather, but sharp as a blade now winds us together in ways I could have never before imagined.
He falls asleep inside me, our limbs tangled together, my head tucked against his chest, listening to the cadence of his heartshifting down from double time to a slow march. His breathing steadies.
Through the thin walls separating us from the two rooms flanking our own comes the sounds of grunting and urgent whispering, of the squeaking of beds and the rising, almost panicked sounds of someone reaching climax. A scream punctuates the air as someone’s good time winds up.
“We offer by-the-hour,” the man at the desk had said.
I believe him.
Boots looks almost peaceful in his sleep—nearly content. Years fall away, almost every faint line fading from his face. With all the care I can manage with limbs that feel too loose to work properly, I shift free of him, but remain on my side, one arm curled beneath my head as I watch him sleep. He looks sweet when he sleeps… A tremble rolls through him. He flinches. Then he stills. It’s only a passing thing, nothing to worry about.
An oddity of Boots. Part of the mystery of a man who doesn’t want me to get too close, the man I fall asleep beside too readily.
In my dreams I am the wolf again—running, always running, the breeze through my fur a revelation. A noise causes me to turn suddenly, leaves and dirt flying up from my paws. Before me shadows shift and other wolves step forward—each one large and powerful and glorious. Each one somehow connected to me. I sigh out my pleasure and they drift away into the stars, beckoning me to follow.
I wake to a rising need, run my fingers down Boots’ chest and lower, and with a flash of silver eyes his body answers mine. There’s an effortlessness that now marks each stolen, quiet moment and when I next wake, I find him staring at me like I’m some creature he’s never seen before, something strange and mystical. “How are you?” he asks, searching my face.
“Starving,” I confess, shooting him a smile. “You too?”
As if in answer, his stomach grumbles and I giggle. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Helluva way to work up an appetite. Better than a run in full combat gear, though,” he says, rolling onto his back.
“I would hope so!”
“So. What’s the lady hungry for?” He rolls out of bed, naked and utterly unashamed as he heads for his phone. Of course, he has nothing to be ashamed of with those muscles and that tremendously bitable ass… “I’ll order delivery,” he offers. “What the fuck town are we in again?” he mutters as, completely focused on his phone, he turns to face me. His brow furrows, catching me staring at him. “What?” He glances down. “Never seen a man not saluting you?” he jokes.
I swallow hard, coming up onto my knees on the bed. “Your scars…”
His expression shifts, his jaw sets. “They’re scars. Just part of my past.”
“They go straight through…”
“Oh.” He glances down long enough at the set of three to give them a quick scratch. “Yeah. Got lucky with that.”
“That’s…lucky?”
“Oddly enough?” His gaze flicks up to catch my own. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “So. Breakfast? Brunch? Which is the right one for—” His eyes widen, having never left mine. “Nine-thirty-eight in the morning?”
The red numbers on the alarm clock facing me shift, reading 09:38. “You?—”
“—have a keen sense of time and timing,” he remarks. “Don’t question—it’s been used to your advantage,” he guarantees with a grin. “Excellent orienteering skills, too. I can find any point on a map in the real world without hesitancy. It’s as easy as finding that lovely little clit of yours.”
I laugh. “You should teach classes. The number of men who never successfully…” The words dry up in my throat at the look he gives me.
It’s a level, cool, nearly warning look. “Been a few, have there, princess?”
“A few, yes.” I lift a single shoulder and drop it. “More than a few.”
He nods, taking it in. “It’s okay. Part of what made you who you are now. Like these.” He drums his fingers on his scars. “Just part of the past making me who I am in the present. Only impacting my future if I allow it.” He glances back down at his phone and I watch his finger slide across its face as he scrolls. “Any of those few you need me to kill?”
“W-what?”
He looks up, his eyes catching mine. “Kidding.” He glances back down at the phone. “Unless you’d rather thatnotbe kidding…”
We decide on breakfast, Boots calling our order in and reporting “the lady will have” when he places my part of the order. It’s strange—he opens doors for me, pulls chairs out for me, calls me princess, and refers to me as “the lady.” Yet that deliciously dirty mouth of his also calls me unbearable, wanton, his more-than-willing whore, but the reverence with which he utters each phrase is like he’s announcing the arrival of a queen, and it only stokes the fire in me, bringing me to climax even faster.
“It’s all about the delivery,” he confides once, and I wonder if he means his work, his words, his sexual methodology, or all of it—because Boots definitely delivers.
