Page 16 of Live Love Steal
But my dick wasn’t completely in. I even pulled out a little, tormenting her for the initiative. “One more time,” I whispered.
“Sketch, you’d better fuck me now, or I’ll?—”
I rammed in, going deep. Her words strangled off into a moan of pleasure. I hung there, holding my shit tight and waiting for her to catch up. Once she did, I slid out; then in again. Her hips matched my rhythm, and we fit, over and over again. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d had a woman so perfectly tuned to me in my bed.
But with that thought, guilt and panic set in. I pumped harder, losing her with my frantic need to forget who I was, what I did, how this was all a lie. She gasped, and the walls of her pussy clamped down. I lost the plot. Giving in to the mindlessness of being inside her. I wasn’t thinking about anything at all, and it was glorious.
Especially the way my dick pulsed as I came hard. The soft body in my arms fit perfectly. I fit perfectly. It was beautiful. Better than any vision, better than any dream of an imagined lady. Somewhere in that moment, I glanced to my right. The mural I’d painted watched us. The woman I’d created smirked down at my foolishness. And I wasn’t sorry. I’d never be sorry for this. Because that woman I’d dreamed about so many months ago? She was real. Right here in my bed. I’d captured her, finally. And I wasn’t planning on giving her up anytime soon.
I kissed Isobel’s lips. They were just as soft as I imagined. Her eyes fluttered open, and she seemed surprised, but then she smiled. I kissed her again for that, then put a slight amount of distance between us so I could watch her expression for clues. Because she wasn’t talking. Had I fucked up?
“Where’d you grow up?” she asked.
Ah. Right. This part was called getting the deets. We’d skipped a lot of that. “Right here, mostly. I bounced between my parents’ houses here and in Harrisburg.”
“Did you go to school here or there?”
“There. What about you?”
“Here, for both.”
I figured as much. She had an air about her. One that screamed “well-adjusted” despite the edginess she dolled herself up with. I caressed down her arm so I could pick it up by the wrist, kiss her palm, then get a better look at her ink. It was the only place she had a tattoo. And I’d licked enough of it to know she had a pristine canvas except two lines and a tiny circle. It looked like a symbol I’d seen somewhere. “What’s this?”
“It’s an alchemy symbol for iron. I got it when I turned twenty-one.” She turned her arm so she could look at it. “Dad’s always working on cars. His father worked in a smelting factory. Before him, my family were miners. I got it to remind me of my roots.”
A shadow crossed her face. The little space between her eyebrows scrunched, and I knew in my gut that wasn’t the only reason she got tattooed.
“You’re iron?”
Her eyes locked on mine. There was a small amount of fear in them. She quickly smiled to cover it up. “I am.” The corners of her mouth fell.
That bothered me. I kissed her again, then smacked my lips. “Tastes like rust,” I joked.
She pushed at me and jostled me.
I wrestled her until she was on top of me. She looked down at me with a question on her face. But instead of asking, she said, “I’m glad I played hooky from work today.”
It sounded final. She started to lift off me, and I trapped her, rolling us back to the previous position.
“Babe. We’re not done yet.” I had at least four hours to kill.
5
Magnetic - Isobel
It was getting dark. I traced Sketch’s tattoos while he doodled on a notepad he kept by the bed. I didn’t look. He’d begun drawing me about a half hour ago, and I held as still as I could. But every once in a while, he’d lean in and kiss me. Or lick my skin, which made me shiver. And honestly? I was getting horny again. He was amazingly talented, both as an artist and a lover.
I wanted…
Hell. I wanted to fuck again. I sat up and tugged his hand away to look at the artwork.
Holy shit. Was that me? I looked like a siren. A goddess, naked and rumpled and sexy. It was me, but somehow better? He didn’t see the flaws I saw in myself. The too-squared nose, the too-round cheeks, my fat lips, the scars on my knees, or the faint line where a knife sliced open my…
I pulled away, slapping a hand on my skin where I could still feel that stupid scar.
Sketch moved the pad from the bed and placed his pencil on it carefully. Then he returned to me. With a gentle tug, he moved my hand.
I’d been covering my neck. One inch lower and I’d have been dead… that’s what the surgeon who saved me said. That’s what everyone said.
