Page 53 of Dolls & Daggers
Wren abandons my nipple and curves his arm up to cradle my jaw. I’ve always known there was a sizable height difference between us, but it’s not until this very moment that I realize how tallhe is compared to me.
“I meant this.Us.Come apart for me.” He kisses me gently with the uninjured corner of his mouth. “I can feel your walls fluttering against my fingers. Let go, Turtle Dove.”
A silent moan catches in my throat, then melts against his mouth as the dam inside me shatters—waves of liquid fire surging through me, spilling over his hand.
“That’s it. So good.” He skirts around the phrase I told him I didn't like, and it works. I still feel the praise—the euphoric reward—without my body locking up. It makes me want to reward him in return.
I writhe against him, digging in harder, working for all the little moans that slip from his lips. His cock wedges between my ass cheeks, the friction relentless, and he thrusts until he erupts with a ragged roar.
We lie there for what feels like hours, sweaty and spent and tangled in each other without pushing formore. Even as we shimmy out of our sticky clothes. Even when I retrieve a warm washcloth to clean up. Even when he admits that he’s never spent the night with a woman before.
“Will you stay, though?”
Wren pulls my naked body flush against his, back to chest, and tugs the duvet up over us both. “You’re never getting rid of me.”
I trace my fingers over the back of his hand where it rests against my stomach. “I don't want to get rid of you, Songbird. I've decided I quite like having you around.”
Tapping my foot impatiently,I check my watch again. Only a few minutes have passed since the last time. With a sigh, I reload the browser, hoping—irrationally—for a new message in my inbox. It refreshes in real time; I know it's empty. Still, I check.
The office buzzes with chaos, as it always does when the site is under construction. You’d think by now Joe would stop publishing on the four days a month maintenance partially downs the system.
Finally, the browser loads.
Nothing. Again.
A flicker of irritation sparks somewhere between my chest and stomach, unsure whether it wants to rise to my throat or sink into my gut. Dove still hasn’t returned from her absurdly long lunch break, and sherefused to tell me where she was going or why she needed the extra hour away.
Today wassupposedto be the day she vouched for me to Joe. Not because I made her come three times last night—fingers and toys only, since she still won’t let me go down on her until my lip fully heals and neither of us has broached the subject of full-on sex yet—but because the article I wrote on the side of my regular workload had moved her to tears.
Instead of putting the Doll on a pedestal, as Dove once so eloquently put it, I wrote about how hurt peoplehurtpeople, exploring the possibility that perhaps the Doll was once abused herself—thus the reason for doing what she does.
A low blow, maybe, using Dove’s experience. But I used my own, too, wrapping our pain in pretty words that gave nothing away to indicate I was writing about us. I watched her carefully, searching for any hint that might confirm my growing suspicion—that it’s beenherall along.
She remained silent after she finished reading, polishing off the rest of our bee pollen pancakes before leaving me in the middle of Tanner Smith’s to pay the bill while she freshened up. When she returned, she said she’d talk to Joe.
So far, though, it’s been radio silence.
Tiny footsteps approach hastily from down thehall, curving my lips into a smile that only faintly stings now. Fang bounds into the room, wiggling excitedly as he darts around my desk and leaps into my lap, licking my face in a flurry of kisses.
“Hey, little dude.”
The rat has grown on me.
When Dove mentioned she might visit her mother in a few weeks, I even volunteered to babysit.
You would have thought I single-handedly brought on the apocalypse with the way Bunny went off on me, calling me an interloper and insisting I was just a passing fancy. No way in hell would she let me watch her dogson—and if you don’t know what that is, it’s godson in dog mom language.
“Where’s your mom?” I scratch behind Fang’s ear, where the faded colors of his wiry fur resemble pastel dragon’s beard candy.
“He sure was excited to see you, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours. I’m starting to wonder if I should be jealous, Songbird.” Dove’s voice fills my office, flooding my veins with an instant dose of happy.
And sappy.
Fuck, I’ve got it bad.
The smartass quip on the tip of my tongue dies the moment I look up.
“What did you do to your hair?” I ask, equal parts horrified and stunned.
