Page 91 of Roulette Rodeo
"Would it be odd," I repeat, the words vibrating up from something deep and animal in my chest, "to ask for me to be the one to take your virginity?"
It sits there, suspended in the humid air, echoing off the tile. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s lower, darker, rough enough to scrape paint off a barn wall. She’s still looking at me, lips parted, eyes wide, like she can’t decide if she wants to bolt or pounce or melt right into my arms. I feel like I might do all three, if I don’t pull my shit together.
I’m trying to picture it—her, naked, open, trusting me to be the first. It’s not a fantasy; it’s a fucking gauntlet. Every molecule in me wants to say yes, right now, climb on top of her and devour her until she’s boneless and shivering and marked inside and out. But there’s a whole other part—a smaller, meaner, deeply fucked-up part—that wants to run away. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s a goddamn responsibility. A trust fall from the edge of the universe, with me as the only net.
The bathwater is scalding, but I’m shivering. All the training, all the missions, all the times I’ve stared down a rifle barrel with no guarantee I’d come out the other side, nothing fucks me up like this. The way she’s looking at me, waiting, hoping, is more dangerous than any IED or landmine or psycho with a grudge.
I want her. I want to peel her open and drown in every inch of her. But I also want to do it right. I want her to want it, not just survive it. I want her to remember this as the moment she chose, not the moment it was decided for her. I want to be the reason she never regrets keeping that promise to her dead mother. The pressure is a live wire beneath my skin. I can feel myself getting harder by the second, but I don’t move. I just look at her, willing my voice not to crack.
"Red," I say, and it comes out as a plea.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t laugh. She just watches me, her expression raw and vulnerable and fucking fearless.
"Yeah," she answers, voice barely above a whisper. "I want it to be you."
I swallow hard. I’ve never felt more seen, or more exposed, in my life. She’s not asking for a favor. She’s not asking for me to fix her. She’s asking for me—just as I am, just as she is.
I’m not a beautiful man. I’m not gentle, or sweet, or even safe. But I can be good, when it matters. And I want to be good for her. If she’s brave enough to ask, I can be brave enough to answer.
I lean in, slow, telegraphing every inch of distance. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in, letting her scent fill every empty space inside me. My hand finds the back of her neck—the same way I’d calm a spooked mustang. I want her to know I’m not going anywhere.
"Are you sure?" I ask, last chance for her to change her mind. I want to say a hundred things—how honored I am, how much I want her, how scared I am I’ll fuck it up—but all that comes out is the question.
She nods, the movement so small I almost miss it. But then her fingers close over my wrist, strong and deliberate.
"Yes," she breathes.
And that’s it. That’s all I’ll ever need.
I study her face, memorize it, because I want to remember exactly how she looked when she made this decision. For all the blood rushing south, my heart is pounding in my throat. I don’t move, not yet. I let her see that I’m not going to pounce. I’m not going to take. I’m going to be here, with her, for as long as it takes.
"Okay," I say, the word a quiet promise.
She closes her eyes, and I see the tension leave her shoulders. She’s ready. She’s not scared—no, that’s wrong. She is scared,but she wants it more than she fears it. That’s a kind of bravery not even the Marines can teach.
I dip my head, brush my lips over hers, gentler than I’ve ever been with anyone. It’s not about heat, not yet—it’s about letting her know I heard her, that I’m here, that nothing is going to happen except what she wants. When she sighs, it’s like a weight leaving both our bodies.
And just like that, the whole world narrows to this tiny, steaming slice of bathroom, her bare skin slick against mine, the taste of her breath on my lips.
The knowledge that I’m the one she chose.
A WOMAN WHO KEPT HER PROMISE TO HERSELF
~RED~
Istare up into his eyes for a heartbeat—forest green darkened to something almost black with want—before he leans down, claiming my lips like an answer to a sinful prayer I didn't know I'd been whispering.
The kiss starts careful, almost hesitant, like he's afraid I'll break or bolt. His lips move against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, a sweetness I didn't expect from a man built like a weapon. But there's something else beneath it—a tremor in the way his hand cups my face, a catch in his breath when I part my lips. Is he nervous? The thought sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the heat of the water or the press of his body.
Then his arm shifts from my waist, sliding lower, and suddenly his fingers are there, teasing along my folds beneath the water. The touch is light, exploratory, but it tears a moan from my throat that he swallows like communion wine. That small sound seems to break something in him—the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine while his fingers continue their maddening exploration, never quite giving me what I need.
I can't breathe. Don't want to breathe. Want to drown in this moment, in him, in the way he makes me feel like I'm worth worshipping.
My body moves without conscious thought, twisting until I'm plastered against him, every inch of skin that can touch, touching. The water sloshes violently, but I don't care. His free hand grips my ass beneath the surface, pulling me impossibly closer, and we're kissing like the world is ending. Like we're trying to crawl inside each other's skin. Like three years of pent-up desire has finally found its outlet.
Kiss after kiss, each one deeper than the last. Our groans and moans echo off the bathroom walls, punctuated by the splash of water that's definitely overflowing onto the floor now. Duke whines from the hallway, probably concerned about all the noise, but neither of us can stop. Won't stop. This is everything—the heat, the need, the desperate clutch of hands on slippery skin.
He's the one who finally breaks the kiss, both of us panting like we've run marathons. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel him trembling—actually trembling—which does things to my insides I'm not prepared for.
