Page 34 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

“What? Are you trying to make sure I get out of here?”

I chuckle. I don’t want her to see that her leaving is bothering me. “Just taking inventory of how many T-shirts you’re going to owe me.”

Truth is, I like the thought of her wearing my clothes.

She grins. “I stole a pair of sweats, too.” Can’t blame her. I’ve made it clear she can’t go back to her apartment even to pick up her things until I say it’s okay. “I figured you’d be ready to get me out of here. It’s gotta be cramping your style.” She eyes the big box of condoms on the table. “A lot of women out there you could be bringing back here and showing your magic wand.”

For as flip as she means it—and I know she means to be flip—there’s a sadness in her eyes. And I’m an asshole because I’m going to exploit it.

I stand and pull her against me. “Well, I don’t want you to think you’re special or anything.” Shit.

She runs her hand over the buttons on my shirt. “Since we’re lying, I’ll say that I don’t want you to take this shirt off.”

I breathe out a soft sigh of relief that should be a whoop of happiness. She’s changed the game and I’m glad for it.

“Yeah?” I don’t just unbutton the shirt; I yank it over my head. “Well, I don’t want you to turn around, bend over, and rub your ass on my dick.”

She giggles. As a bonus, she plants my hands on her hips and lets me pull her back against me while she bends her knees and gyrates. Then turns to rub her tits against my chest. “And I don’t want you to throw me on that bed and fuck me like your life depends on it, Tommy.”

When she calls me that, it pulls me back ten years into the past. Like none of the scars we both have ever happened. Like I didn’t leave her. Like I kept her close the way I should have.

Fuck me, she’s better than any fantasy. And I have no idea how not to give in to her.

“Your wish is …”

I kiss her and run my hand down her back to cup her ass. Firm. Curved. Packed into my hand. She moans into my mouth. But when she takes her own handful through my shorts, a handful of my cock, I growl. This woman … shit.

Her other hand works the waistband on my shorts, slips inside, and I know heaven. I am positive it’s where I am when she kneels in front of me and runs her tongue along my shaft.

As her tongue hits all the right spots, and I tangle my fingers in her hair, she cups my balls then takes me into her mouth and the world lights up with sparklers and fireworks and open fucking flames.

She’s fucking magnificent. I don’t even need to guide her mouth. She has this.

She sucks me deep into her throat over and over and there’s no point in me even trying to hold back or control. But before I come, I push her away. I need to be inside her, to bury myself in her one more time before this over. Before she leaves and I never see her again as anything more than a name on paper.

I strip her pajama shorts off and turn her around. “Bend over.” For the first time, without any sass, she turns and sticks that perfect fucking ass in the air.

I might not even make it inside her before I shoot this load all over her. The condom slips on and I’m inside quickly. Her pussy squeezes, tightens, chokes my cock. I’m not going to last long.

Her moans are loud, fast, separated by only short breaths before she throws her head back in a scream.

These last couple days, I’ve heard every sound she could ever make at every volume from angry to horny and satisfied, but this one is so erotic, so sexual, and hot, I can’t hold back. I cry out because I want her to know what she does to me, and I pound one last thrust and yank her hips back to mine.

“Fuck, Corrie. I’m never going to get enough of you.” Shit. I said it out loud. I can’t have her hanging around. The real world is back today with her return to her parents’ house and her life.

She collapses against the bed and shakes her head. “Well, you have one hour left and I need a shower before I go to my mom’s.” She pushes off the bed and walks—it’s more of a sexual glide—to the bathroom, then stops at the door to crook her finger at me. “Wanna wash my back? I think I might’ve been a dirty girl.” Phone-sex girls couldn’t sound more like phone-sex girls than Corrie does as she winks and turns.

I don’t move until I hear the shower turn on and see the steam rolling out the door. If this is the last time I’m ever going to be between her legs, I’m not wasting a minute.

* * *

It’s more like an hour later before we pull up in front of her folks’ house. She’s dirty again because we parked for a few minutes by the river. We agreed that we were just going to park and talk, but we didn’t say fifteen words before we started shedding layers.

But now, we’re clothed and in front of her mom and dad’s house. It’s a safe spot to defend if Totti decides to make a move. Suspicious people stick out around here in a way they wouldn’t if she was staying in the city.

So it was a purely strategic decision. That’s what I told myself, at least. But now that we’re here, a thousand old memories rush front and center, and my breath catches.

The first place I ever kissed her.

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