Page 6 of Savage Love

I’m not as ready to let go of it as I told her I was.

I ignore my stubborn arousal as I shower, refusing to give in.I gave in too many times when she was there with me.

What, now you’re never going to jerk off again, either?

I grit my teeth with frustration as I rinse off, still ignoring my cock. I know I’m acting like an idiot—like a teenager with a first crush on a girl he can’t have, rather than a man who’s lived enough life to be practical about things like this.

My self-imposed punishment after the shower is to sit with the remainder of my beers and the files, going through them. I’ll have to wait a few days before I let Viktor know what I think—I don’t feel like listening to him lecture me about how I need time off—but it keeps my mind occupied. There’s a handful of recruits that I think are promising, including one dark-haired, petite woman who, unfortunately, turns my thoughts back in the direction that I’d been trying to steer them away from.

Anna Lindovna. I run through her file as quickly as I can before setting it aside—it goes in the pile of potential recruits, as much as I’m tempted to turn her down based on how much she makes me think of Elena. Which is ridiculous—the only thing they actually have in common is dark hair and a shorter stature—Anna Lindovna is sharp-featured and thin, with a lean hardness to her that suggests from just a glance that she could fuck any man up who tried something with her.

Elena doesnotsuggest that at first sight. But she’d proved to be dangerous anyway—both for others and for me, in a different sort of way.

Once I’ve finished the beers, I switch to vodka until I’ve at least glanced through all the files and have a pleasant, warm buzz that fogs up my mind enough that I think I’ll be able to sleep. I retreat to my bed, sinking into it and trying not to think about the space next to me, how empty it is, or how good it would feel to have Elena there, warm and soft and sweet in my arms.

Unfortunately, my dreams don’t allow me that luxury.

I dream about Rio, muddled flashes of that rainy night when she came out to stand with me, and we ended up against the motel wall, her mouth on mine as she pressed her hands against me, pinning me while she showed me exactly how much she wanted me. I dream of how it felt to stumble back inside, falling into the bed, of how she arched under me, warm and eager and begging for me, and how I gave in.

I dream about all of those times I gave in, tangled together like we were in beds across Rio. I wake in the middle of the night with the sheets sweaty and twisted around my hips, my cock hard and aching, demanding relief.

Half awake and still partially lost in dreams of her, I don’t have the control to deny myself this time.

I reach down, my hand wrapping around my aching shaft, eyes closing as I slip back into the fantasy of having her here with me. I think of tying her up in my own bed, the way I did in that room, of silk shibari ropes around her wrists instead of my leather belt, of her ankles, tied up too, holding her legs open for me. I think of all the ways I could torment her with pleasure, all of the ways she would beg for me, and my cock throbs in my fist, wanting her instead of the lesser pleasure of my hand.

I want to taste her again. My other hand clenches into a fist against the sheets, remembering the warm, silky feel of her inner thigh against it as I held her open, spread for my tongue, the way she arched against my face and writhed, begging for me to make her come.

My thumb presses into the base of my cockhead, feeling the drip of my pre-cum as I stroke my hand up and down. That first morning in Rio, when I’d come out of the shower, and she’d gotten down on her knees, her hot mouth enveloping me—the way she moaned as she licked up my arousal–

I groan aloud, hips jerking as I fuck my hand faster, imagining it’s her mouth, that I’m getting to the very edge before I thrust into her, filling her up with my cum. I can imagine her begging for it, pleading to taste me, moaning as I insist on fucking her. I can imagine how she would feel, how she would pulse under my fingertips as I make her come–

After that first night on the beach, I thought she would be shy. I’d never been with a virgin before her, but I’d imagined that she would be hesitant, innocent, that she wouldn’t know what she wanted. That she would only know the barest mechanics of sex, that she would be shocked by all the filthy fantasies that I could have described to her.

Instead, I found out that she had the same types of fantasies. That she was willing and eager to tell meexactlywhat she wanted, when, and how. That she wasn’t shy at all about it.

That, more than anything, had made it impossible to tell her no. That had broken my self-control over and over, how eager she was, how much she wanted me. How little she cared about what she wassupposedto want.

My cock throbs again, pulsing in my fist, and I remember her lips tightening around it, her nose brushing against my abs, the feeling of her throat clenching around me as she took me all the way down—

That sends me over the edge. I groan, my head tipping back as the memory of my cum flooding her mouth fills my thoughts, pleasure sparking over my skin as I drag my hand hard and fast up and down my aching shaft, feeling myself spill onto the taut flesh of my abs, spurts of cum streaking my skin as I imagine that it’s coating her tongue instead, her lips, her breasts. That I’m covering her in it, instead of lying in my own bed, fantasizing about something I’ll never have again.

My hand drops to my side, my wilting cock against my thigh, and I close my eyes. I don’t mean to fall asleep like that, but exhaustion floods me in the wake of my orgasm, and I’m fast asleep before I realize what’s happened.

When I wake again in the morning, daylight streaming through the half-open blinds, I feel foggy and more than a little ashamed. I’m in need of another shower; the sheets are still tangled around my ankles along with my boxers, the way I left them last night when I passed out. I have a headache and the vague memory of jerking off in the middle of the night, dreaming about Elena. I let out a long breath through clenched teeth, asking myself what the fuck is wrong with me.

The time I spent with Elena was passionate, incredible, and more special than it ought to have been. But it’s over.

No more nights like this. No more indulging in thinking about her like that.What I told her in Niall and Isabella’s backyard rings true for me as well—in time, this will pass. In time, I’ll stop wanting her so badly, if I don’t continue to entertain it.

In time, I won’t miss her any longer.

For now, I just have to keep believing that’s actually true.

Elena

Ihate being sick.

In all my life, I’ve only beenreallysick a couple of times. Food poisoning once, from a restaurant we went out to when I was much younger, on one of the rare occasions when the family left the house. Pneumonia, as a teenager. Both times I recall being miserable, but it’s so far in the past that right now, sitting on the fluffy blue mat next to the shower with the toilet in front of me, I’m convinced this is the worst I’ve ever felt.

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