Page 115 of Blindside Sinner

Then I push her back onto the bed, yank the panties off and the vibrator out, and I put my cock inside of her.

My God.When her body shudders and tightens and her nails scrape down my back, I fuck her harder, grunting with every thrust. She’s had hours of foreplay, and it only takes a second for her to come a second time.

It only takes a few seconds before I join her, riding the waves of passion and crying out in sweet torment.

Only when I’m completely and totally empty do I fall to one side and pull her against me. It’d be easy to start wondering what to call this thing between us.

But right now, I don’t want to think. I want to bask in these feelings.

She lays her head on my chest and tilts her chin up to look at me. “God, Beck, that was… incredible.” Her voice is soft and sexy. “I’m so… worn out, I don’t even feel like…”

I don’t get to find out what she does or doesn’t feel like, because her voice drifts to silence. Just fades away like the end of a dream.

We lie in perfect peace for a while. When she’s half-asleep, I slide my arm out from beneath her, ignore her slight groan, and then walk to the bathroom.

I come back with a warm, damp washcloth. I start at her feet. She looks up in alarm at first, but when she realizes what I’m doing, she lets her head loll back on the pillow.

And so I clean her from toe to head. I dab the sweat and cum from her thighs, all the evidence of our lovemaking, and leaveher clean and glowing. I’m gentle in a way I’ve never cared about being before.

I’ve also never done this kind of thing before.

It’d be easy to get freaked out.What the hell is possessing me?I barely know who I am.

Instead of examining it too deeply, I continue dragging the washcloth over her thighs and her pussy then dry her gently with a plush hotel towel. She murmurs and sighs softly with every pass of the fabric.

Her clothes are in her own room, so I fish a t-shirt out of my bag and dress her in it. If I had things my way, we’d both stay naked, but that would just encourage my dick back to life. These days, it’s a Sloan-seeking missile. We’re both exhausted, so it’s probably best to stave off round three for a little while longer.

She’s soft and pliant as I pull her arms through the shirt sleeves. When she’s dressed, she looks up at me through half-lidded eyes. “What are you doing, Beck?”

“Just making sure you’re okay.” I lean down to kiss her slow and soft, just a brush of lips. “Comfortable.” I pull her hairbrush off the table and sit behind her on the bed, then pull her into my lap. “You just relax and let me take care of you.”

“I… You… Thank you,” she manages at last. She lets me run the brush again and again until her hair is fine silk in my hands. At some point, she falls asleep.

That’s okay. For tonight, holding her is enough.

Tomorrow is a whole ‘nother story.

58

SLOAN

It’s been nine days now since the away game vibrator incident that rocked my world and made me glad I’m a woman. We’re finally back home.

Home.What a word. What a concept. It comes so naturally that I almost forget to overthink it.

When I first came to Beck’s place, I didn’t think I would ever be so excited to see it again. I thought,I’ll keep to my space and he’ll keep to his and it’ll all be more or less tolerable.

But these days, we’re in each other’s space like we’ll die if we take one step too far away.

I spend most of my time at the main house, specifically in Beck’s room, specifically in his bed, although we don’t discriminate. We’ve had sex in every room, on every flat and sometimes not-so-flat surface we can find. It’s been glorious. And just when I think he’s finished for the night, something lights his spark and the fireworks last at least one more round.

Things are almost too good to be real. Definitely too good to be sustainable. For example, last week, I mentioned that I wanted to start drawing again. It’s been years since I did it even halfway seriously, but the urge came back with a vengeance.

I went out to buy a sketchbook and by the time I got back, he had a room cleared—a room with spectacular light—and the next morning, a drawing table, an easel, and a studio’s worth of pens and colored pencils waiting for me in their neat little rows. He’s thoughtful like that, but then he has barely left me alone long enough for me to enjoy it.

“Art’s personal, Beck. It’s like a part of myself on the paper or the canvas.”

He nods, agreeing with whatever I say, but then he pouts when I won’t let him see what I’m working on.

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