The Love Scam - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,69

he gave not a shit; the Sistine Chapel Choir could have stormed the room and started vocal warm-ups and he couldn’t have stopped.

“It’s so good,” she groaned beneath him. “Rake. That’s so good.”

“Yes,” he managed. “Perfect. You’re perfect. God, I adore you.”

Her eyes widened. “No. You don’t—you can’t. It’s okay, you— Ah!” She whimpered a little and tightened her grip. “You don’t have to say nice things.”

“Shut up. I do. You—ah—God—” And that was it, he was tumbling over the edge and no turning back. He felt his eyes roll back as his orgasm burned through him, felt her shudder against him as he filled the condom, as she found one last orgasm.

He didn’t want to. But it was necessary, and, for the first time, the worst part of the sex act: pulling out, pulling away.

Normally he didn’t care. Normally it was a relief: He’d come, she’d come, they’d had a good time, and he could think again. With other partners, this was usually the time he felt affectionate and grateful toward the lady in question. Did she want to stay? Great, they’d watch TV. Did she want to go? Great, he’d help her get dressed and call a cab. Did she want to spend the night? Great, they’d snuggle and snooze.

He wanted Delaney to stay, and not for a Fargo marathon. He wanted her to stay forever.

And of course, that was never an option. He knew that before he knew what color her nipples were.

She waited as he got rid of the condom and, when he climbed back into bed, curled up into his side. His arm went around her at once.

(Thank God! A cuddler!)

“Mmmmm. Normally I don’t get off so fast. Been wanting you for days,” she mumbled.

“Oh? Uh, me either. I’m not normally that fast. Definitely. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s normally my— Ow! God, you fuck like an angel and pinch like a witch.”

“Shut up,” she said into his bicep, and wriggled closer.

“That was wonderful. You’re wonderful. The most—” He stopped himself.

“Words out of my mouth,” she murmured, then yawned. “Jeez. Sorry. I’m not usually like this.”

Yes, well, having a guilty conscience is probably exhausting. He couldn’t say that to her, though, even if it was true. Not now, when she was small and vulnerable and trusting against him. “Go to sleep,” he said, and kissed her.

She did.

Forty-one

Where was she?

Was it safe?

The door. Or even a window. If she could look out. If she could see. Then she’d know.

Oh but what if it was the apartment in Manhattan or the farmhouse in Wyoming? What if there were hard hands groping in the dark, yanking her from sleep?

“Delaney. It’s okay, honey. You’re safe.”

She was?

“You can go anywhere. Do anything.”

She could?

“You don’t have to stay here.”

But—she did. That was the problem of the foster care system in its entirety: You had to stay. No matter what. Until you were eighteen. There were rules. So many rules, and so many people who ignored them or, worse, obeyed them. She wished she and her friends could have their own safe place. Not just one, either. But that meant surviving; that meant turning eighteen and then working to make it happen.

But … she was eighteen. And … maybe older?

Wasn’t she?

“Of course, you’re a grown woman. You don’t take shit from anybody. And you go wherever you want, every day.”

Could it be true? Oh, please let it be true. She wouldn’t ask for anything else if she was safe. Being alone wasn’t so bad if she was safe. She wasn’t greedy. She hated greed. She’d never ask for more than she earned.

“You deserve everything in the world, Delaney, and wanting to be safe and happy isn’t greedy. Won’t you please come back to bed? You’re only wearing one sock.”

One sock? But that was ridiculous. And these thoughts—these tiresome, constant worries she had—they weren’t ridiculous. They were scary. They were real. If something was ridiculous, it must be a dream.

So this was a dream.

This was a wonderful dream.

“Okay,” she said, and the ridiculous man who chased away the scary stuff seemed pleased, and that was nice, too. She let out a small giggle, but the ridiculous man didn’t mind at all, which was more proof—not that it was needed!—that he was ridiculous.

More proof this was one of the nicest dreams ever.

Almost as good as the ones where she could fly away.

“C’mon, honey. You and your one sock, won’t you come back to bed?”

Well, sure. Grand idea! One sock! Ridiculous man!

“Okay,” she