Raid - By Kristen Ashley Page 0,38

apart at the seams.

It was glorious.

Chapter Ten

Church Sunday

My eyes opened slowly, and at first I didn’t get it.

I didn’t get the heavenly softness that covered my body.

I didn’t get the bright sunshine that seemed to be coming from everywhere.

I didn’t get what sounded like a shower coming from not too far away.

I didn’t get the languorous feeling that permeated every inch of my frame.

I didn’t get the pleasant ache between my legs.

Then I got it and I shot up to sitting in Raiden’s bed, leaning into one hand, the other one clutching the afghan I gave Raiden to my naked chest.

Holy Moses, I slept naked.

Holy Moses! I never slept naked!

But I knew why I did.

I slept naked because the second time Raiden did what he said. He played with me. He worked my body until I was drenched. And when he gave me an orgasm, it felt like I was coming apart at the seams.

He did things to me. Amazing things, wild things, things I knew about and things I didn’t. Things that, if I told someone, might sound strange or kinky, but things that, the way Raiden did them to me, were absolutely not.

I let him.

And I loved every second.

And I slept naked because the time after that, Raiden did not take an excruciatingly long and exquisite amount of time making love to me.

No.

He took an excruciatingly long and exquisite amount of time worshipping me.

There was no other way to put it.

If the first time was fast, wild, out-of-control and phenomenal, the second time was slower, wilder, totally in Raiden’s control, but out of mine and it was sensational.

But the last time was like an out of body experience.

It was magnificent.

So much so, waking naked in Raiden Miller’s bed the morning after our second date, I didn’t feel like a slut or a skank, mortified by either.

I felt happy.

So I smiled.

I looked down at the afghan Raiden obviously wasted no time using and I slid its beauty up my chest, smiling into the cashmere.

Seconds later, I dropped the blanket back to my chest, looked around and my smile died.

I was on a stacked set of queen-sized mattress and box springs that sat on the floor. The sheets were white and appeared clean, bright, even almost new. A comforter with a subtle geometric design in masculine colors of blue and red was on the floor, only the afghan on me.

The bed, as it were, was in the middle of an enormous room made entirely of wood, the walls punctuated profusely by huge, multi-square-paned windows that definitely needed to be cleaned. There was a lamp on the floor by the bed, its ceramic base chipped, a long extension cord running across the rough wood floor, plugged into the wall. Also by the bed was a small pile of condoms, some paperback books and strewn magazines.

Mostly to avoid the pile of condoms and what they said, my eyes wandered.

On the wall across from the foot of the bed was a wardrobe, one door open and dangling drunkenly. Some clothes could be seen hanging haphazardly inside, a variety of athletic shoes and boots spilling out the bottom. More clothes in a tangle on the floor that led to wardrobe.

To one side, a dresser, all the drawers open; tees, thermals and boxer briefs dangling out the drawers.

On the opposite wall, a battered countertop covered in boxes of cereal, crackers, jars of protein powder and piled dishes. A sink that was piled with dirty dishes. There was a fridge to one side of the counter that long ago should have been put out of its misery, and a crusty, old range at the other end that might actually be a health hazard.

In front of the scary kitchen, there was an old, chrome sided Formica-topped table with two chairs, their black vinyl seats torn, padding coming out. The top of the table had a laptop and papers, with more papers scattered on the floor.

There was a big, locked trunk against the back wall with a stenciling on the side that read “Cpl. Miller, R”. In the corner by it, a weight bench and a rack of weights surrounded by a mess of dumbbells on the floor that looked the size only Hercules would work out with.

And last, there was an old, faded plaid easy chair with a rickety standing lamp beside it and an even ricketier spindly table that also was covered to overflowing with paperbacks.

The whole thing screamed Beverly Hillbillies before they struck oil.

The only