with my hands, I lean down and press my lips to hers. I’m too aroused and angry to stop myself or worry about her reaction. In my chest, I feel a rising sadness. Why do I ruin everything? Why can’t I be patient? No wonder people look at me as if I’m an animal. That’s the way I act.
When my lips leave hers, I wait for a reaction. She only watches me with the same soft gaze as before I kissed her. Did she feel anything? Is she humoring me because I kept her family from starving?
That’s the fucking problem!
I hold all the power. By kissing her, I’m saying she needs to repay me. Then when she spreads her legs and lets me inside her body, I’ll never fucking know if she wanted me.
“Did you like that?” I ask, still cupping her face, afraid to let her go. When Pixie nods, I grow more frustrated. “Do you even know what that was? Or what I want?”
“You want to have sexual intercourse. There’s kissing and touching, and then your penis goes inside my vagina. If it’s good, I get to have an orgasm. If it’s less good, only you get to have an orgasm.”
I don’t know why I expected her to giggle or act confused. She’s not five years old. She understands lots of shit. She killed a man protecting me. But because she doesn’t act like other women, I keep thinking she’s a child.
“Do you want to have sexual intercourse?” I say, hating that term. “Fucking. That’s what I call it. Do you want me to fuck you? Is that why you’re in the shower?”
“I want to touch you. I don’t care about the rest.”
Her hands reach up to stroke my shoulders. Then her fingers slide down my wet chest to my stomach. I flinch, always ticklish at the spot above my dick. That’s where her hands are headed.
I try to speak. The words get caught in the back of my throat when her fingers caress my hard cock. She looks down at where she strokes me. With her hair blocking her face, I can’t check her reaction. Is she disgusted? Somehow, I doubt it. Pixie isn’t a fragile flower. She’s got thorns. She’ll tell me no and scratch if I don’t listen.
With both hands, Pixie strokes my cock, sliding her fingers slowly over my wet flesh. Her face rests against my chest, inhaling my scent, cuddling against me. I don’t dare touch her. My skin is on fire, and every nerve rages. I press my hands against the sides of the stone shower. My palms burn from the amount of pressure I apply, but I don’t dare remove them from the walls.
Pixie’s left hand reaches down to cup my heavy balls. Her touch is too much. My entire body shakes from pleasure and panic. I feel myself losing control. All the signals in my brain are in overload mode. If I touch Pixie, her thin body will break under the weight of my need.
I shudder as she brings me to orgasm. Staring at the ceiling, I struggle to control myself. I’m afraid of what I’ll say. Or worse, what I’ll do when my hands reach for her.
I try to pretend the woman touching me is one of the bunnies. They know bikers are rough jackasses. I can calm down and enjoy the rush of pleasure.
But no bunny would wrap her arms around my waist and lean into me. They get me off, wait to see if I’ll return the favor, and then go away. Pixie offers comfort after giving me pleasure.
“You look so angry,” she says, stepping back.
I’m ready to give her shit. I don’t know why. I guess I want her to hate me. That’s what I’m used to with women. Pixie can’t pull off cool indifference. This crap is too new for her. No, I’ll have to make her hate me.
But when I lower my gaze to meet hers, I find her face upward, smiling into the water. She’s so relaxed that I can only watch as she dances in the shower.
Finally, her gaze meets mine, and her lips do what they were made for. That smile is more than I can handle. I feel as low as I did in the drug den, staring at Bronco’s gun. Why do I keep living? What’s the point?
“I have a spot,” Pixie says, stepping closer and taking my hand. “Right here,” she whispers, guiding my big fingers between her