peter_pan

You’re asking the king of babian if they’re drawing more babian

OC: Dominick Kardos

Tags: angst, swearing, insults, bad blood, mentions of reckless driving which you should not do!!!!! Angst, fluff, they may be broken up physically but not in spirit, mentions of death

Im a hard-working man. Everything I have, the penthouse, the cars, the kid, I worked my ass off for. Which is why I think I deserve rest too, once in a while, from getting my jaw smashed by overgrown, temperamental toddlers—not being hyperbolic either; Vaughn’s got better emotional regulation than some of my ‘opponents.’

I'm sprawled out on the couch in my underwear while shovelling Jalapeño chicken popper flavoured Doritos into my mouth like a teenager—don’t judge me, someone’s got to finish them. I have a massive package of them since they’re my collab flavour. The crunching of the chips muffles Arnold Schwarzenegger's unintelligible yelling on my screen.

Now is it kinda boring? Yeah. But boredom is good, means my muscles and shit can relax for once, so I ain’t complaining. Or at least, I wasn’t until my phone rings, jolting me back into reality and forcing me to read [user]’s name light up my screen. I swallow the chips in my mouth and swipe to answer.

"Yo, what’s up?" I say, biting another chip.

“Dad!?” Vaughn cries on the line, panic exuding from every syllable that reaches my ear.

I sit up. The bag of chips falls off my stomach and to the floor.

"Whoa. Whoa, buddy, slow down," I say. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

I already start pulling on a shirt and sweatpants, shoving my feet into slippers, while balancing the phone against my shoulder—not an easy feat with one hand but I manage.

The panic in his voice makes my heart pound even harder when he cries shrilly, “Dada! I think mama’s dying.”

For a single, horrifying moment, time just stops. Like all of existence just slams to a standstill. Then my brain snaps into hyperdrive. No more lounging. I'm on my feet now, grabbing my keys and sprinting out of the penthouse.

Worry beats at my heart, making me feel as though it's caving in, while my blood rushes to my head so fast I get lightheaded.

"Where are you?" My voice comes out sharp and I make an effort to soften it back down. "Vaughn, listen to me—where is she? Tell me where you are right now."

I don't wait for an answer as I'm already yanking open a drawer and shoving cash and car keys into my pocket with one hand before sprinting out of the door and taking the elevator to my private garage.

"Did she fall? Is there blood?"

“We’re at home. There was a lot of blood.”

I'm already in the garage, jumping into my SUV and starting the car.

"A lot?" I ask. My brain is already racing with the worst-case scenarios—blood, pain, hospital rooms. I can barely keep my voice steady.

I shove the keys into the slot and turn the engine on, not even trying to get the seatbelt on as I'm peeling out of the parking lot and speeding down the road towards home.

"Okay, it’s okay. Just keep talking to me, kid, okay?” I manage to stay calm around my panic.

My hands clench the wheel tightly as I weave through traffic, breaking more than a few laws in the process with my reckless driving—God, my accountants are gonna be up my ass because of it.

The image of my ex-fiancé in pain flashes in my head—with fat globs of tears sitting on her lower lash line, her body writhing in agony—and it hurts more than any punch I’ve ever taken in the ring. I swallow the urge to throw up.

"I'm almost there, Vaughn. Just hang on," I tell him, my voice steady. "I'm gonna make it better, okay? I promise."

I blow out a ragged breath, "You get Mom a towel. Press it where she's bleeding, okay? Like we practised with your boo-boos."

“Oh…okay.” He mumbles, filling the line with rustling. “Okay, I got my towel.”

“Don’t use your bath towel, V.”

“Oh.”

I almost smile at the kid—he was so fucking tooth-rottingy sweet, it never ceased to amaze me that he was a product of two of the most dysfunctional and toxic people alive.

“Alright, Da, I got a new one.”

“Atta boy, I’m nearly there okay? I’m outside the gate.” Pulling up to the ornate metal barrier that was lodged between tall walls of brick that circled [name]’s estate. My baby mama was not subtle or one for the ‘quaint’ lifestyle.

I push in Vaughn’s birth time, not date because date would’ve been too obvious according to her. God, she’s a paranoid cook. I really hope she isn’t dead.

“Vaughn! What’re you doing!” Serafina screeches.

“Dad said to press on the wound with a towel to stop the blood, Maa!”

“No, don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Vaughn.”

“Cus’ what?”

I'm halfway out the car door when I hear that, my stomach lurching.

"[Name]?" I shout as soon as the gate clicks open, abandoning all decorum and sprinting up the front stone steps. "The fuck is going on in there?!"

I don't even bother knocking—I just shove through her stupidly expensive oak door with enough force to make it rattle against its frame. Running up the stairs, taking two at a time, I ignore the way her butler gapes at me or how her housemaid yelps as I run past her.

My eyes immediately land on Vaughn clutching a towel like it's his lifeline while Serafina stands there looking perplexed.

"What," I pant, hands braced on my knees for balance from running so fast, "happened."

I look her up and down, clad in a satin red nightgown with a matching robe with her hands on her hips with a scowl adorning her features directed at me like I did something wrong.

"You're fine." I accuse, scowling back at her. "This is some dramatic bullshit you pulled just to get me over here?"

[Name] gapes at him, her eyes wide as she stares me down. “You fucking wish, asshole.” Her hands clamp down on the sides of our son’s head, covering Vaughn’s ears.

I huff out a frustrated breath, rubbing my forehead. There's a throbbing headache forming behind my eyes from all her bullshit. My eyes dart to Vaughn who is looking at me with worry and curiosity, which only makes the knot in my stomach even worse. I manage to plaster a smile onto my face.

"Go wait in the living room, bud," I say quietly. "Momma and I got some boring adult things we need to discuss, mmkay? I'll join you in a bit. Promise."

He hesitates. "O-okay."

We both watch out as our son scurries outside and all attempts at civility burn to the ground. “What’s wrong with you, you freak?”

My temper flares as her sharp tone hits me, the worry for her safety quickly morphing into frustration at her attitude. I'm still breathing hard from running here and my muscles are still taut from the adrenaline, only adding fuel to the flame.

"I'm the freak? You're the one who got our kid to call me in a panic, thinking you were dying! Jesus Christ, is attention really that much of a life necessity for you, [Name]?"

The woman scoffs at me, “First of all, I didn’t fucking call you, Vaughn did. And secondly, he did think that I was dying because my period came early and I woke up all fucking bloody—“ her voice consistently rises in tandem with her temper.

“—And now I have the worst cramps ever and they hurt so bad and my crazy toxic baby daddy burst my door down and accuses me of being obsessed with him as if I would ever need to look in his direction again! Look at me, I feel like shit and the people you look up to, still couldn’t pull me!” She cries—because she’s now crying—and throwing her pillow at me in frustration.

I barely manage to catch the pillow before it smacks me in the face, and just stand there for a few long seconds, blinking blankly, while her words land.

Oh. Okay. Well, now I feel like a jackass.

My shoulders sag a bit and the anger quickly leaves my body, only to be replaced with a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach. Her cramps were always really bad—I remember staying up all night with her while she moaned about them.

“Oh, baby.”

And instantly, the fire melts from her body and she pads over to and into my open arms.

My arms automatically open to wrap around my ex-fiancé and I pull her close, cradling her against my chest. She's smaller than me—barely comes up to my chin—and I can feel her body trembling against mine.

I hold her like a doll, her head tucked into the crook of my neck, and gently rock her back and forth while my hand moves up and down her spine in long, slow caresses in an attempt to console her. Even as angry as she makes me, I can never handle it when she cries.

"I'm sorry," I murmur into her hair. "I'm a dick."

“You are.” She hiccups before wailing again, “Everything hurts so bad, Dom!”

My grip tightens instinctively, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other presses firmly against her lower back—like I can physically shield her from the pain.

"Shhh, I know," I mutter into her hair. "Fuckin' hate when it gets this bad for you."

I don't even question it—just lift a hand and start rubbing slow circles over where she's clenching in pain through that stupidly expensive silk robe.

"You want me to get you something? Tea? Painkillers?" My voice is rough but softer than usual as my thumb brushes along a tear track on her cheek before wiping it away with my knuckles.

"Or do you just need me here like this?"

When she doesn't reply, I nudge her cheek with my nose and then she shakes her head.

“Just stay?”

“Just stay.”

OC: Dominick Ryan Kardos

Tags: Pregnancy, Sexual language, cursing, fluff, a itsy bitsy amount of angst, not fully proofread

Twenty minutes ago, I was signing the contract that’s gonna change my entire life. My palm was still clammy and shaking from when I shook Jameson Aster—Carter’s dad’s—hand and he grinned at me, welcoming me to the pros.

The big fucking leagues.

The league I was gonna climb tooth and nail, risking everything I have to give, just so I can shout, “I made it, fuckers!” And hear it echo around the world and straight to my folks’ heads when they see me, Dominick Ryan Kardos being everything they never thought I could be.

That was everything all those years of underground fights, shitty gyms, busted ribs, my blood marring sparring mats were about. All I could think about was that, this is it, Dom, the beginning of the rest of my life.

And all I wanted to do was go home and kiss my woman stupid. I shut the door to my dingy, cheap apartment with its squeaky doors and creaky floorboards and a fire escape that rattled every time big Mrs Junice from upstairs went on it for a smoke. A massive signing bonus was also part of the contract, meaning that I could move [name] and me to a slightly less shitty place that’s not in the heart of the Vegas underground—somewhere closer to the house she grew up in.

It took me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness that bathed the place, bar the yellow light spilling out of the cracked door leading from the bathroom; the rest was pitch black.

“Baby?” I call, dropping my keys onto the console and making my way over to her. When there’s no reply, I thump my still wrapped knuckles against the door, worry beginning to crawl up my spine. “You good if I come in, gorgeous?” I wait for the, albeit hesitant, agreement before opening the bathroom door.

My girl was sitting on the toilet seat, bent in half with her chest pressed up against her thighs with her head in her hands—her shirt slipping off one shoulder and her hair a mess in a way that wasn’t usual for my little rich girl. She may be slumming it with me but she was never going to abandon who she was.

My eyes rake over her, the worry that had begun boiling in me feeling vindicated, and that’s when my eyes catch it. A white stick is being clutched in her left palm with two pink lines sticking out from the top of her balled fist.

Holy fucking shit.

“Hey, hey,” I say, rushing over to crouch down in front of her. “What’s—what’s going on? You hurt?”

[name] doesn’t answer, instead just lifts her head to look up at me for the first time this evening, and it’s all there. Her fear and shock and disbelief.

Reaching out, I pry the stick out of her hand to take a look at the world-changing two lines that stained it. Then, I check again. And again for a third time. Maybe she’s fucking with me and it’ll change if I stare hard enough. But my woman ain’t the type to joke about shit like this.

“Is this—you’re—“ I can’t even finish the sentence. “Holy Fuck, baby.”

She nods again, “I know.” Her voice was so hoarse it made a pang of pain bolt through me and I pressed a kiss to her bare knee in a feeble attempt to soothe her.

It’s like someone ripped the mat out from under me—just when I thought it was gonna solidify. Everything I thought I knew about tonight—about what was gonna come next for us—gone.

My brain starts firing off a hundred thoughts at once:

How?

When?

Are we ready?

Is she okay?

What if she doesn’t want it?

What if she does?

The last question was the scariest prospect. [name] finally breaks the silence again, saving me from gaping like a fish at her. “I didn’t plan it.”

“Yeah, no shit, mama,” I breathe out a laugh automatically, trying to make her smile. She doesn’t.

I needed to pull myself the fuck together. We were both shocked. We both had no idea what to do or what was going on. We were on the same boat and I found comfort in that. As pussy as it sounds, I don’t like being alone and that’s why we work. Even with all that money, she was alone. I had nothing to lose and still nobody stayed—not my parents, not six siblings, nobody. For two people who felt so alone in this cruel, cold world, we found ourselves filling that emptiness with the last person either would’ve ever expected. A beautiful woman who thought Hamburger Helper was a made up Simpson’s cartoon restaurant, wasn’t the type of person I thought possible to see me, the hoodrat, best.

So I reach for her cold, shaky hand and I press it against my chest. “You’re good, yeah? You’re breathing, right?”

[name] nods again.

“Then we’re good.” I grin, she again doesn’t reflect it and I reach up to hold her pretty face. “‘Right, look at me,” I whisper. She does, barely, but her do eyes meet my own. “I ain’t mad.”

Her lip trembles. “You’re not?”

“The fuck do I have to be about?” I chuckle. “Baby, I’ve been punched by men twice my size. You think this scares me?”

Truth is, it does. It fucking terrified me. But not in the way she thinks. I’m not scared because of what this meant for us—relationship-wise—but rather I’m petrified about what it meant for us and our lives as one. Because I already know, I already felt it, from the first night I spent with this woman six months ago to when those lines showed up, it stopped just being about me and boxing and contracts or any of the goals that I set out with when I dropped out of high school and ran away from home with.

I look at [name]—the woman who made me believe in something bigger and better than fighting. This was it, my next fight and possibly the biggest one I’ll ever be a part of.

I rest my forehead against her knee. She’s shaking. I’m shaking. And neither of us knows what comes next. But at least we’re in it together, you know? Not a bad place to be.

[name] finally lets out that sob she was holding in. “I didn’t know what you’d think, Dom. You don’t even like hospitals. You barely sleep. You just got your shot at the title—”

“Stop,” I say, because hearing her talk like that makes me feel sick. “Stop talking like this is a problem.”

“You’re pregnant,” I say, mostly to hear it out loud. “With my kid.”

She nods, her tears spilling again.

And I laugh, it’s this stunned, cracked sound that leaves my throat but I’m trying to get her to laugh as well. “Holy fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “Did I get lucky or what?”

Vegas keeps moving.

Which it always does.

And so will [name] and I and our baby. If Vegas is moving, we’re fucking soaring.

My girl finally relents, letting out a choked laugh. “How is any of this luck, Dom?”

I lift my head just enough to look at her properly, still smiling.

"You're serious?" I raise one brow, taking in her tear-stained face for a moment. "How isn't this lucky?" I counter, reaching out to take one of her trembling hands in mine. "I was born in the shit-filled crack of Brooklyn to a family who couldn't stand me and I'm here, signing a contract that's gonna make me a millionaire tomorrow. And the woman of my fucking dreams, is pregnant with my kid."

“I’m the woman of your dreams?” She sniffles.

I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh—like she just asked me if the sky was blue.

"Baby, are you kidding me? Six months ago You walked into that shitty club and watched me fight some stupid bastard in the back alley for chump change and called me 'wasted potential,’ and fuck, baby, even if we didn’t go home together that night I don’t think I would’ve been able to stop thinking about you."

My voice drops lower as the disbelief fully overcomes me. "You wore this little black dress with all those diamonds spilling down your tits and I thought—fuckin' hell—that's who I wanna come home to every night for the rest of my life."

A pause as I press a kiss to her knuckles before adding with a smirk, "And you suck cock like you’re trying to win an Olympic medal for it. So yeah, dream girl, dream life."

I let her sink into me, pulling her tight against my chest, my arms encircling her waist as I hold her as close as I can. I bury my face in her hair and inhale the same scent that always feels like home.

"Come here," I mutter, pulling her in against my chest. She presses her warm face into the crook of my neck, and her breath feels like a gentle caress on my skin. She's trembling in my arms.

"A fenébe, you're freezing." I murmur, rubbing a hand up and down her back.

I was scared shitless for our future, for what could lie ahead of us, but in this moment I needed to focus on the present, on keeping her calm and safe.

A soft, contented sigh falls from my lips when she nuzzles closer, her hand curling against the nape of my neck. When she’s quiet for a while, I nudge her lightly. "Hey," I whisper, my fingers absently tracing down her spine. "We're good, yeah?"

Boys of Tommen: Patrick Feely

Tags: Smut. Minors DNI!!!!!!!!!!!!. Spice. Freaky farmer Feely. Hair pulling. Marking. First time writing spice. All characters are at least 18 years old — as per canon for 2006. Swearing. Obsessive behaviour? Semi-public. Pathetic boy Yearners existing for his girlfriend’s love and attention. Behaviour some may consider as patronising but the girls who get it, get it.

Our mouths work feverishly against one another, her tongue swiping my bottom lip and mine reciprocating; playing. She was perched on my lap, my hand palming the skin of her thigh, messaging and pulling the flesh absentmindedly.

The day had started normally, she’d come over under the pretence of helping me do my chores on the farm but ended up being nothing but a gorgeous distraction. Not that I’m ungrateful about it by any means.

Fucking my stunning girlfriend on a tractor just as a mental fuck you to my father is a great way to spend a Saturday in my opinion. Her nimble fingers begin to creep up the hem of my t-shirt, her nails grazing my abs in the way she knows I love. And I wrap her hair around my fist, tugging her hair back and handling her in the way I know she likes.

The tractor was parked up behind the barn so nobody could see us, and I could just focus on the walking sex appeal caged in my arms. Everything about her was alluring and attractive as fuck, down to the breathy noises she made when I sucked particularly hard on the side of her neck—leaving an oozing purple mark—to her name itself that always made jolts of electricity spark from the top of my spine to the base of my—

“Patrick.” She gaps, cutting off my thought. My eyes shot open, her voice was harsher, more urgent and for a moment I was worried that I’d hurt her. Then I realised that my body seemingly had a mind of its own and had begun sliding up her shirt—palming her chest over the material of her bra which made her cry out so sweetly for me.

“Mhmm..” she whimpers, this time it was her turn to sink her teeth into my throat, her body absentmindedly rocking over mine.

I hissed softly at the sudden pain from her biting me. I had really had a love hate relationship with her obsession with marking my skin. I love the way it looks on me; little red and purple bruises littering my body just to show who I belong to-but I also hate the way it looks when it starts to fade. The way it gets replaced by a soft yellow and then eventually fades entirely. I don't like it, I want them to last forever.

"F-fuck—baby," I hiss, head falling back as her teeth drag over my pulse point, her hips grinding down in a slow, filthy roll that makes my eyes roll back in their sockets. She was too good, so unbelievably perfect. The engine's still warm beneath us, but she’s hotter—everywhere she touches me burns.

She releases my skin with a wet pop, leaning back to admire her craftsmanship decorating the expanse of my slim, tan neck. Her thumb runs over the blossoming hickey, simply so she can watch me shudder under her—my eyes peaking open after a moment, aiding her in revelling in the desperation that fills them. All for her. Big, bad, face of teenage heartbreak, Patrick Feely was really a pathetic creature made for his girlfriend’s love and adoration. I craved her like a poet's love for rhyme or a writer's love for prose. At times, it truly felt like there was no world where a boy named Patrick Feely could exist without a girl named [name] existing too.

I could watch her stare at the hickeys on my neck forever. Her pretty lips parted softly, her eyes hooded with lust and adoration as her dainty fingers traced them like a painter creating a masterpiece. I felt like a piece of art under her hands, every stroke of her fingertips was painting me, like she was bringing me to life. I always felt my best under her—both gaze and touch. She made me feel like I was worth more than an heir to a farm I didn't give a cow’s ass about. A mistake that came too late. One of God’s low-life problem kids he sent off to parents incapable of seeing him as anything more than a ghost.

She made me feel beautiful.

And because of that, I was hers to do with as she pleased, a willing canvas to a prodigy of an artist.

"What are you thinking?" I murmur, her name falling like a prayer from my lips.

She shakes her head but a teasing smile plays on her lips. “Just admiring.”

A soft huff of air escapes me, not surprised that she wasn't going to indulge me and tell me what was going through that pretty head of hers.

I lift my hips, just slightly, grinding up against her and chuckling softly when her eyes darkened with a rough shiver making goosebumps erupt down her arms. "Admiring what? How handsome I look all marked up like a work of art?" I tease, my hands slipping down to grip her bare thighs—my thumb prodding under her knock off Penny’s daisy dukes she'd worn to ‘help out’ at the farm. I had to get her out of the house immediately when she came. They were stretched out so nicely over her thighs—making her ass look plumper, and my hands had physically twitched, and warmed imagining the weight of it in my hands.

My girl fakes boredom, stroking his dark, thick hair out of his face. “Nothing in particular, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy.

That word was like a physical caress on my skin. Every time she called me by that name, my body shivered in response. The word that rolled off her tongue so easily, with such adoration.

I lean forward until my lips ghost over hers—not quite kissing—just breathing the same air, as if it’s all we need to survive. I catch her wrist, pressing a rough kiss into her palm. “Liar,” I mutter.

Then my lips crack into a grin and I bite into the skin. Because she thinks that she’s Miss Slick—but I can see it in her eyes. The way her breath hitches just slightly when my other thumb brushes the tender skin where her thigh creases into her ass. She’s not bored. She’s fucking eager.

But, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't indulge my beautiful girlfriend’s fantasies?

"Nothing?" I hum, though my tone makes it obvious that I am unconvinced. My hands travel up to her waist fingers tucking under the thin white cropped tank top she was wearing; that reached the indent of her waist and read, ‘live fast, die young’ in an old Americana font. I'd bought it for her when we went out riding on my motorcycle two weekends ago. "Nothing at all? Is your head empty, princess? I haven't even made you come once yet.” I coo at her.

She gasps softly at my words, her eyes going black. I can see the effect they have on her, the flush that starts to spread down her chest. She liked it, she liked being my princess. I'd made a habit of calling her all sorts of nicknames—babe, baby, gorgeous, sweets, pretty girl. But princess was always Miss Primadonna’s favourite.

I pull her in, crushing our lips together and licking her tongue into my mouth. "Haven't even tasted my sweet girl yet." I rasp.

Then her mouth is coming down on mine, and her hands are feverishly tugging at his shirt, urging Patrick impatiently to remove it. He pulls away with a breathy chuckle, “Okay, okay, I get it.”

I pull my shirt over my head, dropping it to the floor by my feet—taking in the way her eyes darken as she looks at my naked chest. I was a lot of things—cocky, smug, overconfident, arrogant—but one thing I was not was unearned. I had every reason to be cocky about my body. My broad shoulders, chest and back, the sharp vee that dipped down to my waistband and the lean lines of muscles down my stomach that were hard earned from years of working on the farm, running and hockey. She liked to compare me to a Roman statue. I like to say she's being hyperbolic.

I'm barely able to get the shirt over my head between her mouth on me, nipping at my shoulders and collarbones and her hands pulling me back by my hair. Once off, her hands and lips immediately begin to travel over the expanse of bare, tan skin, her kisses wet and open-mouthed.

I gasp softly, fingers tangling in her hair to pull her back and capture her lips again. "So needy," I breathe against her lips.

“Impatient.” she corrects me but I barely register, my focus predominantly on evening us both out and discarding her top as she did mine. Soon enough, she's left clad in a navy lacy little bra and the tiniest shorts known to man.

I let out a rough noise—half groan, half growl—as her tank top joins mine on the tractor floor. My eyes rake over her: that delicate collarbone dusted with freckles, the soft swell of her tits pushed up by navy lace, the smooth plane of her stomach that tenses when I drag my thumb across it.

I don't wait—I close the space between us again, kissing down her neck and along her shoulder before sucking a mark into the soft skin next to her bra strap. Then, my teeth tug at the band, liking the way she hisses out a breath when it snaps back against her shoulder because it makes her arch into me with a whimper and I smirk against her skin.

"Look at you," I breathe. "So fucking wanton, sat on a farm machine in broad daylight, baby. What would your parents say if they saw their baby girl like this?” I faux tut. Her parents didn't like me. Not that I blamed them. Most wouldn't like a motorbike-riding, music-obsessed, big, tall rugby player with enough money and trauma to warrant a alchohol addiction, to sniff around their precious little mass-attending angels.

Too bad that neither she, nor I give a shit about her parents.

My hands slide around to cup under that perfect little arse through those sinful shorts—lifting slightly so she grinds harder against my lap. I knew she was soaked. Practically drenched. And I was a dickhead who was willing to let her soak through her shorts, just so she'd have to change into my clothes afterwards.

She lets out another breathy whimper and I'm a goner. She's practically mewling like a cat, grinding down on my lap like this is something she needs to do—like she'll die if she stops. I grip her harder, my hands digging a little too hard until my nails are probably leaving marks.

"So greedy, baby. So desperate." I whisper, my breath coming out a little rough. I'm just as desperate as her. More. I'm aching, my cock straining in my jeans—rock hard and aching to sink into her tight, wet heat. I almost hate how needy she makes me, and it's only her. I've had plenty of girls before—more than most—but my princess?

She's the one who always turns me into a pathetic idiot in a matter of minutes simply with a look, a touch, a word. And I never want her to stop.

"Patrick." She whines, her tone pleading in a way that makes my dick twitch. God, she was everything. So sweet, so dirty, so mine. I needed to have her.

And she needed to feel it. She needed to know just how much I wanted her. How my life started and stopped with her. How the world began and ended at her eyes. How I would get down on my knees and carve my heart out of my chest if it'd make her smile.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I unclasp her bra and help her out of her shorts.