Proving Paul's Promise
Page 45
“How long?”
“Months.”
I snort. “Like you didn’t use a little hand action.”
He scoffs. “Men don’t do that.” He pauses. “But once or twice a day.” I look up and find him grinning down at me.
He’s silent for a moment.
Then he blurts out, “This doesn’t change anything.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You ambushed me by taking my dick in your mouth while I was sleeping, but this doesn’t diminish what we have. I’m still going to marry you. I’m not going to let you get out of it.”
I sit up. “I don’t think I said yes.”
His gaze drops to my boobs, and he licks his lips. “You will.”
I shake my head.
He sits up and cups the side of my face. “You don’t want to be married or you don’t want to be married to me?”
“It’s not—” I stop. I don’t know how to say what I want to say. “It’s not you.”
He tosses the covers back. “Oh, don’t give me the it’s-not-you speech.” He mocks a female voice. “It’s not you, it’s me. I need some time to work on me right now. I need to focus on myself. I need you to get the f**k out of my life.” His voice goes back to normal. “If that’s how you feel, you should just say it.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” I scramble naked across the bed trying to catch up with him, but he’s already at the door. He closes it behind him. I lay my head against it.
The door opens a minute later, and his arm slides in. He’s holding a can of ginger ale and a pack of crackers. “Eat and drink these quickly so you won’t spend the morning puking.”
“Are you still mad at me?” I ask as I take them from his hand.
“Yes.” The door closes. Bile rises up my throat, so I take a quick sip of the ginger ale. This is usually how it goes in the morning as soon as my feet hit the floor. But the drink actually makes me feel better. Go figure.
I sit on the edge of the bed and fall back, eating a cracker and trying to be still for a few minutes.
The door opens again and only his voice comes in. “Glad it worked.” The door shuts with a click.
I grin. I can’t help it. He’s taking care of me even though he’s mad at me. And that scares me even more than it would if he ignored me and treated me like every other man in the world. Like I don’t exist.
Paul
Fuck, f**k, f**k, f**k. I shouldn’t have let her do that. I had been lying there for an hour watching her sleep. She sleeps with her mouth closed, and she fidgets even when she’s out cold. Maybe that was because I was in bed with her and that’s new for her, but I’m not sure. Or maybe she’s just always unsettled and fretful. That actually sounds more like her.
I closed my eyes when she opened hers and pretended to be asleep. But I could feel her eyes on my chest just like they were her hands touching me. And when she lifted the waistband of my boxers, I didn’t want to stop her fingers from roaming. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Or maybe that makes me a really horny guy. Or maybe it means I’m in f**king love with her and want her hands all over me.
And when she closed her mouth around me, I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t even try. Sure, I told her to pull back, but never, not once, did I really want her to. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I needed her.
But.
But.
But.
Me getting off shouldn’t be high on my priority list because it will mean nothing to her tomorrow that she swallowed for me. It won’t cement her to me. It won’t. I know it won’t.
Fuck, f**k, f**k, f**k.
I shower, get dressed, and quickly, before she even comes out of her room, leave to go to work. Logan is going to meet me there at nine to put the tattoo over my heart. Her tattoo. The broken butterfly. My broken butterfly. I’m going to brand myself with something that is all Friday.
Logan is already there when I arrive, and he has already set up his station. He’s even wearing gloves and has his machine prepped. He motions toward the chair, so I pull my shirt over my head and take a seat. Logan shaves the area really quickly.
“Did you forget how to talk?” I ask him. He has an excuse not to use his hands, but he can use his voice. Unless he doesn’t want to.
“I was thinking,” he says, and he transfers his stencil onto my chest.
“Thinking about what?”
He shakes his head. “Did you want to see it before I start?” He waits with his gun poised over my chest.
I shake my head and get still. If Logan drew it, it’s f**king perfect. I have no doubts about that.
Logan watches what he’s doing closely, so he can’t look at my lips to see what I’m saying. I sit quietly with my eyes closed until he’s done. Sometimes being with Logan makes me feel quiet and peaceful inside. But there’s something on his mind, and I want to know what it is.
He’s finished and lifting his gun away from my skin when Friday walks into the shop. She’s all decked out in her retro gear, and she’s wearing four-inch-high heels with laces that wrap around her naked legs. They stop with fat bows on the backs of her thighs. If I can see her bows, her dress is too f**king short. She’s wearing bright-red lipstick and heavy eyeliner, and she’s so f**king pretty. No. She’s f**king hot. Smoking.
Logan preps my new tattoo for wrapping. “Do you want to see it?” he asks, holding a piece of plastic up.
“Months.”
I snort. “Like you didn’t use a little hand action.”
He scoffs. “Men don’t do that.” He pauses. “But once or twice a day.” I look up and find him grinning down at me.
He’s silent for a moment.
Then he blurts out, “This doesn’t change anything.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You ambushed me by taking my dick in your mouth while I was sleeping, but this doesn’t diminish what we have. I’m still going to marry you. I’m not going to let you get out of it.”
I sit up. “I don’t think I said yes.”
His gaze drops to my boobs, and he licks his lips. “You will.”
I shake my head.
He sits up and cups the side of my face. “You don’t want to be married or you don’t want to be married to me?”
“It’s not—” I stop. I don’t know how to say what I want to say. “It’s not you.”
He tosses the covers back. “Oh, don’t give me the it’s-not-you speech.” He mocks a female voice. “It’s not you, it’s me. I need some time to work on me right now. I need to focus on myself. I need you to get the f**k out of my life.” His voice goes back to normal. “If that’s how you feel, you should just say it.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” I scramble naked across the bed trying to catch up with him, but he’s already at the door. He closes it behind him. I lay my head against it.
The door opens a minute later, and his arm slides in. He’s holding a can of ginger ale and a pack of crackers. “Eat and drink these quickly so you won’t spend the morning puking.”
“Are you still mad at me?” I ask as I take them from his hand.
“Yes.” The door closes. Bile rises up my throat, so I take a quick sip of the ginger ale. This is usually how it goes in the morning as soon as my feet hit the floor. But the drink actually makes me feel better. Go figure.
I sit on the edge of the bed and fall back, eating a cracker and trying to be still for a few minutes.
The door opens again and only his voice comes in. “Glad it worked.” The door shuts with a click.
I grin. I can’t help it. He’s taking care of me even though he’s mad at me. And that scares me even more than it would if he ignored me and treated me like every other man in the world. Like I don’t exist.
Paul
Fuck, f**k, f**k, f**k. I shouldn’t have let her do that. I had been lying there for an hour watching her sleep. She sleeps with her mouth closed, and she fidgets even when she’s out cold. Maybe that was because I was in bed with her and that’s new for her, but I’m not sure. Or maybe she’s just always unsettled and fretful. That actually sounds more like her.
I closed my eyes when she opened hers and pretended to be asleep. But I could feel her eyes on my chest just like they were her hands touching me. And when she lifted the waistband of my boxers, I didn’t want to stop her fingers from roaming. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Or maybe that makes me a really horny guy. Or maybe it means I’m in f**king love with her and want her hands all over me.
And when she closed her mouth around me, I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t even try. Sure, I told her to pull back, but never, not once, did I really want her to. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I needed her.
But.
But.
But.
Me getting off shouldn’t be high on my priority list because it will mean nothing to her tomorrow that she swallowed for me. It won’t cement her to me. It won’t. I know it won’t.
Fuck, f**k, f**k, f**k.
I shower, get dressed, and quickly, before she even comes out of her room, leave to go to work. Logan is going to meet me there at nine to put the tattoo over my heart. Her tattoo. The broken butterfly. My broken butterfly. I’m going to brand myself with something that is all Friday.
Logan is already there when I arrive, and he has already set up his station. He’s even wearing gloves and has his machine prepped. He motions toward the chair, so I pull my shirt over my head and take a seat. Logan shaves the area really quickly.
“Did you forget how to talk?” I ask him. He has an excuse not to use his hands, but he can use his voice. Unless he doesn’t want to.
“I was thinking,” he says, and he transfers his stencil onto my chest.
“Thinking about what?”
He shakes his head. “Did you want to see it before I start?” He waits with his gun poised over my chest.
I shake my head and get still. If Logan drew it, it’s f**king perfect. I have no doubts about that.
Logan watches what he’s doing closely, so he can’t look at my lips to see what I’m saying. I sit quietly with my eyes closed until he’s done. Sometimes being with Logan makes me feel quiet and peaceful inside. But there’s something on his mind, and I want to know what it is.
He’s finished and lifting his gun away from my skin when Friday walks into the shop. She’s all decked out in her retro gear, and she’s wearing four-inch-high heels with laces that wrap around her naked legs. They stop with fat bows on the backs of her thighs. If I can see her bows, her dress is too f**king short. She’s wearing bright-red lipstick and heavy eyeliner, and she’s so f**king pretty. No. She’s f**king hot. Smoking.
Logan preps my new tattoo for wrapping. “Do you want to see it?” he asks, holding a piece of plastic up.
