Locke

He pushes in deep and doesn’t move, his chest heaving and his eyes closed tight.  I wiggle, trying to get him to move again, but his fingers on my hips dig in and his eyes snap open.

“Don’t fucking move.  I’m not going to come in thirty seconds like some teenage shit.”

“You have to move.  God, baby, I can feel every inch of you stretching me wide.”

With a grumble, he pulls out a few inches—enough for me to feel his piercings rubbing against my inner walls.  When he pushes forward, I feel him hitting even deeper than before.

I pant, beg, and scream for him to move, but he just stands there, breathing roughly and flexing his hips.

When I can’t take it any longer, I rock against him.  If he won’t give me what I need, then I’ll just fucking take it.

“You think you can make yourself come ON my dick?  Baby, that’s the same thing as using your hands.  I make you come.  Don’t fucking forget it.”

He pulls almost all the way out before slamming home.  Over and over again, he slams roughly into my body.  One hand comes off my hips and his thick fingers rub over my clit, teasing me, before he pinches it between his fingers.

On a hiss, I come again, my juices rushing against his rigid flesh.  He gives me one hard plunge into my body before throwing his head back and roaring.

Fucking roaring.

The sound of his release making my orgasm roll on and on to the point where I do, in fact, pass out.

Chapter 30—Maddox

Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t think I’ve come that hard in my life.  The feeling of her pussy milking my orgasm from my body was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

I look down my body to where I’m still planted deep within her warm heat.  I can feel our combined releases running down my balls, and my spent cock twitches to life inside her. It takes everything in me to pry my hands from her hips and pull free of her body.  My cock is already starting to beg for more of her sweet cunt.

She doesn’t flinch.  Not when I release my hold on her hips.  Not when I step away from her body—my eyes zeroed in on my cock pulling free.  I can see her cream coating me and damned if it doesn’t pump my craving for her up to uncontrollable levels.  When the head of my cock leaves her heat, causing a slow rush of our mixed come to leak from her, I have to grab on to the mattress from the head rush it gives me.

Never has sex felt like that.  I can’t even deny that it was that intense because of the feelings we have together.

Not even bothering to dress, I move her slack body so that her head is resting on her pillow.  Covering her naked body is the last thing I want, but I have a few things I need to take care of before I can climb into bed with her.

Things that I’m finally ready to let go of, thanks to Emmy, and things I want settled before I take her again.

Over the last two months, I feel like I’ve changed as a person.  I no longer look at the world thinking that, at any given moment, I will destroy those around me.  I look at our close group of friends, people I’ve known for years now, and see that, by knowing me, they haven’t felt my demons.  They haven’t been touched—or tainted—by my dark soul.  If anything, I can now see the role I’ve played in helping each one of them come together.

That one took a little longer for me to wrap my mind around.  Years of thinking one way was warring against the very real truth that I was wrong.

Or, more importantly, that every fucked-up thing my mother had drilled into my head—making me believe without a doubt—was in fact the catalyst in it all.  Her hate for me fueled my own self-hate.  I carried it around.  I owned it.  I let her do that to me.

I refuse to let her have that power over me now.  I’m worth more than a lifetime of being alone and afraid of myself.

I’m worth Emmy.

It hasn’t been easy these last two months, but it has been rewarding.  With the help of both Emmy and the doctor I have been seeing a few times a week, I’m ready.  Ready to move on and forward.  All those baby steps I’ve taken with her at my side have paid off and I feel like we can now run a marathon together.

It’s one fucking amazing high to feel the love of another.  To have her wrap that love around me, refusing to let go, and never waver.  Indescribable.

Now, it’s time to take the rest of my so-called monsters and toss them where they belong—in the darkest pits of fucking hell.

After making sure Emmy is situated, I laugh when she still doesn’t flinch.  I knew she was running on some kind of manic high today with the thought of having the use of her arm again.  Even the thought of the physical therapy left to build her strength back up hasn’t weakened her happiness.  Being able to move forward and start bearing weight on her leg was even better.  It’s going to be harder since her wrist is too weak to support crutches for now, but she can move around now, and that is the important thing to her.

I make the walk over to my dresser and feel my lips twitch when I realize that, for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel the dread of what I’m about to do.

Open that fucking box.

It’s time.

We’ve slowly been removing items together, just as she promised, but this part needs to be done by me alone.  I need to know that I can do this one alone.

Popping the lid, I take in the three remaining items.  The question is: Which one do I take care of first?

I grab the letter from Johnson’s widow first.  One of the hardest things for me to accept was that I wasn’t responsible for their deaths.  It would have happened regardless of who was there with me or where my head was.  Looking back, even though I was stressed over Mercy, I was on top of my fucking game out there.  I’d been trained to be the best of the fucking best, and goddamn it, I was.

Two weeks ago, I called up Johnson’s widow.  I was alone at Corps Security and I took a chance.  I never fathomed that she would regret this hate-filled letter in my hands.  She told me that she had wanted to contact me so many times over the years but just didn’t know how.  We talked for two hours that day.  Remembering her husband, laughing about the stupid shit we would get into overseas, and finally healing.  When I hung up the phone with her and felt that guilt dissipate a little, I started to believe in that hope for a blessed life.

My next call was to Morris’s widow.  She was shocked to hear from me but, in the end, glad that I called.  Like Mary, she needed that closure that her husband hadn’t suffered and to have some memories I could give her of him.