1. Down The Rabbit Hole

Down The Rabbit Hole

Saxon

F uck.

This chick.

Fuck, this chick.

Fuck this chick.

I'd like to fuck this chick.

Record scratch—back up. No. Nope.

I don't.

I can't.

I won't.

Okay, real talk…I do, I can, and more than likely, I will. I just shouldn't.

I don't need the complication. I'm already up to my eyeballs in complications, and the last thing I need is a short stack with a thick, juicy ass and a temper as fiery as her bottle-red scarlet hair getting all up in my shit, getting needy and talking shit and making me want shit I can't fucking have.

I stare down at her, feeling my lips twitch. Whether they're twitching with laughter or a nervous tic because she's so fucking nuts is anyone's guess.

"No. I don't have any Tic-Tacs. Jesus fuck."

"What? My breath is gnarly. Too much coffee and I forgot my toothbrush."

I blink down at her. "I just incapacitated four men, violently. And you're worried about your breath?"

She shrugs. "Listen, Mr. Tall, Blond, and Hot-As-Fuckballs, I don't know if you're not picking this up about me or something, but I ain't exactly a fainting daisy over here, yeah?" Her Boston accent, which is as thick as her ass is round, turns "over here" into " ovah heeyah " and it is—if I'm being honest with myself—hot.

"I'm picking that up."

She nods like I've said something wise. "Good. So you can stop being shocked every time I don't faint when you do something violent. Which I'm guessing is gonna be frequent, amiright?"

"Seems likely, yeah."

She huffs into her hand again and wrinkles her nose. "I wish you had a Tic-Tac or gum. I could knock out a Southie longshoreman from a hundred yards." Yaahhhhds .

I pat my pockets. "Fresh out, I'm afraid."

"Well, Emily will just have to suffer the wrath of my halitosis, then. Come on. Before your mafia friends call in for reinforcements."

"They're not my friends, and they already have."

She bursts into motion, shoving open the doors and hauling me through them. "You gotta learn about sarcasm, Saxy-boy," she mutters under her breath. Out loud and very loudly, she announces to the three people in the room: "Sorry I'm late, but I had to find a very important date. And then there was an incident. Anyway. Where's Em?"

A side door cracks open. "Here. Took you long enough HOLY SHIT YOU FOUND THE HOTTEST MAN IN BOSTON."

I suppress a smirk—or I try to, unsuccessfully.

The groom, a man of medium height and slender build with brown hair in a neat side part, frowns at me, and then at his bride. "He's not that hot, Jesus, woman. He's so fuckin' hot, marry him ."

I shrug. "Sorry, man. I'm just here because this fuckin' nutjob literally dragged me in. And because she said there'd be food."

He glances at Terra, blinks twice, and then looks back at me. "Yeah, that sounds about right." Back to Terra, then. "I thought we discussed this, Terra. We don't kidnap strangers."

Terra sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry. "That was one fucking time , Tommy. I was high, drunk, and horny, and for the record, he wasn't exactly protesting."

"You had your hand on his cock," Tommy shoots back. "Of course he wasn't. He knew he was about to get his brains fucked out." He shakes his head. "The point is, you accosted a man on the sidewalk, stuck your hand down his pants, grabbed his junk, hauled him into the bar bathroom, fucked him, and left him there. The poor dumb fuck never knew what hit him."

"And more's the luck for him," Terra says. "By the time I was done with him, he didn't know which way was up. He'll remember that for the rest of his life. I did him a favor, the way I see it."

I'm staring at her. "You really are nuts, aren't you?"

"I'm spirited. There's a difference." She grabs my hand and shoves me, twists me, and positions me into place beside a tall man with slicked-back black hair, a douchey mustache, and a pussy-tickler under his bottom lip.

Across from Mustache Man is a pretty woman with blonde hair and a tight, slender body. Terra pivots and steps back into place across from me. To the detriment of my intent to not be attracted to this crazy bitch, she pinches the fabric of her dress and tugs it down, wiggling her hips. The hem goes down, yes, but so does the neckline…which means her massive tits nearly pop free of the whatever-it-is holding them in. I see a glimpse of dark tan areolae, in fact.

Fuck me, those tits are incredible. Talk about melons, Jesus. Pale as ivory, with those sexy-as-fuck little purple veins all through them, plump and round and juicy…

"Yo, Saxon," Terra says, snapping her fingers side to side in front of my face, "stare at my tits later, yeah? This is about my girl Emily marrying the one decent dude on the whole Eastern fuckin' seaboard."

Mustache Man frowns. "Hey! I resemble that remark."

Terra doesn't even look at him. "You're a dog, Yates. You were hitting on the bartender not five fuckin' minutes ago."

His name is Yates ? Fuck me.

Yates just shrugs. "I was just flirtin', Jesus. Quit bustin' my balls, Tare."

The blonde rolls her eyes. "You'd flirt with a statue of Mother Mary if it had a decent set of tits."

"Sure, but flirtin's harmless. I didn't do nothin'."

"COULD YOU ALL KINDLY SHUT THE FUCK UP SO I CAN GET MARRIED?" Tommy shouts.

Meanwhile, a priest stands watching this whole exchange with an expression suggesting he bit into a lemon.

My Boston Catholic upbringing peeks out momentarily. "Sorry, Father. I don't know any of them."

"Unfortunately, I do, my son, but thank you for the intent." He turns his gaze from person to person, landing finally on Tommy. "Are we quite ready to begin?"

Tommy digs his cell phone out of his suit trouser pocket, swipes and taps, and then an Irish folk version of the wedding march plays from a Bluetooth speaker on a nearby table.

The side door slams open noisily, revealing the bride. She's the middle ground between Terra's short and curvy build and the other bridesmaid's tall and slender: the bride—Emily, I think her name is—is fairly tall but an inch or two shorter than the tall bridesmaid, with a decent amount of curve on her. She looks like a real-life Barbie, to be honest: blonde, beautiful, and maybe a little too perfect-looking, if you ask me. I'd be afraid of smudging her makeup or messing up the perfect coifs and coils of her hair.

Where's the fun?

She walks down the aisle by herself, her pace a little too fast for a traditional wedding, which this clearly is not. Her bouquet is a burst of red roses and white daisies wrapped with baby blue satin ribbon. Her dress is straight out of the 1920s, complete with a rakish hemline, generous fringe, and elaborate pearl beadwork.

Honestly, it's a beautiful dress, and whoever made it is talented as hell; I don't know shit about dresses or fashion or any of that shit, but I do know quality when I see it.

She makes it to where the priest and Tommy are waiting, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

Ahhh shit, here we go—women and crying at fuckin' weddings.

"Terra, Yates, Kaleigh, and…" The priest glances at me expectantly.

"Saxon," I supply.

"And Saxon. We are gathered here today to witness the union of Emily and Tom in holy matrimony. And, I must say, it's about time you made an honest woman out of her, Thomas…"

I tune the priest's droning speech out as t

he hairs on my neck lift and my skin prickles and my gut tightens: danger. I've lived with danger for so much of my life that I've learned not to ignore this feeling.

I glance at Terra, and she's frowning back at me. I look at the main doors with a lift of my eyebrows. She shakes her head minutely and gives a return look at Emily and Tom.

I hear voices—I've always had sharp hearing, and I recognize the cadence and the tone, even if I can't make out the words.

More friends from my past.

Shit.

Before I can decide whether to go out and handle it or not, the decision is made for me. The doors burst open and slam against the walls. Six men in tracksuits amble in, guns out.

The priest stops mid-vow.

"The fuck is this shit?" Tom snaps. "Hey, fellas. Private wedding, here. Fuck off."

Tom has balls, I'll give him that.

Terra gives me a look, eyes flaring wide, meaningfully, like DO SOMETHING.

So, I do something.

Namely, draw my pilfered pistol and crack off three shots in rapid succession— BAM-BAM-BAM : knee, shoulder, gut. By the time they've realized I've got a gun, I'm across the conference room and engaging hand-to-hand.

A kick to a knee, an elbow to a throat, and an open-handed slap to an ear, a la RDJ in Sherlock Holmes: "discombobulate."

All six are down and moaning in a matter of thirty seconds. A little slow, since I'm out of practice, but at least they didn't get a shot off.

I glance at the priest. "Well? Get to the ‘I Do,' Father. Don't mind me, I'll just get these guys out of the way."

Everyone simply stares at me.

"What? It's not like I invited them. Your girl Terra dragged the wrong dude to the wedding."

"You didn't tell me you were wanted by the fucking Mafia !"

"Technically, they ain't the actual Mafia. They're an independent crime syndicate."

"Po-TAY-toe, po-TAH-toe." She frowns at me. "Also, you said Camilla Marccione—"

"Was the person I was hired to kill, and yes she's actual mafia. The syndicate I worked for are rivals."

"Oh. Well still. You should have told me."

I stare at her. "When? While you were dragging me in off the street talking crazy shit to me? I was supposed to, what? Butt in with 'by the way, a global crime syndicate placed a five-million-dollar bounty on my head, dead or alive, and I think there are people hunting me for the money?'"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Emily hasn't reacted, yet. Now, she does. "Um, not to be a diva, here, but could you please remove the dead, bleeding bodies from my wedding?"

I wander over and kick one of the men—he groans. I repeat the kick for each of them, receiving a groan from each. The one I discombobulated is looking peaked and dizzy but not exactly down and out, so I kick him extra hard in the kidney, just for good measure.

I glance at the bride. "Not dead. I took a vow to never kill again."

She blinks at me, concern, confusion, and maybe a little horror crossing her face. "What kind of a person has to take a vow to stop murdering people?"

Terra cuts in before I can answer. "Em, honey, maybe we don't insult the very hot, very scary man who just incapacitated six armed men in under thirty seconds, without killing them?"

Emily blanches. "Oh. Um. Sorry? No offense meant, Mr. Saxon."

I allow a slight smirk. "None taken."

"Okay, but seriously. What has to happen in your life for a vow like that to be necessary?"

"Em!" Terra shouts.

I plant my feet on top of one of the more incapacitated men's feet for counterbalance, lean down and put my shoulder in his gut, stand up, toss him over one shoulder, and then reach down and grab another's wrist. I haul them toward the side door, answering as I go.

"I was an assassin."

She gulps audibly. "Assassin?"

I sigh, unable to contain the annoyance at the obvious misconceptions she has surrounding the word. "Hold on."

There are, fortunately for me, several of the large rolling linen carts lining the hallway. I toss the bleeding man on my shoulder into one, heft the one I'm dragging in on top of him, and then go back and make short work of the rest. On the way, one of them decides he wants to get spicy with me, so I place the barrel of my pistol against his knee and shoot a hole in it with an admonishment to shut the fuck up and stay the fuck down.

My suit jacket is covered in blood, so I toss it into the linen basket and then return to the erstwhile wedding.

"Listen," I say, shifting my gaze between Emily and Terra. "Assassins don't run around gunning down random people for a few grand. There are people who do that, but they're not assassins, they're two-bit thugs, and they always get caught. A real assassin, like me, is a different animal entirely. I only eliminated specific targets chosen by my superiors—threats to their livelihood and reputation. Meaning, someone snitched or stole from the company, or someone from a rival group represented a great enough threat that it's worth the possible war that would ensue from their death." I check the load on the pistol—it's down to less than half, so I swap mags, tap the new one home, and tuck the half-depleted one into my waistband.

"Also, for the record, I have never once climbed to the top of a high-rise with a fancy suitcase containing a disassembled rifle, popped off a single well-placed shot, and vanished into the night. That's not how I work. I know guys who've done it that way, but that's honestly a lazy way to do it and a good way to get caught. Ballistics will always tell where the round came from, and there are always cameras these days."

She just stares at me. "Have you ever killed an innocent person?"

I hold her gaze. "No. Never. I wouldn't, and that's why I've got a five-million-dollar price on my head. Don't mean I'm a fuckin' Boy Scout, ‘cause I'm not. I'm a goddamn monster. I've got more skeletons in my closet than a motherfuckin' cemetery. I just won't hurt you ."

Terra nods, pinching her chin between thumb and forefinger as if considering her response. "It's the tits, isn't it? ‘There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world, and it would be a pity to damage yours,' and all that?"

I tip my head to one side and lift my shoulder. "Yours are pretty damned fantastic, yes, but I've always been more of an ass man."

For once, I seem to have gotten the verbal upper hand, since she just stares at me, mouth flapping open and then closed as her usual supply of witty retorts goes dry—momentarily, at least.

"As much as I've learned from this truly mind-blowing conversation, I'm still not FUCKING MARRIED!" Emily screeches the last two words.

Terra moves behind me and shoves me, hard, toward Emily, Tom, and the priest. And, I gotta say, for a chick who doesn't clear five-five, she's strong . Really strong—for anyone, but especially a girl her height. It shocks me, how much force she packs into that shove, and I let it carry me into a trot back to my place opposite her.

The priest clears his throat. "Now. Where were we?" He glances down at his book thing as if it has the answer, and then at me as if I do. "Ah yes. Do you, Emily Eileen Cummings, take this man, Thomas Richard Flaherty, to be your lawfully wedded husband…"

I tune out the rest, staring unabashedly at Terra. She holds my gaze, unwavering and bold. I've known hard men, stone-cold killers, who couldn't hold my stare, and here's this chick, staring me down without so much as a blink.

I don't want to be impressed by her. I'm already fighting the physical attraction, I sure as fuck don't need to actually respect her, to boot. Next thing I know, I'll be hauling her to Vegas with me after I've handled this little SNAFU with The Cabal.

And to that I say no . Nope. No way. Love and all that sappy shit is all good and well for Rev, Kane, and Chance. But me and my brothers? We ain't falling.

I won't put any woman through the hell my old man put my mom through. God fucking knows I'm not him, but I'm not taking any chances that shit is genetic.

I hear Tom say "I do," and then the priest is pronouncing them married and they're sucking face like a pair of desperate virgins.

I turn to Terra. "Well, it's been weird. My advice to you is to get out of Boston. Stay out for a couple of weeks, at least. I don't know how long it'll take me to sort out my shit with The Cabal, but I promise I'll do my best to make sure they know you're not with me."

"You're leaving?" She sounds…almost disappointed if I didn't know any better.

"Best for everyone if I do."

"Emily and Tom are picking up the tab at O'Rourke's, down in the lobby. We're getting shitfaced. Come with us." She steps across the space between us and gazes up at me. Her eyes are turquoise, and almighty fucking piercing. I see…something in them. Not sure what, but it makes me goddamn uncomfortable. "When was the last time you had fun?"

I clench my molars so hard I'm worried I'll crack a filling. "Fun." I draw my pistol, and another for good measure. "I look like I'm acquainted with fucking FUN?" I gesture at the doors. "The assholes who came through those doors look like they wanted to play Call of Duty with me?"

She doesn't back down. "You took them out. And the four before them. How many more could there be?"

I almost laugh at this. "A fucking lot." I shake my head. "Listen to me, Terra. Why, I do not fuckin' know, but I actually like you. And I don't generally like anyone. So trust me when I say I'm doing you a huge fuckin' favor by ditching this party of yours."

"What if I said the party was all but guaranteed to end in the penthouse suite we've got reserved…with me on top of you, naked, riding your cock like a goddamn rodeo star. Would that change your mind?" She says this in a low, sultry voice, a sexy smirk on her crimson-painted lips, eyes communicating clearly that she is in no way joking.

"Fuck me," I hiss.

"That is the plan," she murmurs, cupping my junk over my zipper. Her eyes widen as she feels my semi growing into a full-blown hard-on. "Ohhhh myyyyy. What have we here?"

"Darlin', under literally any other circumstances, I'd take you up in a heartbeat. You mentioned a broom closet? I'd fuck you against any and every surface, vertical and horizontal, until you begged for mercy." I step closer until I'm towering over her, and I take a handful of her scarlet braid and tilt her chin up, smashing her huge plump pale tits against my sternum. "I'd come all over these tits. Make that sweet, juicy ass of yours shake until it hurts. Make you come so hard you'd see your goddamn ancestors."

She gasps, biting her lower lip, sucking in a deep breath so hard her breasts swell nearly out of her bodice—in fact, one of them does, a thick, erect nipple poking over the top of the cup. "I sense a 'but' coming," she murmurs, eyes on mine, heedless of her wardrobe malfunction. "I really, really don't want to hear the but."

"But if I stay one more second, I'm putting your life in very real danger. You, I could protect. Maybe. Probably. Your girl Emily and her new husband? That douchebag with the 'stache and his skinny little girlfriend? I can't protect all of you. I won't be responsible for any more death, Terra Connelly. Not theirs, and certainly not yours."

She looks up at me with a fearfully complex expression—turned on, afraid, confused, angry. Emotions flicker across her face rapid-fire. "You can't say shit like that to me and then ghost, Saxon Cabot."

I can't help myself. So help me God or whoever or whatever the fuck is or isn't out there, but I can't fucking help myself.

I dip and claim her mouth, twisting the long braid around my fist and clinging hard, tugging so I know she feels it. I kiss the ever-loving shit out of her.

And by god, she gives as good as she gets. Her tongue slashes into my mouth first, and when I dance my tongue against hers, she nips it, hard enough to draw a grunt from me. She grips the front of my button-down and hauls me lower, her other hand snaking around the back of my neck and cupping, clutching. Gripping hard. Pulling me down, closer, deepening the kiss.

My cock goes ramrod stiff behind my zipper, raging and painfully hard. Unable to control myself—a situation utterly and totally unfamiliar to me—I bend at the knees and lift her. She squeals in shock into my mouth, and then her sweet thick bare thighs are wrapped around my waist and her heels are hooked behind my back, her arms are looped around my neck, and I know she feels my cock throbbing against her core.

Fuck, I feel her. She's sopping wet, and can't be wearing more than a thong under that green dress so tight it's a second skin around her lush bountiful curves.

Jesus, I could come right now.

For that matter, so could she. I can feel it. It's in the way she writhes against me, the way she moans into the kiss, the way she pulls me against her and clamps her thighs around me so hard I fear for my ribs—not that I'd utter a sound in protest even if she actually cracked them. She feels too damn good.

Danger, danger, danger.

All thoughts have been erased from my brain except the primal drive to please. To please HER.

I grind against her and suck her tongue into my mouth. She whimpers, meets the grind of my hips with her own, and fuck me if I'm not seconds away from exploding in my slacks like I'm fourteen again, under the bleachers with Katie Kennedy's school-famous tits in my hands.

Fuck.

I have zero capacity to stop. My feet carry me, and her. Kick the side door open, and stumble through, ignoring the groans and curses of the men struggling to get out of the linen carts. Around a corner. Sort of alone.

Press her back against the wall and pin her in place with my hips. Tug the neck of her dress down and bare those fucking magnificent tits.

Bare, they're even more incredible.

"Jesus fuck, Terra, you have the greatest tits I've ever seen in my goddamn life." I don't give her a chance to reply.

Cupping one in my hand, I fondle the soft silky weight and lift it to my questing mouth, taking the pert pink nipple between my lips and flicking the tip with my tongue.

She gasps, jerking, shaking. Fuck, she's gonna come.

I have to feel it, have to feel her orgasm on my tongue.

I go to my knees, setting her on her feet. She whimpers in protest, thinking I'm stopping.

"I got you. Feel free to scream."

I shove the hem of the dress up around her hips, revealing a tiny black thong. I tug the scrap of fabric down her thighs and let it drop to the floor, shoving her thighs apart.

Less than thirty seconds have elapsed since I set her on her feet.

Before she can so much as whimper again, I've got my mouth around her clit and my tongue working it aggressively. I slide my middle finger inside her, finding her wet and hot and tight as a fucking drum. Another finger, my ring finger, the two of them working her and curling and sliding.

"Oh FUCK! FUCK!" She screams, loud, as her knees give out.

I hook one of her thighs over my shoulder and then the other, withdrawing my fingers from inside her tight wet channel, rising to my feet. I bury my face between her thighs and devour her with all the raging need inside me, feeling a desperation to hear her orgasm, to know I've given her something she'll never fucking forget.

She clutches my shoulders and arches back against the wall, writhing against my mouth, gasping, whimpering, damn near weeping.

Fuck yes.

She's the most responsive woman I've ever fucked, and I haven't even fucked her yet.

Yet.

Goddammit. I'm gonna have to, now, aren't I? Now that I've got a taste of her sweetness, I won't be satisfied till I've had more. All of her. Till I've left her passed out from orgasm overload.

Put that aside, I tell myself.

I leave balancing to her, using my hands to avail myself of her huge beautiful tits. So fucking big, so fucking soft. God damn me, but I've never had a pair like this in my hands.

I lick them, taste them, fondle them, squeeze and caress and roughly handle them. She cries out louder the rougher I am with them.

Fuck, she's perfect.

No other chick I've been with has liked my predilection for rough play, but this chick…she eats it up.

I feel her on the edge, shaking, quaking, quivering, hyperventilating.

Thrashing her clit with my tongue, I wait until she's on the cusp, arched and tensed…and then I nip her clit with my teeth and slap her breast, a sharp smack to the nipple.

She screams like a goddamn banshee, like a woman being murdered. She comes and she comes and she comes, and the more I lick and pinch and nip and smack, the more she comes. Again and again, until finally, she snarls her fingers in my hair and violently jerks my face away.

"Stop, fuck, stop! No more, no more."

Reluctantly, I let her down. Her dress is tugged down and shoved up, bunched around her middle. There's nothing I'd like more than to rip the damn thing off of her and glory in her naked curves.

I'm fighting the urge tooth and nail, and I think she can tell.

She collapses backward against the wall, not even trying to right her dress. "Jesus, that was fuckin'…" she gasps, staring at me with glassy, shocked eyes. "Fuckin' wicked. Never in my entire fuckin' life have I come that fuckin' hard." Hahd .

My cock is screaming at me, raging, aching. I could drive nails with the fuckin' thing.

I hear a door, voices. "Fix your dress. Now."

She shimmies her hips to tug the hem down, which has the mind-boggling effect of making her unconstrained tits shake like Jell-O. Fucking beautiful.

So beautiful, so mesmerizing it almost gets me killed.

A gun goes CRACK and something snaps past my ear and ricochets with an angry whine. I draw and fire, twice, gut shots.

Terra remains quiet, dropping to her butt and covering her head with her hands, but doesn't make a sound.

The third gunman ducks back behind the doorway, hesitates, and rolls back out. Amateur. I pop him in the knee and then the right shoulder, and now all three are down, groaning, and bleeding.

I snag Terra's arm, haul her to her feet, and tug her dress up into place—somewhat regretfully, if necessarily. "Come on, darlin', let's get scarce." I pinch her chin gently between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. "Swear to Christ, you're the sexiest woman I've ever met. Makin' you come was the privilege of a lifetime. Now, take those heels off and run. Follow this corridor and see if you can find a stairwell. Go up, cross the hotel on a random floor, and then go back down and out. Don't talk to anyone. Don't go back for your stuff. Don't go home. Get on a bus and take it anywhere." I pull a wad of cash out of my pocket, a few twenties and some ones.

"Can you memorize my number?" I ask, and she nods; I rattle off my burner phone's number and make her repeat it back to me several times.

"This feels an awful lot like goodbye," she says.

"Cause it is. You ain't safe with me, honey. "I point at the men bleeding on the service hallway floor. "That's what you can expect, stickin' with me. That and a whole hell of a lot more of it. On my own, I can lose 'em, get back to Vegas where I'll be safe and don't have to deal with these fuckin' loser assholes. Out here, it'll be that. Fuckers with guns showin' up and tryin' to kill me. You want that? Course not. I can't give you romance, babe. It just ain't in me."

She stares up at me for a long time, her expression shuttered, inscrutable, unreadable. "I asked for romance, when? I didn't. I've known you for what, thirty minutes? You don't know the first thing about me, and I don't know the first thing about you. The only thing I know is you gave me the best orgasm I've ever had, bar none, and you made it seem easy." She closes the gap between us, brushing her chest against mine. "I'm not asking for romance, Saxon. All I'm asking for is a shot at being alone with you, in a bed, for at least an hour. Just to see if fucking you is as good as I'm imagining."

"I'm down for that, sweetheart. And let me tell you, I want to know the same thing. Because I'm imagining the fuckin' between you and me would be world-class, and I gotta admit it's been a hot minute since…well, never mind that. You don't wanna fuckin' know. But to get there, you're risking your life, every minute, nonstop."

She looks up at me, her bright turquoise eyes bold and fearless. "You won't let anything happen to me."

"What makes you say that? You miss the fact that I fuckin' murdered motherfuckers for a living?"

"Yeah, I caught that. I grew up on the streets, big boy. I know people. You're a badass motherfucker, all right. You can put the hurt down, but I know down to my bones, you won't hurt me, and you'll die before you let anyone else hurt me. So, call me crazy, call me stupid, but I'll take my chances. And no, I don't expect shit outta you on the other side, okay?"

I assess her—she hasn't freaked out, hasn't panicked. And I keep thinking about the line she gave me when we first met—she can suck a marble through a straw. I'm legit jonesing for a sample of that shit.

This may be the dumbest decision I've ever made, but as long as I don't die before I've felt those luscious, pouty lips wrapped around my dick, it'll be worth it.

And she's right about at least one thing: I'll be double goddamned if I let anyone lay a finger on her.

Other than me, that is.