My one hand grips her hip as I try to hurry her along, but she’s having none of it. “Sleeping Beauty,” she whispers, “if you want me to save you from villain Blue Balls, then you need to let me run this show.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, because what else are you going to do when the love of your life is basically telling you that she’ll fuck you to death and then bring you to life again? “I fucking love you.”
“I love you, too,” she answers and tightens her pussy to punctuate her words.
I’m panting because she’s doing a number on my body. Her slick walls against the sensitized bare skin of my cock is killing me. I feel every little vein and ridge inside her cunt, and it’s fucking glorious. Heaven won’t be this good. Shit, this is heaven. Being inside the tight cunt of the girl you love more than life itself is something close to it at least. Nothing has ever felt this good, and I suspect nothing else will. I’ll always be chasing her down, trying to get inside that pussy even when I’m eighty.
I brace my foot against the thin mattress to push up a little, and I’m rewarded with a breathy moan.
“Right there,” she whimpers. I wish I could flip her over and pound into her, but I can’t. Not in my sorry condition. Instead I reach between us and find her little nub of delight. I pinch it lightly and thrust up at the same time. “Oh my God, Daniel,” she screams.
I roll her clit between my fingers and piston my hips upward. If I could hold on to the feeling forever, I would, but we’re both chasing down the hurricane of pleasure. Ignoring the pain, I use my left hand to pull her head down to mine so that we can fuck each other with our mouths at the same time my cock is spearing her sex.
We’re slamming against each other when her orgasm hits. Her walls close around me like an undulating wave, clenching and releasing. Her cunt is a hot glove of power, and I’m completely under her control. The pulsating grip pulls my own orgasm from the base of my back.
“I’m coming inside you in three seconds. Pull off if you don’t want a bunch of my swimmers attacking your eggs.” It’s the only warning I can get out, but Regan bites down on her lower lip and looks me straight in the eye.
“I want it.” And I explode on her command. My hot seed jets into her, and she throws back her head and clamps down again, a second climax chasing my own. We finally stop pumping against each other, and she collapses on her elbows, still careful to avoid my injured shoulder.
“You’re so fine, Regan Porter,” I murmur, running my hand through her cloud of blond hair. “You’re a motherfucking rock star at this.”
She giggles against my neck.
“No, seriously, you are.” I turn my head and awkwardly kiss her cheek. “Best ever.”
“Really?” she asks, and I sense the question isn’t really rhetorical.
“No shit.” I draw her down flush against me because having her body next to mine is worth any amount of pain. The bullet wound in my shoulder isn’t keeping us apart. Nothing ever is again. “I’m going to need a daily dose of this in order for me to fully recuperate. Maybe two doses a day.”
Even though I don’t mind that she’s resting on top of me, Regan wriggles over to my side, avoiding both wounds. “What’s going to happen?” she asks.
“We’re going to go home. You, me, and Naomi.”
She doesn’t respond, which worries me. “Or I can come to Minnesota with you.” I’m not letting her go. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re stuck with me now. I’m going to follow you around, and if you don’t let me into your house, I’ll sit outside on the porch.”
“Nah, I’ll let you crawl in through the doggy door.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I tell her, giving her a one-armed hug. We fall asleep like that, or at least I do. When I wake up, Mendoza’s standing over me. Quickly I look down to make sure Regan’s body is covered up. It is, thank Christ. I don’t think she’d be at all comfortable with even Mendoza seeing her bare.
“What’s up?” I whisper, trying not to wake her.
“Judgment,” he answers somberly.
I nod and ease out from under Regan. She mumbles softly but doesn’t wake up. Mendoza throws me pants and a button-down shirt. “You need help dressing?”
“No, I got it.”
He gives me a chin nod and heads out. It takes some effort, but I get the pants on. They have an elastic waist, which makes it a heck of a lot easier. The buttons on the shirt present a greater obstacle, but given I’m not able to lift my left arm, there was no way I was pulling a shirt over my head. I decide to forgo fastening it. It’s not like I’m going to dinner down at the beach. I’m off to see an execution. At the doorway, I pause and look back at Regan. Her hands are folded under her cheek like a schoolgirl’s, but Regan’s no schoolgirl. Her innocence was robbed from her. I’m not sure if I’m making the right call, but I know it’s not a decision I can make for her.