Sparrow(73)

“Reciprocate,” I heard his sharp voice ordering, and immediately knew what he wanted me to do.

Bending down, I lowered my head to meet his cock, taking as much of it as I could in my mouth. My gag reflex was impossible to tame, but I held my breath and covered some of his shaft with my lips. I was still self-conscious about my blow-job technique, or lack of, but I didn’t need to be.

Before I had a chance to figure out what to do, he slammed into me, f*cking my mouth. “Can I?” he asked.

I nodded, closing my eyes. I’d always thought it would feel degrading to go down on a man, but how could I with him, especially now when my wrists were still hurting after he ate me out and made me feel like I was the most delicious thing in the whole freaking world.

I felt him tense, spasm, and then the thick, warm liquid filled my mouth. I swallowed hard, a small shiver running through my body. Looking up, I saw the smile on his face when his head dropped back, his black hair dripping water on my face.

He stroked my hair twice with the hand that wasn’t holding his cock and sighed with pleasure. “Fuck,” he said.

Fuck, indeed.





Despite everything, Troy Brennan was human. And he was the worst kind, too—enchanting enough to get away with anything. Even murder.

We ate cold Chinese food and drank buckets of alcohol in front of the TV while I forced him to watch 10 Things I Hate About You with me. Well, he wasn’t really watching. More like answering emails on his phone, twirling my hair around his finger and occasionally rolling his eyes whenever Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles shared a romantic moment, but it was more domestic bliss than I’d had in my whole life combined. We lay on the carpet, him taking another sip of his Guinness, when I rolled into his chest, seeking his warmth.

“You don’t have to be so anti-love. You can learn a thing or two from rom-coms,” I said.

“I’m not anti-love.” He dove down to kiss my lips, his hot tongue flicking my lower lip sensually. “I’m anti-bullshit. I bet you good money that if a real life chick had a guy jumping on the bleachers, singing a love song for her in front of a bunch of pimply high school kids, she’d pretty much kill him.”

I laughed. “Wrong. I would love to hear you sing for me in front of high school kids.”

“I would love for you to come back from your shift tomorrow completely naked, with nothing to hide your lady parts but a rare steak.”

“That would never happen.”

“Neither would me singing you a song in front of snarky teenagers.”

He was normal. And fun. Worst of all, he showed me another part to love. A new layer in his complex personality no one else had access to. A layer tucked so deep under layers and layers of apathy, brutality and abrasiveness, showing it to me was almost like learning how to walk again.

He hated that part of him. The softer, kinder part.

And the fact that he shared it with me made me feel special. Special to have Troy, the guy you watched chick flicks with, and not Troy, the kill-a-priest and f*ck-your-brains-out guy. That old, tired version he gave to everyone else. With me, he was still rough around the edges, but he wasn’t all bad either.

“You’re impossible to deal with,” I said, pouting, but hell, I was enjoying this ping-pong.

“And you love it.” He planted another kiss, this time on my forehead, as he scooped me into his arms. “I’m myself. I make no apologies for who I am, and you like it, because you’re so much like me. You’re the girl who teased the son of a dead mobster, The Fixer, on your wedding day. You own your shit, consequences be damned. Have you ever wondered why your parents called you Sparrow?”

“Uhm, let’s see. Maybe because my dad was a drunk and my mom was a hippie, and together, they came up with really stupid name ideas?” I tried disguising my embarrassment with laughter.

Inside, though, my stomach twisted in tight knots. Everyone around me called me Birdie, with Troy calling me Red. No one called me Sparrow for a reason. It was an awkward name and I hated it. I tossed my hair back, faking boredom. “Anyway, I wonder about the bigger stuff, like why the hell my mom left me, not why she saddled me with a name that’s basically an invitation for bullying.”

“You hate your name,” he said.

I twisted out of his embrace, feeling my face heating. Peeling off layers was hard. Not only for Troy, but for me, too.

“Aren’t you clever.” I took a long sip of my drink.

He scooped me into a bear hug again, locking me in his arms. His lips grinned against my skin.

Did he find me adorable?

“You shouldn’t hate it, it’s perfect for you. It symbolizes freedom and independence. You’re both.”

“I’m not free,” I reminded him.

He rolled on top of me, straddling me with his muscular thighs. I lay beneath him, admiring his strong body and knowing, deep down, that I’d gotten comfortable in my cage.

“No, not from me,” he agreed. “But trust me, lovebird. Even if I let you out of this cage, you’d be flying back in no time.”

It was true, but that was exactly what worried me.

We spent more time making out on the carpet like two teenagers, before he got to his feet and disappeared into his office. He came back with a small box. Simple, light green. The kind you can get at the dollar store. He kneeled down to where I sat on the carpet and placed it in my hand.