BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(58)

The metallic tick came again, from the living room window. I lowered myself to my hands and knees, crawled toward the window, and waited. The streetlights cast an eerie glow into the room.

Tick.

I slipped my finger against the trigger guard.

A minute later, another tick.

Something was hitting the glass. I lifted my head enough to peer over the window ledge. Across the street, the normal winter activities were taking place. The coffee shop was filled with patrons sipping festive drinks and working on their mid-term papers.

Nothing, however, seemed out of order.

I lifted my head a little more. Upon seeing her, I exhaled.

Standing on the sidewalk in a pair of jeans, a USC hoodie, and sneakers, was Andy. At her feet was a pile of cardboard. I grinned and shook my head.

She waved.

I set my pistol aside, flipped on the lamp, and waved.

She picked up the pile of cardboard and turned it to face me. On the surface of what appeared to be a piece of cardboard box, two words were hand-written in bold block letters.

WHAT DOES

She swayed back and forth for a few seconds, and then folded the piece over the top of what she held. Two more words were revealed.

A GIRL

A few seconds later, she folded it again.

HAVE TO

And then, again.

DO TO

She tossed the eight-foot long section of folded cardboard aside. It was clear that at one time, it had been a box. Still holding another, she turned it over, exposing yet two more words.

GET SOME

She grinned as she flipped to the next section.

DICK ON

She folded the piece out of the way.

A WEDNESDAY

She flipped to the last section.

NIGHT?

She clutched the cardboard sign and grinned. I raised my index finger. She nodded.

I rushed to my room, put up the pistol, and ran to the hallway. I pushed the elevator button. Before it came up from the basement, I turned toward the stairs in a dead run.

In leaps and bounds, I took the stairs down to the first floor and yanked the door open. Her eyes shot from the upper window to me.

I gestured to my crotch. “To get this dick?”

She bit against her lower lip and nodded repeatedly.

“First, she’s got to be named Andy Winslow,” I said. “Second, she’s just got to ask.”

She bent at the waist, picked up the pile of remaining cardboard, and stood, holding the makeshift signs close to her chest.

She forced her bottom lip into a pout. “Can I have some dick?”

As much as I wanted to, I wasn’t going to fuck her unless everything was resolved.

“Are we good?” I asked.

“Good as gold,” she said with a smile.

In my superstitious mind, it was the perfect response. It wasn’t surprising, considering it came from the perfect woman.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, you can.”





THIRTY-SEVEN - Andy





In the past, my sexual satisfaction was in direct proportion to how hard I was being fucked. That belief held true until the night I threw decorative pebbles at Baker’s window.

His chest was pressed tight against mine. He held me in position with his forearms, which were slipped comfortably beneath my upper back. Slowly and predictably, his hips worked back and forth, giving me every inch of him with each cautious stroke.

I brushed his hair away from his face and raised my head from the pillow. Without further instruction, he leaned forward and kissed me. I raked my fingers through his hair and slid my hands along his tanned skin until they came to a stop at his shoulders.

Holding him as intently as he held me, I kissed him while we shared the most intimate moments I’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing. It was no longer about orgasms or having his hips slap against my ass. The length of his dick was irrelevant, as was everything else about his appearance.

As he made love to me, my heart became my only receptor. My outer extremities no longer sent signals of satisfaction to my brain. I felt him inside of me. I felt his chest against mine. I felt his lips and his tongue as we kissed.

Yet.

Satisfaction rushed from my heart, and my heart alone.

I welcomed the feeling, viewing it as a reassurance that I’d made the right decision in accepting him into my life fully.

His hips moved fore and aft, bringing with them the energy to pump the feelings through me, and through me they went. I filled with satisfaction until I felt I would surely burst, and when that moment came, I opened my eyes.

Our lips parted. His eyes told me that he, too, was incapable of continuing. With our eyes searching each other’s face for clues of the satisfaction we hoped to provide, we reached climax.

While in the comfort of his bed, with his arms wrapped around me, I had the orgasm of a lifetime. I didn’t scream, nor did I curl my toes or dig my nails into his strong back. I simply allowed it to take me away to a place I’d never had the pleasure of being.

A place safe from harm. A place where nothing but my feelings existed. When I returned, I met his gaze. He was smiling.

His eyes told me he’d been there, too. At the place where our feelings ran rampant and free.

In that moment of vulnerability, I gave Graham Baker my heart.

And, I never looked back.



He scooped the eggs from his plate like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. I watched with eager eyes as he mopped the plate clean with the corner of his toast and then poked it into his mouth.