Folsom (End of Men, #1)(10)

“I want a son,” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me closer. “Give me your son.”

And then I explode inside of her and the heat is almost unbearable.





SIX





GWEN


My eyes are squeezed shut, savoring this content, sky-high rush. When I hear Folsom roar as he spills into me, I regret not watching him. What does it feel like for him? Is he glad to be finished or did he take pleasure from my body? I open my eyes and watch as the storm crosses his face and eventually winds down. I think he liked it. I place my hand on his cheek and smile…grateful. He looks almost shy, his guard down for seconds; then he blinks and I think I imagined it. He pulls out slowly, placing a pillow under my hips to keep his seed inside me for as long as possible.

“It fit!” My attempt at humor.

“Yes, it did.” He half smiles.

He’s on his back now, looking distracted. Something monumental for me was just another day in his life. I’m surprised by how much it stings.

I look him over. Beads of sweat are on his chest and his waist tapers into a perfect V. He’s still hard and wet from being inside me; his cock pulses a few times, like it enjoys my attention. My entire body flushes and I want nothing more than to start over from the beginning with him, instead of this experience already being over.

My mother often talks about how difficult life is now because she knows exactly what she’s missing. She hopes it’s easier for us girls to never have known the way it used to be. My mother went to a sperm bank for my sister and me, but she grew up with both a mother and a father. She was made in the traditional way. I’ve always loved hearing her stories despite not being able to relate.

Suddenly he’s up and on his feet. “Keep lying there and I’ll get a shower.” He walks toward the bathroom and I lean up on my elbows to watch him. The muscles in his back roll as he stretches his arms above his head.

Where I am all soft curves, he is sculpted muscle. I want more time to study the intricacies of his body, more time to explore. I didn’t expect him to make me feel so good. I push that thought aside and focus on the life that I hope is in the process of forming.

When the shower turns off, I sit up and put my bra back on. I’d like to shower too, but instead I keep still and squeeze, trying to keep every trickle of him inside me. He walks out minutes later, body dripping, and hands me a warm washcloth.

“Thanks.”

His jaw ticks and he doesn’t say anything. I run the cloth over my body and clean up as best I can, while he stands there and watches. I expect to feel embarrassed, but it never comes. Every nerve ending sparks under his gaze, my nipples tighten until they hurt, and I get lightheaded.

He bites the inside of his jaw and his eyes darken. I can’t look away, but eventually he does, picking up my dress and handing it to me. I murmur my thanks again, but he still doesn’t respond. I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable with me, or if I’ve done something to upset him. I glance down at his cock—that seems to be an indicator of what he’s thinking. It’s standing at attention, swollen and angry. He gives it a few tugs.

I know I should look away, but it’s too fascinating. “It just sort of bobs around,” I say. “I’d play with it all the time if I had one.”

He lifts his eyebrows, his lips twitching. “If you had one of these you wouldn’t have time to play with it yourself.”

“Right,” I say, frowning. “How many times a day do you have to do this?”

Folsom shrugs. “Two or three…”

I balk. “Every single day?”

“We get days off.”

“What do you do on your days off?”

“Not fuck three women.”

Interesting. I’m doing the math in my head, counting the women he’s been with just this year, when his voice makes me jump.

“I should go.”

My face heats. I tear my eyes away from him and stand, stepping into my dress and pulling my hair over my chest. He picks up his shirt, and I admire the way it clings to his shoulders. He reaches into his small leather bag and pulls out new boxers. I don’t like what I feel as he puts himself back together.

“I’ll take you to the dining room. You must be starving.” I walk toward the door and pick up his boots, admiring them one more time.

Once his pants are on, he takes the boots from me, and his lips curl up into a faint smile.

“Hold up your foot,” he says.

When I do, he takes hold of my heel and aligns it to his boot. He studies it for a moment and nods, letting go.

“You have pretty feet.”

“What constitutes pretty feet?” I don’t think I care what constitutes pretty feet, I just want to keep talking to him.

He returns, bending down in front of me and lifting my foot from the floor. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch as he runs a finger along the inside from toe to heel. I’m too stunned by his touch to find it ticklish. This feels more intimate than what we just did.

“This arch,” he says. “And the symmetry of your toes…” He touches the tip of my big toe with a fingertip, and then moves his entire hand to my ankle, and wraps his fingers around it. “Tiny ankles.”

It’s silly, but his praise pleases me. He doesn’t seem to be the complimentary type and I’m not the type who needs to be complimented, but…this has been a day of firsts.