Sweet Rome (Sweet Home, #1.5)(89)
Lifting the skirt of her dress, I wrapped her legs round my waist. “They’ve had me all day in that f*ckin’ parade, showboating me through town. The press has heard everything I gotta say. Now it’s all about you, and me, and sinking my cock into this sweet little *,” I said slowly, taking my hand and flicking my finger along her clit.
“Rome!”
Slipping back to reality and groaning with need, I reached down, stroking along my cock, trying to remember everything: how it felt being that close to my girl, how her face looked in the moonlight as I thrust into her against that wall. I was f*cking desperate, searching for some connection to a time when things weren’t so messed up…
I freed my dick from my jeans and guided it toward Mol’s hot center. “You ready, baby? You ready for me?”
“Yes!”
I ran the tip around her warm hole, teasing, feeling her push down in frustration. “Mmm… I might just wait until you need it a bit more.”
“Rome! No! Please…”
Smiling as she tilted her hips just right, I breeched her entrance, and with one fast slam, pushed right in to the hilt.
Christ, it felt so good.
Molly gripped the nape of my neck as I pressed kisses along the sides of her neck and the swells of her tits. “Shit, baby, you’re so tight.”
“Harder, Rome, harder…” she begged.
I gave her what she needed and pounded her against the wall, the rhythmic thuds of her back against the drywall sounding with each thrust.
“Ugh… Rome… I’m… I’m—” Her sentence cut off as she screamed against my neck, her tight channel milking my cock.
“Mol… Mol!” I croaked as I came, gripping my girl’s legs and holding her off the floor with my torso.
Pulling back, Molly beamed her smile at me. “We should get back to the party now. People will be wondering where we are.”
Grinning back, I said, “Fine,” and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “but keep the panties off. There are more walls I’m wanting to try out…”
Staring at the ceiling, breathing fast with cum on my stomach, I felt a friggin’ tear slip out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t get that feeling of contentment back, jerking off like a desperate fool in the middle of the night just to get a feeling even close to what we shared.
What Mol and I shared was never just a f*ck; it was never just making love. It was f*cking life-changing, life-affirming, and fear seized my chest at the thought of never having that back.
Yeah, the way we f*cked was rough, intense, but it didn’t make the connection any less real. In fact, it made it the total opposite. In those moments we were exactly who we were meant to be, and we’d been unashamed to expose that side of ourselves to one another. We fit like a friggin’ puzzle.
Feeling like I’d taken a blow to the chest instead of reliving a happy memory, I sat up straight, swinging my legs off the bed, my head falling to my hands. My promise to my girl tormented my mind. I’ll make sure we get our happily ever after… Like hell I did. She got a f*cking nightmare, and she—no, we were still stuck in that damn hell.
Walking to the bathroom, I turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound on my head. Grabbing the soap, I ran it over my skin, staring at the tattoo on my hip. “One Day.” I thought back to the day I got it—the day I told my daddy I’d gotten the UA football scholarship and was leaving home at the end of the school year. I was going to play for the Tide. It was the happiest day of my life, or had been until I met Mol. That tattoo was a symbol of my freedom, of my intention to get the hell away.
Switching off the shower, I toweled off and sat on the bed. The clock now read four a.m. Only a bastard hour had passed.
Reaching for my cell, I found the only number worth knowing.
Lying back on the bed, I listened to the voicemail greeting that kept me company most nights, then spoke:
“Hey, baby, just thought I’d call. It’s four in the morning and I can’t sleep… again. I dreamt about you tonight… God, I miss you. Being away from you is killing me. Come back, Shakespeare. I need you. I feel like I’m going insane. It’s Christmas tomorrow, for f*ck’s sake. You should be here like we’d planned, just being with me, not in friggin’ England on your own. If you can’t talk yet, fine, but just let me know you’re okay, text, email, just something—”
The long tone cut me off, telling me I’d run out of time, and, throwing my cell to the floor, I lay back, closed my eyes, and let more memories rip me into shreds.
32
I was right to come back to Tuscaloosa. It may’ve only been the day after Christmas but I’d pretty much spoiled most of the holidays for my aunt, uncle, and Ally. Getting the news on Christmas day that my momma was being released without charge for her assault on Molly at the hospital—a restraining order and a court issued rehab program, her only punishment—was a complete head f*ck. The news got me so damn mad that I couldn’t sit at the dinner table, celebrating the joys of Christmas, when my momma had gotten away with her crimes, and just to top it all off, I still hadn’t heard from my girl.
Uncle Gabe had tried to help, asking the police about the fact that my momma was the cause of Molly’s miscarriage and why wasn’t she being held accountable? But the fact was my mother never knew Molly was even pregnant when they’d had their argument, and the placental abruption occurred when Molly fell against the edge of the table after my mother’s slap. Molly hadn’t pressed charges for that assault, too busy grieving to even care.