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Her intense blue eyes met his again, and the
spark in them gave him the confidence to say the rest quickly. “I’m lonely. And you’re gorgeous and funny and perfect and I’d like to take you home tonight.”
“Okay.” It was barely a breath, and then her hand on his thigh gave a quick squeeze. He blinked. Wait, what? Really?
“It’s been so long since…” She almost jumped when he finally spoke even though his voice was soft. And then he was quiet so long she thought he might not continue. Finally, he did, still never breaking eye contact. “I’ve missed being intimate with another person. You go through life alone long enough and part of you just starts to feel dead inside. Without this kind of connection…”
His cock stirred inside her but he also lifted their hands, palm to palm, interweaving their fingers. He shook his head. “…it’s like being thirsty and there’s nothing to drink. Months and months and maybe years, you can be surrounded by people, you can walk around all day long, but you’re dead. The spark’s gone out.” “So then you need some good sex to recharge your battery?”
In some traditions, you used sex as a way to worship God.
The other person became your church. If you opened yourself up to them, you could connect in a way so much deeper than just at the physical level. Both to the other person and to the divine.
“Look at me, Isobel,” he demanded. “Your climax belongs to me.”
He wanted to say a hundred things to her in that moment. Like: Don’t you ever scare me like that again. And: I’m sorry for being an ass the last few weeks. And: Let’s both get out of these muddy clothes and celebrate being alive. While naked. And: I’m terrified I’m falling in love with you.
He looked down at her with a wide, dopey grin. “Aw, you worried about me, Isobel? Isobel? Ma belle?” Then he tipped his head back and started to sing a butchered version of that old Beatles song Michelle, Ma Belle, except inserting her name. “Isobel, ma belle—” then he’d sort of start humming along, obviously not knowing the French lyrics before busting out with qui vont très bien ensemble at the end of each line.
“Love you, babe. Don’t leave me again. Please.” He snuggled into her neck, his arm cinching tighter
around her waist. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave me again.”
His eyes were dark and almost feral as he looked down from above her. Mr. Nice Guy Veterinarian that everyone else thought they knew had left the building. Or the truck, as it were. Instead here was a man who excited Isobel more than any other ever had before. “I’m going to take every one of your holes until you know who you belong to. You’re fucking mine.”
Hunter finally spoke. “You keep talking about how you run away all the time. But what if you’ve
been looking at it all wrong? What if it’s not running away from the bad stuff? What if it’s more about running towards something good?”
They’d had to airlift Isobel to the hospital in Casper. Her injuries had been that severe. In her altered state, she hadn’t been clearheaded enough to put on a seatbelt. PCP. They found fucking PCP in her bloodwork. Not just a little bit, either. Her stepmother had poisoned her. With her birthday apple pie.
