In a haze, I just keep massaging at my thigh till the dull, horrible throb of fire starts to fade.
I need a beer, not Vicodin.
I hate the fucking painkillers, hate how they haze me up, hate the potential for getting hooked. I’m so dull when that medicine kicks in.
Sure, beer gets me fuzzy, but I’m clearer and know it’ll wear off in thirty minutes instead of six hours.
I can’t be out of commission for six hours.
Not when someone might call with an emergency, and I can’t let them down because I’m drugged out of my mind.
I roll over, thump myself off the couch, onto the floor, hitting my hands and knees before sheer pride shoves me to my feet.
Might feel like hell, but I ain’t fucking crawling to the kitchen.
Zombie lurching isn’t much better, but at least I’m standing on my two legs.
The first beer tastes like a sip of salvation. It goes down quick, cold pouring through me. The shock of drinking something that frigid so quickly actually distracts me from the anguish in my leg as chill spears shoot through my chest, leaving me gasping.
But it’s exactly the liquid looseness I want when the booze gets in my bloodstream and makes my body go lax.
I’ll sure as hell use that effect to my advantage till I can handle standing upright again.
Just long enough to get into a hot shower and let the heat do the work to get me loosened up enough to sleep.
Might even go down to the station tonight, I think, after I’ve had time to rest. I crack open a second beer, sip it more slowly, then prop my hip against the counter and pin most of my weight on my good leg.
Maybe some small part of me is hoping.
Hoping if I go in, if I put myself out there over the airwaves, Peace will call in tonight.
And maybe I can tell her over the radio what I can’t say to her face.
The first thing being I’m sorry.
The second being sorry as hell.
The third being don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me when you're the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
All tidied up for FCC regulations, of course.
That last one, I’m stuck on now, trying to get this girl off my mind. I force myself through the fog of pain and beer and into the shower. Temperature turned to scalding hot. It’s awful for the first few minutes I step into the steaming, scouring spray.
After a while, though?
Pure bliss.
Water pours down my naked body, heat soaking into my thigh, the beer and the steam working through every muscle to leave me relaxed like nothing else does.
Except for Peace’s touch.
Goddamn, here we go again.
The way her hands slid over me, teasing my skin, taming my hurt, it’s like I can feel her in the water trickling over my flesh.
Every drip feels like a tongue licking over me, making me shiver as I close my eyes and tilt my head back into the spray.
She’d touched me like she already knows me.
Like she’s just been waiting to find me.
And I can feel her little fingers on my skin, tracing my own fingertips down across my stomach, toward my throbbing, fast awakening cock.
I can’t do it.
Can’t let myself touch, feel, crave, need with this insistent hunger.
That means admitting I want her just as bad.
I want her fire, her softness, her wrapped around me and pressed up against my body and using those hands to do a hell of a lot more than therapy.
I can’t get the thought out of my head.
I tell myself I’m doing it because the endorphins of jerking off will do more to ease my pain than the steaming shower.
That distracting shot of hormones, of bliss, makes me forget everything but raw, savage pleasure.
Too bad I know the real reason I’m doing it.
Because that girl’s gotten under my skin. Her sassy little mouth, her dyed up hair, her hips that could blindside any fool.
I can’t stop thinking about the ripeness of her lips and how they’d look, gleaming wet, as if she’s here in the shower with me. I’d have her on her knees, my seething hands tangled in her hair, pushing her right the hell down on my full, throbbing, angry—
Fuck.
That does it.
My cock’s up and hard and ready so quick I’m dizzy, blood draining down in a rush to make me stand up, the shaft rising with a jerk that bucks against my stomach.
One thing Holt and I have in common—the only thing—no Silverton boy ever left a chick wanting.
I groan, giving in, wrapping my hand around the base, squeezing like a vise. Makes me flushed that much faster, like I’m compressing this hunger down in my fist, squeezing it into my flesh, infusing me with this heady, groaning psycho lust.
My hand’s not the one I want touching me, even if it does the job.
It’s too rough, too callused.
I want softness. Delicate touches, sweetness, and fuck I bet she’d be so shy at first.
Then she’d dive in just like everything else, headfirst and reckless and completely unafraid.
But my hand’s gonna have to do, stroking down over my length. I feel the pounding of my pulse in the veins against my palms.
I shudder, thinking about what it’d be like to kiss Peace Rabe, up against the wall, thieving every moan out of her mouth like a starving beast.
Yeah, dammit.
That gets me going like nothing else, imagining the taste of her lips, wet and parted, the way they’d be all hot and soft and perfect. The little flick of her tongue.
It’d be pink—no, strawberry red, and she’d taste me nice and slow. Taking sips before melting against me with a singsong moan as she lets me have my way and steal inside her and kiss her deep.
I’d throw her arms around my neck, fusing her to me.
Her naked body against mine, those full, heavy tits slick and round and gleaming and so fucking soft against my ribs.
Her belly nudging against my cock between us.
And maybe if I slipped my hand down between those lush thighs, I’d find her pussy hot and slick all over my fingers as I slid two of them along her folds and felt her moan and arch.
My cock jerks against my palm, a painful little warning spurt surging from the tip.
Shit, I’d almost forgotten I was even touching, so caught up in this perfect frigging fantasy of Peace that it’s like the sensations are real.
And it’s not my hand making my cock swell, not my fingers making me gasp and catch growls in the back of my throat as pleasure rockets through me.
It’s her.
The crush of her body, the softness of her skin, everything feminine and lush and perfect, turning my body into hellfire.
I’m lava. I’m lightning. I’m a human earthquake.
I stroke my dick faster, harder, throwing my head back and reveling in the water pounding down on my back, just another hot sensation biting my skin with desire and pleasure.
I just want to know her.
Just want to know what it’s like to sink inside her with her hips wrapped around my thighs and her wet hot cunt sinking down to suck me in.
And that’s when I’ve reached my limit.
My cock swells in my hand. I see white-hot stars.
That first long jet of warning pouring out of me is fuck-nothing compared to the money shot.
Like a storm ripping through me, surging out of me, making everything hurt in all the best ways as I come, cock jerking and spilling, overflowing in my shifting fist.
Like that one hot burst rips everything out of me and leaves me weak—my breath, my blood, my pain, my desire, all of it emptying out in searing, thick jets.