Keeper by Robin Lovett

Author:Robin Lovett [Lovett, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Swerve
Published: 2017-08-14T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 18

He weighs me down, anchors me, holds me and keeps me from floating way. I let go of the door, hold his head to my shoulder, and will him to not get up.

I’m not sure who that was, the Layla who chose to have sex with a man she just found out is a murderer, but I don’t know who this Layla is any better, the one who has no desire to ever let that man get up after sex.

Seriously, if he wanted to lay here on me all day, I would let him.

To be beneath him means a letting go of a certain part of myself. A part of myself I will not mourn. At least, not now. I’m solidified, somehow. The part of me that’s constantly striving, never resting or calming, it’s quiet. Awestruck and pacified.

I am in awe.

Him—being fucked like that by him—being the object and receiver of the sexual desire he keeps bottled up—

I don’t know how to be anything but blissed out. I float though I am weighed down. I’m calm though I am afire with sensation. My skin hums, the feeling overwhelming and exquisite.

I knew I wanted him—yesterday I did want him—but not like this.

Finding out what he did, having him take the wires from my truck, him trapping me here on this mountain with him—all that did something to me. It made me want him in a way that makes no sense. Those things should make me hate him and want to get away from him, not fuck him like I’ll incinerate if I don’t.

I push at him. “Get off me.”

He rises on shaky arms, but not fast enough. I rise up beneath him and force him to slide off me. He starts to slide to the floor, but his ass hits the steering wheel on the way down and it beeps.

I jump at the sound. “What the hell?” Panic starts to rise in me and I feel claustrophobic, shut in and trapped. He’s still half on me, and I’m unable to get out. “Move!” I elbow him in the chest.

His head thuds against the glove compartment. “Ow! Christ.”

I wiggle out from under him and out of the truck.

My feet hit the snow, and I leap in pain. Cold, cold, so cold. I’m not wearing shoes or pants. My socks are soaked immediately by the melting snow. I reach for my boots lying pell-mell on the ground, but I need my pants first.

Which are also lying in the snow. I grab them and struggle into them—though they’re now soaked through. “Shit, shit, shit.” They’re freezing, but I have to put them on. I have no choice. I can’t walk naked from the waist down back to the house.

Chase scrambles in the truck, putting on his clothes. “What’s wrong?”

“My pants a-a-are fr-reezing,” I shiver. They stick to my thighs, impossible to pull up. I yank out my underwear, which I find bunched in one leg. To hell with putting those on. I shove them in a pocket.

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