Pixie stands up before stepping half onto the bed to give herself enough of a lift to climb into my arms. She rubs her nose against mine and then nuzzles her face in the crook of my neck.
“You smell like summer,” she whispers in my ear.
“I should shower.”
Pixie looks disappointed about that. Then she asks a question that sends all the blood in my large body straight to my cock.
“Can I watch?”
“Sure.”
Her smile is soft and inviting. Women never look at me that way. Even most of my club brothers’ wives seem nervous around me. Probably because I showed up to their community with a duffle bag full of heads.
I swear to myself that I’ll give Pixie everything she wants if she’ll always look at me like she is right now.
I walk to the bathroom with her soundlessly following. I think of her bare feet soft against the beige tile floor. I remember how, back on the road, her toes would dig into the dirt, seeking warmth, maybe. Or just the sensation of the smooth soil against her calloused feet. How many times did I think to reach out and touch her tanned skin?
Back with the Killing Joes, I took what I wanted. I was a monster in a club of violent men. The girls who hung around us didn’t have any self-worth. They let us fuck them any way we wanted as long as we offered drugs and booze. I never feared touching them. If I was rough, what did they care?
Pixie isn’t like those women. She understands her worth and expects me to know it, too. Which is why I never touch her like I want.
Humming to a song I recognize but can’t place, Pixie sways around the bathroom. I yank off my shirt, pissed-off over nothing. No, I guess I’m angry at myself for not improving more over the last three years. I could be smarter, better, more worthy of the girl watching me undress.
I ought to ask her to leave. Is that what a good man would do?
Pixie’s gaze is focused on where she steps between the tiles. I think she’s avoiding the lines. As a kid, we played a game where if you stepped on a crack in the sidewalk, you broke your mother’s back. How many times did I stomp as hard as I could on a crack, hoping to hurt the woman who raised me? One time, I sprained my ankle from slamming down so hard. Yet, I desperately wanted my grandmother to break into a million fucking pieces. Then, she would die and go away.
Of course, Pixie doesn’t want such a dark fate for her mother. Her feelings are more than love, though. Anyone can love their parents. I cared for mine. For a while, anyway.
Pixie also admires her mother. She would never want to break her mother’s back. Is that why she avoids the lines? No, probably not. How would she even know that kids’ game? Pixie is just curious about patterns.
But then her gaze lifts and finds me stripped bare. Stepping under the hot water, I try not to think of Pixie watching. Nudity isn’t a big deal to her. While I can’t get the thought of her naked body out of my mind, she likely sees me no differently than her stepdad or mother. People are naked under their clothes. No big deal.
Yet, Pixie sighs at the sight of me. There’s a raw need to her gaze. As a smile warms her face, she tugs her shirt over her head.
I say nothing as she strips down and joins me. If any other woman got in the shower with a man, fucking would definitely be on the menu. But, with Pixie, I don’t know what she’s thinking. We haven’t even kissed, for fuck’s sake.
“You have so many tattoos and scars,” she whispers, walking around me and letting her fingers explore my back. “Your sad story is written on your body.”
Standing there naked and wet in a shower with a woman I want more than any before, I feel like a fucking moron. I don’t know what to say or do. Sure, I’m very aware of what I’d like to do. But my big ugly hands don’t reach for her.
Pixie makes my dick hurt when she touches my skin. Her fingers trace my tattoos, sliding over old scars. She strokes my arms.
I realize my eyes are closed. My arousal mixes with rage at how I can’t just have what I want. There’s always a roadblock holding me back from what I need to be happy.
“Anders,” Pixie whispers, now standing in front of me.
I look down at her and refuse to tell myself no. Her lips have teased me for months. I’ve wanted to taste them so much, but I needed to do the right thing.
Cupping her face with my hands, I lean down and press my lips to hers. I’m too aroused and angry to stop myself or worry about her reaction. In my chest, I feel a rising sadness. Why do I ruin everything? Why can’t I be patient? No wonder people look at me as if I’m an animal. That’s the way I act.
When my lips leave hers, I wait for a reaction. She only watches me with the same soft gaze as before I kissed her. Did she feel anything? Is she humoring me because I kept her family from starving?
That’s the fucking problem!
I hold all the power. By kissing her, I’m saying she needs to repay me. Then when she spreads her legs and lets me inside her body, I’ll never fucking know if she wanted me.
“Did you like that?” I ask, still cupping her face, afraid to let her go. When Pixie nods, I grow more frustrated. “Do you even know what that was? Or what I want?”
“You want to have sexual intercourse. There’s kissing and touching, and then your penis goes inside my vagina. If it’s good, I get to have an orgasm.
