After the necessary convenience store purchase, I'm peeling my lips away from Taryn's, just so I can unlock our motel-room door.

She's facing me, on my left-hand side. Her mouth falls between my ear and neck. My hand is splayed across her bare lower back. Our feet are intertwined. By my back and right side, she's tugging the shirt out from beneath my belt before we're even through the door.

We somehow manage to stagger inside. In the greenish tint of the bathroom light we left on, I kick the door shut behind me, hastily lock it, and toss my hat to the table, all while our lips, hands, and body parts are hard at play.

Taryn finishes getting my shirt untucked. I work on the buttons. She kicks off her boots. Her skirt drops to the floor. I get rid of my boots, too. And then I tug the backs of her bare legs, and she jumps into my hands. With me carrying her, her long legs wrapped around my waist, we leave a trail of clothing along the way to her bed.

We collapse to the mattress, kick through to the sheet level with me between her legs, barely missing a kiss, anywhere we can make contact. We're still somewhat clothed but mostly not.

The kissing slows and deepens. It remains mouth to mouth for a short while. We should take a moment to catch our breaths, but it's hard. She's so damn enticing.

It may be a bad time to talk, but I can't, in good conscience, proceed without it. "I'm not pressuring you, am I?" I break away to ask, still panting. "Any concerns or misgivings I should know about? Regret, confusion, discontent? Medical problems, even...?"

"Grady..." She kisses me forcefully, and then pulls her bra over her head. "If you don't get on with it already, I think I might scream."

🔥MATURE🔥

Her breasts bounce but stabilize quickly. They have this gravity-defying firmness and come to an impressive peak for how slim she is. Her nipples are a youthful pink, like her lips. They capture the eye in a way that makes me feel young again, and they demand a taste. A nip on one and slow savor of the other. She moans at the slightest suction. Her hips buck toward my chest.

I want to thrust back and let nature take its course, but there are barriers. Actual ones—two pairs of underwear—and the unfortunate one we must impose. There was a lapse in her birth control. Money was tight for her, and the necessity was a question mark. And, well, the only way forward is in my pants pocket about half a room away. We were planning for this, just not well.

Indulging myself down the length of her abdomen, thorough as I may be . . . I could spend all day sampling her flat, athletic stomach. It's sensitive and ticklish, smells good, and tastes better. But I cut it short a few inches below her belly button. I was getting her all hot and bothered and she blows out a sigh when I bound out of bed. I like that she's impatient, but I know she understands. She was the one who brought up protection when I was too distracted to ask the right questions.

With legs that don't want to work, I make my way over to my jeans. I trip over my own boot on the way over and my eyes can't seem to stay on task. Instead of minding what I'm doing, I'm watching Taryn remove her undies. She knows I'm watching and seems to like it. In one, graceful glide, they're around her ankles. With a dance-like kick, she tosses them to herself and catches them in her hand. Then, with a little flourish, the panties fall from her fingertips and drop to the floor by the nightstand. She's still tangled in the sheets, but not enough to keep my gaze from roaming to the place it's never been.

She's probably seen me naked before, but I can't claim the same. She was shy, and I guess I wasn't. Now it seems the opposite is true. The sheets are just an afterthought, barely covering the shin of her interior leg. She wants me to see what I'm getting myself into. That neat layer of light-brown hair and that delicate pink fold. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about it. I know this isn't her first time, but there's something sweet and innocent about her body to suggest that it is. I know there are worse problems to have, but I'm not always well received.

After my failed first attempt, I go to the correct pocket and remove the small box of condoms. When I return to bed, I sit on the edge, my boxers still on. They don't hide much, not in this state of being anyway, but still, I'm . . . busy. With the packaging and the stubborn-as-hell wrapper, and...

Taryn scoots closer to me. She's on her side, resting her bare pelvis against my lower back. Her head is propped up on her hand. While she's checking on my progress, she lightly drags a finger up the side of my back. At every point of contact, I bet she can feel me shaking. "Need any help?"

I don't remember these things being quite so stubborn.

Goddammit, I almost say aloud. What are they? Bulletproof?

"I certainly hope not," I say just as the wrapper finally gives way.

Then, it's the moment of reckoning. I drop the drawers, put the damn thing on, and climb back in bed.

Taryn has made room for me. I lay on my back and pull the covers over the both of us. She's still on her side, in the center of the bed, the pink in her cheeks the only sign that she's as nervous as I am.

I'm debating my next move when she leans into me and drapes a thigh over mine. I put my arm around her to welcome her closer. She nuzzles into my neck and slides a hand through the hair at the base of my erection. She gasps when she curves that hand around the width and up the length. She does that a few times, and then, with a boldness and agility that shouldn't surprise me as much as it does, she gets that long leg of hers on the other side of me. Soundless and almost weightless, she's on top of me. And while my head is still spinning, she's angling me for entry.

She presses down and doesn't ingest much, and still, she tilts her head back, closes her eyes, and moans. Her body flushes. Every rise is hasty. Every descent is slow and goes deeper than the last. It takes care and patience, and she seems to have a knack for it.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" I run the backs of my fingers down her breasts and then my hands settle on her waist.

She subtly shakes her head. "You feel . . . better than I imagined. And that imagination didn't exactly hold back."

Even nice and slow, there's this twirl to her hips, the rippling of her abdomen, and the arch to her back that's just so her. So arousing and so breathtaking. I don't know how I'll withstand it for long.

Maybe she feels the same way. It just doesn't bother her. She rides me without inhibition. She takes me exactly the way she needs—steady, precise, shallow but growing more thorough with each swivel.

She leans forward to kiss me. I clutch on to her side with one hand, sneak in a well-placed thumb with the other, and thrust for her for a few beats. I think I go in deeper than she was prepared for. I force another moan out of her. Then she takes over again.

After a little more bouncing, swiveling, and grinding, she heaves in a few breaths. Then with her mouth slightly open, she goes limp in my hands. There's this dramatic second or two of silence and stillness. I give her the slightest buck, and it sends her over the edge. She shatters into these waves of pleasure that ripple through her body and voice. I'd like to think they penetrate her heart and mind, too.

For a few seconds, she seems to know what happiness feels like. And I hope it's pure.

She comes back to earth, shivering and giggling. And while she's relaxed and appeased, and not quite stable, I flip us both over. She's on her back, legs wide apart to a point it's probably a bit of showing off, which isn't even necessary. I couldn't be any more eager. There's nothing more I want right now, but the depth and intensity are tricky. My body wants release, and my mind is in knots trying to counteract the urge to finish hard and fast. I don't want to hurt her.

She'd tell me if I was, wouldn't she?

I'm thrusting, low to mid-level, and I drive a few more twitches and tremors out of her climax. And she's clutching onto my shoulder blades. She brings her legs around mine and gives my sides a good squeeze. She's coaxing more out of me. She likes it. She can handle it. The bed, however, sounds like it's about to die. The rusty creak and banging against the wall are worrisome with walls this thin, but at this point, nothing could sink me. I need this. It's like the purpose of my existence. The key to our survival. The more I get into it, the closer I get to finishing, the less the noise bothers me. After a while, it's like white noise. I doubt the neighbors would agree, but I lose the will to care. I'm just so enthralled, and so damn grateful that she picked me, the past be damned.

I ramp things up, little by little, no sign of her discomfort. I reach this drawn-out high that I don't think I can top. And then I do, and my body can't cope. I rupture, shatter, convulse. Lost. Found. Done. The surges of pleasure keep coming, each one almost as good as the first, and I keep surging forward, relishing every inch of her warmth while they endure. Then I just float around for a time, not wanting to open my eyes and worry about what comes next.

Taryn isn't eager to interrupt this respite, but eventually she kisses me back to the present.

There are some tasks to see to, a quick shower being one of them. And I hop to it. I shouldn't linger inside of her anyway.

I figure she might join me in there. I wouldn't mind. I want her to, actually. But she gives me my space and privacy. I guess it's a little soon for all the extras. Or maybe I did something wrong?

When we swap places in the bathroom, no words are really said, but there are a few signs of affection. Her hand grazes my hand as she walks by. She gives me a slight, apprehensive smile. She's covered, except for her legs, and I'm covered, except for my chest. She's just being careful and respectful. As am I.

After ditching the towel and putting some boxers back on, I return to her bed. When she's done with the bathroom, she doesn't make this feel out of place. She simply climbs in next to me, kisses me goodnight, and molds herself into the shape of my body when I put my arm around her. She makes this seem easy, like we're good at this. Like I'm good at it too, even though I'm woefully out of practice.

I wish I had a moment to reflect on the experience, but the truth is, I am just beat and can't recall much else. I'm probably out for the count as soon as my head finds a decent spot on the pillow.

<<<>>>

I don't know what time it is when I drift back to consciousness. The alarm clock is facing the bed I'm not in.

It's still close to pitch black in this room, and I stop worrying so much. We shouldn't have spent the whole day in Denver, but, whatever. Reality can wait a few more hours...

Taryn is still beneath my right arm. I place a light kiss on her shoulder, not expecting her to stir, but she immediately turns her head and burrows deeper into the curve of my body.

Since she's up, I kiss her behind the ear as well and my hands get involved. One slips under her waist, the other goes up her shirt. I'm caressing both breasts with my hand spread wide, and there's already a stir down below, one I'm sure she can feel, poking at her behind. 

Last night I was sated and at peace, so content and yet so drained. I still had plenty of things to stress out about, but I didn't have it in me to bother, and I conked right out.

Apparently, that heaven on earth wears off after a few hours. I'm anxious again. The demons are restless. I'm questioning every noise—the partying isn't over yet, from the sound of it. And I'm almost as eager to be free of all that as I was the first time. 

I want peace, fulfillment, rest...

"What are you doing back there?" Taryn asks me just as I start getting carried away.

"Trying not to get emotionally attached."

She shifts to her back. "How's that going for ya?"

I put a hand on her stomach and bring my lips to her temple. "Not very well," I mumble, my hand sliding lower. 

I'm about to slip my fingers into her underwear when she rolls toward me, ruining the nice angle I had for entry.

After she plants a firm kiss on my lips, her whole body deflates. "Do you really want me, or do you just miss her?"

I roll to my back, groaning, not wanting to touch that one right now. 

"Grady?" she tries again just as my eyes drift closed. "I'd like to know. I couldn't sleep last night because of it."

"That's funny. I slept fine."

She tentatively rests her head on my chest and places a hand over my heart, but that doesn't mean I'm off the hook. "Grady..."

I blow out an exhale and put my arm around her. "Okay, we're doing this."

She pats my chest twice. "I think we should."

"All right..." While I'm playing with the tips of her hair, I glance at the curtain crack to get a better sense of time. It's starting to get lighter out, and that means we should probably get going soon anyway. "What's the question, exactly? Do I want you, yes. Do I miss her, no. Does that satisfy you for now?"

Apparently not. I can practically hear the gears of her overactive mind at work. "If you're over her, then why do you get so upset every time she comes up? Everything we discover, it's like you can't even look at it."

"That's anger. It isn't love."

"If you were over her, you wouldn't be angry," she points out.

I shrug and pause for thought. Maybe I'm just angry. Love may have caused the pain, but isn't the pain the actual source of this anger?

"I'm working on it," I tell her. "And now that we've resolved some of our tension, I'm sure you'll start noticing a difference."

She lets that sink in while stroking my chest in a way that's relaxing. I'm about to close my eyes and give in to the lingering exhaustion when she speaks up again. "If Quinn walked through that door right now, what would you say to her?"

I chuckle to myself. Get out, I'm busy is probably the wrong answer. "Hi," I begin instead. "I'm glad you're all right. Couldn't you have called or left a note? Oh, and about Taryn, she's beautiful, great in the sack, and she's everything you're not—loyal, practical, straightforward, empathetic. Thank you for sending her to me. I owe you one. But by one, I don't mean sex. I am currently taken, assuming your sister will still have me after this stupid hypothetical proclamation."

"You're not taking any of this seriously." She suddenly slides a leg over my torso and sits on my lower abdomen. "And yet somehow your bullshit hits the spot."

In the dim light of the coming dawn, my eyes graze down the front of her. She's in this thin crop-top nightshirt and these tiny pink panties. I know they're pink from last night. I was disappointed she put them back on until I saw her in them. They're so sheer, it didn't really make much of a difference. 

"If you think climbing on top of me is a form of punishment, you are sorely mistaken." That last part I mumble while her mouth is on mine.

We're kissing beneath the curtain of her long hair, which is a bit more wild than usual thanks to the Denver breeze and last night's shenanigans. My hands are sliding up her ribcage. My thumbs circle her nipples. If I had my say, we'd start the day much the same way that our night ended.

But apparently that's not my call to make. I'm about to slide her top over her head when our door is kicked in. It's practically cardboard thin and the lock is nothing special. With one swift blow, they're here.

We both jolt. Taryn gasps, and I emit, "Jesus!" at the same time. Before I have any understanding of what is going on, the overhead light is turned on. By the time my eyes adjust, there's already a lot of steel in the room. No knives this time. They all have guns. 

While they're filing in, five total, organizing themselves, I toss Taryn on the bed behind me and dive for the nightstand. My pistol—shit—was in there, yesterday, but now it's on the floor across the room.

When that realization strikes, someone I don't recognize is charging forward. I have someone else's pistol pressed to my forehead before I can even slide out of bed.

My gaze flicks to Clown-face, sauntering toward the center of the room with a shotgun in hand. He has a gauze pad taped to his neck, but otherwise, he's as nasty-looking as ever. He's smiling at me like a loon, too. Determined to win this round by any means, he's succeeded, by all appearances.

"Taryn..." His leer moves to her, now sitting up on her knees beside me. "Put some clothes on," he barks at her. "You're coming with me."

When she doesn't jump into action on command, Clown-face cocks the shotgun and takes aim at me. "I'll shoot him."

"Don't you think enough flesh has been defiled in this room already?" says the pimple-faced boy by the table. The asshole collapses in the chair like he's someone important. 

The worst hillbilly I've ever seen takes the second chair. "I doubt God would notice if he had brains or not."

Religious nutjobs. Militant ones. My favorite. My mother went through a stint after my father died, and trust me, there was nothing holy about it.

The tan, black-haired, beady-eyed guy by the door is the only one besides Clown-face who looks familiar. I think he's one of the douchebags from Saddlebrook's the night this all began. The one with the bat. Maybe these guys came to some arrangement with the crooked mechanics, or perhaps the whole thing was a setup, to catch Taryn and bring her in. "Home," I suppose, if this is truly her stepfather's doing. 

When Taryn glances at me, looking like she's about to jump into action and make a run for it somehow, they all lift their guns. The cocking sound circles the room. Three shotguns, one rifle, and the pistol to my forehead.

"All right!" Taryn puts up her shaking hands and trips out of bed.

They all scoff or roll their eyes at her bare legs, and then they go on to watch her backside as she's hastily pulling up her shorts.

It's been two minutes, and their hypocrisy is already showing.

"How did...?" I let slip while they're distracted.

Once again, I'm bonked in the forehead. The skinny guy holding the handgun is no soldier, and I consider going for it, but there are four other guns to worry about. Best case scenario, I'd take one or two out, but die trying to gun down the rest. 

"We find you?" Clown-face fills in for me like he'd been waiting for me to ask. "We tagged your truck, dumbass. I thought you were a cop."

This had crossed my mind, but we were on the run in a violent thunderstorm. There were other opportunities to check every inch of my exterior just in case, but the majority of the time, it would have been in the dark or when I was trying to get some sleep. Plus, we took an alternate route and didn't stop to rest overnight. I wrongly assumed we had a head start and would be hard to locate in Denver, even if they did trace my truck, which was intentionally parked on the other side of the motel. 

"Since you have no shame," he goes on to explain, just to be an arrogant prick. "You were easy to pick out last night. After that, I was just waiting for backup, and good news, they're here."

Taryn throws on a hoodie, puts her sneakers on, and picks up the purse she sometimes uses.

Clown-face immediately tears it out of her grip, places the shotgun on the empty bed, and begins rummaging through it.

He finds her cellphone first. He throws it against the wall and then empties the rest of the contents onto the bed. "Where is it?" he asks once he decides he's unimpressed with the outcome.

"Where's what?" she challenges him. A fair question, but there's some sass in her tone. She knows exactly what he's after.

He knows that too and backhands her across the face for it.

And that's when I lurch forward. It's a reflex reaction and I fumble it. I try grabbing the gun in my face and it goes flying out of both of our hands.

Moments later, I have three cocked shotguns pointed at me.

"Put that ring in my hand right now or we'll shoot him anyway," Clown-face says to Taryn while sneering at me.

With tears streaming down her wounded face, she drops to one knee and plucks Quinn's wedding ring out of her shoe with her fingernails and an aggressive tug.

"Taryn..." is all I have a chance to say to her as she hands it over.

When her eyes shoot to me, she pleads for something. Help, maybe? And there's nothing I can give her.  

"Make sure he doesn't follow us." Clown-face calls one of his guys forward with a head bob.

"If you lay another hand on her..." is about all I can muster before I'm whacked on the head with the butt of a rifle.

Everything goes black before I even hit the floor.

Warren Zeiders - Up to No Good

https://youtu.be/F1SYlsOhOxs