The Dimple Strikes Back Read Online Free PDF Page A

gesture warm and saying the opposite of his testy protestations. I threw myself across the seat to lean on his shoulder, and he held me, wordlessly, as we fled from yet another attack that had rained down upon us no doubt because of him. I wiped my nose and considered that I hadn’t been harassed in an entire year.
    When a milestone like that was a mark of favour in your relationship, it was a bad sign, akin to seeing someone post ‘out of French fries’ at McDonald’s.
    I couldn’t stop the fresh tears. We arrived at my building, and I kept my face down through the lobby and in the elevator. My hyperactive fear and relief battled with each other to see which would drain my muscles of energy.
    Inside the apartment, I dropped my purse in the middle of the floor and continued into the living room, where I fell onto the couch face-first. Sam swept into the bathroom and washed while I kept shaking like a wind-up toy. Every time I’d try to take a deep breath and tell myself it was over, I’d hear the squish-thud when one of the assailants punched Sam, or feel the scratchy bag close my eyes for me, and begin quaking again.
    After a few minutes, Sam returned and sat beside my legs. I twisted into a cross-legged position facing him. Oh, my poor baby—he had a righteous shiner that almost blotted out his dimple. I reached one finger to brush the place on his cheek where it should have been. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” I whispered. His brows came together in an expression of such sorrow, I just had to kiss him. Nothing mattered more than making that horrible sadness flee.
    We grappled with each other, clothes flying, breathing laboured, desperation palpable. He pulled my dress off over my head and wrapped his arm around my waist to face me towards the back of the sofa while on my knees. He held me that way, his chest naked against me, and spread small, sharp bites across my neck while he fumbled with the fly of his pants. His fingers teased my pussy, but almost perfunctorily, a means to his end, and mine.
    I spread my knees wider, and he grunted in approval. Not even bothering to remove them, he pushed my panties to the side and slid into me, roughly, knocking the breath from me in a startled moan of pleasure. I braced myself on the couch as he fucked me, thrusting in fast, then pulling out slowly, as if to make me lose my mind. I think I did right around the time he began fisting his hand in my hair to pull my head back. We moved as one, making the couch quake and thump on the wall.
    I reached behind me to grasp the tight, working muscles of his ass, so smooth and gorgeous in my hand. It spurred him on, and he moaned, “Fuck me, Samantha,” hot and wet, into my skin. My entire body hovered on sensation overload, and I begged him to never stop. Stopping was thinking, and neither of us wanted that.
    He eventually did slow and release me. He slumped into the cushions and said, “Come here.” I dropped onto his lap, his cock stretching me tight, my body a little sore from his passionate onslaught of this afternoon. But I didn’t care, and soon I slid on him without coherent thought. It seemed he couldn’t pull me close enough—both arms wrapped around me, his face in my breasts, hair, and kissing me so deep and slow that the sensation fluttered from my lips to my hips. I rode him until I could no longer take in a full breath, until he came and shuddered underneath me, gripping me so tight it hurt, until I finally burst with my own orgasm and fell over him.
    “I love you,” I said, my breath faltering.
    His head on my shoulder, he said it back to me, achingly, full of the emotions I’d tried to release us both from. I got up, took his hand, and we went to the bedroom and dropped into the covers without another word.
    I don’t even remember falling asleep, but awoke at five a.m. local. I made a trip to the bathroom and watched Sam sleep for a long time, until the sun had come alive. I should have been