The Good Girl In My Bed (Dangerous Desire Book 2) by Lexxie Couper Page B
Authors: Lexxie Couper
Tags: General Fiction
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You know I will. You’ve got two hours. I’ll see you at the assigned place. Don’t forget to call Rufie before you go to sleep. This won’t be anywhere near as fun if he’s not there.”
Before I could tell her to blow me—again—she left, pulling the door closed behind her.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed, empty bottle in my hand, my stare locked on the opposite wall.
Sleep.
I needed it but didn’t dare take it.
I had no doubt if I slept, I’d dream of Ronnie.
Would they be horny dreams? Dreams of fucking her, making love to her? Dreams that would get me hard and aching for her even more than what I felt now?
Dreams where I lost myself in the curves and dips of her body, the sweet musk of her pussy, the caress of her breath on my flesh?
Or would they be nightmares? If I closed my eyes and slept, would I see her hating me? Would I see her walking away from me, my heart in her hand?
Would she look at me with icy contempt?
Or worse still, would I dream of her in Rufie’s hands? Would I be forced to endure seeing what the new head of Trinity would do to her, over and over in my dreams?
I couldn’t risk it.
I couldn’t.
So I didn’t.
Instead of stretching out on the bed, I changed into a pair of running shorts and joggers, shoved my Glock into my waistband, and left the room.
I pounded the pavement, the night air cold on my sweat-slicked skin. I ran dark streets. I ran past houses whose windows glowed with warm light. I heard laughter from some of them. I saw family members coming and going at some.
And every time I did, the ache in my soul for the life I wanted to share with Ronnie turned into a gnawing agony.
It wasn’t until I found myself staring at one well-lit house, my gut churning with hate for everything that had put me here on this dark street away from the girl I loved, that I realized I was gripping the gun.
Ah fuck, I was unraveling.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I needed to hit something. Hurt something. I needed to feel something break beneath my knuckles. I needed to feel hot blood on my fists, my shins.
I needed…
I needed…
Ronnie. I needed Ronnie.
With a growl, I sprinted back to the safe house.
It sat dark and empty, no sign of life in or around it. I hurried inside, straight for the hidden room.
Locking myself in it, I dug my phone from my jeans pocket and woke it up.
Twenty missed calls from Ronnie. Twenty voice messages. Too many texts to count.
A hot lump filled my throat. A heavy weight, like a chunk of concrete, pressed at my chest.
I read the last text, eyes burning.
“You’re a fucking bastard, Lucas Pratt.”
An icy blade twisted in my heart. I closed my eyes, everything I was tearing apart.
“Ronnie…” I murmured. “Ronnie, I…”
I what?
“ Fuck .” I pitched my cell across the small room.
It struck the wall beside the bed and fell to the mattress with a dull thud.
I stood motionless, fists balled, breath ragged. My head roared.
Fuck. Fuck, how was I to live without her? How was I—
My phone vibrated to life, its screen lighting up with an incoming message.
I threw myself at the bed, my heart racing, and snatched up my cell. The screen was shattered, a spider web of cracks almost making it impossible for me to read the message from Ronnie.
Almost impossible.
“If I didn’t love you so fucking much, I’d hate you.”
A ragged sigh tore from my throat and I slumped onto the bed.
Pulse pounding in my ears, my whole body tingling with energy I couldn’t fathom or describe, I stared at those ten words and then let out a raw groan as another message popped up onto my screen.
“I’ll see you soon, Lucas. No matter what you think you’re doing, I’ll see you soon. ’Cause I love you, and you love me, and we’re meant to be together. Got it?”
I stared at the message. I didn’t blink. I didn’t move. I just stared at the message. Read it over and over.
And over and over again.
When my lungs and eyes began to burn, I sucked
Before I could tell her to blow me—again—she left, pulling the door closed behind her.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed, empty bottle in my hand, my stare locked on the opposite wall.
Sleep.
I needed it but didn’t dare take it.
I had no doubt if I slept, I’d dream of Ronnie.
Would they be horny dreams? Dreams of fucking her, making love to her? Dreams that would get me hard and aching for her even more than what I felt now?
Dreams where I lost myself in the curves and dips of her body, the sweet musk of her pussy, the caress of her breath on my flesh?
Or would they be nightmares? If I closed my eyes and slept, would I see her hating me? Would I see her walking away from me, my heart in her hand?
Would she look at me with icy contempt?
Or worse still, would I dream of her in Rufie’s hands? Would I be forced to endure seeing what the new head of Trinity would do to her, over and over in my dreams?
I couldn’t risk it.
I couldn’t.
So I didn’t.
Instead of stretching out on the bed, I changed into a pair of running shorts and joggers, shoved my Glock into my waistband, and left the room.
I pounded the pavement, the night air cold on my sweat-slicked skin. I ran dark streets. I ran past houses whose windows glowed with warm light. I heard laughter from some of them. I saw family members coming and going at some.
And every time I did, the ache in my soul for the life I wanted to share with Ronnie turned into a gnawing agony.
It wasn’t until I found myself staring at one well-lit house, my gut churning with hate for everything that had put me here on this dark street away from the girl I loved, that I realized I was gripping the gun.
Ah fuck, I was unraveling.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I needed to hit something. Hurt something. I needed to feel something break beneath my knuckles. I needed to feel hot blood on my fists, my shins.
I needed…
I needed…
Ronnie. I needed Ronnie.
With a growl, I sprinted back to the safe house.
It sat dark and empty, no sign of life in or around it. I hurried inside, straight for the hidden room.
Locking myself in it, I dug my phone from my jeans pocket and woke it up.
Twenty missed calls from Ronnie. Twenty voice messages. Too many texts to count.
A hot lump filled my throat. A heavy weight, like a chunk of concrete, pressed at my chest.
I read the last text, eyes burning.
“You’re a fucking bastard, Lucas Pratt.”
An icy blade twisted in my heart. I closed my eyes, everything I was tearing apart.
“Ronnie…” I murmured. “Ronnie, I…”
I what?
“ Fuck .” I pitched my cell across the small room.
It struck the wall beside the bed and fell to the mattress with a dull thud.
I stood motionless, fists balled, breath ragged. My head roared.
Fuck. Fuck, how was I to live without her? How was I—
My phone vibrated to life, its screen lighting up with an incoming message.
I threw myself at the bed, my heart racing, and snatched up my cell. The screen was shattered, a spider web of cracks almost making it impossible for me to read the message from Ronnie.
Almost impossible.
“If I didn’t love you so fucking much, I’d hate you.”
A ragged sigh tore from my throat and I slumped onto the bed.
Pulse pounding in my ears, my whole body tingling with energy I couldn’t fathom or describe, I stared at those ten words and then let out a raw groan as another message popped up onto my screen.
“I’ll see you soon, Lucas. No matter what you think you’re doing, I’ll see you soon. ’Cause I love you, and you love me, and we’re meant to be together. Got it?”
I stared at the message. I didn’t blink. I didn’t move. I just stared at the message. Read it over and over.
And over and over again.
When my lungs and eyes began to burn, I sucked
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