Staying With Her

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Chapter FIFTEEN

Just as the first bite of cold wind crept under his night-shirt, Clarissa's hand moved around his middle–warm and hard. In seconds, it molded her body to his own, sharing her body heat as she shared her heart. Blackhawk could never let another get close to him like that, but she's so different.

His chest heaved like the run with decreased oxygen and inflated pressure at higher altitudes. She'd be his only savior. If in all the cold universe, there was her love, it was enough. She was the spark to his flame, the one who kept him burning when logic decries his crystal body into the light that illuminated an entire mountain range.

Mostly, she kept her head buried in his woolen jacket, his black unkempt hair sticking out behind as he'd just woken up from a long nap. There's a purity to her, naivety perhaps, but she's the only flower in the meadow for his eyes.

"This movie is dumb," he whined for the fifth time.

Clarissa removed her hand from his covered chest to swat his forehead before wrapping her arms around his torso once again.

"I bet you're tired," she said.

His arms encircled her waist and nudged his head into the crook of her neck. "Maybe."

Blackhawk peppered her neck with the prickly hairs of his face furniture. "I suppose work has gotten rough on you," she giggled.

"No shit," he said. “Dr. Paige will have to look at the muscles under my ribs."

She shifted her weight to slide out from beneath his grip. "Am I not adding to the pain?"

Blackhawk launched her into place in his arms and around his body. "Baby, you're as light as a feather."

Unaware of her own heart beating or the rise and fall of her chest, she drifted into ponderation. "My parents are in California." There was no heat in her voice as if her heartbeat so steadily.

Blackhawk knitted his eyebrows as he glanced downward at the woman in his arms. "That I know."

Clarissa sighed as if excruciatingly. Her body twisted at a reflex with her breast flat on his chest and legs locked around his sides. She shifted a little to adjust on his lap. Oblivious to the beating pulse shooting through his veins and out the horny layer. Her sad eyes are saying far more than 'Help me' they say that her soul was in such unbearable pain and all for the lack of real love.

"What are we?"she asked.

Blackhawk managed a look of apathy. Her words hit him like a brick he knew would fall and hit him soon. He knew what he'd felt. Yet, he couldn't get the words to form or the wall to collapse.

"Caucasian?"

He gave her a side glance.

Clarissa roared with laughter as she slapped his chest once again. "It's just that, Josiah and I've had a rough patch. And well here, we feel at home," she smiled. “Loved."

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"What does your heart say?" she asked, unambiguously.

Blackhawk closed his eyes momentarily. What did his heart say? Run for the hills? Grab her body and fuck the love into her system? With Clarissa came a package. One that could not easily be thrown into a dump and forgotten about. It was about him. Small and innocent. Was he ready to become a father? To one that did not share his line of blood? If it meant holding the woman, he loved in his arms from dusk until dawn and breath in her scent of lavender and tremble under her touch. He'd turn over a new leaf.

Blackhawk pulled her closer. "Right now—" he pressed her to his body, inviting her luscious pussy to grind against his hard cock. "It’s telling me to throw you across our bed and devour your moreish body."

• • •

It was Wednesday the twentieth, two weeks since the hunt of a man, Ganglion. Two weeks since Martin turned his back on Blackhawk. Two weeks since Kate, the Black mamba killed their friendship in less than thirty minutes.

On that day, there he stood, tall and overjoyed in the tedious apartment. The door was open and the TV blurred with a sound like a 1953 sharp fuzz. Blackhawk gripped his SIG Sauer P226 as he ducked into the living room. Behind him, he signaled Hobbs a turn left. His heavy footsteps dug into the hardwood floor like cement bags being dropped, making it nearly impossible for Blackhawk not to groan. The man belonged to the SEALS, not law enforcement.

Then it came, a grunt loud enough to pierce Blackhawk's ears followed by the sound of metal clashing with bone. He ran through the door that appeared to be a bedroom–void and contained only a mattress in the far corner near a window contaminated in the dust. Detective Hobbs took a swing. His arms shielding his face from the metallic baseball bat under the disorientated man.

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