Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“Jesus Christ.” His breaths are harsh against my wet hair, and with his
free hand he reaches behind him, shutting off the faucet.
For several minutes, neither one of us moves. We don’t speak, cocooned
in the safety of silence, unwilling to be the first to shatter it.
A chill snakes up my arms, making me shiver, and he smirks, finally
pulling out of me. I wince at the sudden loss, trying not to pay much attention
to the chasm his absence leaves inside me, wondering how similar this will
be to the last time we had sex.
“Are you okay?” he asks, setting me on my feet and taking a step back.
His gaze sweeps over me, doctor mode in full effect as he assesses my body
for signs of distress. A finger brushes the scar on my thigh, and he frowns, a
dark look clouding his features. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I blink, glancing down at where he touches me, wiping some of the
smeared blood from my skin. “I liked it.”
One brow arches, and he swallows. “Yeah?”
It’s a single syllable, spoken on the tail end of an exhale, loaded with
insecurity. I can feel it, the uncertainty, and it catches me off guard for a
moment to think a man as deadly and powerful as Kal might ever feel
vulnerable.
Nodding, I cover his hand with my own, bringing it up to where I can feel
him leaking from between my thighs. “I like anything you do to me,” I
whisper, trying to level the playing field with my admission, even though it’s
physically painful for me to indulge.
Still, if Kal Anderson asked me to tear my bleeding heart out of my chest
and serve it to him on a silver platter, I’d do it, no questions asked. I’d
probably ask him to oversee the operation, to make sure I was doing it
correctly.
I just don’t think he returns the sentiment.
“You’re not on birth control,” he deadpans. It’s not a question, but a
statement, and the authority with which he says it gives me pause.
“No,” I say, pushing a strand of hair from my shoulder. “Papá never even
let me think about sex, let alone explore methods of preventing complications
from it.”
He doesn’t say anything for several beats, during which my heart rate
kicks up, pounding in my ears. I feel faint, exhausted, and, for some reason,
scorned.
“I’ll set up an appointment with a friend of mine, and we’ll get you on it.”