by Ella James
His finger inside me is exquisite, stroking me just right, while his tongue glides down my center, teasing my most sensitive place, pushing me closer and closer to the edge till I can’t breathe. I grab his left shoulder, sinking my nails into the muscle there. He licks me from top to bottom, curling his finger inside me, whispering, “God you’re sexy,” and it’s his voice that does it: low and hoarse, it vibrates through me, sending me just over the edge.
As I shatter into pieces, I can hear him laughing. I hear him mutter, “Jesus Christ, that’s sexy” and I can’t believe I just did that with him. I can’t believe how not weird it feels.
I draw my knees together, expecting to feel spent. Then I open my eyes, and there is Cross sitting, shirtless, on his knees with an enormous hard-on jutting up toward his beautiful abs. I look into his face, that face I’ve come to love so much, and his eyes are gleaming and I know—I know for sure—that I want to take this further.
“Cross, come here.”
He palms himself, looking heavy-lidded and slightly predatory. His voice is soft, though; gentle. “You don’t have to. It’s not a trade.”
I scramble up and clasp his left wrist. “I know, you crazy man. But I still want you.”
This time it’s me easing him down. I help him settle on the pillows, never breaking his hypnotic gaze as he settles on his back, with more weight on his left side than the right. I’m shaking as I situate myself between his legs.
His eyes are wide and glazed. He’s breathing hard. He licks his gorgeous lips, and his right hand finds my knee and squeezes. “No pressure, Merri. I can finish this myself if you just lie beside me.”
I shake my head. “I want to touch you.” Need to touch him.
I was only going to touch him, but the moment my palm skates across his soft, thick head, finding him damp there, all I can think about is taking him inside my mouth. The idea makes me nervous, so I start by licking down his shaft. It’s long and velvety and hard as steel; as I stroke him, my left hand gently cups his balls and Cross groans. His right hand strokes my shoulder as those blue eyes find mine. “Merri, are you sure?”
“Shhhh.” I reach out and, smiling, shut his eyes. I stroke with my right hand and roll his balls with my left, and I want so much to take him inside my mouth, but I’m scared. Scared he’ll push my head down. Scared it’ll bring back memories I don’t want.
I lean down and Cross strokes my cheek, and that’s what lets me know that it will be okay. Cross is different. I wrap my mouth around his cock and squeeze my cheeks around it, and he nearly comes off the bed. “Merri. Oh my God.” He groans my name again as he rocks gently into me, and I can tell by the way he’s shaking that he’s struggling to hold on.
I flick my tongue over the weeping slit at the top of his head and his hips jerk as I cup his tight balls. I take him deep inside my throat and keep things moving for a few more minutes. Then, when I’m sure he’s wet enough, I pull him out. His eyes flip open and his hips lift automatically, but he doesn’t grab for me or try to force me back.
While I work him with my hands again, I whisper, “Close your eyes.”
With his hand cupping my knee, it feels so easy—doing what I want. Moving gently but quickly, so I don’t lose all my nerve, I pull his length toward me a little, hold my breath, sit up a little, and sink down over him.
Cross’s eyes fly open. “Merri.”
His eyes squeeze shut and his mouth falls slightly open as I start to ride him.
“Merri. Oh God. Come…lay on me…so I can feel you.” He leans his head back as I lift and plunge, lift and plunge, taking him deep inside me. My eyes are open as I wait for memories to surface, but I see his face, his eyes—grateful and surprised—and he’s so lost to his lust that I feel safe.
Up and down, up and down, and when I sink down on him, he moans and shudders, grabs my ass. I speed up a little, moving with him in a rhythm that is only ours, and as he strokes my shoulder, I feel safe enough to give him what he asked for. I lean down over him, pressing my breasts against his chest and pumping him with the strength of my lower body. Kissing his throat as I gently stroke his hair and push and pull. His cock inside me is so big and hard, I’m on the cusp of orgasm already.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he wraps my hair around his hand and shuts his eyes. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful Merri.”
Our lips meet for a long, open-mouthed kiss, and as his tongue strokes mine, his eyes fly open. He comes with a strangled moan and locks his arm around me. Somewhere far away, I think about moving off him quickly, but it’s far away—because then I jerk on top of him, pulling his hair as I’m lost in my own release: so sweet and unexpected.
Afterward, we lie there holding each other. Cross keeps kissing me: my cheeks, forehead, chin, mouth, throat. When he pulls away, the smile on his face is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. “That was amazing—what you did.”
“You made it amazing,” I murmur as I walk my fingers down his chiseled, scar-marked chest, below where the gauze covers his shoulder.
We lie there for a long time, while the sun sinks outside the window and the shadows crawl across the wall, and he just strokes my hair. I close my eyes and decide I’m happy with what happened. It helped me bury some old memories, and it was something I wanted to do with Cross, because despite the impossibility of our situation, I care about him—a lot.
He’s wrapped around me, pressing his face into my chest, and I love holding him. I find my mind wandering, daydreaming about the two of us in our very own bed, and that’s when the day starts crashing down around me.
What am I thinking?
A future with Cross Carlson can never be. Not just because of his father: for a lot of reasons. Reasons I will never tell him.
I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Abruptly, I pull away from him and force my body off the bed. Cross’s eyes are wide. “Where are you going?”
I find my leggings and start to pull them on, looking down at what I’m doing, throwing him a glance as I search for my shirt. My heart is pounding hard, a warning of what I’m about to lose, but I never had it. Now the only thing to do is go.
Cross is up a few seconds after I am. I steal a glance and find his face is carefully neutral as he pulls his jeans on, then looks up at me, a breathtaking man in sexy jeans. He holds my gaze. “Where are we going?”
“Tell me the truth,” I say, straightening my shirt as I attempt to bide my time; weaken the blow; shift the blame; something. “None of this is guilt? Really?”
His eyes widen like I’ve suggested he murders infants. “No, of course not.”
“So it’s lust?” I smooth my bra and torn shirt, then force myself to look back up at him. His mouth is open and he’s wearing an expression that says it’s a lot more complicated than lust. I know I can’t stand to hear what he will say, so I cut him off. “Even if it’s only lust, it can’t go anywhere after this.”
“Why not?” He looks annoyed, but I can already see through it. He’s shocked; he’s working his way to upset. I’m going to hurt him.
I need to make this sound logical—like it’s not based on secrets and omissions from my past. I heave a deep breath and tuck my wayward hair behind my ears. “What if I want to write about my experience? What if I want to confront your father? How do you know he won’t show up here right now?” I take a step back, bumping into a dresser, and Cross takes a small step toward me. The look on his face is enough to break my heart: so earnest, with something warm glowing in his pretty eyes.
“I don’t,” he says. “But I know that I’ll protect you. I’ll always try.”
Always. He said ‘always’. I pretend he doesn’t mean it.
“You would turn in your own father?” I ask him.
He nods. “If that’s what you want.”
He looks so sincere, that I feel tears spring into my eyes. I want to throw something else at him, some other reason why this just can’t work, but my throat is closed up tight. “I just do
n’t understand,” I cry. Oh yeah…I’m crying now. Crying wasn’t in my plan, so I turn to face the wall.
Cross’s hand touches my back, gentle as you would be with a baby, and before I can gather my defenses, he’s turning me into his chest. He wraps his arms around me, and murmurs, “Talk to me. Tell me why you’re upset.”
I can only cry harder, because I can’t answer that. I can’t say anything to him. Or rather, I know I won’t. I just stand there, relishing the comfort he’s doling out like the selfish girl I always am, and I don’t say anything at all. My mind is racing. Finally, I push away and look into his eyes. “Is it because you know I never had sex with any of them? With your father, with Jesus, with anybody else I didn’t choose? Is that why you can…be with me?”
He frowns. “That helps,” he says frankly, “but that’s not why.”
“Then why?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.” He rubs his hair, the motion sharp; frustrated. “Why are you here with me? Is it obligation? Pity?”
“No,” I rasp. “I just…really like you.” I should never have said it, but I couldn’t seem to keep it in.
“That’s how I feel,” he says gently. “You’re very likable. And lickable.” He touches his forehead to mine. “I just like you, Merri. Isn’t that enough?”
I pull away from him and make some space, so there’s no chance he’ll touch me when I say this. “You don’t know everything about me.” My voice is shaking. I’m about to lose it, so I know I need to go. “You don’t get it, Cross. Things have happened to me that can’t unhappen.” I choke on a sob. “I just don’t get… How can you not judge me? What if I told you that I did have sex?”
His face goes slack. “With…who?”
“What if it was your father? It could have been Jesus or...damnit, anyone! Would it matter?” He shakes his head, and I raise my voice. “Tell me, would it matter?”
His face is so taut, so unhappy, that I feel a sweet wave of relief. This is it. He’s going to walk away and I won’t be to blame. It won’t be my choice.
Instead, he strides forward and tips my face up so I’ll have to look at him, and look at him I do. I do my best to memorize him. “Don’t get me wrong,” he whispers, “this is a surprise for me. I thought that I would care. Maybe I should care. But I’m finding that I don’t. Because I want you so much, nothing else seems to matter.” There’s vulnerability in his eyes, and I’m worried—terrified and elated—over what he will say next. “Merri, I—”
“Don’t say it!” I say shrilly.
And he gets it: that I’m telling him not to love me. I know he gets it, because his face crumples. His right hand drops down to his side and as he looks at me, his features harden, showing an instant of anger before settling on something that is terribly, wrenchingly sad.
“I don’t say anything I don’t mean,” he says softly.
And that’s a shame—because in another universe, maybe we end up together.
I step to him and kiss his sweet mouth one more time. “Thank you,” I choke out. “Thank you so much, Cross.” I kiss his jaw, and then I go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I lie there for a long time. On my back, staring at the ceiling. There’s a fan that’s going ’round and ’round. I try to follow it with my eyes and push my thoughts away, the way Akemi taught me. While my mind is empty, the room goes dark. Next time I notice where I am, my shoulder aches. I have to focus harder to stay empty.
Eventually I get tired of the effort.
Maybe I want to feel the pain.
I turn on my side so I can smell her in the sheets.
Merri. She was right here, only hours ago.
I curl over on my side and put my hand over my face. The ache inside my chest is crushing—much worse than my shoulder. I feel…broken. Almost like when I woke up from the coma.
I wonder if this will ever go away, and then I think I don’t want it to. I’ll take Merri any way I can have her.
I turn from side to side. Minutes feel like hours. I wonder where my shirt is. I wonder who she fucked. I wonder why I don’t care—not at all. I think I know, but I keep the thought away.
I can feel my heartbeat in my shoulder.
Maybe I should go back to the brothel.
Outside, the air has cooled just a bit. I look around, in the grass around the house, but there is no sign of my shirt. I’m shutting the broken door, wondering if Merri will miss me, when I smell smoke. Dinner, I think. I turn toward the main house, and I see smoke, big, dark clouds of it, creeping like fingers between the trees.
Oh, fuck.
I hear screaming before I emerge from the trees, and when my boots hit the soft grass of the long, straight, English-style lawn, there is the brothel: glowing. The fire is contained to one back corner of the main building, but as I begin to run, I can already see it spreading. My heart skips a few beats. What if Merri’s inside sleeping? What time is it?
I don’t see the edge of the pond until I splash into it. I swerve the other way, blinking through the smoke.
Merri. I just need to get to Merri.
Terror fuels me, makes me faster. I’m past the pond. The smoke is thicker. It burns my lungs but I keep moving.
“MERRI!”
I’m still half a football field away from the mansion, but I can see shadowy figures in the smoke.
“MERRI!”
The figures are moving in a group, but I can see from here there’s not that many of them. A dozen? Fewer? Where the fuck is Merri?
The blaze is growing. It has climbed up the left side of the mansion and is eating into the middle.
I pick up speed and try to prepare myself for the possibility of going in. I will, if I can’t find her. And Lizzy and Suri.
Fuck—there’s three of them. I’m near enough to the shadows now that I can see them grouped in a circle.
Someone must be hurt. Otherwise they would be moving farther back. Escaping the smoke that’s so thick here, I’m wheezing.
Not Merri, I tell myself as I come up on them.
“MERRI!” She could be one of the onlookers. She would stick around if someone needed her.
I’m almost to them—maybe ten feet away—when the crowd splits up. One half headed toward the blaze, the other clump of figures moving toward me.
I’m confused. Are they firefighters?
And then, from a small distance, I hear her shrieking, “No!”
I can tell it’s Merri because I’ve heard her voice in every intonation this past week. I’m sure it’s her because the sound makes all my muscles tense.
“MERRI!” I run around the group in front of me, into smoke so thick I can’t see a thing. “MERRI, WHERE ARE YOU?”
“No, Cross, NO!”
It sounds like she’s moving farther away, but I can only see smoke and shadows, black against the brilliant glow of fire. I sprint forward, running into sparks now that are falling from the building, and I hear her shriek again.
With all my strength, I hurl myself into the flames, thinking that I’m running into fire when really the fire is somewhere above me. The first floor, right in front of me, is smoking like a chimney but not burning.
I’m gasping for air, trying to climb inside a broken window with only one working arm, when something grabs me hard from behind and I’m slammed onto the ground.
Before I can get my breath again, I hear a low laugh, and something sharp touches my throat. A second later, a large body drops down over mine.
I note a slew of Spanish words before I see the face, and when I see the face, I don’t think it is real. The man sitting on my chest, holding a knife to my throat and leering at me through a cloud of black smoke… It’s Jesus Cientos.
His blade draws blood. I can feel it run down my neck, onto my shoulders. He presses harder as he glares at me, and I know I’m dead. Then the knife is gone, and he’s slapping me with both hands.
The slaps turn into punches. I try to fight, but he’s got backup—several of hi
s men emerge from the smoke and hold me down. Somewhere near the back of my consciousness, I can hear him giving orders. Talking about the house. The fire. The girl.
I’m trying so hard to stay conscious, I can barely translate.
“…convenient.”
“…whore.”
“…David.”
“…explosives.”
I shut my eyes and wonder: Where is Merri? I remember her voice fading as she neared the flames.
What if Merri’s inside?
I’m opening my mouth to try and make some kind of deal when all of a sudden, all the weight is off me and I’m thrust up to my feet. My lungs are shit. I’m coughing and my knees won’t work.
“Take him,” someone says.
A stronger voice—one I think belongs to Jesus—says, “No. I want to make him watch.”
For a couple of seconds, everyone around me is speaking Spanish: so many voices I can’t translate, especially since I’m coughing out everything I just inhaled. Then something cold and hard is pressed into my neck and someone shoves me forward. We’re marching into the smoke.
I can hear the roar of flames devouring the brothel, even if I can’t see much. Then the smoke clears just a little, and it looks like we’re in hell. I can barely make out bookshelves, partially charred and burning; over to my left, smoke is pouring from an area that I think might have been the bar. The walls are burning—or maybe that’s the curtains. I don’t know, because it’s hard to think with so little oxygen. I’m coughing like crazy. The heat singes my skin, and I hold out my arms as the inferno around me starts to spin. I hope to Christ I don’t pass out before we get to Merri.
I’m shoved once more before the gun pressed into my neck is slammed violently into my eye, and through the blood pouring down my cheek, I can see Jesus looking blurry and angry, framed by smoke. He says something about David. I think I say I’m sorry. I just want to stay on my feet until they take me to Merri.
I pass out for a minute I guess, because when I wake up, we’re standing in front of a burning staircase. I’m irritated. Why are we here? And that’s when I hear Merri screaming.
