by Smoke , Lucy
"Scared?" I taunt.
"Careful," he replies, still watching me.
I shake the open bottle at him. "Or what?" I ask. "You gonna hurt me, D-man?"
Dean's long legs eat up the distance between us, and once more, he's all I can see. He leans down, letting the warmth of his breath wash over my face as his fingers find the neck of the bottle, prying it from my grasp. "Only if you beg me, baby girl."
I blink as he lifts the bottle to his lips. A small trickle of the liquid touches the corner of his mouth as he lowers it and his tongue comes out, flicking against the skin to catch the drop. There's a flash of familiar silver in his mouth. Suddenly, I'm breathing faster, my eyes looking away as I try to find something else to focus on. Something that might cool the inferno he always seems to ignite.
A giggling scream echoes throughout the room, making me jerk around and stare at the window, and I realize it's open, a cool breeze flitting into the dark interior, whispering against the drapes as the sounds of people below lift to our little slice of privacy. The sounds of others enjoying the music and pool down below are muted, but there.
I push Dean back and shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs that he's created in my brain. What wicked webs this man weaves. I should be careful not to get bitten. A thin, limp white cylinder pokes out from beneath the desk, almost completely hidden in shadow and obviously forgotten. Another reason to hate the rich. They're even negligent about their drugs. Their abundance makes them forgetful.
I bend over and pick it up, lifting it into the thin veil of light. "Gotta light?"
He frowns but sets the bottle down on the desk and rounds to the backside of it. I grab it and sink to the floor as I listen to the sounds of him rummaging through the drawers. Seconds later, he snaps one closed and comes around, finding me with my back propped against one of the desk legs. He squats down alongside me and flicks the lighter on, igniting the flame contained within.
Without a thought, I put the closed end of the joint in my mouth and lean into the flame, watching the reflection of the blaze in his eyes until I inhale and feel the soothing effects of the weed start to come over me.
"Ahhhhh." I pull the joint away from my lips as the fire dies, leaving us both in darkness once more. Smoke filters up out of my lips as I exhale. In my chest, a pressure releases. Damn, it's been too long since I've gotten high.
"Want a hit?" I ask, offering it up.
He doesn't hesitate, taking the thing and putting it to his lips like a pro, inhaling and exhaling as he, too, leans back against the wooden desk. "Fuck, Ava..."
I laugh.
Dark eyes re-fixate on me. "What?" he asks.
"You," I say as I lift my shoulder and let it fall again. "It's always 'Fuck, Ava' with you. Both metaphorically and physically."
"Don't act like you don't like it." He takes another hit and hands the joint back.
"Sometimes," I admit. "But other times, it just serves to piss me off."
"You're always pissed off about something," he comments.
"I've had a lot to be pissed off about recently."
Silence. Then, "Yeah, you're right."
We sit like that for a long time, the two of us. Just passing the joint back and forth, pausing every other hit to take more swigs of the whiskey someone left behind. I spot an opened convenience store box of condoms on the floor and laugh. When Dean arches his brow at me, I point it out.
"Looks like this was someone's fuck place," I say. "Wonder how Abel feels about that."
Dean leans back, putting a hand to the side of his neck as he turns his head the opposite way—cracking it. "He doesn't give a shit. If he could burn this place to the ground, I bet he'd do it."
That surprises me. I lower the bottle to the ground and really look at him. "Why do you say that?"
"He grew up here," is all he says. And really, that's all he needs to say. I get it. If I were given the chance to go back and set the trailer where I'd lived almost eighteen years of my life on fire without repercussions, I'd do it in a heartbeat. The only reason I hadn't when I left before was because I'd been too tired. I'd realized that it was never my home to begin with, and whenever Patricia finally crawled out of whatever drug-induced haze with whatever douche she was fucking, she'd need a place to return to. So, I let it be.
To Dean, I choose not to say anything. Instead, I just lift the bottle of whiskey and swallow another mouthful. He reaches forward and plucks the last little nub of a joint from my fingertips.
"So," he says, looking at it and lifting the lighter again, reigniting the dead end. "We need to talk."
"Ahhh. Is that why you brought me up here?" I ask.
He shifts his eyes my way. "Of course."
"The answer's going to be no," I reply.
"You don't even know what I'm going to say," he points out.
"It doesn't matter." I push the whiskey away and cross my legs under me like a grade schooler. "I don't care."
His lips twitch, turning down into a scowl as his eyes harden into a glare. "You need to—"
"No," I interrupt him, meeting his glare with one of my own. "I don't. Whatever it is you think I need to do, say, or agree to—you're wrong. It's better if you just admit that now so we can get this shit out of the way."
"Damn it, Avalon." Another growl from him and a slow, unbothered blink from me.
"What do you want from me, Dean?" I ask. "I mean, what do you really want?" I gesture to the room we're in. "You want me to follow you everywhere you go? Dress up like all the other bitches you've had before? Worship the ground you walk on? Do absolutely everything you tell me to?"
"No—"
"No, because you've had that," I continue, once again, cutting him off. "And even if you did want that, I wouldn't give it to you. You know that. So, what, I wonder, could it be that you truly want?" I shove up onto my knees and flip around until I'm in front of him, straddling his legs.
Ignoring the lit joint in his hand, I shove a hand against the desk on either side of his back and lean into him. "Trust," I answer my own question. "That's what you want from me. You want me to trust you." He doesn't deny my statement. "But a girl like me doesn't trust easily, Dean." And certainly not after what’s happened.
"It'd be safer if you did," he says.
"For who?" I challenge. "You or me?"
This question takes him a moment to answer. "Both," he finally says through gritted teeth as if even the hint of admitting that he needs safety is enough to anger him.
I laugh and push off from the desk, falling back on my ass as my palms find the rough rug beneath us. I stare up at the ceiling, or rather, the chandelier dangling above us. I hadn't even noticed it before. I do now. The glittering clear gems woven into some intricate pattern around a bulb of unlit glass captures my attention.
“If you ever want me to trust you, Dean, then you’re going to actually have to tell me the fucking truth,” I say. “And if you’re not going to do that…” I pause, letting him feel the weight of my words, “then how many people do I have to kill to get you and your boys to leave me alone?” Because I can't hand over my trust to people who don't trust me. And if Dean doesn't give on his end, all that's left for us is the path we're on now. Hatred and opposition.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “One.”
I frown, the fast answer surprising. I jerk my gaze down from the chandelier back to his face. “Only one?” I clarify with an arched brow.
Dean moves slowly towards me, pushing me back until my back hits the floor. He gets to his knees and spreads my legs until he’s kneeling between them. I watch with rapt fascination and consternation as he lifts the last bit of the joint to his lips and inhales what's left. The red end flares and then dies as the joint shrivels until it's nothing but a nub. He grinds it out against what has to be an expensive rug, but I get the feeling that if Abel cared about this place, they wouldn't use it as a party palace. And if Abel cared, Dean wouldn't treat it like it's nothing but a dump—despite the
fact that it's filled with priceless things. After all, he said as much. Abel would gladly burn this mansion to the ground. From the ghetto to Eastpoint, if I've learned anything, it's that things—no matter how expensive—don't make people happy.
“Only one,” he confirms. “Me. Because that’s the only way you’ll get me to stay away from you, Avalon.”
10
Dean
Avalon stares at me as I touch her cheek then skim my fingers along her face until they sink into the depths of her dark hair. Using my hold there, I grip her fast and yank back. I’m so fucking tired of holding back that it makes me rougher than I should be. I know I should go slower, be gentler, but she’s not pushing me away. She’s not telling me no. She’s not stopping me. Her lids fall, almost completely closed except for the slits that remain to glare up at me. She doesn't say anything. Doesn't give me a verbal yes or a no. For her, this is a yes. A no from Avalon is the business end of a gun to the face or a knife to the throat. Since she’s not doing either, she’s saying yes. And that’s all I need.
My mouth crashes onto hers, and she tastes like the same weed we've both been smoking and the same whiskey we've both been drinking. It's nothing like heaven and everything like hell. My hand falls away from her hair as I reach for her thighs, gripping her there and jerking her forward and up until she's sitting on my lap again. Me on my knees and her covered pussy on my thighs. I wrap my arms around her back, holding her chest to mine as my lips devour hers.
She pulls away after a moment and stares at me. "This doesn't mean shit," she says quickly as if she needs to get the words out as fast as possible before she can rethink them. Before she can taste the lie on her tongue.
Because that’s what it fucking is—a lie. She thinks this doesn’t mean shit? It means everything. She means everything. I touch her legs, my fingers digging into her flesh almost out of a punishing desire to make her hurt just for uttering those words. I urge her to wrap her thighs around me, and like the good girl, I know she can be—though God knows she rarely is—Avalon does. I move one foot under me, and then the next, and fast as lightning, I spin and set her down on the desk—once Lionel Frazier's own home office, now nothing but a relic. A relic I fully intend on using to bring Avalon as close to orgasm as I can … over and over again. I want to hold her captive there—on the brink, on the edge—until there’s no possible way she can leave this room without a little reminder of me in the soreness of her limbs. Even if she doesn’t take it as a mark of my possession, I will.
"Why the fuck didn't you wear a damn dress?" I mutter as I press an open-mouthed kiss to her neck and suck the skin between my teeth, biting down lightly and leaving a mark behind.
She chuckles, her hands moving into my hair, gripping the strands. "And make things easy on you?" she replies. "Not a chance."
No, of course not. Avalon’s not an easy girl. She’s the hardest woman I’ve ever chased. The only thing I’ve ever fucking tried to grasp that didn’t come to me at the snap of my fingers. I find the waistband of her jeans, popping the button and lowering the zipper. I strip the confining fabric down her thighs, releasing a low growl when I realize her boots are still on. Fuck. This girl is going to kill me.
Grabbing her arms, I yank Avalon off the desk, and then before she can say anything, I spin her around and push her over the desk. “What are you doing?” she snaps as her fingers curl around the opposite end. She doesn’t sound angry, merely curious.
For a second, I’m transfixed by the sight of her ass bent over the glass surface of the desk. “Dean?” The sound of her voice draws me back to the present.
“Hold still,” I say, reaching into my pocket and withdrawing the pocket knife I usually carry with me. Her head turns, the soft cascade of her dark hair sliding over her pale skin as she watches me flick the blade open. She doesn’t flinch or jump. Not a single tic on her expression reveals whether she’s nervous or not.
The sharp side of the knife slides under the straps of her underwear, and I cut them loose and pull them from her body, tucking them into my back pocket. Maybe it makes me a fucking pervert for wanting to keep them, but fuck, I like the idea of her walking around without her underwear on. It’d be even better if she was wearing a dress.
I stand back, looking down at her backside. With her legs pressed together, held immobile by the pants around her calves, she’s like a sacrificial offering. My fingers trail across the top of her ass before slowly dipping down into her crack. My fingers skim across her asshole, and she stiffens. I grin. She doesn’t know it, but I want that too. Not now, but eventually, there will be nothing of her that I haven’t had.
My fingers move lower. I need to make sure. I need to know, and yes … she enjoys this too. Her pussy is fucking ripe. Wet and weeping. Juice slicks against my fingers as I push them into her. A soft sigh of pleasure escapes her mouth, but I don’t want soft sighs. My knees hit the floor behind her, and she jumps as I pull my fingers from her pussy and use my hands to separate her cheeks.
Leaning forward, I blow a steady stream of air across her clit. A slightly louder moan erupts from her mouth. Better, but not quite what I want. My lips find her labia. I tongue one side and then down the other, sliding the tip through her wetness. A harder groan leaves her. My head moves in, and I bury my face into her pussy,
My tongue slips between her folds to find her little clit, pulsing as I lave it with attention. The longer I go, the louder her noises get. Sighs to moans to groans. Her hips bump back as she pushes herself onto my face. I use the bar through my tongue, sliding it up and down over her clit and through her pussy. I wish I’d thought to buy a vibrating tongue ring for just this moment. I feel overwhelmed by her, loving the goddamn demand of her body as she seeks out her orgasm.
I clamp my lips around that little nub of hers and suck hard, eliciting a soft scream—one of both pleasure and anger when I let go of it just before her release catches her in its grip. I grin as she starts cussing and rub my face against her inner thigh. She could be trembling because of how close she came to creaming all over my face, or she could just be shaking from the sensation of the stubble on my chin so close to her naughty little pussy.
“You fucking asshole,” she hisses.
“Do you want something, baby?” I ask, whispering the words against her wet flesh.
She huffs out a breath, lifting up on the desk by her elbows and forearms, turning to look back at me on my knees. “You get off on torture, don’t you?” she asks instead of answering.
A smile breaks through my features as I lean back and stare back at her. “Only with you, Avalon.” She makes me wild. Incapable of thinking clearly.
I get off my knees and lean over her, pressing my chest along her spine. I feel her inhale as I slowly slip two fingers back into her pussy. My thumb comes to rest on her asshole. “Want to make a bet?” I offer, leaving my fingers there—just inside her filthy wet cunt.
It takes a moment for her to answer, and when she does, she sounds breathless. I like it. “What kind of bet?” she asks.
“If you come on my fingers in less than two minutes, you’ll return the favor.”
She snorts. “You want me to put my fingers in your ass too, D-man?”
I chuckle and use my free hand to reach around her head. She jerks as my fingers touch her lips, but her mouth opens, and I push them inside. “Oh no, baby, I want you to take my cock inside this sweet place right here.” She sucks my fingers, rolling her tongue around and between them, wetting them. “Deal?”
“Under two minutes?” she clarifies as I pull free from her lips and switch sides, replacing the fingers in her pussy with the same fingers she’d just sucked off.
“Under two minutes,” I agree.
She’s breathing hard. The sound of air sliding in and out from between those lush lips the only thing I want to hear, the only thing I can hear despite the window still being open. I’m sure there’s more noise coming from the party down below, but I’m so wrapped up in her I
can’t decipher it.
“Okay,” she says, tensing up.
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl.”
She arches her back and looks back at me. “Let’s see what you’ve got, D-man,” she issues her challenge. “Rock my world.”
With pleasure, I think. I pull my fingers free, sliding them in and out, but I already know what I’m doing. Did she really think I’d just been fingering her for the fun of it? No. I was searching for that g-spot of hers, and I’d found it. I rub the pads of my two fingers against that secret spot inside of her, feeling the automatic, uncontrollable reaction that rolls through her body. I won’t need two minutes. I might not even need one.
I pause with my fingers against that spot, pressing down and rubbing slowly, and then I pull my fingers back until they’re just at the entrance of her channel. Her inner walls clamp down, and I watch her face carefully. It’s hard to see all of it with her turned towards the windows, but if I look up, I can see her reflection. Teeth flash as she hisses and bites down on her lower lip.
One second. Two. Three.
“Fuck, are you going to do something or not?” she snaps.
Just what I was waiting for. My fingers slam back into her pussy, and then I’m jackhammering them. In and out, faster than I’ve ever even pumped my own dick. And each time I shove into her, I hit that g-spot of hers. She gasps, her mouth popping open in the window’s reflection, and her walls clamp down harder with each withdrawal. The grip of her pussy sucks on my digits, trying to keep me there. On the next push, instead of merely letting the pad of my thumb tap against her back door, I shove it in. Two fingers in her pussy and a thumb in her ass.
“Fuck!” She screams as an orgasm consumes her. She clenches against my hand, a gush of wetness coating my palm as I bring her right to the edge and let her go over. Avalon’s hips swivel as she grinds against my fingers and hand. I lean over and lick the outer shell of her ear.
