by Jade West
She nods. Smiles. Threads her dainty little fingers in my hair.
She’s so naked under me, so pretty in the lamplight. I’m well aware that I’m still clothed, well aware of how badly I’m craving the softness of her poor bruised tits against my skin.
But I can’t.
Not until she knows my secrets.
If she ever knows my secrets.
It would be so easy to kiss her. So easy to throw the shirt off my back and dive all the way in.
I do neither.
Her eyes widen like pretty white saucers as I force the head of my cock into her puckered hole.
Steady.
So fucking steady.
My jaw is tight as I ease my way in. My weight is on my elbows and my face is right in hers.
The first barbell tugs as it pushes through, even slicked up with lube. She flinches as it sinks deeper.
“I’m scared,” she whispers. “This is really gonna hurt.”
She closes her eyes as I push forward. Her ass is like a vice as the second and third piercings push inside.
Her breath is ragged against my lips.
“Bad?” I ask.
She whimpers and nods.
I’m careful with the fourth, barely moving at all.
It feels like fucking heaven when the fifth slides in and her ass opens up to take me.
“I feel so full,” she whispers.
“Not full enough.” I ease in the final inch or so and she groans. My balls are tight against her bare ass, I’m in deep enough that the thought nearly sends me over the edge.
Her eyes are still right on mine as I rock my hips. Her breath is jagged against my lips as I sink into rhythm.
Steady, so fucking steady. The lube is slick but her ass is tight.
“Ow, fuck,” she hisses as I pick it up a gear.
“Don’t fight,” I tell her again and press my forehead to hers.
“Kiss me,” she whispers.
“You don’t want to kiss a monster. Believe me,” I tell her.
I shunt hard in her ass to take the idea away.
“I don’t understand you,” she whispers. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“Don’t try.”
“You have secrets, don’t you?” she continues, and I contemplate ramming my filthy cock down her throat just to shut her pretty mouth up. “They’re bad, aren’t they?”
“We all have secrets, Abigail. If you want to tell me yours while my dick stretches your ass open, then go ahead.”
She tips her head to the side, and that suits me just fine. I nip her ear until she shivers. Kiss her neck until she’s forgotten how to speak.
“Hurting?” I ask again, and she moans.
I slide out all the way and she whimpers at the ridges. She braces herself as I push back in.
She’s as open as she’ll ever be, as ready as I can make her.
“Gonna fuck you, hard,” I tell her, and the way she tenses is divine.
She cries out as I slam in, shivers as her ass squelches on my way out.
“You wanted a monster,” I breathe and shunt so hard the bed rattles. “You’ll feel me for fucking days.”
Three deep slams and she’s spluttering. Three more and I’m wound too tight to stop.
Her nails dig into my back. They graze my scars through my shirt and I turn wild, pounding her ass like I’m punishing her.
Maybe I am.
It sends her as feral as me.
Her hands find my bare ass and grip for dear fucking life. Her forehead presses tight to my shoulder.
And then she bites me, latching on to my shoulder through fabric.
I spit curses into her ear as she whimpers. Change angle until she lets go enough to scream my name.
And then I pin her. Hard. My fingers grip her chin and hold her steady, big scared eyes so close to mine.
“Beg me to stop.”
She shakes her head.
The girl is fucking insane, but so am I.
Insane enough that I tumble across another fucking line.
My mouth is already open as it fixes on hers. My tongue is fierce as it hunts hers down.
She moans as she kisses me back, grips my ass harder as she urges me on.
She tastes like pain and fear and oblivion. She tastes like a disaster waiting to happen.
She tastes like devil’s blood and quicksand. Like the broken fucking parts of me.
Like I’m burning all over again.
Like she’s life itself.
“Don’t stop,” she hisses into my open mouth. “Fuck me.”
She comes as I do, her pussy pressed tight to hard flesh. Grinding. Bucking and hissing and spluttering and fucking begging.
My cock is all the way in when I blow.
I unload deep. Really fucking deep.
My tongue is in her mouth as the world spins. My pulse is in my ears as her hands slip under my shirt and up my back.
I’ve moved before she can feel; pulled away before she can touch.
Her eyes widen as I recoil from her, limbs flailing to cover her exposed body, like she needs to. Like I want that.
“What?” she asks. “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” I lie, but I’m an ocean away. She grapples with the bedcovers, trying to pull them over herself.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I insist, but she’s buying none of it.
“You didn’t have to kiss me if you didn’t want to,” she says, and I feel like a cunt.
“Oh, I wanted to,” I tell her, even though she doesn’t believe me.
I shove my dick back in my jeans and zip myself up. She looks horrified.
I feel horrified myself.
The words are a jumble in my throat. I don’t even know where to begin the terrible fucking tale of woe.
So I don’t.
“You were perfect,” I tell her. “This is all on me.”
“So, what happens now? You just disappear again?”
I sigh. “Maybe I’ll turn up with flowers and knock next time. Would that be better?”
She doesn’t smile like I’d hoped.
She’s tense as I lean forward enough to plant a kiss on her forehead.
“I have secrets,” I tell her. “But they’re not for now.”
“When?” she asks as I get up from the bed.
I grab my jacket from the floor. “Soon.”
“Soon?”
“Yes, Abigail. Soon.”
She pulls her knees to her chest really fucking slowly. Leans on her arm as she stares. “You don’t have a wife, do you? Please tell me you don’t.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think I’ve got a fucking wife? Please.”
“Wouldn’t be the first fucking time,” she hisses, and shifts her gaze to the ceiling.
“Is that what happened to you? He had a wife?”
She laughs a hollow laugh. “Lots of things happened to me, Leo. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the whole truth, it seems.”
“I haven’t got a wife,” I tell her. “I’m not with anyone. I’m not lying about anything.”
Her eyes meet mine. “Good.”
I check the time on my phone. Late. Really fucking late.
I gesture to the wide open curtains. “You probably want to close those before you get up.”
She flashes a smile, at least for a moment. “Anyone out there will have seen enough already, don’t you think?”
“Better than pay-per-view. Maybe we should give them a regular time slot.” I dig my keys from my pocket.
“Don’t leave it weeks next time. A couple of days should see me walking vaguely normally again.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.” I smirk.
And then I go.
Twenty-Seven
I do not deal with threats and ultimatums.
Yair Lapid
Phoenix
I’ll tell her everything. The whole sorry tale.
I’ll show her everyth
ing.
Soon.
And maybe, just maybe, our broken parts will fit together enough to fix us both.
It’s a longshot, but isn’t it always.
I’m still on high alert as I slip back out the way I came in. I make sure the entrance door is locked just as I found it, and then I cross the street to my truck with one last glance up at her living room window.
I don’t know what it is that first sends a shiver up my spine. Some early cognition of being watched, or maybe the familiar hulk of a vehicle parked just down the street from mine.
I’ve only just ventured close enough to read the license plate when I hear his footsteps behind me. I’d recognise that gait anywhere.
Any-fucking-where.
His voice is slurred and spitting rage when it comes.
“Barely a fucking year and you’ve moved on like she was fucking nothing.”
He’s not expecting the full force of my weight as I shunt him backwards. Not prepared for the venom with which I lift him clean off the ground and slam him up against his truck.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Jake?”
He swings for me but misses. “I fucking followed you, you stupid cunt. Wanted to see where you fucking went.”
“That’s bullshit,” I snarl. “I’d have clocked your fucking truck a mile away.”
His eyes are like coals. “You’ve got a fucking tracker, asshole.”
“Great. Congratulations, you found me on GPS. And now you can go on your fucking way.”
“What’s her name?”
My pulse is frantic. Icy. “She’s none of your fucking business.”
He sneers. “She’s everyone’s fucking business tonight. The building opposite has fucking scaffolding. I’ve seen the dirty little slut’s pounded fucking asshole already, what’s in a fucking name?”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
But he doesn’t. He never does. “No wonder Mariana wanted out. No wonder she begged me to take her. You’re a filthy fucking animal. Always fucking have been.”
“Watch it,” I snarl. “Just fucking watch what you’re fucking saying.”
He manages to slip his hand under mine, twists hard enough to shake me off. I watch him stumble a few paces, cursing the fact I ever fucking dragged him out of that fire.
He gestures up at the window. “Like her, do you? Wanna play happy families with her? You, her and my boy?”
“For the thousandth fucking time, Jake. He’s not your fucking boy.”
He jabs a finger at me. “That’s for the fucking paternity test to decide.”
I close the distance between us, ignoring the fact his fists are raised. “There’s not gonna be a fucking paternity test. You’re a fucking drunk, Jake. A bitter fucking drunk who wants to torch the whole fucking world with your misery. Do us all a fucking favour and either go fucking join her, or sort your fucking life out.”
He points at Abigail’s window. “Like you have, you mean? Got yourself a pretty new thing to make yourself feel better? This one gonna end up in her grave in a few years too?”
I take a breath before I tear his fucking limbs off. “Get a fucking cab and go home. I’ll get one of the guys to pick your fucking truck up in the morning.”
“PATERNITY TEST!” he yells. “I WANT THAT FUCKING TEST!”
I stare him out. Wonder for the thousandth fucking time what happened to the brother I grew up with.
I feel as fucking poisoned as he is. Just being around him makes me feel fucking cursed.
He struggles to light a cigarette. I struggle to bear fucking watching him. “I want to see the boy.”
I shake my head at his fucking audacity. “I want an island in the Caribbean, Jake. Not gonna fucking happen.”
“That boy is mine and you know it. You’ve always known it.”
I tip my head. “So Cameron is yours, and Mariana was yours. What about the business? Is that yours too? How about my fucking living room carpet? My fucking cutlery? All fucking yours or what, Jake? Because from what I’m fucking seeing, the only things you’ve ever really been interested in are mine.”
“Bullshit.”
“You want my fucking jacket? My truck?” I take a step forward. “How about my fucking scars too, Jake? Fancy having those? You’d be fucking welcome to them.”
“You got off lightly.”
“Sure I fucking did,” I sneer. “It’s a walk in the fucking park. My life’s a bed of fucking roses.”
He takes a drag. “You may have scars outside.” He taps his head. “But I’ve got scars inside.”
“We’ve all got scars in here, Jake.” I tap my own head. “Cameron still wets the fucking bed half of the fucking week. Serena’s brain’s fucking addled with all this shit.”
He gestures back to Abigail’s building. “Does she know?”
“About what?”
“About the fucking fire, Leo. Does she know what you did to Mariana?” I don’t even grace him with an answer. He grins a sour fucking grin at me. “Oh, she doesn’t. Fucking surprise.”
“Mariana was off the rails.”
“Because of you.”
I shake my head. “Because of her, Jake. She was off the rails long before I came along. Long before we ever had Cam. And you fucking know it.”
“You don’t deserve another shot,” he snarls. “You don’t deserve anything.”
“So you keep fucking telling me. Why don’t you look at yourself instead, Jake? You might fucking learn something.”
“Give me that paternity test, Leo, or I swear you’ll rue the fucking day you turned me down.”
I shoulder him on my way past. “Hold your fucking breath until I call.”
“Next week,” he snarls as he tosses his cigarette away. “You’ve got until next fucking week, Leo, and then I’m coming for what’s mine.”
My voice is low and deadly. I mean every word I say. “If you come anywhere near my son, or my house, or the business, or Abigail, I’ll fucking kill you.”
He fishes his keys from his pocket. I should call the police and have him arrested for his own fucking good, but he’d just do it again tomorrow.
“Abigail,” he says, and I curse my mouth. He hauls himself into his truck and turns the ignition. I find myself hoping he drives into a fucking quarry on his way home. “Next week,” he repeats. “Or you’ll fucking regret it.”
“Sleep it off,” I tell him. “Have a fucking shower. Get your sad life sorted, Jake.”
I stand in the road to watch him away. His truck swerves a little before he speeds out of view.
I call up his tracker on my mobile and assign it to favourites. Even having him in that list is fucking sickening. I wait until he’s long back on the Worcester road before I head back to my own truck.
And I resolve to call my fucking lawyer first thing in the morning.
Twenty-Eight
Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky.
Rabindranath Tagore
Abigail
“He turned up again, then?” Lauren’s eyes sparkle as she props herself against my desk. I play dumb, my face as impassive as I can make it until she tuts at me. “Leo,” she says. “He turned up, right?”
I can’t stop the grin. “What makes you say that?”
She gestures to the open office. “Uh, hello. You’re beaming across the whole building this morning. Only one thing that gets a girl limping like that on a coffee round.”
She really has no idea how much effort it’s taking to walk at all. I put down my paperwork. “He may have turned up again.”
My very expressive friend raises her hands to the sky. “Halleluiah. I knew he’d be back. The guy looked at you like I look at greasy fries after a night clubbing. Praise be for online dating and the slim odds,” she raises a finger, “and I do mean slim, of finding an actual hottie in the ether.”
“I guess fate threw me a break.” My cheeks are burning up. Th
e urge to laugh at life’s craziness fizzes in my throat.
“Lucky bitch,” Kelly calls in my direction as she heads to the meeting room. “I’d ride that stallion all night long. Yeehaw.”
I doubt that very much. Not if she wanted to be vaguely mobile anytime the week following.
“Did he bring you flowers?” Lauren asks. “Chocolates to soften the blow of radio silence?”
I shake my head. “Somehow I don’t think he’s much of a flowers and chocolates kinda guy.”
She sighs. “He doesn’t need to be. He’s all darkness and brawn and pure, hot man flesh.”
“He’s definitely all of those things, yeah,” I agree. And secrets, and pain, and kisses that taste like thunder.
“Will he be with you at Diva’s on Thursday?”
I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
She rolls her eyes. “Maybe you guys should try a little communication alongside your more physical activities. Guy has a phone, right?”
My skin prickles. “Yes. He does.”
“So call him. Ask him. Demand him to get his bloody dancing shoes on and come out for a good time.”
If only. I stumble over a lacklustre excuse. “We, um… prefer things to be spontaneous…”
I’m relieved when her phone extension summons her back to her own desk. “Call him!” are her parting words.
I think I’ll give that advice a miss. I’ll just be glad if he shows up at all. Diva’s or no.
There are some distinct downsides to his random appearances. Not least that I’ve been wearing some pretty awesome outfits for his benefit, only to have him show up when I’m in my plain Jane nightwear with my hair piled on my head.
I’d invite him along to our summer barbeque if I could face it. The gaudy affair is billed to be the event of the century. Dress to impress and all that jazz.
It only feels like yesterday I was dreading the whole sorry affair and everything that went along with it. Now I’m pretty much as hyped about it as everyone else in this place.
Lauren is wearing her old prom dress with a fascinator she bought for a wedding and never went to. Kelly is wearing a ballgown she bought for her ex’s Christmas ball last winter. Kathleen from the management team has gone all out designer couture by all accounts. Won’t even show anyone a sneak preview.
