Touch Me

by Kayla C. Oliver

  Kayla C. Oliver

  Chapter One

  Camille

  I’m shaking. I’m so mad, so hurt.

  “What are you trying to say?” I ask Jackson, studying his chocolate brown eyes like he’s going to say something that’ll change my life.

  He’s calm as he runs a hand through his douchebag haircut. He’s wearing those skinny jeans I hate and those glasses I know he only wears to look cool. “You’re an ice queen,” he says, blowing his breath out like he’s vaping on the back patio.

  “Because I won’t have sex with you?” He’s got me all wrong. He has to. I’m not an ice queen. I’m not a prude. Am I?

  “Well, yeah. And because you won’t do fun shit with me,” he says, his fingers finding his phone screen where it sits on the table in front of him. The party invite is there. He’d asked me. I’d turned him down, but not because I don’t want to have fun.

  Because I’m studying for finals.

  Or… I was studying for finals.

  Something snaps in my mind. I was taught to be this. To be perfect. To be pretty. To be sweet. To be loveable. I was top of my high school class. I studied hard, I worked at making sure my hair was pretty, my skin was flawless, and my clothes were fashionable, but not too flashy.

  I didn’t overdo it. I didn’t show off. I was perfect.

  “So you’re breaking up with me because I won’t party with you or put out?” I ask, finalizing it all in my head. Even as I want to scream and cry, I feel a steely fist closing around those emotions. Before he can answer, I seal my fate. “Fuck you, Jackson. Fuck you and your stupid haircut. Fuck you and your hipster bullshit. You’re not sensitive, or deep. You’re just a stupid prick who only wants to get laid.”

  With that, I’m on my feet and out the door of his shitty apartment that I’d tried to convince myself was charming.

  Tears fill my eyes, but I blink them back. I had worked hard on my makeup. It’s not worth ruining it for him. I head towards home, feeling pain and fury eating at my stomach lining like so much bile. And a plan forms.

  I’m not going to class.

  I’m tired of being perfect. I’m tired of trying to live for other people. I’m tired of doing what I’m supposed to do. I’m tired of being perfect.

  As I open the door to my apartment, I pull off my shirt and let it drop to the floor. My skirt follows. In only my pretty lavender underwear, I stop before my full length mirror. My best friend, Amber, had left a note written in red lipstick on the mirror.

  Camille, I love you! Good luck on your finals!

  Boy is she going to be surprised.

  They’re all going to be surprised. With sure hands, I grab that red dress that’s much too short. Taking off my cute underwear, I pull on the dress with nothing underneath.

  I’m a prude, huh?

  My hands make quick work of my makeup, darkening the eyeliner and making my lips a deeper red. My blue eyes look wild, troubled, and beautiful. But not perfect.

  Pulling my black hair free of the bun I’d wound it up in, I let it tumble free. The thick locks are heavy and have just a hint of a natural curl at the ends. With my short dress, I look… sexy. Naughty.

  Not like an ice queen.

  I stand before the house. It’s more like a castle. No, more modern than a castle. More like a modern mansion. I know the owner by reputation alone. Dakin Dark is the son of an oil tycoon, but he’s made himself. With his own business in real estate, he’s built an empire that rivals his father’s.

  And he is every inch the bad boy his name implies. The rumor mill whispers that he loves and leaves ladies, never having the same one twice. Perfect.

  This is where the party is. Where Jackson will be. But he won’t be expecting me.

  I walk in the door and a drink is instantly thrust into my hand by a guy looking me up and down like I’m a tasty treat he’s been craving. Perfect Camille doesn’t drink. She knows it kills brain cells and lowers inhibitions.

  But I’m done being perfect.

  I take the shot and cover my mouth as the burn ignites my nose, throat, and belly like I’ve consumed liquid fire.

  “All right,” the guy says, nodding at me. I smile and push into the crowded room. All around people sit, talking, smoking, and drinking. There are several pool tables set up and I see Jackson on the other side of the room.

  His eyes are on me, but I ignore him and take another shot. This guy doesn’t smile at me. No, he looks at me like he’d love nothing more than to rip me apart. But he passes me another drink and I take it, trying not to cough at the sting.

  Warmth hits me first, and I know I’ve had too much, too fast.

  But it feels… good.

  Another guy grabs my hand and spins me like we’re in a ballroom. “You’re good on your feet,” he says, pulling me close to whisper in my ear.

  “Not just on my feet,” I whisper, and his eyes narrow.

  Someone else walks up and I face the new stranger. Why didn’t I do this before? These guys are incredible looking, so damn sexy, and not like the stupid, immature Jackson. They seem like they might actually know a thing or two about women.

  The warmth becomes a giddy sense as music begins to rumble the floor and an AC-DC song comes on. I find myself on the table, but how I got there is hazy. But all eyes are on me, and I know my dress is too short.

  But there’s Jackson, watching me with a look I’ve never seen in his eyes before.

  Fuck him.

  The music beckons, and I dance, feeling so very sexy, so incredible, so imperfect.

  Chapter Two

  Dakin

  My phone lights up and I see the video text and open it. I know of the beauty dancing on the table, but I’ve never seen her like this. Another text follows it.

  She’s 18.

  I’m quick to respond. Thanks, Jake.

  Jake’s always had my back. He knows that if word gets out that I’ve got a drunk girl who’s too young to drink, things will get ugly. And while I could easily pay off whatever officer who drops by, I don’t want that kind of thing on my head.

  I’m quick to get to my feet and take the stairs two and three at a time. In the main room, I scan and see her still dancing on the table. I can see her legs clear up to her hips, and when she grabs the little skirt to swish it a little bit, I catch a glimpse of her cute, shaved little pussy. It’s a shock, but I shove away the thought. My cock pulses, and I wrap up in steely control.

  I’m not controlled by my body.

  On the other side of the room, I see him. Jackson, watching Camille. Beyond the obvious lust in his gaze, I see something darker. Murder. I’ve never liked the little fuckwit, hipster wannabe. He’s one of those guys who tries to pretend to be hard while being a little bitch.

  With quick strides, I walk up to the pool table and press my shoulder to Camille’s thighs. With one hand around the back of her legs, I pull her off the table. She folds over my shoulder and I carry her like a caveman back toward the stairs and up to my cave.

  She should know better.

  As I walk, she’s raining blows on my back and trying to kick her legs. But with her bent over me like this, she’s unable to get leverage, and her pitiful hits aren’t enough to actually hurt me. I walk up the stairs with her. She’s such a tiny thing; I don’t even start breathing heavy.

  In my room, I drop her on the bed, then internally curse myself. I never bring girls to my room. What am I thinking?

  But she looks up at me with those big, blue eyes, her face white as a sheet. “How dare you,” she whispers, her beautiful eyes welling up with tears that only seem to fuel her anger. “If you touch me, I’ll scream--”

  “I’m not going to touch you, princess,” I say, locking the door behind me. She looks so delicious on my bed. There’s an innocence to her as she sits, thighs pressed together, one foot drawn up a bit more than the other, her ankles shoulder width apart.

  But I’m not looking up her skirt. I’m looking into those incredible blue
eyes, thinking about how this girl isn’t the perfect Camille I remember from the days my sister was in high school. What happened to her to destroy her so thoroughly?

  “I’m not drunk,” she says, as if suddenly certain that’s what I’m upset about.

  She’s partially right. “But you were drinking,” I say, and her incredible eyes fill with shame.

  “I was. But I’m not drunk.” She seems focused on that one little detail like it can save her. “I was kind of hoping to see you,” she says, a shy note in her soft voice.

  Instantly, my hackles rise. Why? Why did she want to see me? We know each other in passing, and only because my younger sister and she were somewhat friends. Not close friends. Not good friends. Just… kind of friends. I don’t pretend to understand the minefield woman call friendship. It’s not like the friendships I’ve come to enjoy over the years. Jake and I would take bullets for one another. Women, though, seem more likely to shoot one another over an offhanded comment.

  She’s watching me, as if looking for some acknowledgement to her comment. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction.

  But she doesn’t seem to need it.

  “You’re the perfect guy to be the next notch in my belt,” she says, and I feel humor rising within. But I keep it carefully locked away. I’m interested in where she’s going with this because I know for a fact she’s a virgin.

  Thanks to that hipster shithead, Jackson.

  But she keeps talking. “You’re so sexy, and I hear big,” her eyes drop to my cock, “things about you.” She licks her lips and I feel the urge to push her down and show her she’s playing with fire.

  But I don’t. She’s been drinking. I don’t fuck drunk virgins, no matter how hard they try to convince me they’re not really drunk.

  I’m not a fucking rapist. Consent requires two clear headed, straight thinking adults. I’m not a god damned saint, but I’m not that kind of monster, either.

  My phone chimes and I take it out of my pocket.

  Jake’s text is on the screen. Fuckwit is making a scene.

  Thanks. I shoot back.

  Throw him out?

  Nah. I want to see how this plays out. I know Jake means well, but Jackson gives me a bad feeling, and I learned long ago to trust those feelings. They usually saved my ass in one way or another.

  “I’ve got something more interesting than your phone,” Camille says, and I glance up at her. Her hand is on her thigh and she’s drawing the red skirt of her dress up inch by inch. Her red lips are pouty, and the darkness around her eyes brings out their striking blue.

  Every bit of my body responds to her, but I shake my head. I’m not going to fuck her. No matter how much I might want to.

  But it’s quickly becoming clear that maybe I should send her home. Still, I want to make sure that Jackson isn’t going to do anything stupid. With another glance at the beautiful offer before me, I take a deep breath. This is going to be harder than I thought.

  Chapter Three

  Camille

  He’s so damned sexy. From the smoldering blue of his eyes to the thick, dark hair that’s lit blue in the depths of the black, to the thick fringe of eyelashes that line his eyes, to the slashing eyebrows that make him look almost angry, he’s drool-worthy.

  Much more so than I remember.

  But he’s not focused on me anymore. He’s back to his phone like it’s more interesting than I am.

  “You know,” I say, rising up to my hands and knees. I wait until he looks at me to begin to crawl toward him in the sexiest way I can possibly manage. “You locked the door. Are you sure you didn’t plan something…” I lower my voice to a purr, “else?” I say. My tongue traces my lower lips and the sting of liquor eases a bit more.

  His eyes follow my tongue and I know he’s warming up. But I want him out of the layers he’s wearing. That white shirt isn’t a huge barrier, but it’s struggling to conceal the power of his thick, strong arms.

  His chest is clearly defined and I can see the outline of his abs as he stretches a bit and takes a step back. His eyes narrow a bit and I sense he’s weakening even more.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he says again as if that is a reason to say no.

  I sigh, feeling like I’m fighting a losing battle. How could I ever think I could be anything other than perfect, little virgin Camille? I’m such an idiot.

  Besides, he’s the big, bad Dakin Dark. What does he care if I’ve had a few drinks? Can’t he tell that I want to stop being perfect, little Camille? I don’t want to be that sweet, innocent girl anymore. Can’t he tell that I want him to act on that expression I keep seeing behind his eyes? The one that’s all lust and tightly wound control?

  I am not going to cry in front of him. As I sink back onto my backside, I sit, feeling miserable. If he doesn’t want me, I’ll go find someone else, then. “Fine,” I say, shocked at the petty, rebellious note in my voice. “I’ll find someone else who wants to fuck me. There’s a bunch of cute guys downstairs.”

  I feel him tense up and know I’ve struck a nerve.

  “Camille,” he says softly, and I look up into those penetrating, blue eyes that promise they know all my secrets. “I know you’re a virgin.”

  Anger combusts in me like a match dropped into a lake of gasoline. “What?” I say, anger and shock darkening the word. “What, are you some stalker or something?” The accusation doesn’t even make him blink.

  “You’re a damned pervert, right? Peeking into my bedroom windows at night and stuff?” My anger doesn’t seem to have an effect on him and I get out of his bed to poke an angry finger into his chest. But damn does it feel like I’m prodding steel. “Does your mother know you’re a sick peeping Tom?” I ask.

  Suddenly, his fingers lock around my wrist and he twists my arm behind my back. I gasp as his hips press me forward and I find myself pinned between him and the bed. I lean forward in a feeble attempt to escape his grasp on my arm, but he’s got me tight.

  And suddenly, I realize his hips are pressed tight to me. And there’s a hardness that my instincts tell me is his cock, rock hard, pressed into the cleft of my ass. A moan leaves my lips and I know I’m at his mercy.

  And it’s fucking sexy.

  He hauls me up and his free hand grabs my chin, holding my back flush with his front. His voice is little more than a growl in my ear, and I feel my knees weaken. “I’m not a fucking peeper.”

  I want to agree, to admit I don’t really think he is either, but only a moan leaves my traitorous lips. It feels so good to have him against me like this, I can’t even think straight. I can feel my skirt riding up my hips as I struggle a bit and he holds me captive.

  I want to press back on his cock, want to feel him push me down and shove it deep inside me. The warmth combusting in my belly becomes a tingling in the delicate vee between my legs.

  “Say it,” he growls, and I whimper.

  “You’re…” My breathless voice sounds sexy even to my ears. “Not…” I suck in a deep breath as I feel his cock pulse against my ass. “A peeper.” This has got to be the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced. Being at his mercy, doing as I’m told. It’s a drug that’s wholly intoxicating, and I have a feeling it’s addictive as hell.

  And I sense he’s not willing to let me go. I feel his breath on my ear, feel his forearm clamping down on my chest, and feel his heart slamming against my back. My own heart is racing at a breakneck pace that’s leaving me dizzy and I’m sure I’d faint if he wasn’t holding me upright.

  “Don’t let go,” I whisper, and I feel him tense up behind me. His cock pulses against my ass again, and I resist the urge to struggle against him. I want to rub on him; feel him get harder. I want to tease him until he can’t help but push me down and bury himself deep inside me.

  I want him to fuck me. I want him to give in to the pull of his body. I’m a virgin, but I know how the body works. I know he’s ready for me. And my body is ready for him. There’s a dampness between my thighs tha
t makes them slide sexily together when I shift my weight a tiny bit. I can smell my own heat, my dampness.

  It’s delicious.

  Chapter Four

  Dakin

  I can smell the heat rising off her. She’s wet, ready for me and I can’t seem to fucking let her go. As I hold her, I feel my cock pulse and she moans in response. The tiny sound, a sweet mew of pure pleasure and need, destroys me.

  I want her. I can’t deny that; my body is making it very clear.

  But I also know better. It doesn’t matter that she’s saying she wants it now. I don’t want her to come to her senses after whatever the hell is going on with her passes and she goes back to being that pure, perfect picture of all that is good in this world.

  I let her go, hating myself for it. It’s the right thing to do, but that doesn’t mean I really want to. “You’re on lockdown until you’re sober,” I tell her. She drops onto the bed and stays facing away as if trying to hide tears.

  “I’m not risking people finding out that an eighteen year old was drinking at my house.” It’s mostly true. She doesn’t need to know that I have suspicions about Jackson, or what her ex was saying about her when she wasn’t around. If even a fraction of his bullshit was real, she’s safer here, with me, behind these doors. But only marginally.

  And it has nothing to do with how much I want her, of course.

  “You can’t keep me here,” she says softly and I can’t help but admire her spirit.

  “I can’t,” I say honestly, “But I could turn you over to the cops for drinking underage.” That would be more than humiliating, and a mark on her perfect record. Somehow, though, with all that she’s done tonight, I have a feeling that doesn’t matter as much as it used to. Still, I can’t help but think that she might come to regret whatever it is that’s making her act so out of the ordinary tonight.

  I’d be worried that Jackson drugged her, but he’d have told everyone. And he’d have kept her home for… other reasons. My gut tightens in anger at the thought, and I want to walk downstairs and punch the bastard in the face.

  She’s quiet again and I find it more unsettling than comforting. Somehow, I’m certain that when she’s quiet, she’s plotting. When she turns around, I see her eyes are clear of the tears I expected. She just pulls herself back and settles on my bed while watching me closely.