by Marie James
I tilt my head, but he just smiles and walks away. Juvenile probation? Maybe we’re more alike than I want to admit.
“Oh, I forgot,” he says sticking his head back around the door. “Dinner is in an hour. Be quiet when you head up, Delilah isn’t feeling well, so she’s napping.”
I nod but rush to the house. She didn’t mention feeling unwell earlier. I couldn’t keep my mouth off of her today at the animal shelter, and I feel fine.
Jaxon is already back in the house talking to Rob in the kitchen. Bolting up the stairs, I find her door locked. My light tap goes unanswered, so I decide to take a shower. If she’s sick, I want to hold her, but ruining her sheets with grease stains won’t go over very well.
By the time I get out of the shower, I’m met with glares from Samson in the hallway. He may be messing around with Kennedy now, but the sting of rejection from Rachel will hurt for a while.
“You need to stay the fuck away from my sister,” he seethes but doesn’t push himself away from the wall and into my path.
I huff, annoyed, but not wanting to engage with him. I have other plans for my evening, and it doesn’t include beating his ass. That would put a damper on my life here.
“I don’t need some boy telling me what to do.” I walk past him toward my bedroom. The former softness of my towel becomes a harsh scrape on my head as I do my best to calm down. Backing down from confrontation isn’t easy for me.
“I’m a fucking man.” I snort and continue to my room, but think better of walking away without saying my piece.
“If you’re a man then that makes Delilah a woman.”
He shakes his head.
“So that means,” I continue. “That she can make her own decisions.”
I hear his fist slam against the wall as I close myself in my bedroom. A sense of calming relief washes over me from all but admitting that there’s something building between Samson’s twin and me. I want everyone to know, but she hasn’t mentioned bringing our feelings to light. I have to defer to her in this situation because she knows her family better than I do. I’m ready when she’s ready.
Samson is gone from the hall when I step out. Delilah’s door is still locked, but the sun is just now going down. Even a locked bedroom door isn’t going to keep me from comforting her while she’s ill.
I head downstairs, just in time to see everyone sitting down at the table for dinner. Jaxon may be a hardened biker covered from head to toe in tattoos, but he’s the best fucking cook I’ve ever encountered.
“Chicken alfredo,” Drew says with a lopsided grin. “Your favorite.”
I smile wide, ignoring the glare from Samson on the other side of the table. “Looks great.”
Jaxon nods, the delight of my praise is barely hidden behind his eyes.
“Where’s D?” Rob asks with a smacking kiss on Jaxon’s forehead before he sits down.
“Not feeling well,” Jaxon answers, handing the salad bowl to Drew.
“That time of the month? She always gets like this.” Rob looks at his husband for verification.
Drew and Samson groan at the female issue conversation. “Really, Pop? At the dinner table?”
“It’s a fact of life, Sam. Pass the chicken?”
I hand Rob the platter of juicy chicken breasts, doing my best to keep my eyes from the stairs leading up to the girl I’m obsessed over. Girl problems are something I have no issue with. Mom always needed painkillers and the heating pad, so this is definitely something in my wheelhouse.
I rush through dinner, drawing glances from both Jaxon and Rob. The food is delicious, but my concentration is elsewhere.
I mention being tired from a full day at the shelter and in the shop, and Rob excuses me from the table without an issue.
Longingly, I eye Delilah’s door before closing myself in my own empty bedroom. I hate that I have to wait what will end up being hours for everyone to be asleep. Drew may suspect that Delilah and I have been sneaking around, but I won’t confirm his suspicions by blatantly going to her while the sun is still up.
I shoot off numerous texts, but they go unread. She’s more than likely asleep, resting like her dads said she was.
Head hung low, Drew walks into the room, phone in hand.
“What’s wrong?” I sit up from my nap on my bottom bunk.
He shakes his head, clearing his throat but doesn’t speak. He strips out of his jeans and t-shirt and crawls up into his bed.
I wait him out, but the time ticks slowly. My mind races with things that can cause his normally carefree personality to act like he’s just watched his puppy get run over on the highway.
“I fucked up,” he finally admits.
“You’re fifteen. How bad can it be?”
“I sent a message to Aunt Kathy.”
“Your dad’s sister on the East Coast?” My brows draw together. He never has wanted anything to do with them.
“Yeah.” His voice is shaky, and I can tell he’s on the verge of tears.
I want to get out of bed and reach for him, but he’s just as stubborn as I am. Doing that will make him lockdown, and we’ll never get to the source of his pain.
“I just wanted to let her know about Mom. I know they hate her—”
“They never hated her,” I cajole. “They were angry about Carl and how she allowed him to treat her.”
He clears his throat again, but this time I can tell he’s crying.
“Just get it out,” I urge.
“She wants me to move in with her and Uncle Pete.”
I shake my head. “No way,” I hiss. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“They’re my family.” I despise the resigned tone of his voice.
“I’m your family,” I spit.
“I’m a minor. I don’t want to go. I love it here.”
The girl I’m falling in love with is here.
“But they’re blood, and Jaxon and Rob aren’t related to me.”
“Did they threaten you?”
“No,” he defends. “I want to be near my family. You have yours now, and I w-want that, too.”
Deep breath in, slow breath out.
“I don’t want to keep you from your family,” I admit. “I’ll just have to come with you.”
“You will?” I hear the relief in his voice.
“I go where you go.”
Can a heart actually break, tear apart and die inside of your chest? With a rough palm, I rub my hand over the aching part in my soul. It does nothing to alleviate the burn that’s starting to build.
“Your dad is here.”
“My brother will be there. You’re my responsibility no matter the sacrifice for me.”
The quiet crying begins anew. Squeezing my eyes shut, I let him cry for both of us.
My fists clench at hearing his anguish, but at the same time I’m pissed that the second my life begins to look up, it’s turning completely upside down again.
“When will they be here?”
There has to be time. Time for Delilah and I to plan; time for me to assure her that things will be okay between us.
“School starts next week in Fall River.”
No.
“They’ll be here tomorrow.”
Shattered. Broken. Left for purgatory.
It’s not enough time to assure her that things will work out.
Long distance relationships aren’t that bad my mind says in an attempt to convince me. We can make it work. She’ll wait for me if I ask.
How the fuck can I ask her that? How can I demand she put her life on hold for me?
The answer is simple.
I can’t.
Chapter 22
Delilah
Five seconds is all I give the heat of his body to soak into mine.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” I warn.
“Jaxon said you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. Well, I’m not sick in the traditional sense.
“I wanted to hold you,” he confesses with a desperation that sends chills over my skin. “Make you feel better.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat. Maybe saying it over and over will convince my own mind.
“So you said,” he mutters with a quick kiss on my shoulder before he pulls at my shoulder until I’m flat on my back.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
“You said that, too.”
His lips hover over mine, an endless pause before he presses his mouth to mine. It’s then that I feel the tremble in his body. Anger? Need? I’m not experienced enough to differentiate.
My groan of resistance transforms into a moan of arousal as his lips continue their coaxing and his hard length presses against my hip. My neck flexes, reaching for him when he pulls back.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers before taking my mouth again.
Soft pecks turn into aggressive licks of his tongue. Floating above it all, I somehow feel overwhelmed with sensation and completely separate from it at the same time.
He ignores the tremor in my hands as they find the over-heated skin of his chest. Fingers flexing against his pecs, I dig in to keep my hands from roaming lower, which my brain is telling me is the right thing to do. Never in this position before in my life, and instinct is trying to drive me to the next step.
Will my heart survive taking what we have one step further, only to slam on the brakes the second that it’s done?
I fear that it won’t, but living my life without sharing this with him seems like an even more unmanageable burden.
“Touch me,” I beg.
“Delilah,” he pants pulling his mouth from the delicate skin on my neck. “That’s too much.”
“It’s not,” I promise.
“I can’t,” he hisses and backs off of the bed.
For a long moment, I stare up at him, his chest heaving as if he is running from demons I can’t see.
I slink out of bed. One thing he may never learn about me is that rejection hurts more than a physical blow.
Growing bold even though I know it’s a risk, I reach for him, my hand hovering over the elastic band of his sweats.
With eyes clenched as tight as his hands, he turns his head up to the ceiling, as if he’s warring with his restraint.
With the slightest movement, the palm of my hand brushes against his erection. It increases in size as if it senses me and is seeking out my embrace.
“Law,” I whisper against the column of his neck. “Touch me.”
His eyes find mine, his throat working on a thick swallow.
Resolve and something sinister fills his icy-blue eyes. I don’t even try to fight the heat it causes low in my belly. No matter the will he was trying to keep alive, the resistance he was holding on to, my need, my own form of manipulation has worked.
“You need me, Princess?”
“Touch me,” I repeat for the third time, embarrassment marking my cheeks at my inability to tell him everything I want from him.
“Turn around,” he commands.
The soft fabric of my pajama shorts abrades my skin as I shift on my feet. It’s too heavy, too thick, and restrictive to what my body is demanding.
I reach for the waist of my shorts as his feverish skin presses to my back.
“Stop,” he pants in my ear.
My body obeys before my mind has the chance to catch up.
“Where do you want to be touched?” I hate the calmness in his hands as they both grip my waist.
“Everywhere,” I moan with a quick shift on my feet.
“Here?” he asks as one rough thumb sweeps over the tightened bud on my left breast. “Or here?”
My knees nearly give out when his right hand finds my center with a skilled precision I choose not to consider in fear it would ruin this moment.
“Oh God,” I breathe. “Yes.”
“Filthy slut.”
I stiffen in his arms, but it only lasts a second as both hands toy with areas only I’ve ever touched before.
I’m dizzy from lack of oxygen by the time his right hand runs up my hip and then lowers inside of my shorts and panties this time.
“So wet for me, dirty girl.”
Dirty girl is better than slut, I guess.
Before the unease can settle, his fingers spread me, thumb searching for the spot that has never needed something as much as it does right now.
He presses harder against me, hissing in my ear at the friction against his own body. I squirm, unsure of what to do, but blissfully aware of the contact on my clit.
“I bet it’ll only take one finger to get this perfect little pussy off.”
“Oh God.” I quiver, shake, and become putty in his hands.
The slow, teasing circles of his thumb is the best torture, the thing my body recognizes as essential for survival.
“Jesus,” he mutters against my hand. “Come for me.”
“For you,” I pant as my body shudders in a release that nearly destroys me.
He pulls his hand away long before the tiny quivering comes to a full stop.
“Turn around.” I obey. “Knees.”
With the hand that was on my breast, he pushes his sweats down. His other hand, glistening with my arousal strokes the length of his erection.
“Lick it clean.”
I want to refuse, insist that he not speak to me the way he is, but my mouth waters at the prospect of tasting him, of tasting me.
He takes a step forward, resting the blunt head of his penis against my lips. I swipe at the pre-cum on the tip with my tongue, my senses flaming to life at our combined tastes.
I lick again, hungry for more. My hands find his powerful thighs as his free hand fists my hair. The small bite of pain, the same as the night we first kissed in here, stokes the fire that was already burning from my orgasm.
“Open wide,” he commands, his voice growing unsteady. “Take it all.”
He presses in, and my throat constricts immediately at the foreign intrusion. Gagging, I pull my head back. Surprisingly, he allows me to take a deep breath before he pushes in slower.
I look up, hoping to find pleasure in his eyes, but they stare back at me, empty and shuttered. He’s not even here right now. He’s lost in his thoughts, somewhere other than in this monumental moment with me. The tingle of awareness that I’d pushed down earlier at his horrible words begins to travel to my brain, pushing away the desire to please him.
“I told you you’d have those pretty pink lips wrapped around my cock.”
I rip away, the haze of need doused as if I’d been thrown into the Antarctic.
“What is wrong with you?” I sputter wiping the back of my hand over my mouth.
“Don’t stop now, Princess. We were just getting started.”
“Was this your plan all along? Get me to fall for you just so you can get me on my knees.”
Doubt tugs at the corner of his eyes before he shelters it and sneers at me.
“I can fuck your mouth while you lie on the bed if it’s easier.”
I shake my head, the slickness between my legs growing cold and becoming too much to ignore. I feel dirty and wrong and used. None of the things I’d anticipated feeling after getting to know him these last couple of weeks.
“You need to leave.” The resilience I feel in my bones doesn’t translate as strength in my voice.
With arms wrapped around my waist, I step back until my thighs hit the mattress. My body is near convulsing as I watch him swallow. His fingers twitch as if they’re going to reach out for me, but I stiffen, and he backs down. I’m confused and my heart, which I’d planned on breaking myself soon, has now been ripped out by a guy that only paid attention to me to manipulate me into this exact situation.
He turns to leave, and I expect him to open and slam the door behind him. When he turns and the light of the moon catches on a single tear on his cheek, I’ve never felt more confusion before in my life.
&nbs
p; “Have a nice life,” he says with a trembling voice. “Hating me has always been what’s best for you.”
My door closes with a soft click, the tiny noise echoing in my skull.
The shaking continues even as I bury myself under the covers on my bed. The house alarm goes off, ringing loudly for all to hear, and then the front door slams.
Chapter 23
Lawson
The alarm blaring at my back has nothing on the sirens ringing in my head. The warmth of the New Mexico night only serves to irritate my already over-heated skin.
Fighting the insistent demands to go back to her, to apologize and find some way to make us work with me all the way across the country causes a stutter in my steps. I fight the urge, knowing that walking away right now is best for both of us.
The shop, the mechanics of machines with their structured uses, pulls me away from the house. I need the consistency, the perfect way they fit together, and if done right, work in sync with each other. Motorcycles and cars make sense. Loving a girl I could never ask to sacrifice a damn thing for my unworthy ass is a complication I can’t focus on right now.
Laughter meets my ears, but my feet keep on moving. Being under the scrutiny of the Cerberus MC guys is the last thing I want, but the draw to get my hands dirty, to work on something I can fix is stronger.
Scooter, Rocker, and Kid all sit around a small table, beers and cards in their hands as they joke about their stupid perfect lives.
“Hey, Lawson,” Rocker says angling his beer at me in salute.
A nod is all I’m able to manage as Kid looks at me, reading me like a book.
“Guys.” The rough voice at my back causes the same tension in my muscles as it did the first time I showed up on the clubhouse steps.
They look behind me and move to leave the garage without one word of rebuttal. Kid slaps my shoulder, but I stand my ground, not shying away from the sympathy in his eyes.
I know how they see me. I’m just some fucked up kid with a chip on my shoulder, getting pissed off over the simplest things. I don’t acknowledge the fact that my heart is being torn in two to the point that breathing is difficult.
“Sorry about the alarm,” I mutter as I pull out some tools and sit on the ground beside an old project bike Shadow and I have been working on.
