Damage Me (Crystal Gulf Book 2)

by Shana Vanterpool

  I groaned in surprise and then sat there, immobile as she let loose on me. She’d managed to straddle my left leg, and her chest was pressed so tightly to mine I could feel the swell of her breasts against my chest. It was the closest a woman had been to me in too long, and my dick loved it. Her hair was in my face, feeling silky and smelling of peaches. It smelled so good I found myself inhaling it before I realized what I was doing. Her body fit perfectly against me, too perfectly. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

  Perfection didn’t exist in my world.

  Eventually, I brought my arms around her and rubbed her back, trying to comfort her while trying not to impale her with my hard on.

  I had to admit it felt good to have her in my arms. Her warmth alerted me to the fact that I was cold. Her scent was sweet and good. I wanted to run my nose along her throat and inhale her with every single breath.

  So I leaned my head away because the last thing I needed was to inhale all her good. The bad in me would rebel.

  It took her a while to cry herself out. Her tears moistened my neck, and her body was so tightly pressed to mine I could feel her curves. Once her tears dried up, she did not move. If anything she got more comfortable, resting her head on my shoulder so that each breath kissed my jaw.

  I’d never been a self-conscious guy. Women had wanted me from the moment I hit puberty. But they weren’t like Hillary. I had the upper hand with them. I picked them, and they let me in. Hillary and I hadn’t made a choice. I smelled like ass and pits; I looked like shit, and for the first time in my life, I was worried about how a girl saw me. I wasn’t an option she would choose.

  “Hill?”

  She snuggled closer. “Five more minutes.”

  I let my hands rest on her waist. “Two.”

  “Four.”

  “Three.”

  “Four and a half?”

  I shook my head. “Fine. Don’t I stink?”

  She hesitated. “I wouldn’t say you stunk. That would be mean.”

  For the first time in months, I smiled. “I stink. It’s hard to shower,” I admitted.

  “Want help?” her sweet voice implored.

  She released me and sat back, her ass digging into my knee. She looked so innocent on my lap, her eyes earnest, her cheeks red from crying, and her lips opened. I stared at them more closely, having not noticed how full and soft her bottom lip looked. Her top lip was full as well, ending in a soft pucker, the same pink as her cheeks. I imagined kissing them and pulling her top lip between my teeth. How sweet her breath would be. My damn dick hardened to the point of pain. It was a strange feeling to be so horny and embarrassed at the same time. Hillary didn’t want me. She was hurting. Her mom was on her shit list, and Bach was pushing her away. She was here because it was her last option. The last thing she needed was some horny broken soldier sucking her face off.

  “You want to help me shower? You do know I have to be naked, right?”

  She smiled politely. “Yes, Dylan. I’m well aware of the showering process.”

  Even her confidence was naive. She didn’t understand. She just said she was a virgin. “Are you going to wash my naked body, Hillary? I can’t stand for long periods of time. The nurses in the hospital had to wash me.” A salacious grin spread across my face. “Are you aware of the process now?”

  She thought about it and then looked down. “If I do help you it’s only because you need help.”

  I frowned at her response. She sounded like she was warning me. I grabbed her chin and lifted her head so I could see her eyes. “Are you afraid you’re asking for it again?” My displeasure was in the open. I wasn’t surprised when she flinched from my tone. She tried to avert her eyes, but I held her face still, forcing her in place. “Do you think I’m trying to manipulate you into that bathroom so I can hurt you?”

  “No,” she insisted. “No. I don’t think that.”

  “Then what do you think? Because that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  “I wanted you to know that I wanted to help you. Only help you.”

  “Don’t do that again, Hillary. I’m not some fucking creep who hurts women. I don’t have to manipulate them to sleep with me either. Look, I understand you’re afraid, you’re distrustful, good, I like that because then it keeps you safe, but you’re not going to put those fears on me. Don’t do it again. Now get off me.”

  I released her and sat back, waiting for her to scramble off my lap. I wasn’t a good guy. It was fairly obvious. But to have her look at me like I would hurt her, push her over the edge after I’d witnessed her fall, hit me hard.

  “I’m sorry.” Her soft tone caressed me. “Of course, I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “Go home, Hillary. You shouldn’t even be here.” I tried to shake my anger off, but instead of leaving it intensified.

  She grabbed hold of my arm and held it against her. I could feel her eyes on me, begging me to look at her. Somehow I knew if I did she’d have me. I didn’t want to be had. “I don’t want to go home. I feel safe here.” And then, as if she knew what she was doing, “Look at me?”

  I stared straight.

  “Please?” she begged, holding my arm tighter. “You make me feel safe. I didn’t think you’d hurt me. I thought you’d want something from me I wasn’t ready to give.”

  As if that was better. “How’d you come to that conclusion? Why would I want to sleep with you?”

  “I know. Of course you wouldn’t. I’ve met Whitney. I know what kind of girl you like.”

  There was this strange churning in my stomach. It was making it hard to breathe and even harder to think. Why were we talking about this? “What kind of women do I like?”

  “Sexy women who want what you want.”

  If my dick got any harder, it was going to explode. I finally looked at her. She was so close her warm breath caressed my lips. I could smell something sweet like cinnamon or clove with each exhalation. “And what do I want?” I wanted that taste all over my tongue.

  “Sex,” she whispered, her breathing deepening.

  “So you know everything about me? You know what kind of women I like, what I want from them, and that you’re not on my list? What if you’re wrong, Hillary?” What if I wanted your mouth right now?

  Her eyes shot to my lips, and hers parted, making room for her breaths. “Wrong about what?”

  I pulled back at the last minute. This wasn’t part of the rules. I wasn’t sure there were solid rules, but it felt like there were. Leave the angel alone. She’d fallen enough and didn’t need me adding to it. Even if her wide, innocent eyes and parted lips called to a part of me that wanted to lean in and taste them. The idea of kissing her intrigued me like nothing had in a long time. I could only imagine what she’d taste like. The warm wetness of her tongue, the sounds she’d probably make. One thing was for sure. Hillary had never been kissed the way I did it. I broke the connection before I did anything stupid.

  “Nothing.” I needed to get laid. Maybe some ass would make it easier. “All I need help with is getting in the tub and then getting out. I can handle the rest. You’re a virgin, and I’m not. You’re good, and I’m bad. You only want to help and despite my overall panty-dropping capabilities, I guess I could use it. Those are the rules. They good for you?”

  She stared at me, probably wondering where to start. “Panty-dropping?”

  I extended my hand, ignoring her curiosity. “Deal?”

  “Yes, they’re good for me.” She took my hand, giving me a small shake. Then she released me and rose. “Come on, panty-dropper. Let’s go get you clean.” She gathered my crutches and placed them in the perfect position for me.

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but I have in fact dropped the panties right off them.” I grinned at her when she wrinkled her nose, grabbing my crutches and pulling myself up. “Right off them.”

  “It’s not hard to believe,” she mumbled, rolling her eyes.

  “Why not?” I shouldn’t have asked. Whether
she found me attractive didn’t matter. In fact, the last thing she should do is find me attractive. But I waited for her answer anyway.

  Her cheeks colored, and she looked away. “Because you’re … you know …”

  “What?”

  She stomped ahead of me. “Let’s go, Dylan.”

  Did Bach’s little sister think I was attractive?

  I grinned to myself.

  Shit just got interesting.

  ***

  Hillary

  Hot.

  That’s what Dylan was; only I hadn’t known it until a second ago.

  The revelation took my breath away. The moment on the couch came out of nowhere. It was a sudden onslaught of unfamiliar emotions. Heat had settled in my belly, and my heart had hammered. His lips had looked so smooth and soft surrounded by the dark hair of his scruff. His eyes were cobalt, this deep rich blue that offset the rest of his pale features. I wanted to kiss him. The thought popped into my head, and he’d been so close, looking at me like he might be thinking the same thing. But that couldn’t be.

  For one, I was younger than him. For two, he dated girls like Whitney, confident, sexy bad girls with tattoos. And last, I was Bach’s sister.

  I doubted he wanted me around at all, but I hadn’t had anywhere else to go. I couldn’t stand being in that house a second longer with Mom and Bach, one who lied and another who suffered. Mom had protected the monster and Bach kept him hidden to protect me. I threw some clothes on and took off, driving up and down Crystal Beach for a long time before I ended up here.

  I entered the bathroom and flipped the light on. Pushing back the shower curtain, I turned the tub on and made sure it wasn’t too hot. I could hear Dylan behind me, the sound of his crutches hitting the floor. There was something frightening about his appearance, a lack of concern, an abandonment of himself. His hair was a mess, his beard was thick, his clothes hung off his body, and he flinched every single time he moved. His body odor was all over him, and there was blood dried on the end of his thigh. I had this unsettling feeling Dylan had given up on himself and didn’t know it.

  I swallowed hard at the anxiety that caused me. It shouldn’t matter to me. We barely knew each other, and we’d probably end up parting ways soon. Our lives were not connected. But the moment I walked into his house I finally felt safe. The past week had been torture. The dreams and the memories refused to let me go. But in this house they were quiet. I wanted them to stay that way.

  I grabbed a bottle of soap, opened it to take a sniff, and then squeezed copious amounts of the clear blue gel into the bath. Bubbles formed quickly, spreading across the surface of the water.

  When I turned around, Dylan was watching me.

  “Do you need help undressing?” I rose unsteadily and avoided his gaze.

  “You really want to get me naked, don’t you?” His lips quirked. But his smile dropped quickly, as if he were unused to smiling and didn’t want to maintain it. “I could use help with my shirt. Just don’t cop a feel.”

  Dylan naked? I tripped over the rug and stumbled, catching myself on the counter.

  He watched me. “You all right?”

  My ears blazed. “Yes.”

  “So how are we going to do this?”

  “Umm.” I stepped closer to him and stared, wondering where I was going to start. Finally, I grabbed the hem of his shirt. “Like this?” I pushed it up his torso and then paused when I got to his chest. His eyes were regarding me, and he was immobile. “Arms up. One at a time might be better.” He leaned his right crutch against the wall, and I pulled his shirt off. We repeated the processes until I managed to get it over his head. I dropped it on the floor and then stood back.

  I’d seen shirtless guys before. I lived in a beach town and men paraded their bodies around like cattle at a show. I usually did my best to ignore them. Dylan was right in front of me. I couldn’t ignore him. His shorts hung lower than his boxers, and those low as well so that his ab muscles traveled all the way down his body. I counted six hard ridges in his stomach. His belly button was in the middle, interrupting the grooves of his six pack. His chest looked hard and his biceps harder. I knew they were from holding on to them, but I hadn’t known for sure until I saw them. Warm brown hair snaked down and into his boxers and spread across his chest. My belly was hot again, and my mouth went dry. Tattoos wound around his right arm and bicep, ending at the top of his shoulder and stopping at his wrist.

  Hot. Dylan Meyer was so hot.

  I tore my eyes from his body. I wanted to run away and regain my breath, but I didn’t have that option. I had to swallow the burning inside of me. “Can you take your pants off?”

  He freed his left hand and pushed his shorts off his hips. They fell at his feet, and he managed to kick them away. Free of them, I got to see his wounds for the first time. I gasped in horror and covered my mouth with my hand, not even minding how small his boxers were. His wounds looked fake, like Piper’s Halloween costume last year. Lines of stitching between inflamed red flesh. Blood caked around a wide wound puckered with skin and reddened tissue. There were dots lacing the long wound, as if there were screws somewhere inside of him. His wounds were so infected they looked blistered.

  “It’s not that bad,” he barked, eyes dangerous. “Stop it and help me into the tub.”

  My eyes pricked. “Dylan.”

  “Hillary, don’t, all right? I know. Can you just help me?”

  At that moment, I wanted to help him far more than he desired. “Yes. Here.” I slid under his right arm and supported his weight. “Take your boxers off.”

  He grabbed the waistband and then looked at me. I looked away. When I heard the material hit the bathroom rug, I began leading him over to the tub. It was a struggle. Unable to put any weight on his right leg made it unbearably difficult. I understood why he hadn’t bothered. At one pointed I leaned him against the wall, making sure to keep my eyes on his face only, and retrieved his crutch. After some time, he finally managed to get in the tub. Sweat dripped down his face, and his teeth gritted so hard I could hear them grinding.

  “I can’t bend down.” He was frustrated and in pain. He slammed his fist against the tile and growled. “Forget it. Help me out.”

  “No. We’re almost there. All you have to do is bend enough to get your hands on the tub. Use your arms to lower your weight. You can do it.”

  “Enough with the pep talk!” he snapped, bare in front of me. Bare emotionally and physically. “If I wanted a cheerleader I would have knocked one up in high school.”

  His outburst was the last straw. “I’m sure the squad had much higher standards. Get your butt in that tub, Dylan.”

  He grumbled under his breath, but followed my order, giving me a shot of his butt. It was smooth looking and strangely hard to look away from, with muscles rippling around the edges. After grabbing the tub, he lowered into the water with a deep satisfied moan. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Relief washed through me. I sank gratefully on the closed toilet and watched him breathe in and out.

  “Tell me you weren’t a cheerleader.”

  “I can’t.”

  He groaned. “Figures.”

  For a few minutes the room was quiet save for the occasional shift in the water. The smell of soap swirled around me. For the first time in weeks, I felt a small slice of peace.

  “Thank you, Hillary.”

  Gone was his frustration. In its place was a softness. It erased the hardness around his cobalt eyes, making them easier to stare into. For some reason, I wanted to stare into them. “You’re welcome, Dylan.”

  He grabbed the soap off the edge of the tub and squeezed some into his palm, washing his hair. “So you went to Gulf High?”

  “Yes.”

  He drug his soapy fingers through his warm brown strands and then glided them all over his face, talking through the suds. “You would have been a freshman when Bach and I graduated. Freaky.”

  I counted back and established that
he might be right. “So we could have met in the halls?” Something about that made me cast my memory, wanting to know the Dylan who’d been my age. A younger, ganglier version who probably didn’t look as if he’d given up.

  “Maybe. I was more concerned with chasing ass in high school, so I doubt our circles mixed.”

  “Chasing ass?” I scrunched up my nose. “Didn’t you date?”

  “The only woman I ever dated was Harley.”

  I let that sink in. Had Harley been the one? How could that be when she was the one for Bach now? Bach and Harley made perfect sense. Harley and Dylan felt slightly off. I wasn’t sure why, maybe it was because of the way Bach looked at her, like she was the only light in his darkness. That was meant for one person. The darkness only responded to one light, of this I was certain.

  “What about Whitney?”

  “We hooked up.” He brought handfuls of water up and washed his face and hair. “That’s it.”

  “But you have a baby with her.” The reminder of Aubrey promptly instilled a sense of reservation in me. Stop staring at his biceps. Even if they were soapy and bulging as he washed his armpits … and his armpits were full of straight brown hair …

  “It’s sex, Hillary. Not a marriage proposal.”

  “Excuse me for having morals.” He acted as if sex was this unemotional activity he partook in for fun, making me think he’d sleep with anyone. I hadn’t had sex, so I suppose my ideals could be wrong, but I doubted that’s the way I’d want it. When I had sex, it would be about emotion. It would be about love and nothing else.

  He flung water at me. “I’d excuse you, but your morals are probably your best friend in this city.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “My best friend’s probably eating my ex-girlfriend’s pussy right now. I don’t have one anymore.”

  I was startled for a moment. I didn’t live in a box—well, most times—and I’d been to the bar enough to hear the men talk, but the sudden use of such a dirty word caught me off guard. “Dylan. Could you not talk that way?”

  “Grow up. What are you going to do when you do have sex? What if the guy you sleep with likes dirty talk? Are you going to run away and hide?”