“W-what?” she asks. She’s blindfolded, but still turns her head to look toward me.
I press the dildo an inch deeper, careful not to force it through her hymen if it’s still intact. I’m not about to break her virgin pussy with a dildo, but I only need to use the first couple inches.
She lurches forward. By the way her hands scrabble to grip more of the fabric on the couch, I can tell she’s not used to having something inside herself. No dildo of your own at home, treasure? You’ve been saving this perfect pussy for the man of your dreams, haven’t you? My own thoughts turn my stomach a little. She’s waited so long for the right man, but she had the misfortune to meet me.
“Tell me,” I say firmly.
“I was seventeen,” she says tightly. “It was kind of an—oh, God.”
She buries her face into the cushion of the armrest when I angle the dildo and let the head slip out of her to graze her clit.
“Finish,” I growl. “Tell me how you did it.” My cock is already throbbing just thinking of this innocent woman waiting so long to discover her sexuality, to think how suppressed she must be, like a dormant volcano primed to explode.
“It just kind of happened,” she says between heavy breaths. “I was in my bed. I thought it would be less dirty if I did it through my panties. So I just—oh,” she pauses to clench her entire body when I slide the dildo back inside her and use my thumb against the swollen bud of her clit.
“I just did it,” she finishes.
“Touch yourself for me now,” I say, taking away the dildo and untying her wrists, which causes the bra that was dangling there to fall to the ground. I know the sudden absence will nearly be a physical pain for her. Bit by bit, I’m driving her into a kind of sexual trance. She’ll feel the pressure of her orgasm build until she’s so desperate to cum that she’ll do anything I ask. “Don’t make me ask twice,” I say.
She shifts her weight, leaning her shoulder into the backrest of the couch and using her other hand to reach between her legs, where she hesitantly starts rubbing her fingers against her pussy like she’s afraid of it.
I frown. “No,” I say.
Her hand stops suddenly, fingers motionless against her still-wet pussy.
“It’s not just a tool,” I say, taking her by the wrist and pressing my hand to hers. I slide my palm down so that my fingertips rest against her fingernails and I’m able to guide her hand exactly where I want it to go. “Trust me,” I say softly. “Relax.”
I apply pressure to her middle finger, not starting with her clit but pressing the area just between her ass and her opening to drag her finger up her slick valley. She takes in a shuddering breath when we reach her clit and I show her how to circle it, almost reverently, like a dance where the most important part isn’t the touching but the promise of touching, so that when her finger finally brushes the swollen, sensitive skin, her shoulders go slack and she arches her back. Her moan is as sweet as honey in my ears.
I work with her slowly and patiently, even though my cock is already throbbing to feel her tight warmth.
“Now show me what you’ve learned,” I say, stepping back from her to watch and enjoy. I bring my fingers up to my nose and breathe deeply, catching the faintest hint of her sweet pussy on my skin.
If there’s one thing I’ve prided myself on, it’s my control. Whether it’s in a business setting or in the bedroom, I’ve always had an iron grip on my own emotions. But for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel my control waver. I watch her slender fingers dip into her pussy lavishly, like she’s finally realizing what a treasure she really is, and the foundations of my self-control shake. I take a half-step toward her, only barely stopping myself.
If I give in like this. If I go to her and fuck her while I’m out of control, it will be different. It will mean I failed to keep myself distant—that she has some kind of hold on me. All I need to do is stand here. I can close my fucking eyes if I want, but going to her will undo everything I’ve fought to protect.
Even now, the sound of her moan calls up a vile memory. I clench my eyes shut, trying to ward it off but it comes all the same. I see tan hands with garish red fingernails on my thighs. Not the thighs of an adult, but of a teenager. All the fear and confusion I felt back then comes rushing back with the memory, making my breath come short. I grip an end table to keep from stumbling, thankful that Stephanie’s eyes are covered so she doesn’t see my weakness.
Instead of waiting for the memory to fade—instead of overcoming it, I lurch forward, climbing on the couch behind Stephanie and gripping her hips.
She moves her hand away, more than ready for whatever I have planned by now.
I unzip my pants and slide them down with my underwear in a quick motion, still trying to suppress the images of what that fucking woman did to me. The only thing that has ever worked to push it all back down was to take control, to grab the reins like I couldn’t back then, to be strong like I wasn’t.
I had planned so much more for tonight, but as soon as my cock is freed, I drive it home into the warmth and wetness of Stephanie’s pussy.
I sigh with relief as she tenses around me. “You feel so fucking good, treasure,” I growl.
“Oh my God,” she gasps.
“You’re going to take every inch of my cock,” I say, feeling myself regain composure with each passing moment. It passed. Calm the fuck down, Tristan. It passed. “Don’t fight the pain if it comes,” I say, guiding more of my length into her even as she squirms against me. “Embrace it. Pain gives an edge to your pleasure.” My hips slap against her ass now. Her pussy grips my cock like a goddamn fist, like nothing I’ve ever felt, and I lose myself in the sensation.
I let go of the control I’ve clung to like a shield. I let go of everything except my need to thrust into her again and again, working my body into a rhythm of blinding speed that has her gasping for breath.
5
Stephanie
His hands squeeze my hips like vices. His cock bores into me deeper than I’d have thought possible, stretching my walls in a way that was painful but now only feels good, like a blur of the most incredible white light spreading inside me to fill me until I’ll burst.
Just when I start to inch closer to my point of climax, he brings the leather paddle down against my ass. The pain of impact is sharp, spiking through me for an instant of discomfort only to blend with the pleasure in a confusing way that seems to ramp it up to a higher intensity than before. He snags the tie off the ground again and ties my wrists together in a blur of frantic motion, never even stopping his relentless pace as he rocks into me again and again.
I ride the wave of his presence and power, losing track of everything until all that remains is the blinding white of pleasure and the sharp reminder of pain from the paddle.
He turns me over, ripping the belt free from my ankles so he can position himself between my legs. He pulls the blindfold up from my eyes too, giving me the first chance at seeing his face in what feels like hours. His brow is furrowed while he moves within me, eyes scanning my body but somehow distant.
I can barely think straight from the pressure of my building climax, but something breaks through the fog—a sudden need for this to be more than moving through the motions for him. I thought it was what I wanted when I came here. I thought I wanted a detached night, like scratching an itch. But I bring my wrists, which are still bound together by his tie, below his face and cup his chin. The furrow in his brow deepens and he increases his pace.
“Look at me,” I plead. I know I’m going to cum whether he looks at me like he cares or like he’s going to forget me by tomorrow, but I suddenly can’t stand the thought of this meaning nothing.
His gorgeous eyes flick up to mine. The change in his expression is immediate. Visceral. His jaw flexes and his lips press together, nostrils flaring. He takes me by the back of the neck and pulls our lips together with a hungry ferocity that steals my breath.
The orgasm that he ha
s been stoking like some great flame since he brought me here finally bursts to life. I breathe him in with the force of it, lips locked to his and fingers pressing into his jaw. I wrap my legs behind his firm ass and press him into me deeper with my heels. He groans against me, pulling himself free and pressing his cock above my pussy, where it twitches and releases burst after burst of his hot cum all over my stomach.
I try to hold onto him, to keep him close. I may have thought I wanted this to end as quickly as it started, but now I don’t want to let go. A man who could give me something so beautiful has to be worth something—he has to mean something. I can’t just walk away from that like I thought I would.
But he peels himself away effortlessly, unwinding from my legs and pulling away from my hands. He hikes his pants up over his still-hard cock and grabs his shirt from the ground, sliding into it as he walks away from the couch. “There are spare bedrooms if you need a place to stay tonight,” he says distantly. “My driver’s number is on the counter if you want to go back to your place instead.”
“Seriously?” I ask, holding my bound hands up to him like the most insane part of all of this is that he’d forget to untie me.
He half-turns his head and notices my bound hands with an expression that shows me he’s struggling with something. He moves back to me quickly, untying my hands and taking the time to inspect my wrists and ankles, like he’s making sure I’m not hurt.
“Turn over,” he says, voice still businesslike.
“Talk to me like a person,” I say desperately. I already feel the tears welling in my eyes because I knew this was coming and I was still dumb enough to walk into it. “Look at me!” I demand, reaching for his wrist.
He pulls back, jaw and mouth tight. “Turn. Over. I need to make sure you won’t bruise.”
I glare at him, but do as he says, presenting my ass to him in a way that makes me feel shame well up from deep inside me. He touches the skin just outside where he was hitting me with the paddle softly. “It won’t bruise, but you may want to wear a soft pair of pants tomorrow. Nothing too tight.”
“That’s it?” I ask when he turns to leave again. “We’re just done?”
He pauses, not facing me at first. His hand balls into a fist and unclenches in a way that makes me think he’s hesitating between two choices. “What did you expect?” he asks, turning now to face me with a cruel glint in his eye. “I spelled it out for you. Didn’t I? No relationships. No marriage. No white picket fence. You get the night of your life. Don’t blame me because you didn’t fucking listen.”
He turns around again and takes three quick steps before pausing, fists balling again. He half-turns, then shakes his head and storms out of the room without another word.
Jamie pulls up to his house half an hour later. I get into the passenger seat, too ashamed of myself to even make eye contact with her.
“Did he hurt you?” she asks me in the most serious voice I’ve ever heard her use. “Steph,” she says even more firmly, lifting my chin so I’m forced to look at you. “What happened? Because I swear to God I’ll Google how to make pipe bombs and make this asshole regret he ever fucked with my friend if he hurt you.”
“He was just an asshole,” I say quietly. “Can we please go?”
She watches me a few more seconds.
“Jamie. I promise. Just go. Okay?”
She sighs, shifting the car into gear and pulling away from his house.
6
Tristan
Four Months Later
I grip the steering wheel until the leather groans in protest. I never thought I’d be looking at my dad’s house again. Never thought I’d come back here or have any intention of speaking to him, but I also never thought I’d let a one night stand rock my life to the foundations. Just thinking about Stephanie makes me let out a long, annoyed sigh.
Before her, I had a system. A system that worked. When the memories started to haunt me, I just needed one meaningless night to push them back down for weeks, sometimes months. One night of control. It was like medicine to the sickness inside me. I’d be the man I couldn’t be all those years ago when she would come to see my dad, when she’d come to my room after he passed out from the drugs, booze, or both.
Maybe it’s pathetic. Frankly, I never cared. I just knew it worked. I could move on and forget.
Until Stephanie.
Tossing a woman out never bothered me before. Not in the slightest. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way I treated her like shit that night. She deserved better than that, but I knew if I didn’t harden myself and force her out of there I’d risk letting her stay. I’d smell her shampoo in the morning and feel the warmth from where she slept in the bed beside me, I’d get comfortable. Soft. I had to do it. But every passing day makes me less and less sure of that.
I look toward my dad’s house again. The memories started getting bad a few weeks ago. Worse than I’ve ever let them get. Normally, I would’ve gone to pick up some woman so I could forget, but every time I thought about fucking another woman, I see Stephanie’s face. I thought a few days away from her would get her off my mind, that maybe I was just having an off night and feeling emotional. Time away from her has only made it worse, though.
I run a hand across my stubble, growling in irritation.
Before I can second-guess myself anymore, I step out of the car and slam the door. I walk to the front door of my dad’s house and knock hard. The door swings open a few inches from my knuckles, giving me a glimpse inside the filthy space. A smell seeps from inside like stale sweat and the sharp tang of liquor. I knock on the open door again, waiting impatiently for a few seconds.
I shift on my feet and then look back toward my car. I could still just leave. I don’t know what I even plan to do. Punch him in his mouth? Yell at him? Shake his hand? Whatever my plan is, I don’t think it’s going to do anything to heal the wound I’ve been hiding for all these years. I’m about to just walk away when I see something move.
I push the door open slowly, moving inside. I see my dad for the first time in ten years. He looks twenty years older instead of ten, but he’s passed out on the couch just like I remember. A woman with scabs and scars all over her arms from needles is spread out on the love seat beside him. It has been a long time, and that time hasn’t been kind to her, but I’d recognize her anywhere.
My fists clench at my side. I realize I’m walking toward her with a red, swirling violence in my chest. I catch myself before I get too close. What the fuck was I going to do? Kill her?
I shake my head and back away. I need to leave. I can’t be here. No matter what these two put me through and how much they fucked me up, they don’t deserve my anger. They don’t deserve shit.
A strange sound draws my attention. I turn toward the kitchen, where I nearly fall backwards at the sight of a small kid who looks like he’s no older than three or four. He’s sitting on the ground with a couple toy blocks. He looks up toward me, eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
“You like blocks?” he asks.
I turn back toward the couch, squinting at the passed-out woman to search her face for some similarity to the kid. But I might as well be trying to figure out the identity of a weather-beaten statue after what the woman has done to herself with obvious years of drug abuse.
“Sure,” I say slowly. “You live here?” I ask.
He extends his arm toward me, red lego block in his small palm like a peace offering. My eyes fall on his forearm though, where a bruise in the shape of four adult-sized fingers is shockingly dark against his pale skin. My jaw clenches when I remember similar bruises from my own childhood.
He nods.
I sit next to him, taking the block but hardly paying attention to anything except the obvious signs of abuse on him now that I’m looking for them. Dirty hair. A bruise just barely showing from beneath his collar. Tattered clothes. It’s like looking back in time at myself when I was his age. The most eerie thing of all is he’s i
n the same fucking house with the same deadbeat dad passed out on the couch. But he’s got to belong to the woman. The thought of my dad having another kid seems too insane, even for him. He spent every day of my life reminding me how much of a mistake I was. What the hell would possess him to have another?
“What’s your name?” I ask. I feel awkward sitting cross-legged on the ground in this filthy house. I’m wearing a suit that probably cost more than a few years’ rent and I have my back turned to a man who would probably try to strangle me if he woke up, but something about this kid is tugging at me.
“Cole,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Tristan. Hey,” I say, leaning in a little closer. “Is that your mom over there?” I point to the woman on the couch.
He shakes his head.
My chest tightens. “Is that your dad?”
He nods.
Fuck. I set the block down and stand, fists on my hips as I pace around the small space, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. He’s my brother. Half-brother, but he’s my brother nonetheless. He’s also not my problem. Just being here makes me feel all the old darkness like a straightjacket. It clings to me until I think I might choke on it and all I want to do is walk away, to forget I ever made the mistake of coming back to this shithole so I can leave my deadbeat dad to whatever mess he wants to make of his life.
But goddammit. Every time I look back at the kid I can’t stop from picturing the future he is still too young to know he’s walking into. The abuse. The torment.
I take one more look at my dad and the woman before I motion for the kid to stand. “Hey. Listen,” I say quietly, kneeling so we’re eye-to-eye. “Your dad. Is he a nice man?”
For the first time since I came in, I see the childhood innocence in Cole’s eyes slip away. A much older boy looks out at me from those big eyes as he hesitates, shifting his gaze toward his sleeping dad several times.
Baby for the Brute_A Fake Boyfriend Romance Page 40
