by Lane Hart
It only seemed fair to return the favor for Brede after he shoved his hand between my legs and made me see fireworks. I’ve never felt anything like that before. It was intense and…absolutely wonderful. Everything else in the world, the past, the worry about the future, all disappeared for those few amazing seconds. For once in my life, I actually felt something good, so good that I want him to touch me there again. To help me get rid of the burning pressure in my lower belly in that pleasurable way that left me exhausted and elated for the first time in my life.
Just the memory has the liquid heat boiling inside me again. I press that magical place between my legs against Brede’s hard back and tighten my thighs around him, trying to find some relief, but it’s not enough. Maybe he’ll take me to his house or mine and do that handy trick with his fingers again.
When we get back in town, he does, in fact, drive past my car that’s still sitting at the pawn shop.
“Where do you live?” he asks at the next intersection.
Shoot. I rest my forehead on his back, knowing it would be easier just to tell him, but I can’t say the words. With a heavy sigh, Brede guns the motorcycle through the four-way stop. Coming up on the street that leads to my neighborhood, I tap his left leg, then his right for the next road. For some reason, I feel the burning on my neck again, like we’re being watched or followed. As Brede slows down, I look over my shoulder but there’s not a car in sight on the empty road.
I let go of him when we reach my house. Or my father’s house. I haven’t lived in it for years.
Throwing my leg over, I step up onto the perfectly manicured yard, to see if he’s gonna follow me. Brede stares straight ahead, his dark glasses covering his eyes. He doesn’t make a move to turn off his bike or get off, causing my shoulders to slump in disappointment. He’s done with me, and it sort of sucks. I wanted more of the same from earlier, but I should’ve known better than to think a wild man like him would want to keep messing around with an inexperienced girl like me.
Reminded of my original plan now that we’re done, I wave a hand at him in thanks and goodbye that he may or may not have seen before I walk toward the front door without a backward glance. The worry that I don’t know how I’ll get my car tomorrow flitters through my head, but if I can find some bullets in the house, it won’t be a problem. Knowing I won’t see the dirty talking smoker again sort of makes me sad. He was different. Dangerous. Fun even.
And he made me feel alive and real for the first time ever.
I unlock the door and step inside the dark house, flipping on lights as I go. When I get to the kitchen, I sit my purse on the counter and pull out the plastic bag from the pawn shop, noticing right away that it’s much lighter. Empty actually. Digging around my purse, I try to find the gun that must have fallen out, but there’s no sign of it. That’s when it hits me.
Son of a bitch! He stole my gun!
Running back out to the yard, I see the fading red taillights before his engine revs and is out of sight. Bastard.
Tomorrow then. I’ll…I’ll what? Go back to the pawn shop and buy another gun? Track down Brede? Hard to do either without a car. A car that has the only pictures of my mother in it.
Fuck.
It’s nice just to think that word. So with a smile on my face, I lock the front door, even though after my late night prowler last night it seems pointless, before heading down the hall to my bedroom. I change into my shorts and a pajama top and then intentionally lay down to go to sleep without locking my window. Worst-case scenario – the intruder comes back and doesn’t kill me.
…
I wake up groggy, all my limbs heavy, maybe from the stupid alcohol still in my system or the orgasm from earlier tonight. The creaking floorboard alerts me to the fact that I’m no longer alone. Lying unmoving in my bed, facing the wall, I try to hold still, which is easy since my body doesn’t want to move.
“Hey, baby girl,” his deep, rumbly voice says from above me, and then I feel the brush of his smooth leather covered finger stroking my cheek.
My entire body shivers awake, but it’s not a reaction to fear since I’m not scared of him, even if I should be. That warm sensation between my legs like earlier tonight with Brede is back. This time, there’s an almost desperate need for relief. Obviously, my head is more fucked up than I thought if this, a stranger sneaking into my room at night, makes me horny. Or maybe that’s just the result of being sexually repressed for so damn long. Before Brede, no one had ever touched me before. Now, I guess I’m desperate for any sort of human contact, the exciting and comforting sensation that’s obviously addictive.
“You didn’t call the police, and you didn’t run,” he says softly, his voice sounding vaguely familiar in my foggy sleep-hazed mind.
What does he mean by I didn’t run? Did he think I would be scared to come back here because of him? And how does he know I didn’t call the police? Has he been following me?
“Why not?” he asks, and I feel the mattress shift behind me with his weight when he climbs up on it. My heart begins to race with anticipation wondering what he’ll do next, so loudly he can probably hear it.
Almost forgetting he had asked a question, I shrug my shoulders in response since I’m not sure I would have the words needed to explain, even if they did come easy for me. I certainly don’t want to tell him that the police are probably looking for me.
“I was hoping you would be here,” he says, causing my breath to hitch, thrilled beyond reason that he wanted to see me tonight. Maybe I’m not the only crazy one since I missed him after he left last night, this late night prowler who knows my secret.
While I’m still contemplating his words, the front of his warm, hard body curves against the back of mine, and his large, leather covered palm strokes down my bare arm. I know he’s still wearing his clothing, except for his shoes since his sock covered feet are rubbing against mine.
Are we spooning? This man broke into my father’s house last night and again tonight, gets into my bed and…spoons with me? I can’t help but doubt that what seems like reality is actually a very detailed dream.
“Is this weird?” he asks, his lips right above my ear, but not touching. “This is weird, right?”
Shaking my head in disagreement, my hair brushes his face or mouth or what could be his mask. It may be weird, but it’s…nice not to be alone. The size and heat of his body enveloping me makes me feel safe and protected. I haven’t seen him closely in the dark, but I can tell he’s tall, lean, and muscular. His chest moving in a regular rhythm against my back is soothing, and soon my tense, uncertain body begins to relax into him. Right until his palm leaves my arm, and grasps my hip, the tips of his fingers stroking the skin where my pajama top has shifted upward.
“I wish I could see this beautiful body in the light,” he says. And with those words, his lips do brush over the shell of my ear, at the same time his palm moves inside my top, caressing my stomach. I gasp in surprise as nervousness and arousal floods my body. “But I definitely shouldn’t touch you,” he adds, and I nearly shout in protest when his touch slips away from my skin.
Before I realize what he’s doing, his hand searches for mine in the dark. Finding it on the mattress, resting under my cheek, he grabs the back of my hand and then moves it, placing it underneath my shirt where his own just was.
“Can I touch you this way?” he asks, guiding my hand higher and higher until I’m grasping my own breasts. I’ve touched my breasts before, of course, but never like this, though. Never in a sexual way. With the weight of his hand on mine, I squeeze one and then the other before he takes one of my fingertips and circles my nipple with it. Between the gentle, yet exciting feel of touching myself and the way his body seems to rock into my backside with each movement, my panties quickly become damp. The bulge of his jeans pressing into my bottom, in particular, make my lips part with panting breaths. I don’t know what this man looks like, who he is, or anything about him, except that he knows the absolute wor
st about me, and here he is again tonight, curled up with me in bed, making me feel this way.
Making me feel alive.
Unable to resist, I push my hips back into his hardness against my ass, silently asking for more. In fact, I’m not sure if it’s my hands or his trailing back down my stomach and to the top of my pajama shorts.
Lips pressing kisses against my ear, he asks, “Lower?” while easing our fingers teasingly underneath the elastic waistband.
I nod, my hair once again brushing his face.
“Say the word, Blair.”
He wants words, while I desperately want his hand in that place between my legs. Waiting for me to respond, he continues to dip our fingers lower and then retreating, lower then retreat.
“Blair?” he prompts. “Yes or no, baby girl?”
I try to say the word, but it barely comes out above a whisper. Clearing my throat, I try again.
“Y-y-yes,” I say, proud of myself for actually speaking it aloud. “Yes,” I repeat because it’s so nice, both the vocalization of what I want and the feel of him slipping our hands down into my cotton panties.
“Good girl,” he says with a brush of his lips over the sensitive skin of my neck. I suck in a breath and hold it when he guides my fingertips over that place between my legs that Brede found earlier. It feels so damn good to be rubbed there. Do all men know where that secret spot is? Because this man, whose name I don’t know, directs me right to it, making my body shiver and a soft moan unexpectedly escape my lips.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, pressing down harder while easing one of my fingers into my soaked entrance. Another moan is my only response. “So fucking wet. I wanna taste you, right here,” he whispers, pushing my finger deeper while the heel of our hands keep pressing on that secret spot.
“Ohh,” I groan, my back arching to grind my ass against his erection harder as my entire body begins to tremble.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he says. “Work that fine ass on my cock.”
His words, his big guiding hand, the wrongness of letting a stranger touch me, all push me over the invisible ledge. The muscles in my stomach and thighs tense, and then the pleasurable waves are rolling through me again. “Oh! Oh God!” I gasp out as I lose control of my own body when it convulses uncontrollably in a seized up fetal position.
Before I recover, I’m forced to my back, the weight of his sturdy body pressing down on my much smaller one. His gloved palm cups the side of my face and then his mouth crashes down on mine. My very first kiss is frantic as his tongue forces its way into my mouth in search of my own. It’s incredible and so freaking hot. Peeking up at him in the darkness, I see he’s still wearing the dark ski mask, the bottom is raised to reveal his lips that are on mine. For some reason, my mind chooses that moment to remember earlier today when Brede and I were outside of the bar, his hand in my panties in a similar way, but he never once kissed me. Now, I feel cheated, because the stroke of this man’s tongue against mine makes me melt into the mattress, happily crushed by his massive frame, his hips rocking urgently into my lower body. Each thrust has the cement bulge in his pants hitting that spot that’s still tingling between my legs, so I spread them wider to give him more room.
“Fuck, Blair,” he whispers against my lips. “I need to come.” His voice sounds hoarse before his hand goes between our bodies and I hear the zipper on his pants being lowered. When his weight lifts from me, and his knuckles start brushing my stomach, I realize he’s stroking his cock. Reaching down, I push his hand away, wanting to return the favor.
“Ah, fuck,” he groans, grabbing my hand and holding it down above my head while his other hand resumes tugging on his cock, moving faster up and down his silky skin that I momentarily felt covering a thick, steel shaft. “Fuck yes,” he growls, and then his body shivers above mine before warm liquid oozes down my stomach that’s now exposed, my top pushed up to my breasts.
His body sags to the side of me on the mattress, his leg still wedged in between mine. The sound of our heavy breathing is loud in the otherwise silent night.
“I know I shouldn’t be here with you…not like this…but I can’t stay the fuck away,” he says, and when I turn my face to the side to look at him, he brushes the hair behind my ear sweetly, completely at odds with his dark and scary appearance.
“Then don’t,” I say when I roll to my side to face him, meaning I don’t want him to stay away. I want to know more about him, who he is, how he knows my secret, and what he’s doing sneaking into my father’s house.
When he sits up, I think he’s gonna leave, but then his dark hoodie raises over his head. He presses the fabric to my stomach, cleaning up the mess he made before tossing it to the floor and lying back down on his side. His arm reaches around me, grabbing my ass and pulling me against the heat of his hard t-shirt covered chest. I can’t resist pressing my nose into his neck that smells clean and masculine like the forest, so different from the lingering cigarette smoke on Brede. I rub my fingertips over the smoothness in front of me, only touching him for an instant before he grabs my hands and rolls me away from him.
“Go to sleep, baby girl,” he says, snuggling against my back.
It doesn’t take long before I start to drift off, wondering which of the first two men to ever touch me I’ll dream of.
Chapter Seven
Late Night Prowler
What the fuck am I doing here?
I should’ve left her alone. She was sound asleep when I came into search, and I could’ve snuck out the window without her ever knowing I was here. But I couldn’t resist. And fuck if she wasn’t so damn pliant, willing to let me do whatever I wanted to her. Now she’s pressed against me, so fucking tempting. But I can’t take advantage of her, no more than I already have. You can bet your ass I’ll come back tomorrow night, though, and I’ll keep taking whatever she fucking gives me.
“I wanna stay here tonight,” I say into the silence. Her regular breath stops before her head moves up and down against my chin in the gesture of her agreement; but, of course, she doesn’t say the actual word. She’s only said a few words in two nights, one I insisted she give me before I slipped her hand into her panties, two others to tell me not to stay away and Oh God when she came for me.
Knowing her history, reading the reports on her earlier today, I know her bastard of a father is to blame for her muteness. In ten years they couldn’t get a single word out of her, and I already have a handful. I tell myself that this is progress, her opening up ever so slightly with me, which is one of the reasons why I need to keep coming back.
Honestly, though, yeah, I still partially blame her for ruining my life, putting me through fucking hell for four goddamn years until I ran away, so I want to take from her whatever she gives me as a type of…atonement. But it’s more than that too. She needs someone to take care of her, and there’s still an innocence about her like she’s a lost little girl trapped inside a young woman’s body. So tonight, I’ll stay with her, sneaking off before the sunrise to make sure none of the neighbors see me. Then tomorrow, I’ll find out how much shit she’s in, whether or not I can get her out of it, and then keep tabs on her to make sure she stays the fuck out of trouble until I have what I need to nail her son of a bitch father.
It all sounds fairly simple, but for some reason, I have a bad feeling in my gut, like all I’ve worked toward for years might just be getting ready to go to hell because of this one girl. She’s a complication that may end up ruining everything. But at the same time, having a witness is better than a mountain of evidence. I’m still not sure if having her testify is even feasible with her history, but it’s worth a shot.
So, I’ll tell myself that I’m sticking around tonight and coming back tomorrow to look out for her and try to seal the deal in this case. But first, I need to figure out if she’s mentally stable enough to be of some use. What I did to her tonight isn’t exactly helpful since it’s crossing all sorts of lines and complicating the fuck out of th
e situation. But I can’t seem to help myself.
Chapter Eight
Brede
I wake up to the sound of birds chirping, so close they could be making a nest in my hair. My back muscles scream in pain when I raise my head from the wooden picnic table, figuring I’ve probably got splinters in the side of my face.
Well, I sure as fuck didn’t plan on spending the night in the park next to the neighborhood I grew up in. But after I reluctantly dropped Blair off and started drinking the Jack straight from the bottle and not the glass I stole from the local bar, I didn’t really have a choice. Too drunk to drive, I sat my ass down, drowned my sorrows, and instead of seeing the eyes of all the family members of the men I’ve killed in my nightmares, I saw just one set of eyes.
Blue ones in the face of an angel.
There was nothing innocent or spiritual about what I was doing to her in those fantasies, ones so damn intense that I vaguely remember jerking off to the vision of her sucking my cock again. After that, I dreamt about her tight little pussy clenching around my dick as she rode me so good, tits bouncing, lips swollen from sucking me off, screaming my name, right before a bullet pierced her forehead. By the time she fell forward onto my chest, she was already dead.
I think I prefer the other nightmares.
Reaching into my shirt pocket for a cigarette, I come up empty. The entire pack of Marlboros is missing. Vaguely I remember finishing the last stick in the pack while I was drinking last night, and swearing off them for some stupid reason. Oh yeah, because Blair wrinkled up her nose at the smell.
