by Anne Jolin
Linking our hands together, he kisses my temple. “Crazy for you.”
“It’s about damn time, Mr. King,” I tease.
“Ready to go, sugar?” he asks, draping his arm around the back of my chair.
Curling into his side, I breathe deeply. He smells like Dove soap—the kind I know he keeps in our shower—and a little bit like ink from working at the shop, but mostly, he’s all man. No cologne, nothing, just him. I love it.
I nod, resting my head on his chest. “Yah.”
“Thanks for letting me, uh”—he scrubs the five-o’clock shadow on his chin with his hand—“crash your dinner.”
“Any time,” Alyssa croons, raking her nails down Colt’s chest. Gross.
Spending the last few hours with her was painful. The only thing that made it bearable was Jayden. She talked too much and asked too many inappropriate questions, most of which were aimed at me, and sometimes, when she didn’t think anyone was looking, her guard would slip. Gone was the cheesy, eager-to-impress girlfriend, and in her place was something much more sinister.
It was creepy as all heck.
After standing up, Jayden helps me out of my chair.
“See you guys later.” I wave goodbye, holding his hand with my good one as we leave the restaurant.
As we walk to the truck, my warm skin shivers in the evening summer breeze.
“You’re my girlfriend,” he says boldly.
Turning my head, I look upwards at him playfully. “Is that so?”
“Well, yeah.” He gestures to the sidewalk. “Don’t you remember? I swooped in with all my blue horsepower”—I roll my eyes at his cheesy joke—“and claimed you.”
“Claimed me?” I clarify as he helps me into the passenger’s seat.
Buckling me in, he leans against the doorframe and places his hand on my thigh. “Yes,” he groans under his breath, running his hand up my inner thigh, closer to the edge of my dress. “You’re mine, Peyton.” He drags a finger lazily underneath the hem of the lace, and my body shudders in response. “All of you.”
“Oh,” I mumble lamely.
The lust in my brain is clearly making it impossible for me to communicate properly—or, at the very least, like a half-there human being.
Our drive home is short, and truthfully, it feels a little surreal. I know there’s so much he doesn’t know about me, and a part of me wonders if it’s fair to agree to this without telling him about all the ugliness that still haunts my mind and raids my sleep at night.
People don’t want to date a killer.
People don’t want to marry a murderer.
And people definitely don’t want damaged goods.
Reaching over, he stills my fidgeting hands. “What’s on your mind, Peyton?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
He pulls over to the shoulder of the road and then turns to face me. “Tell me.”
We’re only minutes from home, but the fact that he’s so concerned that he can’t wait to know is equal parts heart warming and terrifying.
I’ll have to tell him soon, but not tonight.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Sugar,” he whispers, dragging his finger along my collarbone and then up to wrap around the back of my neck. “Don’t lie to me.”
Sighing, I glance out the window. “I have issues,” I blurt out.
“We all have issues,” he reassures. “Now, look at me.”
My gaze drifts along the front dash and finally up into his blue eyes. “Mine are ugly,” I whisper sadly.
“So are mine.” He leans over, kissing me softly. “In time, I think you’ll find that my wounds, now opened wide, are exactly your size. In turn, your scars were built only to fade upon kisses from my lips. Separate, perhaps, we are broken, but together, we are remarkably whole.”
My scars.
As if reading my mind, he links our fingers together before pulling back onto the road. “You don’t have to tell me about them tonight, Pey.”
“Thank you,” I whisper into the dark cab of his truck.
Turning the vehicle onto our street, he squeezes my hand. “But I do want you to tell me.”
Lying next to him in bed that night, I can’t help but allow my mind to wander into the dark spaces it usually keeps so desperately hidden.
I momentarily fear that this kind of thinking will bring forth another horrific nightmare, but having his heavy arm draped around my waist and his breath on my neck, I feel protected. I feel safe.
However, the question of the hour still remains.
How do I tell him that the last man I dated wound up dead?
I FEEL HER ass wiggle against me as she stirs in her sleep, and my dick thickens in response.
Morning wood reporting for duty.
I haven’t been with anyone since the night Peyton came into my shop nearly three weeks ago. Even before she was hurt later that night, I’d been ruined. Her face had snuck into my thoughts and never left. I couldn’t even be bothered to try with anyone else. The girl I was with, whatever her name was, was shown the door minutes after my girl practically had bolted from me.
I’m getting a serious case of blue balls. I’ve seen her sweet little body naked—twice—and haven’t been able to do fuck about it. She’s healing—I know that. And until last night, she wasn’t mine. But she is now, and I sorely believe I’ll be able to stay a gentleman in waiting much longer to have her.
Tugging the covers down slightly, I see that she’s perfectly fitted against my body, like she was fucking made for me. I want to beat on my chest at the pride soaring through me from seeing her in my shirt, and nothing but my shirt, for the second night in a row.
Sweeping the hair off her neck, I kiss the soft spot behind her ear. “Wake up, sugar,” I whisper. My hips involuntarily rock against her backside when she moans.
“Morning,” she says sleepily.
I begin to rub my hand in slow, lazy circles on her stomach. “Did my girlfriend sleep well?”
Her cheeks rise, and I can tell she’s smiling into the pillow.
So fucking cute.
All mine.
“Yes,” she murmurs, turning around in my arms.
I pull her so she’s lying on my chest, her violet eyes blinking back at me. “There you are.” I cup her face and lead her down to kiss me.
She opens her mouth for me, and I dive in like a starved man, tasting her. As she moans, her tits press into my chest. There’s nothing between us but the shirt she’s wearing and the boxers I have on, which are doing a terrible job to hide how happy I am to have her in my bed.
“Jayden,” she whimpers against my lips.
Fuck. My cock jerks in response to her saying my name like that.
Pulling back, I press our foreheads together and try to rein in some of my control. Moving her legs, she positions them on either side of my hips so she’s straddling my waist. I can feel the heat of her pussy when she grinds against my boxer-clad dick, which relentlessly teases my already strained self-control.
Fisting my hand in her hair, I move her mouth away from mine so I can see her face. I use all the strength in my upper body to hold her upright. I don’t want her putting any weight on her cast. Her pink, pouty lips are bruised, and her honey hair hangs messily around her face. Gorgeous. Her eyelids are hooded in lust, and an innocent blush spreads across her cheeks.
“Are you wet for me, Peyton?” I growl, nipping at her bottom lip.
Wiggling on my lap, she looks away, avoiding my eyes. “Yes.”
Not able to resist checking, I slip my other hand down between us, cupping her heat through the thin material of her shirt but careful not to touch her skin. “Fuck,” I hiss sharply, feeling her wetness soaking through my shirt.
“Jayden, I . . .” Her voice drops off when I press my thumb against her clit, moving it in lazy circles over her shirt—my shirt.
“What, sugar?” I urge, feeling her start to rub herself against my hand.
Chewi
ng nervously on her bottom lip, she shakes her head. “I don’t have much experience,” she murmurs, looking anywhere but my eyes. “I don’t know if I can . . . If I will be . . .”
“Hey,” I whisper, releasing my one hand from her hair, cupping the side of her face—all the while never stopping the movement of my hand working between her legs. “It’s just me and you, Pey,” I try to reassure her, worried about the hesitant demeanor on her face. “We’ll go slowly, okay? Nothing you don’t want to do.”
Nodding, she presses her eyes closed, her voice coming out so softly that I barely catch it. “I don’t want you to stop.”
Fuck.
“Tell me what you want.”
She blinks back at me. “I want to come for you, Jayden,” she whimpers, and the sound is my complete undoing.
Pulling her shirt up, I slide my fingers through the lips of her smooth pussy. My dick jumps, but I know she’s not ready for that—not with what I have. This morning is about my girl.
“So tight,” I groan roughly, dipping one finger inside.
She buries her face into my neck when I add another finger, stretching her slick heat for me. Her breath comes out in pants against my shirtless upper body.
“More,” she begs.
Curling my fingers inside to hit her G-spot, I continue my unrelenting rhythm, fucking her with abandon as my fingers slam in and out of her. When the tight walls of her pussy start to clench, I know my girl is almost ready.
Adding my thumb back to her clit, I slow my rhythm. Teasing her.
Her hips start to move, and she shamelessly rides my hand, begging again. “Please.”
Fuck. I love it when she begs.
“Please what, Peyton?”
She growls, frustrated, and I feel her teeth bite into my shoulder, spurring me forward. Grabbing a fistful of her hair again, I yank her head up so I can see her face.
“You’ll look at me when I make you come. No hiding. Understood?” I demand, nipping at her bottom lip.
“Yes,” she breathes, licking her lips.
Adding a third finger, I fuck her harder, knowing I’m stretching her tight pussy almost more than she can bear but letting her grind down on my fingers when she needs more.
It’s hot as fucking hell watching her lose herself for me. For my fucking hand.
Her eyes shut tight, and I roughly tug her hair, yet I’m still trying not to jostle her upper body too much.
“Open,” I growl. “Or I stop.”
Violet eyes find their way back to me, and I want to fucking roar at the lust behind them.
Mine.
“Good girl,” I praise her, pressing down on her clit with my thumb at the same time that my fingers hit the soft spot inside her. “Come for me, Peyton.”
Her pussy tightens around my fingers, and I feel her body shudder above me. Moaning my name while her eyes never leave mine, she gives way to the pleasure coursing through her body.
I wait, letting her ride out the aftershocks of her orgasm, before pulling my hand out from between her thighs. “You’re so beautiful when you come,” I say, my cock begging to be touched. Then I lift my wet fingers and suck them into my mouth, making sure she watches as I do it. “Mmm. I knew you’d be sweet there too.”
She blushes crimson, and I pull her down to kiss me, knowing she’ll taste herself on my lips. Her body still heaves every time she breathes, and I gather that it’s from her injuries. Eventually breaking our kiss, she settles her head on my chest, looking up at me.
“What about you?” she asks, glancing down towards my tented boxers. Her hand starts to slide down my chest, but I grab her wrist.
“Not today.” I bring her hand up to my mouth, kissing her knuckles. “This morning was about you.”
“But you’re . . .”
Winking at her, I nod towards the door. “I’ll be okay,” I say reassuringly. “I’ve gotten used to cold showers since you moved in.”
She giggles, adjusting her arms under her chin, which is when I see it. Her cast.
“What’s this?” I ask, trailing my eyes over the design.
“Oh,” she mumbles. “Danika did it.”
Lifting her arm, I smile when I realize what she’s done. “Did you do this for me?”
She starts to chew her lip again, but using my thumb, I release it.
“Yes,” she confesses.
Smiling, I look over her cast again. There are cupcakes, ice cream cones, and candy bars, and on the inside, in bold letters, it says, Sugar.
“I love it.” I dip down to kiss her. “But it’s missing something.”
Furrowing her brow, she turns her arm around to see what I’m talking about. “What’s missing?” she asks, adorably confused.
“Close your eyes.”
She purses her lips, and for a second, I think she might argue, but instead, she does as I asked. Leaning over, I rummage around in my bedside table until I find what I’m looking for. I knew I had one of these fucking bastards in there. Once I’ve pulled the lid off the purple Sharpie with my mouth, I set to work on the particular area I want to enhance.
When I’m satisfied with my work, I put the lid back on and grin.
I’m an asshole.
“Open,” I say, blowing on the area of her cast to dry it.
Her eyes fly open and she stares down at it, her mouth gaping open. “You . . . You . . .” she stammers, looking up at me, “you branded me!”
“Bet your ass I did.”
She glares at me before turning her cast over to look at it better. “You’re lucky this comes off in less than two weeks,” she hisses. “And then I’m going to hit you with it.”
Fuck that. I’ll tattoo it back on her myself then. Everyone will know she’s mine. Everyone.
Looking down, I smile proudly, taking in my work.
Jay’s Sugar.
“Mine,” I grunt like a caveman and then kiss the spot on her cast.
I CAN’T BELIEVE he just branded me.
Rolling my eyes, I trace the tattoos on his chest.
I can’t believe I kind of like it.
Fighting back a smile so I don’t encourage him, I focus on the ink that decorates his chiseled body. I stop when I see a unique picture on his left side, part of it curling up under his pectoral muscle.
“What is this one for?” I ask, absentmindedly drawing over it with my finger.
His muscles tense underneath me, so I start to pull my hand away, panicked that my question has broken the newfound spell between us. Instead, he grabs my wrist and places my hand back where it was.
“It’s okay,” he reassures me, kissing my hair. “I just wasn’t expecting the question.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I rush out, the nervousness in my voice not quite having left.
Who am I to ask about his secrets?
It’s not like I’ve shared mine.
“I want to.” He gives me a sad smile. “But I think it would be easier if I showed you.”
“Okay,” I whisper, taking a mental picture of the ink. “Show me.” Then I press a kiss over his heart.
Two hours, breakfast for two, and one cold shower for Jayden later, we’re en route to wherever he is taking me.
He looks nervous, and not in a small way, either. He can’t seem to sit still and his hands continually fist on the steering wheel. A part of me feels like I am waiting for him to pull over and puke out the window.
Wanting to comfort him, I unbuckle my seat belt to slide across the bench.
“Put that back on!” he barks, and I freeze mid motion.
“I was just—”
“I don’t give a shit. Put your seat belt back on, Peyton.”
I’m stunned at the tone of his voice and don’t move right away.
“Now!” he shouts.
I shudder, climbing back to my seat and staring out the window.
Asshole.
A few minutes later, he sighs. “Peyton, I’m—”
Raising my hand, I cu
t him off. “I don’t want to hear it.” I’m pissed off, and if I say more than that, I’ll regret the words that come out of my mouth.
I might not be very experienced. Hell, my experience is basically nonexistent.
I might be broken, physically and mentally, but the hell with being treated like a child. I’m twenty-four going on twenty-five, and the last thing I want to do is be scolded like an incompetent brat by my “boyfriend.”
What a joke.
“You’ll understand,” he murmurs in justification.
Still staring out the window, I refuse to acknowledge him. How could I possibly understand the swinging pendulum of his emotions? There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason behind it.
Twenty minutes later, we’re on the Sea to Sky Highway, the only road that leads from Rock Falls to Vancouver. Abruptly, he pulls into one of the lookout areas and turns off the truck. His body is shaking as he climbs out of his seat and stalks around the hood of his vehicle. Upon opening my door, he helps me down before slamming it behind me.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” I ask, confused, looking up and down the road.
Shaking his head, he links our hands together. “Almost.”
He cautiously glances both ways before leading us across the two-lane highway and onto the shoulder of the opposite side. When I peek up at the rock face beside us and over at the hundred-foot drop on the other side, something in my body shakes.
We walk silently for five minutes or so before he stops abruptly. After checking for traffic again but finding none, he steps out into the lane closest to us and turns to face me.
His jaw clenches, his body is shaking uncontrollably now, and tears are spilling down his cheeks. Letting my hand go, he drops to his knees on the pavement, placing his palms flat on the roadway.
“This is where she died.”
My blood runs cold.
He’s crying steadily now, sobs racking his beautiful, strong body. Nervous about him on the road, I glance both ways before kneeling down in front of him. It takes me longer than I’d have liked with my limited movement, but eventually, I run my fingers through his hair. Then I cup his face with my hands.
The emotional distress he’s in causes my heart to constrict, and I don’t push him for more. I simply wait, checking the road every few seconds to make sure no cars are coming.
