"Do you really think that's going anywhere?" I ask.
"Yes!" she almost shouts. "Of course I do! You don't do relationships—even when you’re in one, you don't do them. You leave women faster than I can count, and they cease to exist to you! I won't be that—I can't. I need you too much to be someone you throw away."
Her words break something in me, a little bit of the armor I use to keep everyone—even her and Atticus—at bay.
"Do you really think you would be?" I demand. "You aren't the same as the others—you never have been. You’re the only girl who has ever mattered to me. Don't you know that by now? How many times have I put up with you showing up, strung out on my doorstep? Do you think I took care of you for Atticus? I love him, but no. I did it because I care about you, Scout. I've always cared about you."
"You don't need to," she says, her voice shaking. "You need someone better than me. Someone who isn't as screwed up."
"You aren't the only one with issues, Scout. I've got my own to deal with—maybe it's time you quit deciding what I need and accept that you’re what I want."
She opens her mouth to say something, and then closes it again, wordless and shaking.
It's when she starts to turn away that I lose my temper. I jerk her around, and she lands against my chest, all her soft curves pressing against me. My hands slip under her coat, finding the softness of her sweater and the warm curve of her hip. I want to touch that curve, trace it with my lips. "You can't stand here and tell me that you don't want me," I growl, dropping my head down and kissing the skin where her neck curves into her shoulder.
"What I want doesn't matter," She whispers, shifting against me. The friction is enough that I'm getting hard from it, and it's not enough—nothing will be enough until I'm buried in her hot, tight core.
"What you want is the only thing that matters," I whisper, because it's true. I want this—want her, so bad I can taste it—but I won't force her. Would never dream of forcing her.
"I don't want a relationship."
It's a slap in the face, and I go still, my lips still pressed to her soft skin.
Step back. She reaches for me and I twist away. "Dane?" she says, her voice questioning and strange. "We can be together, without a relationship."
I laugh, and she flushes, because it's as stupid as it sounds. I shake my head. "I'm good, Scout. Friends. You want to be friends, we can do that."
She watches me warily, and I want to scream, shake her. Instead, I turn back to the house. Because I can't do this. I can't face her and the expectation that I'll screw her without something more.
It makes sense—it's what I do. Avery once said I was exceptionally good at it, and I am. I've been humping and dumping for years, since my sophomore year of high school when Jeanette first got sick.
Why is she different?
Because she's Scout Grimes. It doesn't need more explanation than that. I stalk back to the house. She follows, quiet. There are a few times where she opens her mouth, and I think she'll say something. But she doesn't, and I slam into the house without her stopping me.
The itchy feeling is running along the inside of my skin, and I need it to go away. I know better than to think time with Scout will quell it—not this time. Not when she's the cause of it.
Which leaves my usual option.
She'll be furious. But fuck that noise. She said no to a relationship. I don't owe her anything—and she's made it crystal clear she doesn't want me to.
I shower quickly and pick out something to wear. Faded jeans with a pair of scuffed boots. A plain tight t-shirt with sleeves just short enough to show a hint of my tattoos. A tongue ring and disheveled hair and my leather bomber jacket.
I glance at myself in the mirror once I'm ready and smirk. Yep. This will drive the ladies crazy—and get one of them where I want her.
Writhing and naked under me.
I snag my keys off the counter, and Scout looks up, her expression closing as she takes in my clothes. I shift, a deliberate slouch in my posture that screams casual disinterest. Girls eat that up, and her eyes narrow. "Where are you going?" she asks, her voice empty.
I don't grin like I want to. "Speakeasy. I'll be home later. Go ahead and lock up after me."
She opens her mouth to say something, but I turn away and leave. I don't really want to hear whatever she has to say—it won't negate what she already said.
And I need something to clear my mind.
The nice thing about Branton is that we have a limited number of clubs. Baton Rouge is a good city for partying, but Branton is small enough not to care. But with the college, we have some, and since I've been sneaking into clubs since I was sixteen, it's easy enough to get the bouncers to let me in.
Plus, the girls go crazy when I'm on the floor—all three clubs know that. They put up with me screwing strangers in the back because I bring in a certain amount of revenue. It works for everyone.
Everyone but my flavor of the evening.
I settle in my favorite corner of Speakeasy, the music beating through my veins. It's early enough that they're still playing jazz and there is room on the dance floor. In another hour or so, the music will switch to current pop dance mixes—pure shit, in other words—and the floor will flood with so many college students, there won't be room to walk, much less dance.
It'll make it easier to find the girl I'll be with for the evening.
"Hey, handsome," Crystal, a long time waitress, purrs as she sidles up to me. I glance over her—in a tiny pair of shorts and tank top that does nothing to hide or contain her C-cup breasts, there's plenty to glance over.
She gives killer head. I consider it for a half second as she sways closer, her breasts brushing my arm. I feel her nipple, hard and eager, through the thin cotton layer, and let my hand ghost up to tweak it, gently.
"Not tonight," I say. Crystal pouts, and I laugh. "Don't. Bring me a bottle of Jack, would you?"
She makes a face, but hurries away. I settle on the barstool and watch as the club fills. Sip my Jack Daniels as groups of girls—sometimes with dates, and sometimes alone—strut in, downing shots and martinis and giggling like a horde of vapid idiots.
I don't particularly care about any of them. But I'm not supposed to.
I see her before she sees me, and I grin, a slow smile. A pretty blonde is standing by her side, in a pair of jeans and off-the-shoulder sweater that would have Atticus panting. But my attention is on the redhead in a black sweater dress that does amazing things for her curves.
I swallow my JD and stand, abandoning my table for the moment and trusting Crystal to keep people away from it.
The table goes quiet as I approach, the soft whisper spreading briefly. Avery looks up, amusement clear in her gaze. "What do you want, Dane?" she says.
I spare her a single smirk then turn to Kelly. Her roommate. The girl who so clearly wanted me, and who I didn't screw, as a courtesy to Avery.
I'm not feeling courteous tonight.
I can feel Avery's eyes on me as I lean into Kelly's personal space. "Dance with me," I murmur.
She grins at me, already a little drunk. "Think we've already done that."
I drag her off the barstool, against me, and grind my erection into her belly. She whimpers, and I whisper again, "Dance with me."
She follows without a word.
It's easy to get lost in the dance floor. Within seconds, I've lost sight of Avery and her sorority sisters. Kelly plasters herself to me, and I grin. The girl wants me—she's never been shy about expressing that. It's kinda nice, after the head games I'm used to playing.
We dance for a long time, a bump and grind that has me thinking about sex—not that I ever really quit. But when Kelly twists and slips a hand between us to palm my cock, I groan, my head tilting back as she rubs me through my jeans and kisses my neck.
It's hot, and I'm into it. But it's not enough. I lift her, and her long legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, a delicious pressure as I wal
k us through the writhing couples, until her back hits the wall and she laughs into my mouth—when did she start kissing me, and why isn't it leaving a bigger impression?
She wiggles against me, and I clamp down on her hips, stilling her as I push against her panties. Kelly whimpers, and I let her slide down my body. I want inside her. I want to fuck this crazy, itchy feeling away—I want that few blissful minutes where I'm not thinking.
Her hands are on my pants, tugging and fumbling. I let my head drop back, my eyes closing, welcoming the sure grip and her eagerness.
And then she's gone, her fingers and not-quite-enough grip absent. The noise from the crowd stutters and stops, and I hear Kelly. "What the hell, bitch?"
I look up, still riding the high of arousal, startled to see Scout.
She's changed, into a see through white sweater and a black cami, a short skirt and black hooker boots that add three inches to her height. Her back is to me, but I can see the tenseness in her posture, and her voice is stark and furious when she says, "He's mine."
Avery skids into view, and I have a sudden 'oh shit' moment. "Scout, what the hell—"
"Get that slut away from him, Avery," Scout says, her voice low, "or so help me, I will break her face."
"I went to her," I say, trying to head off a fight that so doesn't need to happen.
She cuts me a look, fury mixing with pain, and I straighten. "Avery, take care of this. I need to get her out of here."
Avery gives me a sharp look, and I step toward her as I grab Scout's arm. "Don't talk to him—let me explain this before you talk to him."
"You have twelve hours," she mutters, and I nod. It’s enough time—I'll clean this up, if it's at all possible.
But right now, I'm getting her the hell out of here. This was a bad idea.
Scout rips out of my grip as soon as we're outside, and I let her. "Don't touch me," she snarls.
"How did you get here?" I ask.
"Lou drove me," she says, looking away, and I take her in again. Every perfect curve is outlined by that barely there outfit and those boots...God, those things should be illegal for what they do to her legs.
"Give me your keys, you’re too damn drunk to drive."
No one drives my car. Atticus has driven it once—when I was too lost in grief to be bothered to care. But I don't even hesitate when she asks. Just toss her the keys and collapse into the passenger seat.
I can feel her shock, filling the night air and the car. But neither of us speak until we're home. She drives quickly, with careful precision that is hella sexy—why is it that everything this girl does is so damn sexy?
When we get to my house, she's out of the car before I can open my mouth and ask her to wait, striding inside. Leaving me to scramble after her.
It's those boots. She has to stop to wrestle them off, and if I liked them on her, the tiny window of time they give me makes me love them.
"Scout."
"Don't," she snaps, her gaze flicking up to me. "You don't get to talk, Guillot."
"What, you get to come in and rip some poor girl off me, almost get into a fight, and I don't get an explanation? Where the hell is the sense in that?" I shout, furious. The itchy feeling is back, and I'm desperate—I need it gone, and I don't care what it takes.
"What did you think I'd do?" she yells back. "Do you think I was okay with you screwing some stranger while I sat at home? I'm not Mel, you asshole!"
"You didn't want me," I growl. "You don't get to act pissy because I look for someone else."
She screams, a half-strangled noise in the back of her throat that kills me a little, and then she's kissing me.
Her hands are in my hair, and there's nothing tentative about it—not like the times I've kissed her before. She's gripping, just a little too tight, pulling me where she wants me, her lips moving and rubbing against mine. She licks at my lips, and I groan. When her tongue darts into my mouth, twisting around mine, my knees go weak.
Then she shoves me away. "You can't go down on me, and promise me that this is safe, you can't tell me you want a relationship and then go find a stranger in a bar. There is nothing okay about that!"
"You said no!" I yell, hitting the wall. "You don't want me!"
"I don't want to lose you," she says, the fight draining out her suddenly. "Do you really think that means I'm not interested in more? I'm just not willing to risk you!"
I catch her by the hips and push her against the wall. Her legs come up and wrap around me, her skirt riding up so her core rests directly against my erection. I brace her against the wall and kiss her neck, catching her hands and pinning them above her head. "You," I whisper against her neck, "are thinking too damn much."
"It's not worth it," she mumbles. "One night isn't worth losing you."
I laugh, pulling back enough that she blinks up at me, at the sexy smirk I'm giving her. "You’re wrong. Even if it was just one night, if it's me and you, it'll always be worth it."
I let go of her hands and slip mine under her skirt, hitching her up and tighter against me. The curves of her perfect ass are bare, and it takes me a second to realize she's wearing a damn thong. I turn and carry her to my bedroom.
"Dane, no," she starts. I let her slide down my body, and back against the bed, then drop to my knees beside her.
"This skirt has to go," I mutter, and she bats weakly at me.
"I don't want this," she whispers. I go still, staring at her, and I can see the lie in her eyes.
"Scout, if you want me to stop, I will. I'll get up and leave and I won't touch you. But can you honestly say that you don't want me? Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that you're okay with me going to another girl?" Her eyes narrow. "Would you be okay with me going back to the club, finding a girl to screw in the bathroom? Would it bother you if I were to go down on her—to have her come against my fingers? Because if it does, you need to think about what you want from me."
"I don't want to lose you," she whispers.
"Baby, I'm not going anywhere. I haven't in years, and I'm not going to because we sleep together. Why can't you see that?"
Tears fill her eyes, and I lean up, kissing her softly as they spill against her cheeks, slipping down to mix in our kiss. "I'm not good at this," she whispers.
"Neither am I," I admit, and she laughs, a choked noise. "But maybe we can be good at it together."
"Why did you go there, tonight?"
"Because sex is one of the ways I cope, and I needed that outlet tonight," I say honestly.
She's quiet, and I roll to the side, holding her and trying not to think about the fact that I still need it. It's not an option—not right now, anyway. "I'm gonna get a shower," I say. She doesn't answer, so I get up and pad into the bathroom. Alone.
Scout
I'm a mess. I want him—it'd be a lie to even pretend that I don't. I can feel the moisture pooling in my panties and making my thighs slick. Even as angry as it makes me to think of him with another girl, the thought of him on his knees, licking me to orgasm is almost enough to make me throw away my caution and jump his bones.
He wants it. I know he does—but he stopped because I asked him too. When was the last time a guy cared what I wanted? When was the last time I cared about a guy enough to know stopping was a good idea?
The water turns on in the shower, and I shift on the bed.
He needs release—I understand the need. But I don't want him getting himself off. I don't want anyone but me doing that.
I move without really thinking it through, stripping off my skirt and sweater, and walking to the bathroom. The door is silent as it swings open, but he's staring at me, eyes bright with desire and something I refuse to think about. When he pushes the shower door open, it's a clear invitation, and I almost balk—almost run. But I want him, and I'm tired of being afraid of what I want.
I hook my thumbs in my panties and slip them down. Dane's breath catches, but he doesn't say anything as I unclip the matching bra. Doesn't say anythin
g as I step into the shower. The spray of hot water is mostly blocked by his body, but a fine mist hits me and I shiver, goose bumps on my arms as I take in the water. And him.
I've always known Dane was good looking. It's hard to live with a guy like him and not know it—he wears his good looks and sex appeal like an armor against the world. And in some ways, it is. But I've never really gotten to enjoy it. I've never let myself.
A nipple ring hangs from his right nipple. I want to kiss it. Tattoos, intricate vines and thorns and flames, trace up along his ribcage, snaking across his pecs and washboard abs. A date is inked low on his hip. The boy is positively covered in ink.
I step into his space, and some of the tension seeps out of him when I huddle against his chest, his arms coming up to wrap around me. I shiver, and he turns us so I'm pressed against the shower wall, the spray raining down on both of us as he dips down and kisses me.
I love the way Dane kisses me—the softest nuzzle against my lips before he actually presses into me, the little licks at my mouth as if he's begging for entry, the way his hands come up to frame my face when I soften and let him in. The way his tongue licks into me, probing and deep, almost reverent before he's pulling away and catching my bottom lip in a light bite that has me arching against him.
His head dips down, and I clutch at his hair as he catches my nipple with his teeth, biting just enough to make me writhe against the shower wall before he sucks me into his mouth, licking away the pain and drawing on me. I can feel every light tug in my clit, a deep throbbing that needs...something. I shift, anxiously, and Dane drops to his knees. Kisses my belly and the soft inner skin of my thigh. He still hasn't said anything to me, not since I joined him in here, and I'm not sure what he's thinking, but I'm tired of wondering. I'm tired of thinking at all. So when his eyes flicker up to mine, I nod. He smiles, a sweet, heartbreaking smile that is devoid of all the prowly charm he uses at the clubs. He kisses me again on the thigh, biting softly so I jump. Then his fingers are soft, probing me, and I hear him groan. "God, you’re so wet, Scout. So turned on. Do you have any idea what the does to me?"
Beautiful Broken (University of Branton) Page 11
