by Jo Raven
I haul her up from the chair, plop her on my rickety table and drag down her panties.
“Shane…” Her voice is smoky with arousal, and when I undo her bra and pull it off her, both her nipples are hard, winking at me.
“Breakfast,” I whisper and push her on her back, then bend over her to suck on her tits.
Oh yeah. Her nipples taste salty and sweet, and her scent fills me like a drug. She tastes and smells like frosting, and I can’t stop licking and sucking. I want to eat her up.
She moans by name, and her hands tangle in my hair.
I freeze.
She runs them down to my face, and I think—this is real. She is real, Shane. Don’t get sidetracked.
Leaving light bites on her tits, trailing my mouth down her flat stomach, I fight the numbness, the dark trying to edge into my vision.
Real. Real.
Then I part her legs, bury my face between them, and everything else fades. I’m lost in her taste. Never though a girl would melt against my tongue like candy, that I’d be so fucking horny from licking at her pussy, feeling her contract and clench around my fingers as I push them into her heat.
So close to losing it, just from this, not even touching my own dick. Shit, this never happened to me before.
New. All new to me.
All fucking real.
I give her one last long lick that has her squealing and pull away to shuck off my sweats. She’s panting, muttering something, her hands clenching against the table, her legs pressing together.
It makes me grin again, seeing how close she is to losing her shit—because of me.
Yeah. Heavily, I step out of my sweats on the floor, kick them away, grab her knees and spread her open again. The sight of her rosy pussy brings a growl out of my chest.
Knowing I got her so wet and ready, that she wants me so much, is like a superpower. I feel solid. More solid than ever.
As if my life was a dream before, dim and out of focus, and now it’s all sharp and clear. The pain. The fear. The pleasure. The happiness.
I press the head of my cock against her entrance, and she mewls, wrapping her long legs around my hips.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Yes.”
I push into her and grind my teeth together as she closes around me, a perfect grip that has my control fraying fast. Christ. She sucks me in, swallowing my dick to the root, her pussy squeezing me until I see stars.
She props herself up on her elbows, her tits so soft and round, and I wish I could suck them as I fuck her, but with my height that won’t work. Instead, I spread my legs for better balance and thrust into her, running my hands over her body, cupping those perfect tits and thumbing her nipples.
Her head falls back, and her pussy clenches harder around my dick, making me gasp. This is fucking nuts. My dick burns, my balls are hard and heavy. I pull out a little, thrust back inside, each stroke ramping up the pressure, the tension, the need.
Panting harshly, I trail my hands down her belly to touch her clit. I circle it with my thumb, press on it, and she arches, moaning my name.
Oh fuck. I’m gonna come. I don’t think I can hold it back.
I pull her to me until she’s right at the edge of the table, and she puts her arms around my neck, pressing her tits to my chest. Her mouth seeks mine, and we kiss, hungrily, desperately as I thrust into her fast and hard. My hands move to her back, slide down to her ass and spread her wider, thrusting my dick deeper.
She’s moaning against my mouth—or maybe I am—as we rock together, our bodies locked together. The table creaks. Her hair tangles with mine, gold with black, sticking to our sweaty skin.
She shudders, bites my lip. Her pussy locks around my cock, and I feel it as she comes, great rolling ripples down the length of my dick, until I’m coming, too, bursting inside of her, dark pleasure sparkling through my body.
I let her slide back, on the table, and I lean over her, my dick still buried inside her, struggling to draw breath.
Yeah. Slowly, carefully, I pull out of her, my dick twitching, oversensitized skin and cooling cum. It spills out of her before I’ve pulled out all the way.
Damn. I stare at the milky liquid running from her pussy down her leg. What the fuck?
“Shane.” She sits up, her mouth falling open. “Shit.”
It takes me a moment to process. Then it hits me.
“Fuck. Condom.” No wonder it felt so damn good. “Oh, fuck me.”
What if she gets pregnant? Would she want that? A baby with me?
I’m hit with an image of her belly swollen with my baby and shit… I’d want that with her. A family. A home.
This is fucking nuts.
Her hand wraps around my wrist. “I’m on the pill. It’s okay. I was shocked, that’s all. Never done it without a condom before.”
And now I’m strangely disappointed. And strangely excited I’m her first in this. One more thing she’s only done with me.
But it’s not enough. She’s my anchor, my sunlight, my girl.
What am I to her?
***
The construction site is like a toxic wasteland. It has a dreamlike quality about it today—not in a good way. The warmth lingering under my skin from the mind-blowing sex is leeching out of me. The doubts and questions remain.
The sense of unease is getting worse.
Probably because Peter wants to talk to me. He’s heard about what happened yesterday.
Shit.
I hurry across the empty, frozen plot, trying to recall details about the flashback. Like always, my memory falters. I remember the matchbox, the smell of cinnamon—then things blur. The prison showers, a hand in my hair. Pain. A long corridor. Shadows. Fear. Feeling trapped. Trying to escape.
Nothing new. Same nightmare shit.
Except, at the end, Cassie was there, waiting for me. Waiting to take me home. And that changed everything—wait, that’s not true. But it made it bearable—the pain, the fear. It gave me hope.
The door of the trailer is half-open. I knock anyway before I enter, take off my heavy helmet and pull wet hair from my face.
Peter is looking at me, brows drawn together, fingers steepled on the table. Judge and jury.
Fuck. This ain’t looking good.
“Tucker. Have a seat.”
Yeah. Ain’t looking good at all. I drag a plastic chair closer to the desk and sink in it. Rub a hand over my face.
Wait for his speech.
When it comes, the blow is swift and final.
“I’m afraid I have to let you go, Tucker.” Peter has the grace to look regretful even as he hurls at me words that cut like broken glass. “You punched Mitch Cartwright yesterday, and fought with Jamie Henrik. Most importantly…” He sighs. “You had another episode. The fifth in the past couple of months. I’ve been keeping score. You should seek professional help, and I’d advise you to look for a profession with less danger.”
Episodes. Flashbacks. Here.
I can’t remember any of that. “Before…” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. “Before these past couple of months, didn’t I have any episodes?”
“None that I know of, Tucker. What does it matter? Get yourself checked out. This is nothing personal, you understand.”
He’s right. It doesn’t fucking matter.
So this is what it’s about. Me going off the rails. That’s what he’s afraid of. Maybe he thinks that next I’ll start biting people and eating their brains.
Shit. I’m being unfair, I know. He’s right. I’m a loose cannon. Can’t control myself, can’t tell past from present.
Not his fault. Not his goddamn fault.
I look down at the wet helmet in my lap and fight the urge to throw it against the wall of the container, then kick at the desk and chairs on my way out.
“I understand,” I say, my voice flat, no real meaning behind the words. A familiar smell is teasing my senses, painting the corners of the container black, pulling shadows out of the walls.
>
Cinnamon.
What the fuck?
“I’m honestly sorry about this, Tucker.”
Yeah. Me too. I watch as he reaches for a pack of gum in his shirt pocket, takes one out, and puts it in his mouth.
The smell wraps around my chest until I can’t breathe.
“These are damn good,” he says. “Someone left them on my desk the other day. Want one?”
“No.” I’m already on my feet and moving away.
Paranoia. Coincidences.
As I stumble out of the container and cross the plot like a drunk, weaving on my feet and fumbling at the pendant around my neck, I wonder if I’ll ever know what’s real and what’s not.
Especially when someone pushes me from behind, throwing me down on my face, when booted feet kick at me as I roll in the snow, as I twist this way and that, trying to get away, trying to wake up from the nightmare and failing.
This time, when it’s over, there’s nobody there to take me home.
Chapter Fourteen
Cassie
Nerves flutter in my stomach as I park outside Shane’s building. I’m lucky I found a spot. The pizzeria is crowded, and the smell wafting out of the entrance is mouthwatering.
Nerve-wracking item number one: I’m going to the wedding of one of the Inked Brotherhood and Damage Boyz family. The guys who have only just opened their doors again to me. What if I screw up? What if they decide I’m not good enough anyway?
What would that mean about me and Shane?
God, Cassie. Is there a “me and Shane?” Are we together? He never says what he feels. If he feels anything for me.
Which brings me to nerve-wracking item number two:
I’m going with Shane.
Trying to play it cool with him isn’t working. Never has. He’s too beautiful, too intense, too hurt. He has my heart in such a grip he can crush it with a look, or a word.
I’ve never been so out of my depth in my whole life.
Men want into your panties, Mom always said. They want a taste of what’s between your legs. Once they get it, you’re history. Don’t trust men. Use them, have your pleasure, but love… that’s for stupid girls with romantic fantasies filling their empty little heads. Men aren’t worth it. Don’t let them stick around.
Okay, Cass?
I turn off the engine and rest my forehead on the wheel, on top of my hands, my big silver earrings brushing my cheeks. I’ve lived by my mother’s words for years, by her example.
But Shane is different. He’s different from any other guy I’ve ever met. I didn’t know that was possible, didn’t realize that love can break you, bend you into something else.
Into what you once were, before the world fell apart. Back when you trusted and hoped and lived for tomorrow.
With a sigh, I grab my purse and get out of the car. It’s dry today, but chilly. I glance up at Shane’s window. It’s dark.
I don’t know what I’m doing with him. I’m so damn proud of him for fighting his nightmares, for trying out things, having sex with me even if it brings those same nightmares back. I’m so caught up in him, so drawn to him. I feel so easy in my skin around him. His scent, his body, his eyes, his mouth, his voice, those tiny smiles when he’s really pleased… I love everything about him.
But he probably doesn’t feel that way about me.
He needs my help. He’s trying things out with me. I’m safe. I’m his friend. Also, I’m the girl who never says no to a boy. So he’s not afraid of hurting my feelings.
He likes me more than other girls, Seth said. Is that enough? What happens when he gets better? When he doesn’t need me anymore?
Geez, I dropped huge-ass hints—about love, about being there for him. Opened my legs for him, let him come inside me without a frigging condom. Told him I’ve never done this with anyone before—and he said nothing.
Never before was my body an extension of my soul, of my feelings, until now.
Maybe he just can’t do this right now. Or ever. Maybe he doesn’t want to die, like Angel did, but maybe he can’t feel much anymore. I’ve heard such stories.
But I can’t believe it of Shane. If anything, sometimes there’s so much emotion in his eyes I wonder how he can bear it.
Lost in thought, I ride the elevator and stand in front of his door. I lift my hand to knock, then remember the key and fish it out of my pocket.
I think of how distraught Manon was when I admitted I had feelings for Shane, months ago. How concerned Seth was when I said Shane had kissed me.
I should pull back a little, save myself.
Instead I unlock the door and step inside, like every time. Because when it comes to Shane, I keep coming back.
And my resolutions about pulling back and my doubts—they just fall to dust, because something’s wrong.
It’s dark inside the apartment and cold, as if nobody has bothered to turn on the heater all day. Something bright in a heap on the floor catches my eye.
Shane’s reflective vest, the one he wears at work. A small puddle has formed around it.
I step past it in my high heels, smoothing down my short, black coat over my mini dress. My long earrings tickle my jaw as I lean on the doorjamb to Shane’s bedroom, trying to see in the gloom.
Nothing is moving inside.
“Shane?” I turn around, frown. “Is anyone home?”
Then I hear a pipe creaking, and the faint sound of water running, and for some reason, the bad feeling worsens.
When I try the bathroom door, it opens soundlessly. “Hello?”
He’s on the floor, crouched in a corner of the shower, naked, long hair in his face. The water is running, and he’s wet and shivering, keeping just out of the spray.
Heart in my throat, I kick off my shoes and step inside to crouch in front of him. “God, Shane. What happened?”
He lifts his head slowly, and my fears are confirmed.
He doesn’t see me. His gaze passes over me, locks on something over my head, and he tries to press back into the tiles, his face white as a sheet.
And oh shit, this is worse than I thought. A bruise spreads over one side of his face, he has dried blood on his lips, and now I see more dark bruising over his ribs and one arm.
Jesus.
Reaching up, I turn off the shower, and as quiet descends, I wonder what the hell to do. Was it ever so bad before? Should I call Seth this time? Not sure how to handle this. How to make sure he’s okay.
But Seth and Manon are either on the way to the wedding, or already there. If I call, I’ll bring them back, cause them to miss the wedding. Disrupt everyone’s evening, an important event in the life of the brotherhood—but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if it’s to help Shane.
Unless I can help him snap out of it, find out what sent him back into the black hole of his past.
“Shane. Listen to me. You’re at home. You’re okay.” My voice breaks, because all I want is to hug him but I don’t dare touch him yet. “You’re in your apartment. It’s just me and you.”
He knocks his head back, and I wince at the thud. “Please, don’t.”
“It’s me, Cassie.” My hand hovers over his forearm. “Remember? We’re going to Zane’s wedding today. I came to pick you up. Told you to wear something nice. You said I should come up and check—” I swallow hard. “Shane. Use the pendant I gave you.”
I’m not sure he can hear me—but then his hand creeps up to his throat, wraps around the star pendant. His nails are dark with dirt and blue with cold, his knuckles scraped bloody.
What in the world happened to him?
I start when he reaches for me and grabs my hand. “Cass.”
“Yeah.” My pulse kicks in my ears as I kneel in the cold puddle of water, let him squeeze my hand until my bones creak. “You’re hurt. Let me have a look. Please.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, but his voice is hoarse and barely audible.
“Did someone hit you?”
He glances around him, e
yes widening, though he tries to hide it. Hide that he’s seeing his surroundings for the first time. “No… Not sure.” He swallows, licks the blood from his lips and clutches the pendant harder. “I fell.”
“At the construction site? Who brought you home?”
He’s still squeezing the hell out of my hand, his eyes tracking something I can’t see. “I took the bus.”
I let out a breath. “Why didn’t you call me? Or Seth?”
“I wasn’t...” He shakes his head. “Wasn’t thinking straight.”
My heart is twisting in my chest. “Tell you what. Let’s get out of the shower, get dry and warm.”
I tug my hand away to reach for the towel hanging by the stall, and that seems to snap him out of whatever memory still haunts him. Unsteadily, holding onto the wall, he manages to get his feet under him. He’s shivering hard, too pale, his lips a nasty bluish hue under the dark crust of blood. I don’t like his color at all.
I wonder how many times he came to, lying in the shower or on the floor of his apartment, frightened. Aching. Alone.
It’s awful. I want to be there for him. I want to make it better.
Wrapping the towel around him, I help him cross the bathroom, then steer him toward his bedroom. Letting him sink down on the bed, I switch on the heater.
There’s a book lying facedown on the floor—an old, battered paperback. When I lift it, something flutters out. A scribbled note.
To my boy, it reads. May you break the chains of your thought, and find your perfect speed.
Mom.
The book is Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
My eyes feel hot as I put the note back inside the pages and close the book. I know his mom isn’t alive anymore, heard the story through Manon, how she died in an accident, how Seth stood by him through those dark times. Then came prison for a crime the boys didn’t commit, and it all went downhill from there, until they were recruited as apprentices at Damage Control.
Sounds so simple. So much left unsaid between the lines.
Placing it on his bedside table, I turn toward the closet. “I’ll get you some clothes.”
“Cass.”
I stop.
“Come here.” He’s tucking hair behind his ear as I turn, and no matter how scared I am for him, how sad, it makes me smile.
