Not that this knowledge makes me feel better.
Motorcycles, especially the shiny chrome ones like Nate rides, are known as death traps in my family. Like any normal good ole Aussie boy, Jon had wanted one early in our relationship. He’d quickly changed his mind when I told him that it was a choice between his two wheeled death sentence or sex with me.
I’d won, of course.
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” I proclaim, pulling against Nate’s insistent hold. When he keeps walking and continues to drag me over to the monstrosity, I dig my heels in until he stops.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not getting on that thing.”
“Why not?” The drawn together eyebrows and incredulous expression on his face strip me bare of my defences, then his next sentence sends me spiralling over the edge. “Statistically, they’re safer than cars.”
Visions of the car that killed Jon and my angel baby hit me hard. They come in waves. The vehicle heading for us. Jon thrusting Max into my arms and pushing us out of the way. The initial impact. My husband’s body being thrown over the roof of the car and landing on the boot. The silver flash of the paint in the sunlight as the car continued approaching me. The second crunching sound when it mowed down me and my son. The cries for help from the onlookers who saw it happen.
The sirens. The blood. My own screams. Then the black hole of nothingness as reality set in.
A high-pitched keening sound erupts. It hurts my ears and drags me back to the here and now.
Suddenly, I become aware that I’m sitting on the cold concrete, rocking back and forth as Nate sits behind me with his arms around me, and he tries to make sense of my meltdown. I realise the wailing is coming from me, so I jam my hands over my mouth.
“Amy? Tell me what’s wrong?” Nate is frantic. His words trip over themselves and his arms tighten around me. “Do I need to call someone? Tell me what to do.”
As quickly as it began, my panic attack ends. Stark calm, the black and white void of the overwrought, grips me and I push back to my feet. Without a word, I grab Nate’s hand and tug him behind me as I climb back up the stairs. We exit through the heavy door of this level and walk into the next.
The big man by my side says nothing as I lead him. He matches my movements, holding his position half a step behind me, until I stop so I can dig my keys out of my handbag.
Pointing the black fob at my car, I deactivate the alarm and unlock the doors. Nate opens the passenger side after I open my driver’s door. He pauses with his arm resting on the roof of my car.
“So, no Harley?”
I incline my head before I offer him a weak smile. “No Harley.”
As we settle inside my vehicle, an easy acceptance takes hold of the atmosphere around us. Neither of us speaks as I drive out of the parking garage.
“I take it I’m not the only one who comes with a warning in this relationship?” Nate asks when I come to a stop at the stop lights
Warm tendrils of comfort tangle their way up my spine with the elegance of a poison ivy at his casual use of the word relationship. Eventually, I’m going to have to lay down some ground rules with us.
“Yours comes in the form of cryptic grenades lobbed from a distance,” I reply with a shrug. “Mine’s a little more in noisy and in your face.”
My riddle doesn’t even warrant a glance in my direction from the enigmatic man I’ve invited into my life. Or allowed to bulldoze his way. I haven’t quite decided which one of us is responsible for today’s events just yet.
Instead, he accepts my words at face value and points to the right. “Turn that way. My house is about ten kilometres from here.”
When the light turns green, I flick on my indicator and take the right turn like he requested.
Not because he told me to, but because I’m finally ready to travel this road...
With him.
NINETEEN
Nate
Seeing Amy screaming at something only she could see should have been a deal breaker.
Hell, I’m sure it would’ve sent most men running for the hills.
Normal men.
Weak men.
All it did to me was set off a protective instinct I didn’t know I possessed for anyone outside my immediate circle—Hooligan, Jep, Drew, Taz, my Aunt’s brother, Angelo, and my Aunt Mari and my cousin, Gabe, when they were still alive. At first, I’d dropped to the ground behind her and shielded her with my body from whatever attack was imminent. Then, I’d used the warmth and the solidness of my body to envelop her when I’d realised she was stuck in painful memories conjured by her own head.
The signs of trauma were clear. I’d seen them in my uncle after he’d identified my aunt and cousin’s bodies, and later in my kinda step-aunt, Anita when she’d lost her shit when an explosion had ripped through the concrete factory around the corner from Black Hearts MMA one day when she’d been visiting.
Amy had some dark shit in her past and she was not even close to having dealt with it.
I should feel bad for her.
I don’t.
If anything, I’m glad—in a completely sick way that I’d never tell her about.
It evens the playing field.
I’m fucked up.
She’s been fucked up.
In a morbid way, we match.
After following my directions back to the house I share with Jep, Amy pulls into the driveway and turns off her headlights. In the darkness, she slumps back in her seat and I hear a deep sigh leave her a minute later.
It’s a sound I know well.
Shame.
“Why haven’t you asked what I was screaming about back there?”
Reaching across the car, I take her hand and pull it into my lap. With strong, sure, even strokes, I massage her palm and tendons then work my way down her fingers, one at a time.
This time when she sighs, the sound is lighter.
“I didn’t ask you for the same reason you didn’t ask me the name of my diagnosis,” I reply when she twists in her seat and offers me her other hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re not like other men.”
Her assessment doesn’t sting because she offers it without a judgement.
“Nope.”
“I used to be like other women,” Amy ventures in voice as quiet as it is timid. “I miss being like other women. Uncomplicated. Unbroken. Just an ordinary person.”
I let her confession hang in the night air. There’s nothing more to say, really. She might miss being normal. I don’t. I never have been. My baseline for regular was broken at birth. I don’t know any different to the way I am.
The meds I got rid of helped in some ways and hindered in others.
They evened me out so I could cope, but I’ve come to realise over the past few days that they also stole the highs and lows of life from me. I’ve never felt anything as much as I’ve felt everything since Friday.
The good. The bad. The ugly. The beautiful.
“Are you going to ask me inside?” Amy breaks the silence that’s fallen.
I open my door and the interior light comes on in her car. In the dark, she’s turned her entire body in her seat to face me. Her knees are wedged awkwardly against the middle console and jammed beneath the steering wheel. Despite her uncomfortable position, Amy is staring at me with a wide-eyed expectation that would steal my breath if she hadn’t already.
The hunger in her dark orbs matches the craving I feel.
“Would you come if I asked?”
Amy smiles. “Ask me and find out.”
Exiting the vehicle without acknowledging her, my long legs eat the distance between my door and Amy’s in seconds. I pull open her door and tug her out of her seat. She comes willingly, standing in front of me with her hands flat against my chest.
Directly over my heart.
“Would you like to come inside?”
“I would,” she replies with a sultry purr.
Taki
ng hold of her hand, I lead her along the garden path to the front door, then through the darkened living room to my bedroom. The door I destroyed earlier has been replaced—more than likely with one from a room we don’t use. I temper my surprise at Jep’s hasty repair job, filing a mental note to remind myself to thank him when I see him next, and close the replacement door behind us.
Flicking on the light switch, I try to step outside my familiarity so I can see my personal space like Amy would.
My room isn’t much. The posters on the walls aren’t of musicians and bands. Rather UFC fighters and basketballers cover the beige paint. The furniture I own doesn’t match. Most of it is comprised of hand-me-downs from Hooligan and the other guys at the gym. My bed is made. My clothes folded in my cupboard. My desk is messy, but in an orderly way where I can find what I need.
The focus I have on compulsive neatness is probably the one thing I like about my ADHD. The slight sensory issues I suffer from force me to wash my bedding regularly and I can’t leave food scraps and empty glasses lying around like Jep does because it makes my skin crawl.
Amy barely glances around my room before she sits down on the edge of my bed and starts unbuckling her sandals.
“Hey,” I chide her, swatting her hands away from her feet. Plonking next to her, I grin when impact of my weight in the mattress makes her sway. “There’s plenty of time for all that.”
Amy shakes her head. “I have to be home by sunrise.”
“No worries,” I concede easily. “I guess you like to be there to make your kid breakfast?”
A wave of dark pink grows from the base of Amy’s neck until it settles in her cheeks. She lifts her gaze to mine for a quick second then ducks her head. “So you know about my son, then?”
Lying back, sideways across my bed, I fold my arms under my head and stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’ve asked around about you and the fact you had a kid was mentioned.”
She sits by herself for a few moments, then the mattress moves, and she crawls over to me. I expect her to lay down next to me, but Amy takes it one step further and hikes her skirt up her hips so she can straddle my body.
With her hot heat sitting directly over my cock, I grin when it starts to harden beneath her.
“Cocky,” she states, matching my grin with one of her own.
“Literally,” I reply.
We laugh together. The stilted formality that had grown between us after the mention of Amy’s son snaps. She collapses over me and I lock my arms across her back. Our mutual mirth gets louder. It’s a haunting sound—almost rusty. Infected by the ghost of the people we might have been if our lives had been different—if we were different. Our hearts are pressed against one another. Our chests rumble in unison. The resonance is contagious. We are an echo of each other. The notes that make up the din we’re creating are happy.
We are happy.
Which is kinda ironic.
Because I think we’re the two least happy people I’ve ever encountered.
Sometime during our fit of borderline hysterics, the atmosphere changes. Our bodies start to move together. The way we touch becomes reverential. Together, our fingers clutch at the material between us and remove it. We work as a team, undressing one another, worshipping the flesh we reveal as we go.
The inhale and exhale that sustains us becomes quicker. Our fingertips dig deeper. The skin we’ve uncovered turns slick, sweat and desire mingling. When Amy touches the end of her tongue to mine, I sink my teeth into her bottom lip before I suck the bruised flesh into my mouth to soothe it.
As she runs her hands over my chest, I trail my fingertips up her ribs. Twisting my hips, I push her onto her back and pin her hands above her head. She gasps, then she arches, following my mouth with her body as I tug at her nipple with my teeth.
“Nate,’” she breathes my name with angelic grace.
“Amy,” I whisper hers across her skin as I kiss my way down her stomach. “Beautiful Amy.”
Digging her fingers into my hair, she tugs at the strands, pulling harder when I lave her clit with my flattened tongue. She’s ripe and ready, her thighs quivering with need as I work her into a frenzy. Once she’s fallen over the edge with a scream that I feel in my soul, I pull away from her and prop myself above her on my elbows so I can drink in the sight of her beauty beneath me.
Porcelain skin. Slender curves. Sleek muscles. The dark thatch covering her core matches the silky-smooth locks on her head. Her handful-sized breast with their darkened nipples are faultlessness. She would scare me with her perfection if not for the trio of scars that mar her toned belly and the line that runs jagged across her right shoulder.
The white marks remind me that she is human, and she is real.
Amy is breakable.
Just like me.
“You humble me,” I confess, lowering my mouth to hers as I move my hips between her legs. “I shouldn’t be allowed to touch you like this.”
Widening her thighs to accommodate my width, Amy puts her hands on the back of my head and deepens our kiss. She rubs her heat along my length, coating me with her juices.
“Don’t be silly,” she says once she’s had her fill of my mouth. “I want this. I want you.”
I didn’t know I was waiting for the words until I heard them, but once they’ve been spoken, a dam burst inside me and a freneticism the likes of which I’ve never felt takes over.
Amy lifts her hips, offering herself to me. I wedge my arm under her arse and position her hot core at the head of my dick. Surging forward, I press my length inside her body. Her warmth accommodates me, gripping me tight as I thrust deeper.
Gritting my teeth, I move within her. Amy meets my thrusts, lifting her hips to take me all the way inside. My brain malfunctions under the intensity of our connection. My eyes roll back in my head as every thought, but one, leaves my mind.
Together we rush toward ecstasy. The burning ache of pleasure in my lower gut promises a release of the soul-destroying kind. Wild cries filled with desire for more erupt from Amy. The sound drives me over the edge.
I lose all rhythm.
I am intent on one thing.
Focused on a sole purpose.
Mindful of a single thought.
When her pussy tightens around my cock and pulls me deeper into her body with each spasm, I throw my head back and roar as I reach my climax and fall over into the abyss of an orgasm I feel from the base of my spine to the top of my head.
“Yes. Yes. Nate,” she screams.
Apart from my guttural groans, I can’t speak. When she’s milked every last drop from me, I collapse on my side and pull her trembling body on top of mine.
She’s destroyed me. Inside and out. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Atomically.
And still that one thought is the only thing that remains.
It’s a singular focus.
My one truth.
Amy is mine.
No strings. No boundaries. No excuses.
Just mine.
TWENTY
Amy
Nate lingers next to me, tossing his helmet from hand to hand, before he drops it back on the seat of his motorcycle and takes me in his arms. Pressing his lips to mine, he devours me until we’re both breathless, panting and flushed, in the crisp air of the impending sunrise.
“I really need to go.”
He nods, then reaches for me again.
I go willingly. Into his arms—not back to my car like I should.
He’s already kissed me a dozen times during the thirteen steps between where I parked when we arrived and the parking space his bike stayed in last night. I ache between my legs from our time together—three times in total. The last time barely five minutes before we left his house so I could drop him off here on the way back to mine. I need to get going soon or I won’t arrive until after Max wakes up.
Something that has never happened in his life.
The mental reminder of my son is enough to have me pulling my lips fro
m Nate’s. As addictive as this newfound connection between us is, I have other priorities. The entire point of friends with benefits is to avoid the all-consuming thrall of a new romance while scratching that mutual itch.
“Do you want to meet me for lunch?” I step away from Nate and leave his question hanging between us. He follows, all wide eyed and eager. “If you’re busy with your kid, I could bring food to your house?”
Holding up my hands, I shake my head. “Max will be at pre-school, but I don’t think it would be a good idea either way. Let’s take this one step at a time.”
His disturbingly symmetrical face flushes with colour and he lowers his gaze toward the concrete floor. I ignore his embarrassment and close the distance between us by standing on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“I’ll see you at work this evening. Yeah?”
“Sounds good,” he mumbles. I wait for him to make eye contact again, but he doesn’t so I start to walk away. Four steps later, I find myself scooped of the ground from behind and twirled in a circle while he holds me in the air in the classic bridal hold. When we stop spinning, Nate’s back to his normal self, looking down at me with a grin on his face. “I had fun this morning. We will be doing it again... and I will be taking you out to lunch sooner than you think.”
With a smirk that matches his lifting my lips, I smack at his chest. “I’ll hold you to that.”
My answer makes his entire face light up. The potency of his happiness hits me in the chest, slicing with deadly intent at the Jon-sized hole in my heart as the pain reminds me that I have fallen at the first hurdle. I’m navigating this new FWB territory with all the grace of a recently-born lamb.
“Nate, listen, what we’re doing,” I venture in a decisive tone. “It’s fun and—”
“Really fun,” Nate cuts in, lifting his eyebrows suggestively at me.
“Yeah,” I giggle.
He puts me back on my feet and I remain silent while we walk back to my car holding hands. The right words to broach the subject are eluding me. As we walk around the rear of my vehicle, I hear my ringtone. Dropping his hand, I pull open my door and dig through my handbag. By the time I’ve found it, the ringing has stopped and a quick look at the screen informs me that I’ve missed three calls from my sitter.
Conflict (Black Hearts MMA, #2) Page 10
