Whatever It Takes - A Standalone Second Chance Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boys After Dark Book 8)

by Gabi Moore

  Wedged into me, filling my little pussy to the brim, he tenderly lowered his body onto mine and planted a few consolation kisses onto my neck and arms, as if to say sorry. “Now, don’t be such a baby anymore, you can take it. When you’re ready, I’m going to fuck you hard, OK? And I won’t hold back. But I won’t do a thing until you tell me.”

  He buried his head into the crook of my neck and he breathed there, and I breathed with him, my body becoming accustomed to this new violation. I have to say, with a fat cock locked into me and my head buzzing the way it was, I couldn’t honestly see why people made such a fuss of sex. Surely even Reverend Peters could appreciate how delicious all of this was?

  I squeezed and molded my body around him, getting used to the idea that I had lost my virginity now, officially, and seemed to have found instead something else naughty and delicious. He was rocking inside me gently now, with small movements that ground against my clit. We rested like this together for a while, relaxing into each other, and breathing. How hard could he fuck me, really? I wasn’t scared.

  ‘Ok, I’m ready,” I mumbled and arched my pelvis up to bump my hipbones against his. I could still call some of the shots, here, after all.

  He flashed a devil’s grin at me and glanced down at himself submerged inside my little slit, then wrapped crude hands round my waist and pulled a little harder down my body, driving the very last few atoms of his hot dick into me. With one confident movement, he pulled away and slammed back into me, hard.

  I screamed. This scream was muffled by another savage pump, then another, then another, my newly opened passage submitting to stroke after vicious stroke. He held me down firmly, the pads of his thumbs pressing down beside my belly button, the full force of his toned body pummeling down into mine with swift, focus slaps of his curling hips.

  “Little bitch. You like that, don’t you?” he said angrily, a violent vein throbbing all the way from his jawline into his collarbone. I opened my mouth to protest, but he delivered a string of fierce, unbridled blows into my pussy, now streaming wet and clenching desperately all around him. I could scarcely utter a word. By now he had bumped me right to the edge of the futon, and my head dangled off the edge.

  Each time he thrust into me, he lingered at the hilt, grinding his strong hips against mine and rubbing the smooth skin of his belly into my quivering clit. I was no stranger to these new feelings that were swirling inside, but this time, the sensations were more melting, sent deeper into me by his merciless cock, far deeper than I had imagined, even in my darkest thoughts. With each plunge, I nudged closer and closer to an orgasm that seemed to tighten and grow at the base of my spine, at the very deepest places he was touching me.

  He was fucking me hard now, sending almost frightening waves into my open hips, but I didn’t care. My head lolled back on the futon and I opened completely to him, too exhausted to contain myself anymore. When it finally hit me, my bucking body slammed hard up against his, and wave after wave of warm convulsions moved through my inexperienced body. I think I must have cried out, or tried to, but the force of my coming pushed hard on his cock out and he slid out, fell back on the futon and watched my face contort with pleasure.

  He moved closer again, and I felt the clench of his abdominal muscles as he came too. With a soft growl, he poured spurt after spurt of thick cum onto my still twitching belly. I was so thrilled by this I grabbed him close and held my body to his, the final sputters of his orgasm twitching inside his cock, now sandwiched by both of our bellies. We lay lie this for a moment, trying to find our breath again.

  I had been attempting my whole life to be the good girl, to keep correct, and righteous, and chaste, with some dim expectation that this alone would win me the right to enjoy my body, or someone else’s. That sex was only for those who jumped through the right hoops, that it was expensive, and dangerous, and dirty, and something other only people did. And my Pinterest wedding board and porn habits were fighting a battle inside me: sex with all the trimmings, versus sex. Raw sex. Sex that didn’t need a justification, or a white dress, or a guest list of church members. With a blank realization it hit me: this body was always mine. I was always free to use it, to enjoy it. And to give it away entirely…

  “Are you sure that was your first time?” he said, gathering himself a little and smiling at me.

  “I know. I can’t believe I didn’t do it sooner.”

  I felt dreamy, expansive. He didn’t seem quite so smug to me anymore.

  With a casual kiss on my forehead he peeled his body away from mine and we both noticed with some shock a large smear of blood. It was pressed between both of us, like a red Rorschach blot, two mirror images of a bloody tree, or a hand with too many fingers.

  Panic flashed in his eyes.

  “Oh shit. I did hurt you…”

  I looked down, freshly deflowered and still ruminating on my new persona as Girl That Fucks, and shrugged. “I don’t think my body has ever been happier,” I said simply, and I meant it.

  He flopped onto his back and we both stared at the ceiling for some time, lost in our own thoughts, only the flesh of our arms connecting us.

  It was a brave new world, you know. My virginity, for all the fuss I had made of it for years, was nothing but a thin membrane separating me off from a world I had never even imagined before. And now it was gone. I tried to find some shame in my body somewhere, to see if I could return to my old mindset where this boy laying beside me represented the ultimate threat. But there was none. Everything felt right and good.

  In fact, what wasn’t fitting was …all the other stuff. Why have a wedding at all? What was the point of covering up the skin, lovely as it was? Why marry one person anyway, when we were all in possession of such beautiful bodies? Bodies that were capable of such wonders? Why didn’t people do this more often? What could be more simple and real than fucking a hot boy on a futon and having a smoke, in other words?

  It took perhaps only one or two minutes, but my whole world had been turned upside down. I lay there thinking intently, on my back, with a little crime scene on my belly where my old self had been killed, and joyfully. As quickly as my virginity was gone, all the cogs and wheels of my life – a life built on that virginity – were shuffling and reorienting themselves. And how much space there was left over in my head when all that bullshit fell away!

  “Earth to Mel. Hello. Are you still here with me?” he laughed, and I snapped my attention back to his expectant face. I could only smile at him.

  “Ah, cock-drunk I see. It’s an effect I have on girls, I know. You need a shower I think.”

  I blinked and looked around me, the world a different place. The membrane had been broken, and behind it reality seemed plain and clean enough already. I laughed as he dragged me out of my reverie and we went to the bathroom together.

  He playfully slapped my ass. “Such a bad girl” he said.

  Sure, why not?

  Chapter Eleven

  “It’s all that smut and nonsense you bring into the house, Carol. You’re my sister, but honestly, I think some of the blame is yours here,” said my mom, smoking with more spite than she usually did.

  “She’s not a baby anymore. She’s 22 for God’s sake. You know, it’s not so bizarre that a young girl like her wants to have a little fun. Such a pretty girl, too.”

  “Too pretty if you ask me. And it’s not like she’s got that many good role models to look up to, does she?” here my mom stared daggers at my aunt’s poor confused face. My aunt, feisty woman she was, never quite got the hang of telling my mom to shut up.

  “She sees you running around with that …that boy, and she gets ideas I’m sure.”

  “Jared? I keep telling you we split up more ages ago.”

  Both women returned their gaze to my left hip, where they were examining me. Earlier, I had stretched to reach down a stack of plates and accidentally flashed my newest bit of rebellion: an awesome looking winged eye, heavily tattooed on my pale skin in dark red an
d black. Now, after all the shrieking had died down, my mother had me pinned in the kitchen, my jeans yanked half down as she kept staring at it, hoping to find the answer to the question, “where did I go wrong?” no doubt.

  “Nevermind, the damage is done now!” she said, gesturing to the tattoo, as though it and my aunt’s ex-toy-boy were intimately connected and if she ogled the thing hard enough, it might go away. In a sense, they were intimately connected. But I didn’t like thinking about that. And they certainly didn’t have to know.

  I kept lots of secrets these days, some more happily than others.

  “It’s devil’s markings first, then drinking and drugs, and next thing you know she’ll be having you-know-what, mark my words.”

  I angrily disentangled myself and pulled my shirt down. “You know, you could try not talking about me as though I’m not even here,” I said.

  My mother gave me that furious look she had been giving me a lot these last few months. I could see her thinking, stewing up something nasty to say, but the standard “not under my roof” spiel wasn’t working as well since I had moved out months ago. In just a few months, I would be a fully qualified dental technician, so she got what she wanted, in some ways.

  “Reverend Peters says that people can get addicted to tattoos you know,” she started again, trying a new angle. “You never get just one, you have to keep going and going until you look like a biker or something.”

  I went to grab my bag and put my jacket on. “Mom, Reverend Peters is 100% correct. This is my third tattoo. But don’t worry, the others are very well hidden,” I said, and let myself out. I closed the door quietly, and I could only hear the faint, shocked laughter of my aunt as I walked down the driveway and to my car.

  Chapter Twelve

  It is true. You can get addicted to tattoos. But that’s not all. You can get addicted to all sorts of things. To porn or drugs. To food. To the absence of something. To feelings. To ideas. And to people.

  “Close the door, it’s noisy out there,” he said.

  I shut it, sealing us again in the dusky cave I had grown so familiar with recently. He was hunched over something, but I couldn’t make out much in the dim light.

  “Open the curtains at least! You’re going to ruin your eyes,” I said. Turns out Jared had tons of secrets, too.

  He was studying part time, for one. He had mountains of books hidden all over his apartment. It was third year physics, and his maths notebooks and heavy textbooks seemed written in a cryptic language; his assignments were all submitted secretly, too, without me ever seeing him doing it. Even the good grades he received were hidden for some reason, and he studied for exams in the back of cars and snapped the books closed when anyone came to look.

  And he did this now, as though I had discovered him doing something truly embarrassing. Of all the things I had let this boy do to me in the last year, and me him, I had to smile a little that he could still be bashful around me. He shone a boyish smile in my direction and squirrelled the books away.

  We sat staring at one another for a while, sizing up how things would play out this evening.

  His eyes dropped to quickly take in the shirt I was wearing, the tight jeans. I saw a flicker of recognition in his naughty eyes, and returned my own to him. Fine. It was settled then.

  “My mama kicked me out of the house today,” I said with an over-the-top pout. I dropped my backpack to the floor, looking like someone had stolen my candy. I twirled a strand of hair between my fingers.

  He smiled that gorgeous sideways smile, just the same one he did when I first met him and couldn’t decide if I wanted to smack him or fuck his brains out. He knitted his fingers together and sat back in his seat like a bad guy in the club scene in a movie.

  “Oh? Did she now? And why’s that, little girl?” he said, mocking me.

  I sidled up to him a little, still pouting, deliberately avoiding his eyes.

  “Oh, nothing. I’ve just been a little naughty.”

  He grinned savagely, something playful yet dangerous in the way his hands rested on his knees, as though he was coiled up and ready to bite. I sidled a little closer.

  “This is a very dangerous place. You were stupid to come here.” The smile was gone, and in its place came something more sinister. I loved this part. The mood dropped, clicked into a different gear. I shut my eyes and breathed in deeply and out again, just as he had taught me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry mister, I’ll just be going then…” I said, picking up my bag and making as to leave out the same door. He stood up quickly, pinning me in my place with steely eyes. I loved how easily he could turn from sweet boy to …whatever this was. I didn’t know. Neither did he. And so we kept doing this over and over again to understand it.

  “Drop your bag,” he barked, and I did.

  He walked up slowly to me, menacingly, a showy swagger in his step that was seemingly put there to intimidate me. Little flutters erupted in the pit of my stomach. I said nothing; lowered my eyes. He brushed past me and softly closed the door, his hand on mine.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I gulped. “But, I’m sorry to bother you, I really should just go now sir…”

  He had caged me in with his arm, like the jock bully in an 80s High School series, laying claim to the innocent girl who had nothing but some books held to her chest for protection. I couldn’t say anymore. He watched me carefully, amused by my panicked breathing. I was wearing dark jeans and a torn black shirt, but in this moment, it was actually a chaste uniform, a blouse in virginal white and little skirt, and he could see that, too.

  He dragged his eyes down the length of my trembling body and then back up again, then extended one finger to touch my collarbone, so gently as though he’d break me by accident. He hooked a dainty gold chain in his finger and lifted it to his face to examine it. A modest gold cross dangled nervously.

  “A good girl…” he said, part question, part accusation.

  I turned my head to the side, squirming away from his face, from the strong smell of his cologne. His abs were no more than an inch from my body. I was wet already, even though we had played this game so, so many times before. The answer to this half question was no, I wasn’t a good girl, over and over …but we were both compelled to keep asking the question.

  He let the cross fall, then with the same finger traced a line along my jaw, grazing against my lips.

  “Well you won’t be a good girl for very much longer…” he said and viciously grabbed a clump of my hair, forcing my head to yank sideways. Trapped like this, he set in for a greedy kiss, forcing his tongue deep into my mouth. He tasted so sweet, so wrong; I tried to shove him off me, a little giddy.

  His hand went to my throat and slammed me hard against the door. My body went obediently limp, as his face scanned mine. His eyes changed briefly, becoming soft for a second, becoming that same goofy boy who was no more than a few years older than me. He looked into my eyes, giving me split second to use the magic word we had, to tell him that this was too much, that he was hurting me.

  I tightened my mouth, stared defiantly at him and said nothing.

  All at once he dragged me away from the door and flung me across the kitchen, and I went skidding to catch my balance on the other side of the room. He regarded me with hard eyes.

  “Do you know what boys like me do to girls like you?”

  I started to cry. Real, hot drops were rolling down my cheeks as I stood there, glee tainted with just a little fear, loving how easy it was to go so far with him. Something came over me in times like this. I had let go, that first night on the futon, and I had been letting go ever since. And now I was standing here, sobbing like a lost lamb, and he never skipped a beat, never wavered. He was going to play with me, and follow, no matter how dark I wanted to go.

  What happened next was a blur to me; he tore my shirt off and yanked my jeans down, scratching my skin in the process. Eyes still bleary with tears, he pinned me against the kitchen counter, b
oth hands in fistfuls of my hair. Steadying my hands on the counter, he grabbed my flesh and held me down.

  I was so turned on I stopped differentiating between his body and mine, between pain and pleasure, between right and wrong. Under a shower of filthy words, he poured a long, hard stream of dominating energy into my body, and I, delirious and long gone into my own world, absorbed every thrust happily.

  After he came, it took the hugest effort to pull his engorged cock from me, so hot and grasping my body was around him, so tightly had we knotted together. From behind, he wrapped his arms round my waist and nibbled my shoulder, as though to wake me and signal the end of our game. I came to, my body still ringing and faint prickles of pain still echoing on my scalp, and on the places on my upper thigh where he had clawed at me, desperate to jam even deeper into my body.

  “Dirty little slut,” he said.

  My new tattoo eyed him dispassionately. Yes, I was a dirty little slut, and it was all because of him. I hoisted my jeans back on and gave him a long, obscene kiss. He was a delicious kisser, and always had been. I was pleasantly, utterly obliterated, and lay myself down on the futon again, stretching my arms to find his hidden stash under the mattress.

  He looked uneasy.

  “You’re just going to go straight to …that?” he said, standing naked in the kitchen.

  I looked at him. Well, what did he want?

  He shook his head and came to sit beside me. His boyish charm was back in full force on his face, no trace of the animal that was here in this kitchen just a moment ago.

  “I think that was a little too far, even for me,” he said eventually. His sudden change in tone felt like an insult.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He was meant to be my co-rebel, my partner in crime, not another person telling me what I should and shouldn’t do.