The Redemption of Nixon Thorne

by T Steele

  She takes another deep breath. “No one’s ever seen me like this before…”

  I growl before biting my lip and shaking my head. “No one is worthy of it.”

  Her brow furrows as her eyes meet mine, and slowly, oh so slowly, she spreads her legs.

  I hiss in a breath through my clenched teeth, eyes zeroing in on her pussy, and all I can think is mine, mine, mine.

  My hands start at her thighs, moving back and forth from knee to inner thigh lightly. Ella’s breath comes out in short bursts, and my cock hardens to the point of pain. When I grip her ass and rest my thumbs on the lips of her sex, she squeezes her eyes shut.

  “Is this still okay?” I whisper roughly.

  “Yes,” she practically purrs.

  With that, I dive in. She lets out a loud moan.

  “Nixon!” she gasps out with pleasure. The sound of my name on her lips lights an animalistic need inside me.

  She’s so pink and wet and tight. I lick her slowly, running my tongue up the length of her from entrance to clit.

  “Fuck, you taste heavenly.”

  She bucks against my face, and I suck her clit gently into my mouth while one of my fingers finds its way into her entrance. Being as gentle as possible is a hard feat, considering I want to pound my cock into her over and over again. The thought has me working her faster and faster, and I watch her. I can’t take my eyes off her. I don’t want to miss any reaction that I give her. This is something only I’ve ever got to experience from her, and I want to make this so good that she’ll never be able to find it with anyone else. The thought alone of her with anyone else has me growling possessively.

  I grip her ass. “Wrap your legs around my neck,” I demand.

  She moans and does as I say, and I lift her ass up, angling her hips, and then I fucking feast. I thrust my tongue inside of her and use my entire face, moving it in circles, using the piercing in my nose to my advantage.

  “Oh, God!” Ella screams.

  Her hands frantically move around the truck bed, looking for purchase, trying to find something to hold onto. When she can’t find anything, she moves her hands up her body and over her breasts, which elicits a small gasp from her lips, and then she shoves her hands into her hair. Her head whips back and forth, and her hips start bucking fervently. I make sure to keep up the pace of my ministrations, knowing she’s close.

  And when her glorious pussy pulses around my tongue, her thighs clenching around my neck almost depriving me of air, I feel like a fucking God. Because Ella Black doesn’t ever completely let go in front of anyone, but she just did for me, and me alone.

  I’m a fucking goner.

  Chapter 11

  Ella

  As I’m leaving one of my classes the next day, Nixon is waiting for me outside of the door. I smile when I see him, butterflies filling my stomach. He smiles back, and it really is a drool-worthy sight to behold. I see a few girls sending him seductive smiles, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore them.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Wanted to make sure you were staying out of trouble,” he says with a smirk.

  “I feel like I should be the one telling you that,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him playfully as we walk.

  He gives a mischievous smile, holding the door for me as we move into another hallway. “You make me want to get into trouble.”

  I continue to smile, but his words pique my curiosity. What did he go to prison for? I don’t want to ruin this new playful Nixon I’ve been seeing so I don’t bring it up, but eventually, I’m hoping he’ll tell me. Sometimes I forget that he’s an actual criminal and that I don’t really know a lot about him.

  “So why are you here, really?” I ask.

  He eyes me for a moment, and it feels like he knows where my mind has gone. “I didn’t want you to be alone at all today. Not after the other note you got yesterday.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I say sincerely, and if I’m being honest, I do feel safer with Nixon by my side. The notes have been scaring me. And with the way things went at the police station the night before, I’m even more grateful that he’s here with me.

  The past I’m trying to hide from floats around in my skull, a flurry of images and words I try so hard to forget, but they’re always there. The fear and trauma. And I wonder if it could be him—my old tormentor— sending the notes, but how could it be? I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. He could never know that I’m going to school here.

  My paranoia is never far from reach, though, but sending notes and gifts? It doesn’t seem like his style.

  Suddenly, I realize I’ve stopped walking, and Nixon is studying me. His eyes bore into mine like he’s staring into my soul. He looks remorseful, like he knows everything I’ve ever thought and am trying to hide from him. I fear he’s seen too much. Too much of my damage and shame. I look down, breaking this powerful connection we seem to have. A connection that keeps getting stronger and stronger.

  “You okay?” he asks quietly.

  “No,” I whisper.

  I feel my heartbeat speed up, my senses muddled, and I feel like everything is out of control. My chest heaves and my eyes bounce around from wall to wall. I feel rough fingertips grasp my chin in the gentlest way, and a deep V forms between Nixon’s eyes when I focus on his face.

  He frowns. “Come here,” he says, and grabs my hand, leading me further down the hall and out a door. We walk until we reach an old wooden picnic table that’s mostly secluded. He sits, tugging on my hand, urging me to do the same.

  I try to smile at him, and I’m about to make up an excuse, apologizing for being so emotional, but his words stop me.

  “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that. Don’t hide. You’ve been through some shit, hmm?” He raises his brows, nodding at me.

  When I nod back, he continues, “You’ve gotta let yourself feel that pain because if you don’t, it will come back later and crush you.”

  “How do you know?” I ask a little defensively.

  “Because I’m fucked up, Ella. I didn't have the best childhood. I’ve been to prison. Don’t you think I have some pent up emotions?”

  “Why did you go to prison?” I whisper.

  He looks torn, before smoothing his hand down his face. “I beat the shit out of someone.”

  “Why? What did they do?” When his face darkens in anger, I tack on, “I’m just trying to understand. I’m not judging.”

  He purses his lips. “Because I hated them. I would have killed him if I had the opportunity,” he says with a quiet, seething fury.

  Nixon has been so kind and playful with me recently that I almost forgot that he has serious anger issues. His words should spark some fear in me, but something deep down tells me that whoever this person is deserved it. That Nixon wouldn’t just want to harm someone for no reason. I’m not sure if I should reach out and touch him, or leave him to stew for a moment.

  When I eventually do place my palm on his arm for comfort, he tenses, staring at my hand for a moment like it’s something he’s never seen before. His eyes slowly lift to mine. The expression on his face is smoldering, fierce, and something else I can’t quite decipher.

  “What's the story behind all your tattoos?” I ask, all in one breath before I lose my nerve. It’s something I’ve wanted to ask for a while now. Of course his tattoos intrigue me, but I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. I doubt the reason is solely for appearance—and I want more from him. He’s opening up, telling me some things about his past. Now is my chance to ask more questions. I don’t want to pry, and if he’s uncomfortable, I won’t push. But I do want to be closer to him. To understand him better.

  When his intense steel-blue eyes stare at me the way he is now, it’s hard for me to think straight. Hard for me to breathe. Not only is he incredibly attractive, but his gaze suggests he wants me. Wants to do dirty, wicked things to me, and I want that from him, too. I don’t want him to see me as t
his fragile, damaged woman. Maybe I am that, to some extent, but I want him to see me as an equal. As a sexy vixen that he can push up against the wall and fuck seven ways to Sunday. The thought is so unlike me that I can’t help but look away from him, if only to catch my breath.

  His eyes are narrowed and heavy-lidded as they do a slow sweep, taking in my face, then moving to my lips and back to my eyes.

  He clenches his jaw before sitting back a bit, putting some distance between us. “They’re part of my story. A reminder that I had to fight, literally, to get where I am today. This one here,” he says, pointing to a bloody hammer on the inside of his wrist, “This is for the time my dad broke my finger with a hammer.”

  I gasp, and he raises a brow.

  “You didn’t think it would be a pretty story, did you?” he asks.

  I worry my lip, trying to keep my expression as neutral as possible even though I’m dying inside. Hurting for the young boy who had likely lived in fear every single day of his life, destroyed by the person who was supposed to love and protect him.

  I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse with emotion when I ask, “Where’s your dad at now?”

  “Dead,” he says with a vicious smile.

  I widen my eyes, not knowing how to reply.

  “My mom’s still here, though, and she’s the one who matters. She always tried to protect me, but…” he trails off, shrugging. “She never knew how bad it’d actually gotten. I just hope that I hid it well enough from her.”

  I let out a shaky sigh. Tears clog at the back of my throat, but I swallow hard, trying to ward them off. I’m so sad for him, and I wish so badly that I was better with words. Better at comforting people in general. I tap my fingers against my pants and stare at him with wide eyes. Trying to communicate silently how much I wish he’d never had to experience that. But I’m here, I’m listening, and I hope that that counts for something. Then a thought hits me—could that have something to do with why Nixon went to prison?

  His smile fades as if he read my mind. “My dad died of alcohol poisoning, if you’re wondering, but I can’t say that I’m sorry he’s dead.” He pauses. “Sometimes I wish I was the one who could’ve done the job instead of the liquor,” he whispers, his voice raw and honest.

  I look him straight in the eye. “I don’t blame you one bit. If anything, I think it would be natural to feel that way.”

  As if my hands have a mind of their own, they reach out, lightly tracing the tattoo on his inner wrist. Then, I gently press my lips to it.

  “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that, Nixon. I wish we could somehow go back in time so that I could help you. Or protect you. If I could take your pain away, I would in a heartbeat.”

  I’m reminded once more that we did, in fact, know each other back then. How could I not have noticed him? And how the hell had someone like him noticed me? It didn’t make sense. I think back to class pictures hung up in my old high school, to the pages of my yearbook, but I don't recall anyone in those pictures looking like him.

  When my eyes drift back up to his, he’s still watching my fingers rub soothing circles on his wrist. Like receiving comfort isn’t something he’s used to.

  Then his eyes meet mine, and they’re shining with something new in them. “I’ve never told anyone that story. Not even my mom.”

  My heart breaks a little at that, but I stare at him, trying to convey with my eyes that I, of all people, understand. “Thank you for trusting me with it,” I tell him, putting as much sincerity in my voice as possible.

  He nods, still staring at me intently. When he doesn’t look away, I wonder if he’s trying to tell me something. Instinct tells me he needs comfort, but like me, he doesn’t know how to ask or receive it. And how would I give him that comfort without it looking like pity? I don’t think Nixon would appreciate anyone's pity.

  Finally, I let my hand travel up his arm and around his neck, then I scoot closer to him before pressing my lips to his. He groans, pulling me onto his lap, where I feel him already hard and wanting. I’m thrilled to know that I was right—he did need comfort, because this means I’m getting better at reading him.

  His big hands roam, wrapping around my back while my elbows rest on his shoulders, my nails lightly scratching his scalp.

  I run my tongue along his lower lip, and he opens for me this time, moaning against my mouth. Our tongues touch, and chills erupt all over my body. He tugs at the end of my hair a bit, making me crane my neck back, then his lips are trailing down my neck and collarbone. When he pulls away, we’re both gasping for air.

  “No one’s ever been this gentle with me,” he says, eyes closed, forehead leaning against mine.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call that gentle,” I whisper.

  “I would,” he says, and I guess for someone like Nixon, it would seem that way.

  Chapter 12

  Nixon

  “Is Ella coming tonight?” Jake asks, making a stupid face as if we’re still in middle school. We’re hanging out in his dorm, dicking around until it’s time to leave. The place where Ella had first stumbled back into my life.

  “Yes,” I say, already exasperated.

  “She’s a nice girl,” Jake says, and I eye him warily.

  “Yeah, she fucking is. Why are you saying that?”

  Jake’s shit-eating grin disappears from his face. “Because, man, I just don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

  “We’re literally about to go to one of my fights where I’ll likely be hurt.”

  “Not that kind of hurt and you know it.” Then he rolls his eyes. “Plus, you know you’ll beat that fucker in minutes.”

  “Is little Jakey worried about me?” I ask mockingly, though I am grateful that he has my back. The number of people I can trust can only be counted on one hand, and Jake is one of them.

  “Of course! I’m always worried about my little Nixon.”

  “That should’ve been my fighting name.”

  Jake laughs heartily, and I know he’s punchy because he already smoked a couple blunts today, but I have to purse my lips from laughing, too. The fucker could be funny at times, but right now I was mostly entertained by his over-the-top reaction.

  When he calms down from his hysterics, he wipes his eyes and looks at me. “For real, though, man. Does she know about you? Your past?” he hedges.

  “She knows some,” I say, and leave it at that.

  Jake doesn’t even know the real reason I went to prison or even how I know Ella, and I plan to keep it that way.

  Every time I see her face, I think back to that day all those years ago and what had happened. We see each other every day and I haven’t brought up anything about the past—her past specifically— and guilt eats at me more and more every day. But now it’s gotten to the point where it’s been too long without me telling her, and I don’t know how to bring it up. I don’t know if I’m lying to myself or not, but every time she looks at me, it feels like there’s a lightness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. A lightness that I’m bringing to her life. I know her body reacts to mine, I’m at least confident in that—but what will she say when she finds out what I’m hiding? I’d rather cut off my own arm than hurt her, but I know it will happen. Does she even like me enough to care? The insecure thought hits me with full force. Of course she’ll be upset and mad at the invasion of privacy. Learning that I’ve known her secret the whole time.

  But, will it be even harder for her because she’s opened up to me a bit now? I’ve never had to worry about getting women, but actual, real feelings are something I’m not good at. Something I’ve never had to deal with.

  Jake gives me a look that rivals on pity, and I roll my eyes at him. “Calm down, Mom.”

  He wipes a mock tear. “You know I can’t help but worry, Son.”

  “Alright, that's enough talking. Let's get out of here so I can beat the shit out of someone.”

  Jake’s shit-eating grin is back. “That’s my boy,�
�� he says, patting me on the back.

  ***

  Jake and I take my truck over to Ella and Waverly’s dorm.

  They walk out, and Ella gives me a broad smile while Waverly sighs loudly.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into going to some fight that's probably illegal, for the second time,” Waverly says, pushing her brown hair off her shoulder.

  Ella grins and boops her nose. “I love you,” she says in a singsong voice.

  “Nice to see you, too, Waverly,” I say, and Ella shakes her head, giving me an apologetic smile.

  “She says she has to come to be my protector,” Ella whispers in my ear.

  “Hey, that’s my job,” I say, causing Ella to blush, and I freeze up a bit. The words had come out so easily, without thought.

  Then, Jake is bowing and opening the door like some sort of stoned Prince Charming. Waverly gives him a narrow-eyed smirk before hopping into the back of my truck.

  “Jake, you get in the back with her,” I tell him, and he gives me a pouty look, but gets in the back seat regardless.

  “Oh, aren’t I special? To be able to sit in the front seat with the Nixon Thorne,” Ella says.

  I give her a wolfish grin in reply, opening the door for her.

  A bout of nerves hit me as we head towards the club. This never happens, and I know it’s due to the fact that Ella is going to be watching. I’m used to fighting in front of women—in fact, most of them like it. But Ella is different. She’s already seen me fight once, but I wasn’t prepared for it. I didn’t realize she was coming, thanks to Jake, and I didn’t know her then the way I know her now. But she wanted to go tonight and I wasn’t about to deny her, plus I feel like this bodes well for me if she isn’t repulsed by the violence.

  The entire drive is filled with bickering from Waverly and Jake, and I’m tempted to buy them a kids meal from the drive-thru just to see if it’ll shut them up.

  Once we arrive, we get out of the truck and walk inside. As soon as the doors open, everyone stops and stares at us. Specifically, at Ella. They know I don’t bring women here unless they’re a fuck buddy. The thought makes me feel guilty and dirty. Like Ella is too clean for me, and I need to scrub myself before I can touch her again.