by Kayla Oliver
He looks up at me, and I see his eyes assess my chest before his jaw starts working like he’s steeling every ounce of self-control he has. I glance down, aware my nipples are hard and my breasts are fuller than usual, swelling all thanks to the damn sports bra.
I climb into the bed and curl into the corner against the wall.
The whole bed shifts as he stretches out and turns out the light. In the darkness, I listen to his breathing, waiting for him to fall asleep. My heart is thundering almost painfully in my chest as if warning me this is stupid.
But it seems stupid to stay.
Cliff betrayed me. He told his buddies about me. And one of them is a damned cop. A cop that tried to cuff me to take me in.
Something else Cliff said is circling my mind. Did Arlo really tell the whole world I have rape fantasies? I’ve never even had sex! I’m a fucking virgin! How would he come to the conclusion I have that kind of sick fantasy?
Cliff said my life is in danger. Does he mean that the people who would listen to Arlo would kill me?
All the what-ifs and questions are like vicious sharks circling round and round my brain. And I don’t see an end to them in sight. If only there was a way to get a finger on the pulse of the people.
I mean, enough time has passed that people have to be moving on and forgetting this, right? In a world where people are only warriors on the other side of a screen and move from cause to cause in mere hours, it seems weird that people are still on this after so much time has passed.
And I decide that I know what to do. I’m going to get online and try to figure out if people are still being crazy about this, or if they’ve calmed the fuck down and Cliff is just being overprotective.
Maybe he just doesn’t want me to leave for his own reasons.
Chapter Sixteen
Cliff
I wake up tangled in Addie. Her scent clings to my skin, her leg over my hips and her arm across my chest. And her tits are crushed to my ribs in a way that’s contributing to the massive morning boner I’m sporting right now.
She’s still here.
I half expected her to try to slip out the door last night. Everything about her leaves me certain she’s going to bolt at the very first opportunity. But I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if she left because she’s mad at me and something terrible happened to her.
But she’s still here.
I slip out of bed, and she stirs a little. Watching how she rolls over and snuggles back into the covers, I feel my chest tighten. If someone hurts her… I’ll fucking kill them. Only when she’s back asleep do I leave the room and make a beeline for the bathroom.
As I go about my morning rituals, I wonder how I can fix things. I need to find a way to keep her here. But how?
Washing my hands and face, it comes to me.
She saw that news feed the day we’d bumped into each other in the store. But has she seen anything since? Main news outlets aren’t really covering this, but online she’s a goddamned pariah.
Patting my skin dry, I leave the bathroom and head into the kitchen. Setting out my laptop, I open it and go online. Several smaller outlets are still talking about her.
She’s not trending on Twitter anymore, but her naked pictures are everywhere. And the comments from people are still trickling in. They’re still enough to make my blood run cold. And I’ve seen some ugly shit.
Leaving the comments up, I stand up and go about making breakfast, a plan forming in my mind. It’s a cruel plan, sure, but one designed to shock and bring her into the very real threats she’s facing if she leaves.
She’s safer here.
And I think she needs to know that.
I get to making bacon and eggs, and soon the scent fills the whole house. Not long after, she comes wandering out, still in her shirt and panties. Without a bra. Seeing her twists my guts up like a pretzel, and my fists clench hard until the torn flesh aches.
Seeing her naked pictures is nothing compared to how she looks in the flesh, covered like this, her hard nipples playing peekaboo with the thin material of the shirt. I swear I can see the pink of them through the material.
Fucking hell, she’s trying to give me a damn heart attack.
“Good morning,” she says, sounding cheerful.
“Good morning,” I say, struggling not to wince as she walks over and plants a kiss on my cheek. The easy affection isn’t startling; she’s been getting more and more affectionate. I both love and hate it. I don’t want her to get attached. And after yesterday, it feels weird that things seem to have slipped back into the normal they were before I ever left.
I butter her toast and load her plate with food.
“The other day,” she says, and I listen to her in silence while dishing up my breakfast. “Did you leave because I kissed you?”
My fist tightens around the handle of the skillet. “No.” The word bursts out of me like a shot.
“Why did you leave, then?” she asks, her tone so very innocent I almost feel bad for pummeling the shit out of her ex. The stupid fuck had it coming, but I feel like she wouldn’t be happy to know I gave him a pavement facial because he hurt her.
She doesn’t seem like the type to condone violence for revenge. After all, I had to train the will to fight into her. And now I wonder if I’ve destroyed her in the process. She’d nearly made some very hard, soul-altering calls yesterday.
“I had some business.” It seems like a safe answer.
“What kind of business?” Her words seem so innocent, like a child asking why to every answer given.
Placing the bacon on my plate, I put away the butter and pull out the gallon of milk to pour us both small glasses. When they’re filled, I put one before her and one at my spot while she smiles up at me.
She’s waiting for me to come sit down before starting on her food, and I appreciate the manners like I have every time. Little things like that just get to me for some reason. It’s not a big deal, but it warms my soul.
I walk back over for my plate, considering my words. “Nothing important.” Fucking up your ex’s face. Not a big deal.
Making him into a punching bag for treating you like shit and ruining your life. Nothing serious.
Pummeling him for putting naked pictures of you out there for everyone to see. Nothing of consequence.
Beating him into a pulp for putting you in danger. No, never mind.
She seems unconvinced. “Oh” is all she says. And I wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on. But I didn’t tell anyone my plans. So there’s no way she’d know, unless she’s foolishly in contact with him.
Which would be impossible. Her phone is still in pieces in my room.
“Do you still want to leave?” I ask.
I walk over and sit down across from her, pushing my still-open laptop to the side. She studies me with both elbows on the table and her hands up, fingers linked, before her mouth. Her huge green eyes focus on my face, and I sense she’s struggling internally.
I hope she decides to be honest. That she doesn’t insult me with lies and bullshit. One thing we’ve got here is honesty. We don’t beat around the bush. If she’s got something to say, she knows I’d rather her fucking have the balls to tell me rather than lie or pussyfoot around.
And as if she’s hearing my thoughts, she speaks. “Yes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Addie
He takes a bite of bacon before responding. I watch him drop it on the plate and wipe his fingers on the napkin he’d placed in his lap like a perfect gentleman.
But instead of saying anything, he turns his laptop toward me. His powerful arms flex under the sleeves of his T-shirt, and I again think about how they felt around me when I’d woken up in the middle of the night.
But on his laptop I see it, the Twitter feed. He’d zeroed in on the tweets hashtagged with my name, with the stupid model tags. And they’re not old.
Five minutes ago a meathead jock-looking guy—if that was really him in t
he profile pic—had said he’d gladly indulge any rape fantasy I have. He’d been retweeted over a thousand times.
My heart sinks to my toes as I scroll and read.
Beyond the screen, I see his forearm flex as he places his elbow on the table. He’s so tight, so wound up, like he’s ready to spring into action at any moment. And I feel safe here. If anyone tried to come after me, he’d protect me with his life—I don’t doubt it for a second.
“Why did you show me this?” I can’t help but ask. His eyes meet mine over the edge of the screen of the laptop.
He studies me a moment as he lowers his glass of milk back to the table. But his eyes never leave mine, and his words send a shiver down my spine. “I can’t keep you safe if you’re not here.”
And I need answers. “Why do you want to protect me?” I ask, my voice demanding. His eyes narrow a little bit, and I sense I’m treading dangerous ground. “You told me you’re not a good guy in the beginning. You told me not to get attached, so you’re not doing it to get in my pants!” My anger and frustration overflow.
It’s like every issue we haven’t aired is boiling out of me now. “And I know you’re not doing it to get in my pants because I’ve tried.” Humiliation thickens my voice. “And I could use some physical comfort. After all this—” I wave a hand at the computer, my internal alarms blaring as I melt down. “—this shit. I wish someone would just fucking kill the fucker!” I can’t even bring myself to say his name.
And Cliff, his eyes still on me, swallows and takes his phone out of his pocket. I watch him, struggling to come to grips with the fact that he’s just fucking… ignoring me. I just bared my soul to him and he’s playing on his damn phone.
I fight to find the words when he suddenly turns the phone to face me.
I’m struck by the image.
It’s Arlo. He’s holding up a sign that simply says I’m sorry, Addie. I screwed up, please forgive me.
“What did you do?” I ask, suspicious. Arlo wouldn’t just apologize. He wouldn’t back down. If I had been the one to take the photo, he’d be choking me out or I’d be stabbing him. Either way, there’d be no apologies.
His thumb swipes the screen, and I see what can only be described as the after picture. Arlo, bloodied and bruised, holding another sign that says he’ll never hurt another woman again.
“Did you…” I ask, horrified at the thought of him actually being dead. I stare at Cliff in shock mingled with horror, and he’s quiet a moment before he speaks.
“He’s alive.”
“That’s why your knuckles were torn up,” I say, everything falling into place. I sit back in my chair, the weight of all it pushing me back.
Cliff merely nods and finishes his food while I try to sort out my feelings. Part of me is mad he did this. Or wants to be mad. It’s not his battle to fight; it’s mine. But isn’t that what he’s been doing all along? Protecting me?
But this wasn’t protection. This was vengeance.
But can I condemn him for something I wanted? No, I wanted worse; I wanted him dead. Now faced with this, I know I don’t really want him dead. And while part of me is satisfied he’s in pain like he put me through, I also know this isn’t me.
And I’m thankful he’ll never hurt another woman. Because I don’t know that I wouldn’t feel somehow responsible if this happened again. Or if it got worse with his next woman. Could I sleep at night if I found out he killed someone and I didn’t warn them?
“Thank you,” I say, and Cliff halts before dropping his toast back on his plate. His eyes lock on mine again, and I wonder what’s bothering him. His cheek ripples as he clenches his teeth. “Don’t thank me,” he says between gritted teeth. “And it’s not a lack of want,” he growls, and my heart nearly stops in my chest.
Cliff doesn’t volunteer information. So if he’s sharing, this is totally new territory.
“What do you mean?” I ask, holding my breath.
His cheek ripples a few more times like he’s fighting back words that are fighting their way free. “I want you,” he grinds out finally, the words themselves tight with control. His hand closes in a tight fist, and I see the bandages on his knuckles strain.
I reach out to touch his hand, my eyes watching the bandages. “Don’t,” I whisper, unable to find my voice. “You’ll make them bleed.” When I look up at him again, I see he’s wound so tight he’s about to snap. But why? What’s bothering him so much?
“I want you too,” I say, my words as hesitant as I feel. “What’s so bad about that?”
I see him swallow and notice how even his throat is tightly corded and strong. Is there an ounce of flesh on this man that isn’t sinew or muscle? I doubt it.
“Go out with me,” he says instead, and I wonder what on Earth is going through his mind.
“What about not getting attached?” I ask, teasing him gently. I need to lighten the mood; he’s starting to scare me a little bit. He’s so intense.
“You’re not just a lay,” he says finally, anger flowing through him as clear as the nose on my face. But I sense he’s not mad at me. And I suddenly wonder if Arlo said something that got to him.
“What did he say?” I ask, taking his hand and nestling mine in his. Our eyes meet again, and I see his surprise. But I think I’ve gotten pretty good at reading him. We’ve spent enough time together, after all.
But he doesn’t budge, and I have a feeling he’s not going to. So I hit him with my hardest bomb. “I’m a virgin.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cliff
I feel like I’ve been punched in the dick. Her green eyes lock on mine, and I see shame there. And anger. And fear.
And truth. She’s telling the truth. I can feel it.
And the things Arlo said are whisked away like clouds on a breeze. None of his shit was true. She’s a motherfucking virgin.
I need to double down on keeping her away from me. And not let her get attached. Because I will not be responsible for breaking a virgin’s heart and ruining her first time.
“Yes,” she says, and I feel my heart sinking in my chest. “I’d love to go out with you.”
And just like that I see my defense mechanism backfiring. Something I’d said as a way to comfort her, to try to give her the contact she’s craving without making it cheap and ugly, goes out the window.
Because now I’m going to be dating her and unable to touch her. A growl leaves my throat. It’s like the torture on my head just fucking increased tenfold, and it’s all my damn fault.
And to make matters worse, she’s staring at me and her nipples are hard. Goose bumps trail down her arms, and I want nothing more than to touch her.
She stands up and offers me her hand. I stare at it a moment, then stand up. I know I’m going to regret this. When I slip my hand in hers, she leads me away toward the bedroom, and I want to drag my feet and stop this from going any further.
She’s a fucking virgin.
In my room, she turns to me. Her arms come around my neck, and I stand, stiff, refusing to move. My hands settle around her hips, ready to push her away. But she feels so good pressed up against me. I can feel her hard nipples pressing to my chest, her soft breasts, her delightful curves.
Her hands come down and press to my chest. Then her hands are under the hem of my shirt, and she pulls it up and over my head. I let it fall to the side, my body struggling for control over my mind.
My hands find her ribs, and my lips touch her neck. She feels so fucking good. She tastes like heaven, smells like rain, and I want her so damn bad I’m not sure I can stop.
To hell with the consequences. She wants this, I want this—where is the harm in it?
With a growl, I grab her shirt and wrench it up over her head. She gasps as I pull her toward me, her arms trapped in the shirt I’m still holding above her head.
Propelling her back, I shove her down on the bed, the primal side of my brain taking over. I need her. I need her now. There’s no going back. With a gro
wl, I pin her arms above her head with her shirt still tangled in her wrists.
She lets out a shocked yelp as my lips close around one of her perfect pretty pink nipples. I suckle it hard, pulling it into my mouth, pressing it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.
She gasps, pleasure arching her back and sounding off in little mews leaving her lips. My hand finds the heat between her legs, and my fingertips press into the panties.
Finding the little nub, I tease it in circles, enjoying the way her whole body responds. Her back arches higher, her mews become louder, and her breaths come hard and fast.
I release her nipple, and my lips find her neck as I force the words from my lips. “I need to stop, or I won’t,” I say, needing her to know I’m at my limit. I feel her teeth on my shoulder.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she says, and my fingers slip under the layer of her panties and slide on her moisture.
“You’re so fucking wet,” I growl, and she whimpers in agreement. My cock is so hard I feel like I’m about to explode.
“For you,” she whispers as if suddenly shy. “Just for you.”
I growl and kiss her lips. Her tongue meets mine, excited, dancing and desperate. I back off and pull her panties off before looking at her for a moment.
Drinking in her beauty, I see her wide hips, her narrow waist, her huge breasts and their pretty pink nipples. Her skin is milky white and beautiful, and freckles grace her, both big ones and small. Arlo’s images failed to capture her beauty.
“What?” she asks, moving as if to cover up. But I grab her shirt and her tangled wrists and pin them over her head again.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” I tell her. I’m between her legs. I can feel the heat of her pussy, and my cock pulses painfully in response to her being so close yet so far away with a layer of clothing between us. She feels amazing under me.
She’s soft in all the right places. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want her; this consuming desperation is all new for me. Slipping my fingers between her legs, I press my lips to her chin, then to her throat, working my way down toward her breasts again with tiny, agonizing movements.
