by S. Massery
“I doubt I’ll ever mind that. It’s her minding that’s the question.” I walk over to Grace and Hadley, lowering myself on the couch next to Grace.
Her hand automatically goes to my thigh, and I meet her eyes. “
“Tired?”
She frowns. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great.” I look over at Hadley. “Your boy’s always been a good seamstress.”
Hadley rolls her eyes.
“There’s a bedroom upstairs with your names on it,” she says to us. “Well, not literally, but we put your bags on the bed. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”
Grace stands, holding out her hands.
I grab them and allow her to lift me off the couch, aware that I’m still shirtless. She stares at my chest for a second, then at the scorpion tattoo on my rib cage. After a beat, she goes to the stairs. I follow her, watching as she peers in each room until she finds the one with our stuff in it.
“You grabbed it out of the Jeep?” she asks, turning on the light. She puts the bags on a chair near a window and pulls back the covers of the large bed. “That was nice of you.”
I nod. “Didn’t want to leave it there.”
“How did you get back?”
I bite back a groan. “You’re going to start my interrogation right now?”
She gnaws on her lower lip, then crosses the room. She closes the door and steps up in front of me, her hands floating centimeters off my skin. Goosebumps break out over my arms and back.
“I’m not breakable,” I whisper. “Touch me.”
Her hands land on my upper arms, skating up to my shoulders, the back of my neck. Slowly, she pulls me down to her.
Our kiss starts off soft. Sweet.
Everything we’re not.
Her lips slide against mine, not eager, not heated, just… exploring. Cautious. Like maybe I’m not real, and she’s imagined this whole thing.
I press deeper into her, grabbing the back of her head. My dick wakes up, straining against my jeans, and I push my hips forward so she can feel me.
“Grace.” I walk her backward.
She comes alive under me, gasping with awareness. We hit the edge of the bed and fall onto it. She rolls us, coming up over me as she straddles my hips. Her hands move up my chest, her nails scratching my skin. When she leans over me, her hair falls in a curtain around our faces. Suddenly it’s just us in our own little bubble, breathing the same air.
“Don’t you do that again,” she whispers.
I’m shocked to find tears in her eyes. “Do what?”
“Don’t let him take me.” She kisses me, tears spilling over her cheeks.
I taste them between our lips, the salt of them carrying more despair than I can imagine.
“Fight for us, damn it.”
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her flush against me. It hurts, everything hurts, but I don’t give a damn.
“I won’t,” I promise. “Never again.”
We kiss like we have the only oxygen in the room between our lips. I lift her shirt off her, throwing it aside. She undoes the button of my jeans, tugging the zipper down. I raise my hips for her to yank the fabric off my legs, and she drops her pants to the floor, too.
I rise on my elbows to look at her. “You’re fucking beautiful.” Seeing her half-naked in the ocean was just a drop in the bucket to her completely naked. Plump breasts, flat stomach, hips that make me want to kneel in front of her and beg for forgiveness.
“Condom?” she asks, hesitating for a split second.
I point to my bag. “Should be a small box…”
She bites her lip and digs through my stuff, finally unearthing them. She climbs back on the bed, ripping the packaging and rolling one onto me. My dick twitches. Even her fingers on me threatens to turn into a caveman.
“I need to feel you,” I groan. “Right fucking now.”
She tosses the box aside and crawls over me. I grab her face and kiss her senseless, my tongue fighting with hers. There’s no more pain or anger, just a smoldering fire that burns through my chest.
Might be the vodka.
She slides down onto me slowly, and firecrackers shoot around my brain. She groans, tipping her head back as I stretch her. I lift my hips a fraction, and she winces.
“Grace?”
“I haven’t, ah, done this in…”
I’m almost afraid that she’s going to say ever, because my control is held by a string.
“Just once,” she says. “Badly.”
I reach up and cup her cheek. “We can fix that…. but you have to start moving.”
She does, guided by my hands on her hips, and I wish I could tell her everything I’m feeling. This is the best sex that I’ve ever had. I have a feeling it’s because, unlike any other girl, I don’t want her to leave when we’re done.
“Dalton,” she murmurs, her hips moving faster.
I thrust up to meet her, pounding into her, and her core tightens around me. Her whole body quakes as she comes. Her eyes roll back. Her mouth parts. I keep moving, chasing a high, and come apart seconds later.
I freeze, exploding inside her. I come back to my body and realize everything hurts.
She picks herself up off me, about to get off the bed completely, when I grab her hand. “I’m not quite ready to have you disappear on me.”
She blushes.
I like her naked. I like her vulnerable.
I carefully remove the condom and knot it, tossing it into the trash before I shift us and pull the covers over our bodies. She curls into me, her hand on my chest and head on my arm, and I can’t help but smile.
“We waited too long to do that,” I mutter.
“We didn’t really like each other until recently.”
“Hate sex would’ve been exciting.”
She laughs softly, kissing my shoulder. “But not as…”
Whatever the hell that was.
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?” She meets my eyes.
I’m reminded of the African folklore the soldier told me. The Morning Star and the Lynx. Grace has amber eyes and dark-gold hair, a wild Lynx in human form, straight out of the myth.
“I am,” I say. “I will be.”
“Dream of me,” she says, yawning. “And no more nightmares.”
One can only hope.
27
GRACE
Dalton twitches in his sleep. His fingers spasm on my arm, like he’s trying to grab something and can’t quite hold on to it. I look at his face, squinting in the dark. Sadness hits me at the frown pulling down the edges of his lips, the tight scowl between his eyebrows.
I brush my hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead.
He grabs me in one swift motion, laying me flat on my back. His eyes are still closed, his fingers squeezing and releasing my wrists over and over. When I try to move, his hips pin me into place.
“Dalton,” I say.
Nothing.
“Dalton,” I repeat, squirming. I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid that he’s going to do anything to me. But I’m terrified that’s what he’s going to believe himself capable of.
I hook my foot around his hips and use the leverage to flip us. He’s still holding my wrists, but now I’m above him.
“Wake up.”
He starts to move, and something vicious inside me cracks open. I lean down and kiss his neck, just below his ear. He shifts again, almost tossing me off him.
I bite him. Hard. Harder than I thought I might, like a vampire trying to get to an artery. He lurches, gasping in a sharp breath of air. His cock thickens against the inside of my thigh.
“Grace?”
I lean up so I can see his face. I refuse to let the triumph show, because I was almost worried for a second there.
“You’re okay,” I say. I rotate my hips.
His eyes light up.
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Yes,” I lie. I ignore that he’s still gr
ipping my wrists tight enough to bruise. There’s a whole lot of naked, just a strip of fabric separating my slick core from his erection. “Is it working?”
“I do believe so,” he says. And then his smile dies, and he turns his head to the side, where he’s holding one of my wrists. He releases me finger by finger, painfully slow, and reaches over to flick on the lamp. The light is blinding.
We both twist away from it for a second, blinking.
He sits up, leaning back slightly, so we’re nose to nose. He takes my wrist in his hand, light as a feather, and examines the red marks.
“I did this,” he chokes out. “And you—”
“You weren’t hurting me. I wasn’t afraid.”
“Then you’re an idiot,” he snarls. “I could’ve—”
I jerk out of his grasp, climbing off him. “Don’t call me the stupid one, Dalton. You could’ve what?”
“I could’ve hurt you!” He stands, reaching for his pants. He moves disproportionately slow for his anger. “Goddamn it, Grace, this isn’t a fucking game.”
He shoves his feet into his boots and storms out, buttoning a shirt as he goes.
I grab one of his shirts and boxers, bolt after him as soon as I’m decent enough. The front door clicks shut just as I hit the first floor, and I don’t hesitate to fly after him. From zero to sixty. I wonder who else he’s hurt, or if he’s just heard stories.
Movies like to cover PTSD. A medical TV show I used to watch had one of their trauma doctors wake up strangling his soon-to-be wife. Maybe that’s where he got it from, why he thinks he shouldn’t get close to anyone when he’s unconscious.
Maybe he just needs some fucking therapy.
The screen door slams against the wall, and I nearly run into Dalton. He stands at the edge of the porch, a cigarette pinched between his fingers.
I grab it out of his hand and toss it to the ground, tempted to shove him. He steps on it, grinding it into the porch, and frowns at me.
“You’re acting like a child.” I take a deep breath. “It isn’t a game. I just don’t believe you’d do anything to hurt me.”
He shakes his head, exhaling. “I could.”
“You could,” I allow, and he winces, “but I don’t think you would.” I slide my hands around his waist, careful not to press too hard and hurt him. “I’m pretty sure you’re just being selfish right now, not telling me about your dream.”
He cracks a smile. “It’s selfish, huh?”
“Maybe I’m the selfish one,” I say, “because I want to climb inside your head and see it for myself. I feel like I need to if I want to know you.”
He hugs me back. It only took him two minutes to work up the nerve. His hands inch up and down my back. No one hugged me after I hit a certain age. Once my mom left. I wonder how long he tolerated hugs from his mother before he started pushing everyone away, too.
“It’s a scary place,” he manages, his throat bobbing.
I think I’ve spooked him.
“I’m sure.” I shrug. “I don’t scare easy.”
That’s a lie. I’m afraid all the time—of Marco, of being trapped, of my dad—but I have yet to be truly scared of Dalton or his friends.
“What time is it?” I ask.
He glances at his watch. “Almost sunrise.”
The moon is low. I take his hand and pull him down the porch stairs, onto the road. We can see the ocean from here, glistening under the moonlight. Together, we tilt our heads back and look at the sky.
I can’t fathom what he’s thinking.
“Different nightmare,” he says, barely loud enough to hear him.
I take half of a step closer to him as he clears his throat.
“I was tied to a chair as… You were there, too, sitting on the floor. You wouldn’t stop crying.”
I lean my head against his biceps, keeping my attention on the stars.
“I’m glad you didn’t see your dad do those things,” he finishes. “And I’m sorry you got to see the aftermath.”
“I’m going to kill him,” I say. “I never thought I’d say that about my dad, but then again, I didn’t think he’d…”
“He admitted some things,” Dalton says. “I think he thought he was going to get the okay to kill me. Or maybe he thought that Marco would finish the job.”
“Tell me.”
“Marco offered to get him out of debt. Did you know he had a gambling problem? To fund his drinking, since the casinos give free drinks to players. Except, he rarely won, and that put him in a hole.”
I shudder. That certainly explained the nights that I couldn’t find him. Sometimes I ran out of places to look—never would’ve guessed the casinos just out of town.
“Did he say how much?”
“Enough to lose the house, I guess. But Marco gave him an offer he apparently couldn’t refuse… Kill Javier when the time was right, and let him marry you.”
I grind my teeth together. “It was Javier’s idea,” I say. “Javier who brought me into the office and told me I had to marry his son. How does that work?”
“Sal’s deal with Marco was struck after you escaped, and Javier got Marco’s best friend killed.” He starts to shrug, but pain flashes across his face. “I don’t know more than that. I don’t know why Sal would turn his back on Javier—wasn’t Javier his friend?”
“They were friends,” I say, “but they hadn’t been close in a while. Javier used my dad like a pit bull, letting him off his leash whenever he saw fit. I can see how Dad would want out of that situation.”
I shake my head.
My first taste of violence was at the hands of my father.
“What now?” I ask. “Where do we go from here?”
“They might come after us,” Dalton answers. He puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. “In fact, I doubt Marco will be able to let you just… walk away from him.”
I sigh. “He wants power. And breaking me…”
“That ain’t gonna happen.”
The door creaks open behind us, and we both turn around.
Mason, the tech expert, stands in the doorway with a frown on his lips. “What are you two doing?”
We both shrug at the same time.
“Well, go to bed, would you?” He disappears back into the house, lights clicking off behind him.
I giggle, and Dalton breaks out into a huge grin.
He chuckles. “He’s such a mother.” He bends down and lifts me up, throwing me over his shoulder like I’m a sack of grain.
“Dalton Kavanaugh!”
“Quiet,” he says, smacking my butt. “I’m taking you to bed.”
“Such a caveman.” I roll my eyes.
He grunts, a little theatrical if you ask me, and his hand sneaks up the leg of my—well, his—boxers. We’re on the stairs when his finger slips inside me, and I almost moan out loud.
“Quiet,” he whispers. His finger takes on an unhurried rhythm, pushing in and out of me.
I’m vulnerable, exposed with my ass in the air, and I can’t do anything except let it happen. He gets to the top of the stairs and leans forward. My feet touch the hardwood, and suddenly he’s on me. His lips slam into mine. He pushes me against the wall, and his hand shoves into my panties.
He sets a quick pace with his fingers, and his thumb brushes over my clit. I rock into his hand, unable to stop the little whimpers from coming out.
We’re in the hallway. Surrounded by his sleeping friends.
It’s dirty and so, so wicked.
His mouth swallows all of my moans, his tongue sweeping through me. There’s a thunderstorm brewing inside me. He thrusts three fingers into me, his thumb pressing on my sensitive nub, and an orgasm roars out of nowhere.
I grab on to his shoulders, my knees shaking, as white stars explode in front of my eyes.
He pulls out of me and raises his fingers to his lips, licking me off his skin.
I shudder, because holy fuck me that was hot.
We slip
into the room, the door closing softly behind us, when his hands find me again. His lips touch my neck, soft at first, and then a stinging bite. I jump.
“That’s payback,” he says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
I grin, but it fades when he unbuttons his shirt. “Are you sure we should be having sex when you’re hurt?”
“Sex is the best medicine.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Don’t you think?”
My eyes go lower, down past his delicious abs and the bandages. I put one hand on his chest and walk him backward, until his back bumps up against the door. And then I lower myself to my knees, pulling his pants down with me.
“Grace…”
He throws his head back when I grab him in my fist, sliding my hand down and back up.
I pause. “Look at me.”
I wait until his eyes are on me, then I take him into my mouth. I haven’t done this before—there’s been a few firsts that we’ve knocked off the list tonight—but judging from the way he’s staring, I don’t think I’m doing it wrong. I swirl my tongue around his head, sucking hard, and he groans.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
I raise an eyebrow, bringing my hand up to cup his balls. He thrusts into my mouth, and all I can do is open wide. He hits the back of my throat. My eyes immediately water. I hold on to his thighs as his hand winds through my hair, keeping me still.
“Gonna come,” he mutters.
He pulls out of my mouth and comes on my chest. It’s hot and thick, and I tip my head back until he’s done. He leans down and picks me up, carrying me across the hall and into the bathroom.
“You’re so… surprising,” he says, kissing my lips. He puts both of us in the shower, turning on the water without warning. Cold water hits us and I flinch against him.
We both laugh.
“You shouldn’t get your stitches wet,” I say.
He nods, stepping out of the tub, but he stays in the bathroom. I take the opportunity to scrub my hair clean, using a sudsy washcloth all over, while he watches me.
“We’re doing this again when I can get in the shower, too,” he warns me. His face is hungry. He wants to touch me, but he can’t. Or won’t.
I make a show of it, sliding the washcloth down between my breasts, over my hips, between my legs. I rinse off my hair, my body, and Dalton turns the water off. He wraps me in a huge towel, pulling me into him and kissing me soundly.
