by Aubrey Irons
He’s not done.
He pulls out and turns me over, and this time, it’s face to face as he slides inside. This time, we’re breath to breath, his hand cupping my jaw the other grabbing my ass possessively as we move in deep, even strokes.
Faster.
Deeper.
The world spinning around us, the waves dashing against the shore. The everything and the nothing crashing over us as this time, we come together.
His name on my lips.
Mine on his.
And I’m lost.
9 Years Ago:
“Why are we here?”
I grit my teeth as I shut off the engine. I say nothing as I glance out through the windshield at the small little marquee sign above the door to the place and grin to myself.
Shit, her name looks good up there.
And it’s just her name - not some stupid stage name or some obnoxiously hipster one-word title like “Beach” or “Forest” or some shit.
Just her.
“Bastian, why are we—”
“Culture,” I snap at Stephanie, smiling thinly as I swing the door open. “We’re here for some culture.”
I don’t wait for her as I stride for the door, but I hear her heels click-clacking behind me. Part of me wishes she’d just waited in the car. Hell, part of me wishes I hadn’t checked Facebook halfway back from picking up weed at Ash’s house with Steph in the car, and seen that Ana was playing here tonight.
I could have dropped Steph off first, but she became secondary once I’d yanked the car around and gunned it for The Boiler Room. That and the show was starting in twenty minutes, and this time, I was going to make it.
This time, I’m going to damn well watch her play.
“Bastian, this place looks tacky.”
She’s right. The Boiler Room is a building doing its best to look like a tugboat or something - porthole windows, some lobster traps sitting by the front door, buoys decorating the white clapboard exterior. This was campy in the seventies. Now, it’s just sad looking.
But I’m not here for the decor, or because it’s a fashionable new en-vogue spot that’s recently been redone by some famous interior designer.
I’m here to listen to the girl who’d probably rather I not come tonight. Which is why the only plan here tonight is to hang out in the back of the room being invisible.
I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want to fuck up her vibe or whatever. I just want to sit in peace and listen to that voice again.
These are basically the textbook stages of early addiction, by the way. I’ve looked it up.
The craving.
The obsession
The need for more.
“Oh my God.”
I stop, growling to myself before I turn to see what I’m already expecting. Steph is stopped short on our way to the front door, looking up and gawking at the marquee.
“Is that why we’re here?”
She looks back at me, her eyes narrowing in an accusatory way.
“For her?”
I bite my tongue.
“Yes.”
Steph’s jaw starts to drop, but I stop her.
“For Tyler, actually.”
I don’t lie because I’m embarrassed to be here, I lie to shut her the fuck up so we can go in. I also don’t need her causing a scene, and I definitely don’t need her reading into this.
…Even if whatever she reads is most likely right.
Steph frowns. “For Tyler?”
“He’s into her I guess, but he wanted to see what this whole singer thing is all about.”
I shrug, saying nothing more. I don’t need to justify this to her, or pacify her more than she needs to be to shut her mouth.
She makes a face.
“Can’t we just go?”
She sidles up to me, running her hands up my arms.
“What if I go roll up that weed, we drive out to Littleton Beach, and you can just fuck me on the hood of that hot car of yours?”
The invitation does nothing for me.
I look away from her, my eyes glancing first at my Maserati, which stands out like a sore thumb in a parking lot full of beat-up pickup trucks and third-hand Volkswagens. My eyes land on Ana’s - the old blue and white Chevy parked off in the back of the lot.
You can just fuck me on the hood of that hot car
My mind flashes to a different fantasy - one where it’s not the Maserati, but the back bed of that pickup truck. And it’s not Stephanie fucking Seyfried stretched out with her ankles on my shoulders moaning my name.
It’s Ana.
Begging me to go harder.
Begging me to spank her ass.
Grabbing my hips and flipping us over so she can ride me while she moans me to come inside of her.
“Ooooo, someone likes that idea.”
I snap out of it, jerking back from Steph as her hand slides to my now throbbing cock over the front of my pants.
I push her hand away.
“Wait in the car.”
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“Do you want to come inside this place and listen to a bunch of shitty, grungy musicians play bad songs?”
She makes a face.
“Also I doubt it’s air conditioned.
Steph blanches.
“So wait in the car.”
“How long are you going to be in there?”
“Five minutes, tops.
She mulls it over.
“Okay, fine. I’ll just—”
I turn and walk away.
“Wait, can I at least have the keys?”
I glance back and unlock the car door remotely with the little clicker from where I’m standing before turning back and heading inside. The show is eighteen and over, and when I pay the cover, I mention to the bouncer that the blonde girl in heels and a black mini-skirt outside is only fifteen with a fake ID. It’s not true, of course, but I say it and pass the bouncer a hundred bucks just in case Steph tries to come in looking for me.
It’s dark inside, thank fuck. I make my way to the back of the room and stand behind a pillar as some guy with shitty tattoos finishes up some lame boring clichéd song about being dumped.
“Next up - and I think you all know this one by now - please welcome a Boiler Room favorite—”
She plays here a lot apparently.
The MC grins at the crowd. “Please welcome, Anastasia Bell!”
The room claps and hoots, the lights go up, and then there she is, stepping onto the stage.
And the rest of the world sort of tunes out.
She’s good. She’s fucking really good. The songs are effortless and complex, the lyrics deep, and her voice - holy fuck that voice. I spend forty-five minutes of my life standing behind that pillar in the shadows, ignoring the twenty missed calls and forty texts from Steph saying she’s bored, or that she can’t get in, or that the car locked behind her, or that I can go fuck myself and she’s calling a cab.
I ignore it all actually, and just sit there and let it all just seep into my soul.
I blink when it’s over, coming out of my trance in time to clap with the rest of them as she steps off the stage. I leave before she can come out from backstage. I ignore the “fuck you asshole” written in lipstick on my driver’s side door, and I drive home alone, in silence.
That’s the night something changes in me.
That’s the night I go from obsession and addiction to something more.
…It won’t be until much later that I understand what the four letter word is for the emotion I’m feeling about Anastasia.
Regrets they’ll come slow,
Just like cold winter’s snow.
And I will break like a storm,
Like the one we ignored.
Mrs. Tottingham insists on cooking, of course, but I sit in the kitchen and chat with her while she does. We camp out at the little breakfast table in the kitchen, eating her crazy good fish tacos until we’re stuffed, and gabbing aw
ay - me about drunk audience members at shows and scummy managers, her about biker-boyfriend Earl and how Charlotte might come out and visit her for a while.
The food is awesome, the conversation great, and the company perfect. But mostly, I love it because it takes my mind off the little nagging thought that won’t get out of my head, and hasn’t for the last few days.
It’s the little whisper that’s getting harder to ignore and the little truth that’s getting impossible to deny.
I might be falling for Sebastian Crown.
It’s wrong and masochistic, and it probably means there’s something fundamentally flawed in me, but pretending it’s not there is getting to be too much. Pretending I don’t crave being around him, or don’t clench my thighs tight together at the thought of him touching me, or don’t turn to mush inside at the thought of his kisses…
It’s all becoming impossible to ignore, and I’m not sure what that says about me.
After dinner, full and content, I step outside into the dusky evening light. I take a seat in one of the back patio chairs, watching the sun go down when a flash of something catches the corner of my eye, pulling my attention.
The loose, neon yellow bit of caution tape flutters in a breeze, flickering against the side of the gaping opening to the cottage off behind the ruins of the greenhouse. I stand before I know why I’m doing it and making my way through across the grass under the quickly dimming sky to the front door of the cottage. I pause, chewing on my lip and playing with my fingers as I re-read the Fire Marshal’s warning taped across the front door.
Screw it. This place was my home.
I open the door and slip under the tape. I step inside, gingerly at first and praying that the floor won’t collapse on me. But really, the place feels sturdy. Actually, most of the house looks and feels fine, if you ignore the fact that one whole wall is missing. I take the stairs slowly, though they feel sturdy enough, and I pause at the door to what was once my room - my sanctuary. The smell of smoke still lingers in the air as I reach out and push it open.
I swallow as I step into my old bedroom, glancing around at the places things used to be. A scorch mark where the chair I used to practice in once stood. A strip of caution tape fluttering against the place where a shelf full of old, well-loved vinyl records lived. A dark water stain against the wall and the floor where my bed once was, by the window that doesn’t exist anymore.
It’s strange being in here - the room bare now, the walls blackened, and the whole wall to the outside missing, with the Crown Estate looming against the purple sky.
“You know this place is off-limits.”
I shriek- actually shriek as I whirl.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
Bastian smiles. Well, Bastian’s version of a smile at least.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Have not.”
I have been. Sort of. Kind of. Me staying aloof the last few days has been my own way of trying to turn off the dirty thoughts, and the craved contact, and the whirlwind of emotions that come with wanting Bastian all the time every freaking day.
It hasn’t helped anyway.
“Scared you aren’t able to control yourself around me?”
Yes.
“What are you doing in here?”
He raises a brow. “What are you doing in here. There’s a sign on the door in case you missed it.”
“You seemed to have too.”
“No, I just ignored it.”
“Well, same.”
He smirks.
“Well, look who got bad ass.”
He steps toward me, and I want to step back, but I don’t. Actually, I even step into him, shivering at the closeness of him.
He holds up a white plastic bag.
“Hungry? I got delivery.”
I grin. “Prison life, am I right?”
“It’s tough in here.”
“What’d you get?”
“Fish tacos.”
I laugh and then shake my head as he looks at me questioningly.
“Mrs. Tottingham literally just made those for dinner.”
“Shit, seriously?”
“Seriously. You should pay attention more.”
“Maybe I just had another kind of taco on the brain.”
I roll my eyes. “How have you ever been laid before?”
“Money, good looks, arrogant demeanor?”
I groan. “Yeah, that’ll do it I guess. You know, for some girls.”
He smirks. “But not you, right?”
“Nope.”
“Totally immune to that shit, huh?”
“It doesn’t even register for me.”
“It must just be the big cock then.”
I blush scarlet, feeling my body tingling in places it shouldn’t around him - feeling my pulse skip a little as those eyes drag over me.
“So, how about it.”
I swallow thickly. “How about what?”
I want him.
Badly.
Bastian steps closer, his eyes piercing into me as that grin spreads across his lips.
“I- I already ate,” I say quickly.
“Funny, I’m starving.”
“Good thing you’ve got dinner right there,” I say it brightly, trying to deflect - trying to convince myself not to let this go where I know it’s going.
“I think I’ve got dinner right here actually,” he growls, moving into me.
I gasp as he drops the bag, his hand snaking around my waist and pulling me close. He leans down, his lips inches from mine, and when his arms pull me in tight against him, letting me feel how hard he is, I whimper.
“I’ve never been in your room before.”
“I’ve never had anyone up here.”
“I know.”
“Creep.”
“Prude.”
“Pervert.”
“Take your fucking clothes off.”
I moan.
His arms pull me tight, and my lips are crashing into his before I know it.
Bastian growls into my mouth as he suddenly lifts me off my feet, my heart racing as he steps forward, my back hitting the wall of my old bedroom. Black soot falls from the ceiling around us, but I’m barely aware of it as he grinds into me. My legs go around his waist, and I can feel his thickness pressing against the seam of my jeans, throbbing so hard against my slit.
I groan as I arch my back, rocking my hips against his thick erection as he pins me to the wall. His hands slide up my sides, pushing my arms above my head and holding them there by the wrists.
“You’re still wearing clothes,” he growls.
His lips brush up the side of my neck, making my breath catch. One hand holds my wrists above my head as the other slides down over my collarbone, teasing around my nipple through my tank top. He moves lower, and I moan as he pushes the tank top up over my belly, his hand tracing over my skin as he pushes it up over my breasts.
“You have any idea how much I wanted to fuck you in this room when we were in high school?”
His lips dip down, and when they close around one pink, tender nipple, I gasp.
“In your dreams,” I moan. “High school me wanted nothing to do with you.”
Lies.
High school me moaned into her pillow and squirmed under the covers late at night imagining doing filthy things with the beautiful asshole who lived one hundred feet away.
“High school me wanted to do terrible things to you.”
“And older wiser you?”
I gasp as his hand skims across the waist of my jeans and pops the button. His deft, strong fingers slip under, teasing over the front of my panties before he pulls the zipper down, slowly.
“Still want to do terrible things to you, except now they’ve been simmering for nine fucking years.”
He starts to push my jeans down over my hip. I pull my hands away from his grip and bring them to his shirt, scrambling to undo the buttons on his Ferragamo shirt as his fi
ngers tease over the front of my panties. He groans, grinding into me - my tank top pushed up over my breasts and my jeans around my thighs. My panties soaking through.
“And what sort of terrible things did you want to do to me back then,” I whisper breathlessly, shoving his shirt off his shoulders and leaning forward to bite the skin of his collarbone.
The darkest, dirtiest part of me wants to know - needs to know. Years of hating myself for fantasizing about him, for getting soaking wet imagining him coming into my room and doing almost literally this exactly to me.
No sweetness, no tenderness, no prince charming. I wanted the beast in all his glory. I wanted Bastian to take me with all that anger, and lust, and hatred and raw need.
…And I hated myself for it.
He groans, fingers sliding up into my hair and pulling it into a fist as his other hand pinches a nipple between his thumb and finger.
“I wanted to fuck you on that little white princess bed hard enough to break it.”
I moan as his fingers twist my nipple, making my breath catch as the pain and the stabbing pleasure shudder through me.
“I wanted to tie you up and tease you until you were so wet it was dripping down your thighs, and then claim every part of you and make you mine as you begged me for more.”
I groan deeply, undulating my hips against his throbbing hard cock through his pants.
“Wanted sounds like past tense,” I moan.
His hand tightens in my hair, his fingers twisting my nipple enough to make me gasp.
“Your bed was over there, wasn’t it.” He growls, nodding to the place it once stood.
I nod.
“Good.”
I shriek as he lifts me up and drapes me across his shoulder. His strong hands slide over my ass, yanking my panties down and delving between my legs as he strides across the scorched, burned-out room missing a wall. I moan as his fingers stroke through my slick folds, teasing me and making me squirm against him.
He kneels and pulls me off of him, and I gasp as I’m suddenly on my knees where my bed used to be.
“Stay just like that,” Bastian growls into my ear, making me shiver with anticipation.
His fingers hook into my panties and my jeans, yanking them a little further down until they’re tangled around my knees. He slips the tank top up and over my head, but when I go to lift my arms, he stops me, pulling them behind my back and suddenly twisting the tank top around my wrists.
