by Cole Gibsen
His hand finds the curve of my breast and I groan under his touch. His head lifts a fraction, his lips dark and swollen. I arch against his fingers and brush my tongue against his neck. A growl rumbles from between his clenched teeth and he lowers his hips against mine. The second the hardness of him falls between my legs, a burning ache ignites low inside me.
A whimper escapes my throat and I know I’m on the verge of losing control like I did the other night. Only this time, I don’t want to stop. His hands find the edge of my T-shirt and inch it up over my torso. He slides his hand along my waist, his fingers taking their time, exploring every inch of my skin until they stop at the edge of my bra.
I hold my breath, my body tense in anticipation. My chest is actually quivering, desperate for his touch, aching for it. Until, finally, he slides his hand under the wire rim of my bra and cups my breast in his hand.
I moan, arching into his touch, trying to pour myself into his hands. His thumb grazes the edge of my nipple, and I shudder and buck my hips against his, grinding against the bulge beneath his zipper and tightening the need between my legs.
His grip loosens on my wrists and that’s all the invitation I need to slip free, grab the edge of his T-shirt, and tug upward. He helps by sliding his arms out of his sleeves and throwing his shirt across the room. His entire chest is covered in ink. I trace my fingers along the various tattoos. Lane said all tattoos should have meaning, and I can’t help but wonder about his. A police badge is centered over his heart, a pair of sparrows take flight from his ribs, and a skeletal woman, face painted like a candy skull, stares at me with parted red lips on the left side of his abs, just below the name Harper.
My fingers freeze beneath the delicate script. What the fuck are you doing, Ashlyn?
As if sensing my thoughts, Lane places a hand on my face, guiding my gaze back to his. “I know what you’re thinking. With Harper, it’s not like that.”
I want to ask what he means, but he cuts me off. “Tonight, there’s only you.” His lips find mine and swallow any argument on my tongue. “Tonight, I belong only to you, and you only to me.”
I wish I were strong enough to refuse, to tell him that’s not enough—that one night will never be enough. But the temptation is too great. To have Lane as my own, even for a night, is too much to resist. “Tonight.” I whisper the word against his neck. “I’m yours.”
“Mine.” The low growl of that one word renews the ache inside me. His hands rip my shirt over my head and the delicious warmth of his skin burns into mine. I slide my palms along his muscular back, pulling him as tightly to me as I can. If I only have tonight, I want to feel every inch of him, to memorize every ripple of muscle with my fingers.
He thrusts against me, the firmness of him grinding between my legs. A heaviness grows low inside me. I gasp, which he takes as invitation to push again, and again, until I’m worried I’ll lose myself right there on the kitchen floor. And I don’t want that. Because if I only have tonight, I want all of him—every hard, pulsating inch.
I slide my hands between us, grab the button of his jeans, and pry it apart. He tenses when I slip my fingers beneath the elastic of his briefs. When I encircle his swollen shaft, he inhales sharply before letting out a groan as I slide my fingers along the velvety skin.
“Ash.” Lane closes his eyes and dips his head against my neck. His shoulders shudder and he groans. “You’re killing me, I want you so bad.”
I keep moving my hand, bucking my hips upward. The pressure inside me swells into a balloon of sweet agony. “Then take me.”
He shakes his head. “I never expected…I don’t have anything.”
It takes me a minute to understand what he’s talking about. “A condom? I’ve got one in my purse.” I read somewhere that keeping condoms in a wallet broke them down over time. Ever since then I decided to keep some in my purse, just in case.
He sweeps an arm behind my back and lifts me off the ground in an instant. Before I can blink, he’s tossed me over his shoulder.
“Lane!” I can’t help but laugh. “What the hell?”
He ignores me. “Where the fuck is your purse?”
“Over there.” He can’t see me point, as I’m draped over his back. “On the nightstand.”
He crosses the room in several long strides and slides me off his shoulder, placing me gently on the bed. He grabs my purse off the battered nightstand and hands it to me. “I wouldn’t feel right searching through it. But I’m perfectly okay with this.” Before I can ask what he’s talking about, he unbuttons my jeans and slides them from my body.
After tossing them aside, he stands above me, lines of ink and muscle woven into a man too gorgeous to be real. His eyes are wild, hungry, and every cell in my body aches for him. At the same time, a small sliver of fear coils around me. This isn’t like me, to sleep with a guy I barely know, especially when the terms he’s set are quite clear. We belong to each other only for the night.
I fumble inside my purse with shaking fingers. Unzipping an inner pouch, I root around until I find the cellophane square holding the condom. I grab it and hold it out to Lane.
He takes it, climbing onto the bed and straddling me. My muscles quiver in anticipation. “Are you absolutely sure you want this?” he asks, a huskiness to his voice.
Oh God, yes. Still, a thread of hesitation weaves through me. It’s not like I haven’t been with a guy before, but something feels different with Lane—dangerous in a way I can’t explain. Every guy I’ve ever been with I’ve been able to walk away from without regret, without sorrow, without any feeling whatsoever.
With Lane, I have this fear that if I open myself to him, even a little, he’ll take more than I’m able to give. And then what will I be left with? What will I be?
Nothing at all.
Lane must read my uncertainty because he frowns. “God, Ash. I’m sorry. If I’m moving too fast…”
He starts to slide off of me and I quickly wrap my arms around his neck. No. No. No. I won’t let him go. “You’re mine for the night. You promised.”
He eases back against me, the firmness of him pressing against the thin cotton of my panties, making my eyelids flutter. “You’re right. I did promise. But we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“I do. Please.” I pull him tighter against me. That’s the entire problem, I realize. I want him too much. And when I want things, they tend to get taken from me.
He lowers his head and the scruff of his cheek gently scratches the line of my jaw. “What do you want?” His breath tickles my skin, making me shiver. “Say it.” His fingers find the edge of my panties and slowly work the elastic band down my hips.
My breath hitches in my throat as a wave of desire washes through me. Every muscle and nerve pulses with a burning ache. “I want you, Lane.”
He smiles, a sly quirk of the lips. He shifts to his side, fumbling, and I hear the crinkle of cellophane. A second later he leans on his elbows, his fingers entwining in my hair. I feel the tip of him settle between my legs and it’s all I can do not to squirm downward and guide him in. “Say it again.”
He throbs against me, igniting pulses of pleasure where his skin meets mine. I close my eyes and arch my back. I don’t know how much more I can take. “Please, Lane. I want you.”
And then I have him. All of him.
With a groan, I dip my head back and cling to him, rising up to meet him like a wave crashing into the shore. I raise my leg, hooking him around his waist as a warm pressure builds low inside me. With each thrust it grows, expanding between my hips until there’s no room left, and it spills over. I cry out, back bowing, as my nails dig into his skin.
He kept his promise. Tonight, he belongs to me.
I only hope in the morning I’ll have the strength to let him go.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashlyn
The next morning at the coffeehouse, I’m still thinking about my night with Lane even though I know I should be concent
rating on the iced vanilla latte I’m pouring. Lane was still asleep, tangled in the covers, when I’d slipped out of bed to get ready for work. He slept on his stomach, his arms wrapped around his pillow, and Hank was nestled in a ball against his legs. The thin sheet covering him had fallen to his hips, exposing his muscular tattooed back all the way to the dimples just above his tailbone.
I shiver at the memory and vanilla latte sloshes over the rim of the cup, soaking my fingers. I jerk back, spilling more liquid on the counter. Jesus, Ash, pull it together. I grab several napkins, mop up the mess, and seal the cup with a lid. After calling the customer and handing off her drink, I spin around to find Emily staring at me with a strange expression.
“What’s up with you?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow. “You’re acting weirder than normal—which is pretty fucking weird.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grab the spray bottle and spritz down the counter to keep it from becoming sticky. “I’m just tired. I was up late last night—painting,” I add quickly.
“Uh-huh.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Just how late was that?”
I shrug, and rummage along the shelves for another pack of coffee cup sleeves. We have plenty stacked on the counter, but I need something to do to avoid her narrow-eyed gaze. “I don’t really know. I lost track of time.”
“Really? Because painting is so interesting?” A ghost of a smile pulls at her lips.
I scowl at her. I know she’s fishing for details, but I’m not about to give her any, especially when the guy in question is her brother—a guy she specifically warned me to stay away from. Even though my night with Lane was amazing, I’m not exactly proud of the fact I let my hormones overpower my better judgment. I mean, he has another girl’s name tattooed across his heart for Christ’s sake! What kind of girl does it make me that I would still fool around with him knowing this?
Emily gives me a questioning look and I turn away from her before she can read the guilt in my eyes. Lane did say his relationship with Harper “wasn’t like that,” whatever the hell that means. Still, he also only promised me a night, and now that it’s over, I know better than to expect anything more. It was by far the hottest night of my life, and I should be happy with the memory and leave it at that.
Emily touches my shoulder. “Hey. You okay? You want to talk about anything?”
I’m about to shake my head when the front door chimes.
Emily curses under her breath. “Later then, okay?”
I nod and turn to face the customer.
Only I realize immediately the woman walking into the shop isn’t a customer. My heart plummets to my ankles.
The woman clutches her cardigan together with a bony hand, even though the weather is far too warm for a sweater. It’s probably a Ralph Lauren or Calvin Klein. Her wheat-colored hair is cropped above her ears, and dark circles rim her eyes. She glances around the shop, taking everything in, her eyes alert, as if she’s never been inside a coffee shop before in her life. I’m willing to bet she hasn’t.
Emily approaches the register. “What can we get started for you?”
The woman twitches, her eyes widening at the attention. “Actually, I was looking for someone.”
Every muscle in my body coils, desperate to make a run for it. I grip the counter to keep from fleeing.
The woman’s head swivels in my direction, her eyes meeting mine. Her shoulders slump slightly. “Ashlyn.”
I lick my lips before I answer. “Hey, Mom.” The word tastes like bile on my tongue.
She lets go of her sweater, revealing the skeletal frame beneath. “Do you have a minute?”
I’m falling. The second I saw her I felt as if the floor disappeared from beneath my feet. I keep plummeting farther and farther, bracing myself for the painful landing to come. “What are you doing here?”
She bites her lip, looking uncertain, like she’s not quite sure herself. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping in like this. One of the women at church, Muriel, saw you working here and told me. I just need to talk to you. It won’t take long, I promise.”
Anger rises inside of me until I think I might explode from the force of it. How dare she show up at my work, expecting to get a moment of my time, when she only stood by, sobbing, as her husband physically shoved me out the door of our home? She has no idea what I’ve been through over the last six months—how I’ve been forced to survive by sleeping in truck stops and rooming with strippers. I owe her nothing.
And yet, I find myself nodding. “Yeah. Sure. But just a minute.” Because as much as I want to tell her to go fuck herself, she’s still my mom. I glance over my shoulder at Emily to see if she’s cool with it.
She nods, her forehead creased with lines of worry. “Go ahead. I can handle things.”
I untie my apron, wad it into a ball, and shove it under the counter before I step around the register. “I can talk to you outside.” I motion to the outdoor seating. If there’s going to be a scene—which is always a possibility with my mother—I don’t want to risk losing my job over it.
“Sounds good.” Mom follows me out of the coffee shop. I sit at one of the metal tables outside and she sits across from me. Emily and I haven’t had a chance to put the table umbrellas up yet, so the midmorning sun forces me to squint. All I have to do to fix the situation is crank the umbrella up, but I don’t. I’d rather have my retinas burned with hot, white light than make eye contact with the woman who stood by and did nothing as everything I owned was burned to cinders.
Mom fidgets with the strap of her purse before resting it on the table. “You look too skinny.”
I frown. Of course I’m skinny. That’s what happens when you’re forced to skip meals so you can pay rent. At least now, thanks to my rent agreement with Lane, I actually have money for real food. But I don’t tell her any of this. The moment I left the house, I left her, too. “I only have a few minutes,” I remind her, in case she’s looking for something else to criticize.
“Right.” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She’s looking awfully skinny herself, not from diet but from whatever cocktail of antianxiety and bipolar medication she happens to be on at the moment. “I hate the way things ended between us. I worry about you struggling to survive on your own. If you want to come home—”
“I don’t.” I’d rather sleep in a thousand truck stops and eat nothing but crushed glass than put myself through that hell again.
Mom’s shoulders slump. “I understand things have been rough between your stepdad and you. You know he’s had a very rough life, don’t you? That his mom was an abusive alcoholic? Maybe if we all went to therapy together—”
I stand so abruptly, the chair tips back before righting itself with a bang. I should have known she’d come here trying to make yet another excuse for his behavior. Each time my stepdad called me stupid and worthless, the words slid into my heart like a knife. When he grew tired of the abuse, Mom would swoop in with her excuses, “He had a very hard life. He’s under a lot of pressure from work.” Words make good weapons, but, excuses make shitty Band-Aids.
For years, I believed her, praying my stepdad would wake one day transformed into a man who didn’t need to belittle or control me. At ten years old I tried to convince myself his negative attention was better than none at all. I craved a father so I took his abuse, greedily even, because it was more attention than I’d ever had from a man. But I was wrong. Neglect would have been kinder. The problem with verbal abuse is it festers inside you like poison, spreading through your blood, infecting your brain until you believe the very words that cut so deeply.
I am stupid.
I am lazy.
I am worthless.
These words have lived inside me for the last ten years. Even now I can feel them squeezing my heart like so many strands of barbed wire. And excuses are the hands that pull them tighter.
No fucking more. I’ve been beaten down enough in my life. I won’t let anyone take what litt
le bit of me I have left. “I’ve got to go.”
“No!” Mom’s reaches across the table for me, but I’m too far away for her to touch. “Please. I’m so sorry.” Tears well in her eyes. “You’re my baby. I can’t lose you. Tell me what to do to make it better.”
A wisp of anger uncurls inside me. My fingers clench so tight my nails dig into my flesh. I’m so sick of her tears. My mother’s cried every day of her life for as long as I can remember. If for once she actually did something, rather than cry about it, I wonder how different our lives would have been. “Leave him.”
Her eyes flutter wide as the tears spill down her cheeks. “What?”
I grip the edge of the table and lean toward her. “You want to know how to make things better? Leave Charles.”
She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. “I…I can’t do that. What would I do? Where would I go? Besides, he needs me. I know he has anger issues, but it’s not his fault—”
“Enough excuses!” I slam my palm against the table, rattling it. A lifetime of anger has built up inside of me only to erupt in this moment. “He’s a monster and he’s not going to change. You know it and I know it.”
Mom’s face crumples and the tears wind down her cheeks. She’s quiet—I’m sure she’s searching for another excuse—then she nods. “You’re right.”
Her voice is so soft I’m sure I’ve misheard. “What?” Slowly, I lower myself back into the chair.
“You’re right,” she says, louder. She wipes her tear-streaked cheeks with her hand. “He’s not changing.” A sob chokes up her throat. “We were on welfare when I met him. I knew he had a temper, but I thought I could soften his edges. I thought he’d be able to take care of us, give you the life I never could. I was wrong. God, how I was wrong.”
She buries her face in her hands, her chest heaving. She looks so fragile sitting there, like a porcelain puppet with broken strings. Still, I’ve been submerged under a sea of her tears in my lifetime, and I refuse to drown in them anymore. “So leave him.”
To my surprise, she laughs. “Ashlyn, I’m fifty years old and work at a department store. Women in my position don’t leave their husbands. It’s too late for me…” She swallows hard. “But not for you.”
