Earning Her Trust: Braxton Arcade Book One

by Adore Ian

  30

  Damian

  After the cops and EMTs leave, we trudge up to my apartment.

  I take Marrin into my bathroom and set her on the edge of the tub. I thoroughly wash my bloody hands before grabbing three washcloths and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I strip her dress and bra, tossing them into the trash because both have likely come into contact with Frank’s blood. He told the EMTs he didn’t have any bloodborne illnesses, but we’re not taking any chances. We’ve already agreed to get tested before we have unprotected sex again.

  Adulting—amiright?

  Marrin’s only real cut is on her lip, and surprisingly, I didn’t cut my knuckles on Asshole’s face. But all it takes is a speck of blood, carrying the right pathogen, to come into contact with an open wound or a mucous membrane (such as the ones located in the nose, eyelids, or mouth) and that’s it. Pathogens can spread. I was right up in Frank’s face when I hit him, and when I hauled him off Marrin, he’d been way too close to hers.

  I dampen a washcloth in rubbing alcohol, then wipe up the blood from Marrin’s neck and chest. I trash the cloth when I’m done and use the second one to clean the abrasion on her knee. I save the last one for the blood on her face.

  “It smells horrible,” she says.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  When all the blood is gone from her skin, I stand her up and strip us both. Everything we’re wearing goes into the trash. I turn on the shower and help her in.

  Her elbows are scraped, her limbs are bruised, and her body is stiff. Still, I know she doesn’t need my help, doesn’t need me to tend her wounds or wash her body. I need to do these things for her. It’s like a program I can’t turn off. I think she knows it too because she lets me.

  I put her under the hot water and start soaping her up. There’s nothing sexual about it, just an uncontrollable need to care for her, to provide comfort, to make sure she’s all right.

  The Neanderthal in me fussing over his woman.

  Maybe I’m overcompensating for the fact that she didn’t need me to save her. Maybe I still feel guilty about our fight. Or maybe it’s because I can’t stop my brain from replaying the look on her face when I got to her and all the horrible things that could’ve gone wrong.

  When I was abused, there was no one there to help me. No one to make me feel safe or comforted, or to tell me it wasn’t my fault. I won’t do that to Marrin. I won’t let her feel isolated or ashamed or unsafe. She hates being out of control, so I take that burden away. I control the situation so she doesn’t have to. And in doing that, I’m giving her what she needs and she’s giving me what I need. Yes, that’s part of our kink but it’s also more than that. It’s part of who we are and why we balance one another so well.

  I soothe soapy hands over the bruises darkening her neck and shoulders. I move across her body carefully, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. Aware of each touch, each pang of anger I feel at the sight of a new bruise or scratch marring her skin.

  I kiss each one.

  She does the same for me. Washes me, cherishes me.

  When we’re done, I shampoo and condition her hair.

  “I like washing your hair,” I say.

  “I think you just like touching my hair.” She looks over a shoulder, a smile turning her lips.

  An intense wave of satisfaction fills me because I helped put that smile there. Helped call it back to the surface.

  “I do.” I rinse her then pull her into my arms. We stay that way for a while. Feeling one another, safe in one another.

  Eventually we get out. I dry and braid her hair, then dress her in one of my T-shirts and a pair of pajama pants that are way too big. I get an ice pack for her chin, then lay her on my bed and tuck her into my arms beneath the blankets.

  I speak first. “I think I got mad because I knew you were right about my mom and I didn’t want to face it. I’d accepted that I’d never get an apology from her, that she’d never acknowledge what she and my dad did, and what it did to me. But then Thanksgiving happened and then she called me and… I don’t know. I’m sorry I yelled. I took my anger and confusion about this whole situation out on you and I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry. I’ll work to do better next time.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. I’m sorry, too. I should’ve told you about Nadia as soon as it happened and I didn’t. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now why it was the wrong decision. I’m gonna work on that, too. Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Always.” I sweep my thumb across her cheekbone. We’re lying on our sides, facing one another with our foreheads nearly touching.

  “I still care about my mom. I try to deny it because I know it’s stupid after everything that’s happened—”

  “It’s not stupid.”

  “—but I can’t. Two years ago when she called and said she’d changed, I believed her. I wanted to believe her. She calls the bar every year on Thanksgiving. I never answer because it’s too public and what am I going to say to her? She gave birth to me and then she tried to get rid of me. And I still love her.”

  I hold her close. “I want you, Marrin. I’ll keep you. I promise. I’ll keep you forever or until you say when.”

  She wipes at a few tears. “I think when your mom approached me, I thought if you could reconcile with her, then maybe I could reconcile with my mom one day. Again, really stupid way to see—”

  “That’s not stupid. Not stupid at all. Being angry is easy. But forgiveness, letting go, letting people back in… that’s hard. And after what Frank said tonight…”

  Frank told her he’d manipulated her mother somehow. It falls in line with what her mom’s defense team argued when the case went to trial. I can’t imagine how confusing and painful Frank’s admission must be for Marrin. To know that her mom might have actually changed and that Frank’s actions ruined it for both of them.

  “You know what I was thinking?” Marrin says. “I was thinking that maybe when my mom gets out in a few years, if I’m ready, I could talk to her in a controlled setting. Like a therapist's office or something. That way someone trained in mediating these things is present. Maybe you and Nadia could try that. Not today or soon, but if you ever want to talk to her. That way she won’t blindside you like she did at dinner.”

  I smile. “That’s a brilliant idea. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

  Her phone vibrates on the nightstand and she wiggles away to check it.

  “Alice again?” I ask.

  “No, it’s Kiley. He says Frank’s lab work came back negative. We don’t need to worry about getting tested.”

  “Thank fuck,” I groan in relief. She curls back up next to me. I pause on a thought. “Question. What exactly does Kiley do that he’d have access to that kind of information? What does Alice do that she’d employ someone like him?” The question has been nagging me for months.

  “Honestly? I have no idea. I don’t ask. I know what you mean, though. Alice is weird about cops, she runs several businesses that cater to rich clientele, she retains a concierge doctor and a driving service that will pick you up whenever and wherever, no questions asked.”

  “Not to mention she had a tail on Frank and hired a bodyguard for you.”

  “That too.”

  “She isn’t, like, in the mafia or something is she?” I remember when Alice and Gavin showed up at my door ready to break it down if I didn’t let them in.

  “I don’t know. I figure the less I know, the better.”

  “Seems reasonable.”

  “Damian?” she says, propping herself up on an elbow.

  “Yeah, baby?”

  She traces my jaw with her fingers. “Thank you. For not running away after you learned how messed up my life is. And for not giving up on me. For saving me.”

  She’s not talking about Frank.

  “You’re welcome.” I brush a thumb along her bottom lip. “Thank you for putting up with me. For trusting me with your secrets and for letting me trust y
ou with mine.”

  I push up and kiss her quietly. Her fingers weave into my hair and her mouth follows mine back down to the pillow. I pull her to me, cording my arms around her waist. She mewls into my mouth and I answer by sliding a hand beneath her shirt and palming a bare breast.

  She’s warm and soft.

  My thumb traces circles over her skin, smaller and smaller until the pad rolls over her peaked nipple. Another small noise escapes her mouth.

  “What do you want, Mar?” I whisper between kisses.

  She presses my hand to her chest, feeling where I cup her. “I want you to touch me. To make love to me. Please.”

  It’s the last breathy word that gets me. I move over her body, caging it with my own.

  I love the sight of her in my clothes. My T-shirt hangs loosely around her, rippling with each soft jiggle of her breasts—I toss it to the floor. My pajama pants rumple around her hips, there’s something endearing in the way the drawstring keeps them from falling—they find the floor, too.

  I sit back, pulling the covers with me. She’s gloriously bare before me. Skin marred by scars and bruises but no less lovely.

  I strip my shirt, my pants, my briefs. A small, warm hand strokes my erection, tugging me toward the bed. I follow it down to Marrin. Easing myself over her and holding my weight in my elbows. She smells like citrus and soap. I trace her body with a hand. Her full, warm breasts. Her tight, soft stomach. The bank of curls that lead to her sex. I cup her there with a hand as I kiss her mouth, careful of her lip.

  She angles my cock toward her entrance, legs spreading wide, giving me access and entry. Inviting me to share her body.

  “Not yet,” I whisper, kissing a path down to the sensitive skin below and around her ear.

  I ghost my hand over her inner lips, feeling how swollen her clit has become. The touch is slight, but enough to make her hips rock. Enough to make her hum a moan deep in her throat. Her body is an instrument I alone have the privilege of playing. The privilege of plucking and strumming, of using to compose a song for only my ears to hear.

  She swirls her thumb around the wetness at the tip of my cock. I swirl a finger around the wetness at the center of her. I moan into her neck at both the feel of her hand on me and the wetness that calls from between her legs.

  “This is for me,” I murmur with a kiss. “This is mine. You’re mine. Always. I’ll never let you go, Marrin.” I sink myself deep inside her, pressing her thighs open with my hips. “I want you for a lifetime.”

  Her eyes grow wide at my words and my intrusion—the exquisite pleasure of us. Her mouth falls open in time with mine and words are lost to her. She nods her agreement as she welcomes me inside her, cradling me with her body.

  I hold her beneath me. Rocking into her, disappearing into her, descending into her. Over and over and over again.

  Our rhythm is slow, languid. Our kisses deep and savoring.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  “You’re mine,” I whisper.

  “I’ll marry you someday,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  We come apart at the same time. Her body tightening around mine, mine around hers. Her name leaves my lips—over and over and over again—as I empty myself inside her—over and over and over again. And when it’s all over I know she’s taken a hell of a lot more from me than my release. Know I’ve given a hell of a lot more than that, too.

  She’s taken everything from me. I’ve given everything to her. My heart, my soul, my future. She can have it all because I don’t want any of it without her.

  31

  Marrin

  I lean back onto the hot hood of Damian’s Jeep, soaking in the sun. It’s the third week of May and classes are over. We’re officially seniors. The thought is mind-boggling. The fact that I’m going to graduate on time next year is mind-boggling. I’ve been busting my ass taking extra classes and summer school ever since I had to throw away my first semester of college because of everything that happened on Thanksgiving.

  Everything is falling into place.

  I pull my phone from my shorts and check the time. Not quite three in the afternoon. I go back to soaking up the sun.

  Frank is going to prison. Stupid bastard. The charges were upped when the cops found a roll of duct tape, a hunting knife, and a brick of cocaine in his car. I don’t think about what the tape and knife might have been used for and the cops are convinced he’d intended to distribute the drugs. Doesn’t matter now, though. I won’t be running into him for a while. The case hasn’t gone to court yet, but Alice says the FBI is getting involved because of the cocaine. As it stands, he’s facing at least twenty years, but if they can link him to big drug traffickers, then he’s looking at life.

  Fine by me.

  My phone vibrates.

  Damian: Coming down now. Really need you.

  Marrin: I’m out front with the Jeep.

  I sit up and hop off the vehicle’s hood. I drove Damian to his appointment today then ran some errands. I’ve been happily waiting in the sunshine for about fifteen minutes.

  The door to the office building opens and Damian walks out. I wave an arm as he scans the parking lot. He spots me and makes a beeline.

  I can tell how upset he is before he even gets close. His head is down, his shoulders stiff. I stand on the sidewalk, arms open.

  “What happened?” I say.

  He doesn’t answer, just pulls me into a massive hug, burying his face in my neck.

  I hold him, rubbing a hand over his back.

  “Today was hard,” he finally says.

  “I’m sorry, baby. Do you want to talk about it?”

  He inhales deeply, squeezing me once. The tension in him seems to ease. “Not right now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mmm. You’re nice and hot.”

  “I’ve been laying on the Jeep’s hood.”

  He huffs a laugh, but doesn’t release me. “I have another appointment tomorrow. Just me this time.”

  “To talk about what happened today?”

  He nods into my neck.

  “That bad?”

  He nods again.

  When he speaks next, I can hear the anguish in his voice. “She said… she said my father abused her. Not physically, but emotionally. Says that’s why she didn’t do more, why she drank so much.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” His breath shudders. “Confused. Pissed. Angry.”

  “Did you feel like she meant it as an excuse?”

  “No. Not at the time. It was just an explanation she gave for her behavior. She didn’t say it like I was supposed to feel bad for her or give her a free pass. But… I don’t know what to think.”

  “It’s okay.” I lean back to look at him. “You don’t have to decide right now. You don’t have to decide at all. You’re allowed to be confused.” I kiss his cheek. He nods. “Let’s go to the Braxton, I’ll let you try and beat me at Realm Quest.”

  A smile crashes over his face. “Oh, you will, will you?”

  “Mhmm.” I squeal as he hauls me off my feet into another hug.

  Before he puts me down, I notice Nadia walking out of the office building. Her eyes land on us for a second and she briefly holds my gaze. Then she turns away, heading for her car.

  Damian and I get into his Jeep and drive away.

  He’s been seeing a therapist with his mother for a few weeks now. Things are rocky, but at least they’re both trying. I’m not sure where it will go or if a reconciliation is even possible, but I’m here to support him regardless.

  Just as he’s here to support me.

  My mom won’t be released for another five years, but I’ve been talking to a therapist about her, about everything. I think if Damian can sit in a room with his mother, and try to heal the wounds between them, then maybe I can try and do the same. Maybe I can work on my confidence and insecurities… and one day p
ick up the phone when my mom calls.

  Damian and I are both scarred, both marred by things from our pasts. But just because we couldn’t control the things that happened to us, doesn’t mean we can’t control the way we survive. How we move on.

  The scars we carry don’t devalue us, or make us less than, or other. Not if we don’t allow them to. They are proof of the battles we’ve fought and won, and of the battles we’ve fought and lost. We carry the victories as well as the defeats. Show them equally, proudly.

  Our scars are proof of our strengths.

  The wounds that lay between my mother and I may never fully heal, might always leave a scar. But I don’t mind the scars.

  My scars led me to Damian, and his led him to me.

  You’ve just finished Adore’s first book!

  You’ve just finished my first EVER published novel (screams!). Would you please leave a review for this book? Any and all are greatly appreciated. You can leave one on Goodreads or the place where you purchased this title—or both if you’re feeling generous!

  Sexual assault resources

  “Every 98 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted. And every 8 minutes, that victim is a child.” —RAINN

  * * *

  Sexual assault knows no boundaries or limitations. It does not discriminate against sex, gender, age, race, ethnicity, religion, socioeconomic status—anything. There are no lines of which it does not cross. It is not always violent, for sometimes it is quiet. It is not always overt, for sometimes it is manipulative, subtle. It is not always committed by a stranger, for most often it’s a family member, a friend—someone we trust. It can happen to anyone, can be committed by anyone…

  And no matter the circumstances, if you are a survivor, I believe you. You deserve compassion. You deserve to be heard. And you deserve help.

  If you or someone you know is a survivor of sexual assault, please know that when you are ready, there are people waiting to listen and help you.