by DM Davis
My girl survived. Holly did not.
Lauren was knocked unconscious and woke up three days later in hospital.
“I only know what happened after that based on what the police told me. A husband and wife had come upon us and hit a panic button in the garage. The alarm scared off our attackers. The husband gave chase, but the guys were too fast. The wife covered me with her sweater, and the husband gave his shirt to cover Holly. The police said they stayed, holding our hands until the ambulances and police came.” Her eyes lock on mine. “They saved my life.”
No. You saved your own life. I don’t want to argue the point. It’s about perspective, and she’s too close to see that her fighting spirit is what kept her alive.
She toys with her bottom lip, her eyes full of worry.
I bury my hand in her hair, bringing her eyes to me. “What are you afraid to tell me?”
“When the couple found us, I didn’t have any clothes on.” Her voice cracks, and she tries to avert my gaze.
“Look at me.” My thumb caresses her cheek. “Do you think that matters to me? That I would want you any less?”
The stream of tears that drop free tell me she does.
I press my forehead to hers, our noses touching, our lips a mere breath away. “The idea of these guys hurting you kills me—angers me in ways that scare me. But what happened to you in no way makes me want you less. Hell, if I’m being honest, the fact that you’ve survived something so horrific and remained the person you are, makes me want you even more.” I rub my nose along hers. “Not less. Do you hear me?”
She nods. “Yes.” Her hand covers mine. “I don’t have any memory of what happened after I was kicked in the head. But based on the evidence, the police, the doctors, don’t think I was raped. I don’t feel like I was, but I needed you to know—it’s a possibility.”
Relief floods me as I release a punch of air. “Then I’m sure you weren’t. But hear me again when I say, it does not matter to me. I will love you no matter what. It only matters in what happened to you and how you feel about it.”
Her gasp and the shock on her face has me backing up. “What?” What did I say?
“You”—She points at me—“said love.” Her brows disappear behind her curls.
It seems wrong to feel such joy after she shared the details of her attack, but I can’t help it. “Yes, I guess I did. Don’t freak out.” My smile nearly breaks my face. “I’m falling hard for you, Lauren Grace Frasier. And I’ll tell you again when you’re ready to hear it.”
I don’t miss her adorable blush as she buries her head in my shoulder.
My girl is a survivor. She’s so ashamed, yet I’m so fucking proud of her.
And apparently, I let my love for her slip free.
She’ll have to come to terms with that at her own pace, like she has with the events of her past—with heart-wrenching, soul-crushing excavation.
But this time, I’ll be here to soften the blow, deflect the self-incrimination, and shine a light on the truth:
She’s a survivor.
…and I love her.
THE MORNING LIGHT CASCADING IN FROM the window teases me from sleep. The large hand squeezing my breast reminds me I’m not alone. I’d nearly forgotten.
Theo kisses my neck, the hard length of his body warming my backside. Without thinking, I stretch on a groan, pressing my bottom into his crotch, not considering the stiffy there to greet me.
With a moan, he presses back, running his thumb over my nipple, and whispers in my ear, “Good morning.”
I twitch in his embrace, my body not alert enough to know how to handle the stimuli induced by his arousal and his touch.
“Morning.” I yawn, burying my face in his arm that I’ve been using as a pillow, and lace my fingers with his.
He closes his fingers around mine as his lips continue to explore my neck, shoulder, and arm left exposed in my tank top.
Goosebumps riddle my skin, and my hips move of their own accord, shaking off the cobwebs of my dormant desire, awakening me in ways I’ve never known. He whispers words across my skin, his body wrapping around mine from behind, his arms pulling me closer. His hand trails under my top, pushing it up, exposing my breasts to the morning light. I throw my head back as his arms cross my chest—a breast in each palm—plucking my nipples in a rhythm that is accompanied by his grinding pelvis. My hand tugs on his hair when his lips tease and nibble the curve of my neck, sucking and kissing his way up my jaw, to my ear.
A moan escapes my lips when I hear I want to make you come, and I swear it wasn’t said out loud. I need to touch you precedes his left hand abandoning my breast to slip below the band of my boy shorts. His growl as he discovers how turned on I am has my clit throbbing and my core contracting in need—begging him to fill me.
As if he heard my body’s plea, his fingers tease my opening, gliding to circle my clit before pressing a delicious path back down, sliding inside.
“Oh, God.” My back arches, and my hand clasps his arm that controls those talented fingers.
His moan of encouragement vibrates in my ear as his entire body picks up the pace. His mouth devours my shoulder in open-mouthed kisses while his thick erection rubs against my rear, and his fingers pinch and pull at my nipples, sending my hunger for him soaring.
Any attempt to touch him, to give him relief, is thwarted by grunts of disapproval and an elbow pushing my hand away. “You,” is the only response he gives. And when his fingers start to strum my g-spot like a master harpist, my legs start to shake, and my hips jerk in minuscule thrusts on reflex.
The tingling in my legs works its way up. My eyes slam shut, but all I see is white, and the only sounds I hear are my own rapid breaths mixed with gasps and moans in ever-increasing decibels. My heart pounds in my chest like it’s trying to break free. I’m reaching—begging for release—but I fear it as much as I crave it.
It’s too much.
“I’ve got you,” he rasps in my ear. “Let go, baby.”
And as if on demand that tingle explodes, ripping through my body in wave after wave. I thrash and convulse in his arms, his words of praise keeping me tethered—saving me from floating away.
He eases me back to him with tender kisses, fingers still deeply seated, moving at a leisurely pace. Not fully recovered but embarrassingly aware that I’m the only one who came, I roll over. Face to face, his state of arousal is still painfully obvious. The glistening head of his penis—having escaped the confines of his boxer briefs—calls me to action.
“You don’t—” His protest is lost as I wrap my hand around his velvety steel shaft. “Bloody hell,” he groans on the first pump, my thumb circling the head, spreading the moisture that slips free.
His arousal has me amping up like I didn’t just blow a gasket less than a minute ago. My body clenches around his fingers that are still inside me.
“Ah, fuck me,” he murmurs on a groan. “So fucking hot—you getting turned on as you get me off.”
Of course, his words have me contracting again. With a growl, he rolls me to my back, and his eyes devour my breasts before he bends and sucks a nipple into his mouth. His resolve to abstain falls to the wayside, and I am lost to his touch once again.
In a mass of strokes, plunging fingers, sucking nipples—both his and mine—kissing necks and anywhere else we can reach, our breaths combine, our hips thrust, and our moans rise to the heavens as we make love to each other with our hands, mouths, and hearts.
“Come for me, and see what you do to me.” His words skate across my breast before he bites my nipple and sucks it deep, throwing me off the edge and into the abyss of pleasure.
I explode around his fingers as his release detonates between us, covering my hand, my stomach, and places I’m sure to discover later—in total awkward embarrassment. Only, the moment I see the contentment and adoration in his eyes, I realize that what we just shared is not some base physical release, but a joining of two souls on a collision course with d
estiny.
He came into my life like an anomaly, neither of us open to being seen, our hearts locked down, and the keys long misplaced. But the moment our eyes caught, it was as if we had each other’s master key. There was no choice, no decision, no fear greater than our pull to be joined, to be opened, to be made into more than we are as individuals.
The pull to be one with him in heart and body is still strong. His pulsing cock, still in my hand, his fingers, still buried inside me, connect us in a way that feeds that beast, but it’s not enough.
I know that now.
I don’t understand it, but I’m trying to accept it.
The beast will have to be fed, or my ability to breathe, to think, to simply function at the most basic of levels will be compromised.
Only, I’m not ready. I won’t compromise on that. I can’t.
The beast will have to learn to be patient.
“Where’d you go?” His voice brings me back, and his thumb grazing my clit keeps my focus on him.
I squeeze his cock, and his growl has me clenching around his fingers. “I’m coming to terms with the fact that this thing between us is inescapable. There’s no stopping it, is there?”
My breath catches when he begins to circle my nub. “No, Lauren, I don’t believe we can stop the force that keeps bringing us together. We’re inevitable.”
He slowly moves his fingers in and out. His eyes catch the pebbling of my nipples before landing back on mine. “I, for one, don’t intend to fight it. What about you?” His voice is calm, not reflecting the tensing of his body and the hardening of his cock in my hand.
“Tell me now,” I sigh, my body already craving more—craving everything.
His eyes flicker between mine as he tries to make sense of my request. Recognition dawns, but before he answers, he flicks each nipple with his tongue, then sucks them until I’m tipping the edge, breathing heavy, and begging for release.
He pulls back, jaw clenched. His eyes burn with desire. His fingers strum my insides as he moves his hips, his cock pulsing in my hand. His breathing increased, he presses a tender kiss to my lips before whispering, “I love you.”
Damn him. His words send me flying, my body unable to respond beyond panting moans and trembling limbs.
He comes in my hand, reigniting my orgasm, and I continue to quake in a second wave, struggling to respond but manage, “I love you too.” My voice is buried in the sounds of our pleasure.
We fed the beast our hearts and part of our bodies.
Maybe that’s enough.
For now.
THE SMELL OF WAFFLES AND BACON fills the air, making my mouth water in anticipation. She moves around the kitchen as the waffle iron steams, placing drinks, cutlery, and the normal accoutrements for a sugary breakfast on the counter for me to place on the table.
I’ve showered and dressed in fresh clothes—thanks to a well-stocked gym bag—and still, I feel her wrapped tight around my fingers and in my arms as she came for me repeatedly. My cock pulses at the sense memory, blood starting to rush southward.
Mayday.
I promised myself there’d be no more sex play today. She needs to know I see her as more than a sexual object. I turn my mind to my lesson plan for the week, a guaranteed way to tame my desire. Though the idea of donning my professor façade after spending the weekend with my vision has me wanting to whisk her way to a deserted island instead of fortifying myself for Monday morning.
Returning to the kitchen, Lauren hands me two plates of food and then grabs the peanut butter on the counter.
“Peanut butter?” I’ve lived in Texas for years now and I’ve yet to see anyone put a jar of peanut butter on the table. My interest is piqued.
She smiles, her eyes meeting mine only momentarily—her shyness has been front and centre since this morning’s arousing events. I need to address that before I leave. I won’t leave her feeling uncomfortable or regretful. But for now, she needs to eat. Things always seem better on a full stomach.
“My dad”—she motions to the table—“put peanut butter on nearly everything.”
We sit, me at the head of the table and her to my left. Not my choice. I would not presume to sit at the head of her table, though that is where I want to be. She sat me here last night, and I know this is my seat today because her insulated water mug was already set on the placemat where she now sits. It’s a small detail, but I take pride in knowing she perceives me as the head of her table, whether she’s cognizant of it or not.
I watch her butter her waffle, and I follow suit as she continues telling me about her father. “When I was a kid, he would carry peanut butter with him to restaurants so he could put it on his waffles or pancakes. He was particular about his brand, and not everyone stocked it.”
She giggles and shakes her head, lost in memories as she slathers peanut butter on her waffle. “He’d put it on sliced apples and fix us peanut butter and banana sandwiches. We were never lacking for protein.”
Syrup is next. I find it fascinating that she only puts it on a fourth of her waffle. When I ask her why, she shrugs. “I don’t like it to get soggy, so I only put syrup on a section at a time.”
“Makes perfect sense.”
With a bite of waffle on her fork, her eyes meet mine and stay on me for the first time since we left the bedroom. “Will you try it?”
“I hoped you’d offer.” I lean towards her, and she slips her fork into my mouth. As I chew, I taste the flavours in layers: first the warm, sweet syrup, then the creamy peanut butter mixed with the soft and crunchy waffle with hints of butter. It takes waffle eating to a whole new level. “Let me try another bite, to be sure.”
She feeds me another, her eyes still pinned to mine, so hopeful. “I think even if I despised it, I’d tell you I liked it.” My hand covers hers. It means a lot to her, this small piece of her father. Her eyes widen, her brows curve down, disappointment marring her beautiful face. “It’s a good thing I love it.” But not as much as I love you. I keep that last part to myself. I fear she’s still trepidatious about our budding relationship. Better to ease her into it than to face-plant her with it. “Pass the peanut butter, please.”
The resulting smile lights up her face. “That would make my dad very happy.” She slides the jar of peanut butter to me. “Another convert,” she whispers, a flash of sadness entering her eyes.
I prepare my waffle exactly as she did, only putting syrup on the section I plan to eat first. “Tell me about your parents.”
“My mom, Carolyn Murray, lives here. She’s an interior decorator. She remarried, but he passed a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer my condolences.
She shrugs it off. “She’s doing okay. She dates, but no one serious. I’m not sure she’s open to falling in love again.” She puts down her fork, pushing her plate aside.
I examine her half-eaten plate of food. “Are you done?”
She looks at her plate and then me. “Yeah, I’ve had enough.”
Unsure how to address the need for her to eat more, I decide not to. “And your father?”
Leaning back in her chair, she takes a drink before answering. “William, my dad, moved back to California—where he’s from—with his new family when I was sixteen and Bobby was eighteen. Nicole and Timothy, my half-sister and brother, were ten and eight, I think.”
“Is that where they live now?”
“Timothy and Victoria, my step-mom, still live there. My sister is in school at the Cleveland Institute of Music.” There’s pride in that statement. She beams every time she talks about her siblings.
“And your dad?”
Her gaze moves to the kitchen before flitting over me to land in the distance, somewhere over my shoulder. “He died three years ago.” Her remorse is palpable.
I squeeze her hand, getting her attention. “I’m really sorry, baby.”
With a forced smile, she shrugs it off. “It’s okay. We weren’t that close.” If I thought she was sad
before, that statement right there sent her emotions plummeting.
Needing more details, I pry deeper. “Was it unexpected? Was he ill?”
“He had PKD.”
I shake my head. “I have no idea what that is.”
“Polycystic Kidney Disease. It’s a genetic disease that’s quite prevalent in our family. It causes cysts to form in the kidneys, and eventually they’re so overrun with growths, they shut down.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” With my family’s medical background, I’m surprised.
“Yeah, not many have, but surprisingly it’s more common than Muscular Dystrophy, Cystic Fibrosis, Down Syndrome, Sickle Cell Anemia, and Hemophilia—combined. Yet, most people know nothing about it.”
Does she have it? “When you say prevalent in your family, what does that mean?”
“It’s a genetic disease. You can’t catch it. You’re either born with it, or you’re not. But if you have it, you have a fifty percent chance of passing that gene down to your children. And if you’re born with the gene, you will get PKD. It’s not a matter of if but when. For my family, my dad’s mom and sister had it, and both passed away before he did. My grandmother lived on dialysis for a long time and was pretty old when she died somewhere in her eighties. My aunt, though, was only in her forties when she died. She never sought treatment.
“As for my dad, he was on dialysis for years before getting a kidney transplant. The surgery was a success, but he developed a blood clot in his leg. Three months later that clot traveled to his lungs. He died from a pulmonary embolism. He was only fifty-eight.”
“I’m so sorry.” I pull her into my lap, and she cuddles into me, fitting against my chest like it was made for her—like I was made for her.
“It’s okay.” Her soft reply lacks conviction.
I kiss her hair and cup her head, preparing for the worst. “Do you have it?” My heart races, and I hold my breath…waiting. I’ll love you no matter what. I promise.
“No—”
My relief—a little too evident by the punch of air I release—stops her mid-response. “Sorry.”
