The Art of Love

by Kayla C. Oliver

  At my bedroom door, I try the handle. It’s locked. Instead of knocking like a normal person might do, I’m compelled to force it. It’s like something deep within me is taking over and the part of my brain in charge of rational thought is simply away on vacation.

  The door releases with an almost inaudible sound. The handle turns easily in my hand and I peek in on her.

  And the scene I see is enough to instantly have my cock at attention and my whole body intent on joining her. She’s sprawled back on my bed, legs spread, fingers on her pussy, tits pointing to the ceiling and her eyes closed.

  She’s fucking sexy and I want to destroy her.

  “Dakin,” she moans and my cock strains against my pants as I back out of the room and close the door, certain she didn’t hear or see me.

  Standing there, feeling my heart pump in my chest and feeling the thump of my pulse in my cock, I’m struggling against the urge to burst back in and fuck her.

  I’m not controlled by my cock.

  But she’s in there, thinking about me while she fingers her sweet pussy.

  She’s also been drinking.

  But said she wasn’t drunk. She’s not drunk!

  It’s worth the risk.

  I’d never forgive myself.

  Pulling my arm off the wall, I resist the urge to strike out and smash my knuckles through the drywall. Before I can do something I’ll regret, I turn and walk down the hall.

  Like I’m wasted myself, I stumble down the stairs, not even caring if I make a noise now. Downstairs, the party is back in full force. Music thumps and lights flash, creating still snapshots of pretty girls moving in time to the beats.

  As I step off the last step, two pretty blonds instantly flank me, each leaning into me like I’m the one person they’ve been waiting for all night.

  But I want them gone.

  I want Camille.

  Still, some caveman throwback part of my brain promises that if I fuck these girls, I’ll be calm for Camille. Hell, it’ll allow me to be more gentle when I fuck her. When I take her god damned virginity. Fuck, it sounds nuts, like some stupid fluffy chick flick. Some annoying rom-com I wouldn’t watch unless I needed some noise to sleep through.

  But I know I won’t fuck these blonds. Because if Camille finds out, it might hurt her. She might misunderstand. She might think that if I sleep with these girls, that I don’t want her. It’s best to wait until I can talk to her, be open with her, because, for the first time in my life, I actually care what she thinks or how she feels.

  Fuck. Maybe I am going nuts.

  I step away from the girls and see the shock in their faces as I wave them away. But I’m not interested. I’m worried about the girl upstairs and the guy who threatened her. Even with Cliff on the job and all the guys promising to let me know if anything happens, I’m still nervous.

  I find Shane in the room and bump into him. “Have you seen Zac?” I ask, and Shane shakes his head.

  “The girls are down at the station,” he says, almost yelling to be heard over the music. “You really had them coming out of the woodwork. Fucking heroic, bro.”

  I shake my head. “You’d have done it if it were your house.” He would have, too. I know that there’s a level of respect when you’re at another man’s house, but Shane, of all the guys, would have called it if I hadn’t. “Where’s Eek?” I ask, wondering where his on again, off again girlfriend, Ericka, is tonight.

  “Off tonight,” he says simply, and I wonder what the hell is going on between them. I know that they’ve got a weird relationship. It seems almost like a convenience thing, someone to take home to their parents, or maybe just a total fabrication of an entire relationship. But getting Shane to cop to anything is like trying to get a dog to speak English.

  “I’m here if you need to talk,” I tell him and he nods.

  Jake comes up on my right and grabs my arm like he’s about to pull me into a hug, but he stops short to whisper-shout into my ear. “He’s out.”

  There’s only one he that Jake could be talking about. Jackson.

  I jerk my head toward the back door and we head toward it. Once we’re outside, I see Cliff studying something and know we’re safe to talk.

  “What do you mean out?” I ask Jake, who’s looking a bit green.

  “The cops are looking for him. There’s a warrant for his arrest, but he slipped the noose.” Jake’s shaken, and I wonder what the fuck happened.

  Cliff turns to look at us as I demand answers. “Weren’t you watching him?”

  “He had to pee, man. Next thing I knew, he was out the window and gone.” Jake’s pissed, I can see it in how he clenches and unclenches his fists.

  Without a word, Cliff leaves the yard and I know he’s going hunting. Part of me wants to say a prayer for Jackson, the rest of me hopes Cliff kills him.

  “Watch his back.” I tell Jake, who nods and chases Cliff.

  I turn and look up, over my shoulder, toward my bedroom window. If Jackson shows up here to hurt Camille, I’ll fucking kill him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Camille

  I blink, looking into the billions of motes of dust that glitter like gold flakes on the rays of the morning sun. Beyond the light, the windows are open, letting in the chilly morning air as I sit up and try to remember where the hell I am and how I got here.

  It comes back in bits as I sit up.

  The little red dress…

  I look down.

  I’m naked. No red dress. Not a single speck of clothing. Looking over my shoulder, I see I’m alone. There’s no imprint on the other side of the bed that might leave the impression that I wasn’t alone last night. No, it looks like I slept in the middle of the bed all by myself.

  But I don’t remember taking off the dress.

  What do I remember?

  Jackson dumping me.

  Attacking me.

  Dakin protecting me; pummeling Jackson to a pulp.

  My cheeks sting red as I feel my thighs slide together and remember touching myself. Looking into the blinding sunshine again, I realize that I should be in class right now. I bet I’m way late, I might miss it again.

  But I’m not doing that anymore. I’m not fucking perfect. I’m not a prude ice queen. Last night, I’d drank. I danced on a table. Dakin fuckin’ Dark carried me up to his bed like a damned cave man.

  Sure, he didn’t fuck me, but he’d stepped up to bat and protected me when I needed him to. He also helped a host of other women who’d been preyed on by Jackson. He’d been a damned hero. And he hadn’t even fucked me when I’d pretty much begged him to.

  I think I need to admit he’s not the monster I thought he was. Maybe he is in other ways, but the rumors I’d heard – and believed – were clearly exaggerated.

  But it doesn’t distract from his charm, oh no, it only adds to it. Where he’d seemed like a good person to sleep with last night, now he seems like the perfect guy. He won’t be sappy or romantic. He won’t be clingy and weird. He’ll just love me and leave me.

  He’s perfectly imperfect.

  And I’d be lying if I said I’m glad I woke up alone. I want nothing more than to be beside him right now, sharing a few kisses and sneaking off to enjoy my walk of shame all the way home. Let people judge me. I’m not ashamed to be so wholly womanly and sexual.

  I’m a damned goddess. Let people come at me, judge me, and pretend they know me. They’ve got no fucking clue and I don’t give a damn what idiots think about me.

  Glancing back at the bed, I find myself wishing again that he was there.

  As if answering my thoughts, the door opens and Dakin walks in, a tray in his hands. He flashes me a devilish grin and I feel suddenly shy.

  “Where are my clothes?” I ask, my voice sounding much more playful than I feel. And when Dakin hits me with a stare that’s all heat and need, I’m speechless.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, the preface making me a bit nervous, “I worried about how tight it was.”


  “You undressed me?” I ask, my heart thumping as my mouth suddenly feels dry as a desert stone. He places the tray of food across my lap and I’m stunned by the beautiful simplicity of it.

  There’s a plate with fluffy scrambled eggs, toast with what looks like honey, and several strips of crispy bacon – a total win for him since limp bacon is the only thing that makes me iffy on bacon – a side bowl has hash browns, another holds strawberries and blueberries, and there’s a glass of milk and one of ice water with lemon in it. And to complete the whole thing, a simple white vase holds a single yellow rose.

  “Wow,” I breathe, needing to thank him even as I want to demand answers about his undressing me. Did he touch me? Did he stare at me and think about how much he wanted me? “Thank you,” I say as he sits down on the edge of the bed beside me.

  “I was a gentleman,” he says, his blue eyes arresting me in a way I’ve never experienced before. It’s like I can’t even breathe. All I can do is focus on him and the words leaving his lips. “But it took every ounce of self-control I have. Don’t expect it again.”

  His words send a shiver through me as his mesmerizing eyes pull me right into whatever he wishes of me. I’d do anything he wanted. Everything he wanted. All he’d have to do is suggest it right now and I’d be sunk.

  “Now eat,” he says, taking a bottle from his pocket. “For the headache.” He places two of them on the tray and I take them, hating the nagging pain thumping under my temples. It’s just a tiny pinprick of pain, but I don’t want it becoming a full-fledged migraine, so it’s better to nip it in the bud.

  “You’re not slipping me E, are you?” I joke.

  “I’m not supplying you any more than I already have,” he says, but there’s another side to his words. “But if you do something like that, please stay with someone you trust.”

  The words slip from my lips before I can stop them. “Like you?”

  Again, he fixes that stare on my face that sends my heart into double time. “Don’t trust me,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “That’s a mistake.”

  But I know better. He talks a tough game, but he’s a good guy under it all. There’s no coming back from what he’s done already.

  “Help me eat all of this,” I say, picking up a piece of toast. I take a bite, hoping it’ll help calm the ache in my belly. The crystalline honey is delicious on the otherwise dry toast, and I close my eyes and savor it. “This is perfect,” I say on a sigh.

  When I open my eyes, Dakin is watching me. His hand moves toward my face and the pad of his thumb touches the corner of my lips. Then he leans in and his lips close on the spot he’d touched. I feel his tongue, warm and silken, and turn into him.

  His hand cups my cheek and I press my lips to his, needing him to kiss me. I’ve needed him since last night. His tongue traces my lower lip and I open to him. Our tongues meet and I feel him stiffen before he breaks off and backs up a bit.

  I grab his wrist and he turns to me. “Please stay,” I beg, shame not even a concern in my mind.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dakin

  Her fingers are soft on my wrist, but her eyes hold me like shackles. She’s so sweet and soft, so perfect, it’s destroying me. I nod, swallowing hard. This is stupid. I’ve only got so much self-control.

  And knowing she’s naked right here, under my sheets, on my bed, is enough to kill me.

  Her fingers release me and I watch her pick up the toast and take another bite. Once more, her eyes drift closed as if she’s exploring every nuance of flavor. And once again, I find myself wondering if she’d have the same expression if I tasted her sweet pussy.

  Fuck. I’m rock hard and this is torture.

  I settle next to her on the bed and put my hands under my head. Overhead, fat, fluffy clouds drift by. Last night, she’d been right here, looking up at the stars, touching herself and moaning my name.

  “So what are your plans for the day?” she asks, and I find myself grateful for the diversion.

  “Taking care of you,” I say, surprising myself. It’s true, though. Either I’m watching out for her here, or I’m keeping her safe after she leaves. With Jackson on the run, I’m not sure I want to risk not keeping eyes on her. If he hurts her, I’ll never forgive myself. “Do you have class today?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I do, but I’m not going.” She sets the toast down and takes a drink of the milk before looking over at me. Her eyes are a mixture of sadness and strength that moves my very soul. “I’ve only ever done what people tell me to do. I’m in college because my parents wanted me to be. I’m not doing it for me.”

  I nod. “So what do you want to do?” I ask, curious if she’s made any plans.

  She hesitates, and I know she’s thinking before she responds. “I’m not sure,” she says, her honesty heartbreaking. “Is there supposed to be some eureka moment? Some second I know exactly what to do?” she asks, all seriousness and worry.

  I’ve heard this before, though. “I don’t think so. I think we’re conditioned to do what we think is right. Get a good job. Go to college.” I stop talking and tuck a stray lock of her dark hair behind her ear before continuing.

  “We’re children being told to pick one thing and do that thing, though we know now, as adults, that we change day by day.” I smile at the irony of it all. “And what seemed perfect even a month ago might be torture now.” I nod at her as she blinks at my words. “Like you’re learning.”

  “You’re right,” she says. “But how do I know what I want to do?”

  I can’t help but smile. “That’s the million dollar question, love. Not I, nor anyone else in your life, can answer that for you.”

  Her eyes meet mine around another bite of toast. She chews in silence for a moment. “How did you know what you wanted?” she asks finally.

  Her honesty is refreshing. I’ve never had someone just… ask. People assume. They draw their own conclusions with the precious little information they have. And they’re often wrong.

  “I do what I must for the family business. But my hobbies are where I find fun.” I can’t help but smile and she arches an eyebrow at me in a clear question.

  “You have hobbies?” she asks, humor coloring her tone.

  “Oh, you’re cute,” I tease, and she grins. The sudden brilliance of it steals the breath right from my lungs and I freeze.

  But she’s not done. “So really, what hobbies?” she asks, finishing her piece of toast while watching me.

  “Rock climbing.” I watch her face shift. She’s curious, not judging.

  “Isn’t that scary?” she asks, and I shrug.

  “I’ve got a solid team. They’ve saved my ass before, and I’ve done the same for them.” And that trust extends to every aspect of life. And I find myself wondering if Camille has ever trusted someone that much. Has she ever put her life in someone’s hands and trusted them with it?

  “Like you did for me, last night,” she whispers, but I shake my head.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, needing her to not trust me like that over what transpired last night. I’d failed her. I was the reason Jackson was there. I was the one who stepped out of the room and gave him the opportunity to attack her. I hadn’t saved her, I’d failed her.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she says softly and I look at her, wondering how she could have possibly known what I was thinking. “It’s all over your face,” she says gently and I rein in my emotions. But she’s done being serious. I sense the shift and it’s a relief.

  “So, Mr. Dark, you’ve broken your own policy,” she says, mischief in her pretty eyes as she pops a blueberry in her mouth.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I say with as much threatening anger as I can muster. She’s not cowed though, and shakes her head at me.

  “Breakfast, taking a girl to your room, taking her clothes off and hiding them…” she trails off and I’m quick to explain.

  “It’s in the wash,” I tell her and she nods like she’
s humoring me. And I realize I forgot the second half of the things I was planning to give her at breakfast. I’m out of bed before she can stop me and I tell her I’ll be back in one second. There’s panic in her face that quickly dissipates with my words.

  I duck out the door and grab the bag. When I bring it back in, she’s startled and I drop it next to her. She peeks in, then looks up at me, her eyes wide. “For me?” she asks, and I nod.

  “I’m not just going to leave you naked, and I don’t think you could wear any of my clothes,” I tease. But she starts shaking her head. “Don’t you start on me,” I tease, “I’ll do as I damn well please in my own home.”

  To my surprise, her eyes fill with tears and guilt crushes me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Camille

  Tears sting in my eyes as I peek into the bag and look over at him. There’s something akin to panic in his expression.

  It’s too much. Too nice. He’d thoughtfully made sure to take the sting out of the walk of shame for me. Even though it’s not exactly a walk of shame since I’d not actually slept with him.

  Not that I was worried about it. Part of the whole experience was feeling every ounce of the way society had told me I would.

  “What’s all this, then?” he asks, his fingers quick to find my face in a sweet way that leaves me feeling warm and cared for. It’s… odd.

  “I didn’t expect this is all,” I say, unable to explain the depths of feelings in my soul. He isn’t what I expected, but I’m far from disappointed.

  He releases me and rises to his feet. “I’ll let you get dressed.” The door closes behind him and I wonder why he was so quick to leave. Maybe I make him uncomfortable. Somehow, I’m sure he’s got some perplexing emotions tied up in this weird… whatever it is I feel sparking between us.

  I wonder if I made things weird for him last night. Or if he’s feeling awkward about pushing me away. Amber tends to get even with guys who push her away and make her feel bad. But I’m not really like her. Not that way, at least.