Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  “I’m probably going to lose my cool again.” He glances at his shoes, smirking to himself. “Since I can’t seem to control my temper where you’re concerned.” He looks up beneath a veil of thick lashes. “Remember what I said about that.”

  My eyebrows pull in as I think back. “You never hit a woman in anger?”

  “Good girl.”

  My lungs expand, inhaling those words.

  He kneels before me, his chest touching my closed knees and his hands on my hips. “I know you need money. I’ve deduced that Prescott and Sebastian pay you.” His eyes spark with anger. “Tell me how and when the arrangement began.”

  I want to caress his face, but the angles of his bone structure suddenly appear too sharp, too untouchable. So I place my palm on the warm skin of his forearm, where it rests alongside my thigh. “I’ll tell you. I promise. But what will happen to my education and Leo—?”

  “Leopold is neither here nor there. This isn’t a student-teacher conference.” He shifts, grips the hem of my skirt, and shoves it up my thighs until it sits just below my panties.

  I keep my knees together, but I don’t fight him.

  “This is you and me, Ivory.” His fingers slide beneath the gathered fabric, tracing the hidden bend between my legs and hips. “We’re just a man and a woman, sharing an intimate moment of honesty.”

  I like the sound of that almost as much as the soothing touch of his fingers. A silent caesura stretches between us, during which time isn’t counted or weighed. Eventually, his caresses calm me enough to speak.

  “Freshman year, I was desperate for friends, desperate to fit in, and offered to help some of the kids with their homework.” Sweat slicks my hands, and I clasp them over the crease of my clenched bare thighs. “Only the boys took me up on the help. Prescott and his friends. At some point in that first year, my tutoring turned into me doing their homework for them.”

  “And what I saw in the car?”

  “They touched and kissed and took things I didn’t want to give.”

  Emeric rises, his hands raking through his hair as a violent symphony clashes and vibrates in his eyes.

  “They took things…” He drops his arms and flexes his fists at his sides. “Explain that.”

  I tell him how I threatened to stop helping them, how they offered to pay me if I continued, and how badly I needed the income to keep my house. By the time I get to the part about them taking more than the homework, Emeric is pacing a furious track through the room.

  If he’s going to burn off steam, he has the space to do it. I mean, it’s the biggest bedroom I’ve ever seen, with nothing on the floor to trip him up. For a guy, he’s surprisingly tidy.

  And for a girl who’s in a cage with a pacing lion, I feel strangely detached. Liberated even.

  Finally voicing these things is freeing, and he absorbs every word like he’s living it, feeling it. Yes, he’s angry, but he hasn’t once directed it at me. He cares enough to be angry for me.

  He stops before me, his face as red as his swollen knuckles. “You told them no?”

  Directing my eyes to his Doc Martens, I nod. “For a while.”

  “Define a while.”

  “The first couple of years.”

  “They raped you. For years.” His scathing voice rolls into bellow. “Look at me!”

  My gaze jumps to his. The horror etching his face makes my heart pound so hard it hurts.

  How do I explain these embarrassing things when I’m not even sure about any of it? “I don’t know.”

  “There’s no I-don’t-know’s about it, Ivory.” He grips the back of his neck with both hands and paces in a tight circle. “You were either willing or you weren’t. Which is it?”

  “Sometimes, I feel trapped by circumstance. Sometimes, I’m held down. Other times, I just let it happen.”

  “You just let it happen,” he echoes with venom. “Bullshit!”

  The roar of his shout hitches my shoulders. He spins and slams his fist into the wall, wrenching a gasp from my throat.

  I leap from the bed, shoving my skirt down as I cautiously approach his back. “Emeric.”

  He punches another hole, and another, his arms flexing and contracting with the impact as dust and sheet rock explode around him.

  “Emeric, stop!”

  Breathing heavily, he braces a forearm on the wall, rests his brow on his arm, and angles his head to look at me. “Which one of those fuckers took your virginity?”

  “No one at Le Moyne.” I step closer, within arm’s reach. “I was already…” Used. Ruined.

  He reaches out and drags me against him, pinning me between his heaving chest and the wall.

  Blood and dust cover the knuckles of the hand he lifts to gently caress my cheek. “There’s more you haven’t told me.”

  More men who take. More truth to share. I’ll tell him everything, because he hasn’t pushed me away, hasn’t once looked at me with repulsion.

  He drops his forehead to mine, fingers resting against my cheek, and says quietly, “I want to whip you for being so damn uninformed about rape.”

  But I’m learning the differences, as well as who to trust and when to ask for help. I always thought the safest place to go was in my head, that no one could hurt me there. But standing between a busted wall and the fuming man who destroyed it, I’ve never felt safer.

  I hold his hand against my face and meet his passionate gaze. “I trust you.”

  All my disgusting secrets have finally caught up with me. But for the first time in my life, I don’t have to face them alone.

  Emeric

  My self-control is a goddamn joke, and the unflappable part of my brain is lost beneath chilling images of Ivory cornered, hurt, and alone. My hands shake as I teeter on the verge of manic brutality, consumed with the kind of throbbing headache that can only be comforted by bloodshed.

  I knew there was sexual abuse, but part of me believed it was in the past, like it had been a single horrifying moment in her life. I never envisioned years of rape.

  How many motherfuckers will I have to kill? And while I’m murdering my way through her nightmares, how will I stop myself from becoming the worst of them all?

  Ivory’s view of sex is most likely damaged all to hell. How will she respond to sex with me? Will she freeze up? Am I pushing her too fast? What the fuck do I do now, if anything, regarding our relationship?

  My heart thunders louder, faster, my muscles expanding with the direction of my thoughts.

  “Hey.” She holds my sore hand against her cheek. “You’re getting all tense again.”

  I think she may be crazier than I am. She doesn’t cringe or try to put a safe distance between us. Instead, she gives me a gentle smile and stares up at me with huge brown eyes full of trust.

  Yes, I brought her home to keep her safe, but she has no idea how close I am to snapping. My entire body shakes to bend her over and fuck her so hard all she remembers is me. And that will destroy her.

  I step back and stab a shaky finger toward the bed. “Sit.”

  She smooths down her skirt and follows my order, glancing nervously at the belt on the nightstand.

  My palm feels hot and achy, my arm tensing to swing that strap. Less because of anger and more because I’m desperate to put all this shit behind us and spend the rest of the night welting her into orgasmic bliss.

  But it’s not like I can just go at her with a belt in hand. That would sabotage her trust. I have to teach her that there’s a better, more meaningful kind of pain than what she’s experienced. The willing kind.

  To do that, I have to pull myself together.

  With measured breaths, I take a moment to indulge in her beauty, absorbing her perfect turned-up nose, tawny complexion, and dark shiny hair. But it’s the boldness in her eyes, the strength in her smile, and the potency of her aura that calms me. It’s impossible not to gravitate toward her, to not be captivated by the grace and tenacity she emanates.

  As I stare at
her, I realize with startling clarity she doesn’t need me to slay her past. She’s already lived it and came out the other side with more fortitude than any person I know.

  But she does need me to listen, to support her without losing my head, and most of all, to protect her from future harm.

  With a steadier pulse and the headache subsiding, I join her on the edge of the bed, my feet beside hers on the floor. Bending over her lap, I reach for her ankles. I’ve despised her glued-together shoes since the first day when I slid them onto her feet. They’re not good enough for her, and watching her walk around in them week after week makes me want to give her every penny I have.

  I push the little black flats off her heels and let them drop to the floor. If she only knew how many size-seven replacements I’ve bought her. The whole damn closet behind me is filled, not just with shoes, but clothes and bags and… Jesus, I sound like a psychopath, even in my head.

  I’m not even a shopper. Fucking hate it. But for the past five weeks, it was the most benign way I found to channel my inappropriate obsession with her.

  Gathering her sideways in my lap, I scoot up the mattress and recline against the headboard.

  With my arms wrapped around her delicate frame, I caress her back. “Tell me about your first time. How old were you?”

  She rests her cheek on my shoulder, her voice tentative. “You go first.”

  An outraged Answer me builds in my throat, but I swallow it, reminding myself that honesty goes both ways.

  I kiss her temple. “I was sixteen. So was she. A summer girlfriend. It was…” Sweet. Awkward. Vanilla. “Uneventful. We broke up shortly after.”

  She fidgets with my shirt button beneath her chin. “Is it crazy that I want to hunt her down and scratch her eyes out for getting that uneventful first with you?”

  A laugh bursts from my chest as I flex my swollen hand in her lap. “If that’s crazy, I should probably be committed.” For being uncontrollably, insanely, violently protective of this girl.

  She chuckles softly, her fingers tracing circles around the pulpy mess on my knuckles. “I want to clean your hands.”

  “When we’re finished.”

  In her sideways position on my lap, she leans against my chest and hooks an arm around my lower back, pressing her face in my neck, as if to keep me close.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  “I was thirteen my first time.”

  I close my eyes and remember to breathe.

  “My brother’s friend did it, behind my house, on the stairs.”

  I seethe. Goddammit, I seethe from every pore in my body. Her brother is nine-years older than her. If the friend is the same age, that sick filthy molester was twenty-two when he fucked her thirteen-year-old body.

  It’s all I can do to just sit there, hold her against me, and not blow up in a roaring, ballistic fit of fury. “His age?”

  She shifts up my chest and loops her arms around my shoulders, resting her forehead against the side of mine. “Same age as you.”

  I know I’m squeezing her too hard when she squeaks and digs her nails into my neck. Questions pile up amid the growling vibrations in my throat, but there’s no way I can form sophisticated sounds right now, let alone words.

  She pets my shoulder like she’s comforting a damn rabid dog. “I told him no, fought him, hated it. I know what that means now, but I didn’t understand it then.”

  “Ivory—”

  “Just let me finish.” She tilts away from my chest, staring at the doorway to the master bathroom as her fingers toy with the buttons on my shirt. “After it happened, I was pretty screwed up in my head. I let anyone and everyone have sex with me, like I was trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t weak. I didn’t want to cry through it. I wanted to own it, like ‘I’ve got this. I am doing it.’ And him and him and—”

  “How many?” I ground out through clenched teeth.

  She blinks and shakes her head. When she blinks again, her eyes shine with tears. “It didn’t work out the way I wanted.”

  “Stop sniveling and tell me how many him’s there have been.”

  Her jaw sets, and she levels me with a tear-sodden glare. “I don’t know, okay? Sixty? Eighty? More? I don’t keep track because I don’t want to know!”

  My stomach hardens. Fuck me, I’m ten years older than her, and sixty is twice as many partners as I’ve had. And that’s her low number.

  Her attention returns to the bathroom. “Go ahead and say it. I’m a slut. A disgusting whore.”

  I capture her chin in a hard grip and jerk her face to mine, my tone coarse. “Don’t ever put words in my mouth.”

  When I let go, she pulls her knees up between our chests, her firm ass digging into my thighs where she sits sideways on my lap. Her legs twitch to close impossibly tighter as she stares at the bathroom again. My first thought is she needs to pee. But given the conversation, I know there’s something else going on.

  I tuck her hair behind her ear and trail my fingers down her neck. “Did Prescott…touch you or have sex with you before I arrived tonight?”

  She hugs her knees, her expression darkening. “No.”

  I didn’t think so, but being caught in that position is probably doing a number on her head. “Tell me why you’re staring at the bathroom.”

  Her lashes sweep down. “I would really like to…to take a shower.”

  “Because?”

  “I’m dirty,” she whispers.

  My teeth clench. It’s going to take a fuckton of time and patience to repair her dignity, and I’m starting right fucking now.

  “You know what happened the moment I ripped Prescott out of that car? I asserted ownership over you. I know you don’t understand the significance of that, so I’ll make it simple.” I grip her throat and hold her gaze. “You’re mine. That means every inch of your gorgeous body, every thought in your head, and every word out of your mouth impacts me. Calling yourself dirty or any other offensive adjective is an insult to my girl, something I will not tolerate. Tell me you understand.”

  Her throat relaxes against my palm, her eyes round and searching. “I understand.”

  Fucking beautiful.

  I release her neck and touch the juncture of her closed knees. “Part your legs.”

  The slim fit of the skirt won’t allow for much, but I only need enough space for my hand.

  She stares at my fingers, and her wide eyes flash to mine. Whatever she sees in my face smooths the worry lines on hers. Her arms fall to her sides, and breath by breath, she opens her knees.

  Fucking hell, I ache to strip her bare and taste every glorious curve and dip of her body. We’re going to be so fucking wild together, grappling and reckless, messy and drunk on pleasure. I feel the promise of that churning in the air between us, shaking my legs beneath her ass, and slicking my palm as I glide my fingers along the inside of her thigh.

  The deeper I reach beneath her skirt, the warmer and damper her skin. I watch her expression for signs of panic and inch closer to her pussy.

  An inch from my target, I caress her thigh, teasing her. “I’m not going to erase your self-hating comment with flowery words like You’re pretty and sexy and perfect, because I suspect you’ve heard it all, most likely uttered on heavy breaths that haunt you when you sleep.”

  Her bottom lip quivers, the rest of her stock-still and rigid.

  “Instead, I’m going to show you exactly how not dirty you are.” I touch the crotch of her panties.

  Damp satin meets my fingers, and my cock jerks against her hip. Christ, I want her. It’s this swelling, constricting feeling at the base of my spine, making my thighs clench and my balls tighten. I don’t know how I’ll stop myself from taking her like every other barbaric asshole once I remove the barriers between us.

  Her eyes lock on mine as she grips my forearm, not pushing me away but sliding her fingers along the muscle as if feeling the way it moves.

  I twist my wrist and hook a finger beneath the edge of
satin between her leg and pussy. With a long, slow stroke, I slide my touch from her opening to her clit, parting her flesh and relishing the feel of soft short hairs. As I make another sweep, and another, she’s grows wetter and wetter. Her pussy swells, her legs tremble, and I fucking thrill at the idea of giving her pleasure in a way no one has before.

  She plants her feet on the mattress, clinging to my arm with both hands. Her full tits rise and fall as the alluring sound of her breaths chases the silence from the room.

  Her parted lips, the flex of her ass against my quads, and the feel of her arousal coating my fingers turn me on in ways I’ve never known. This reaches so much deeper than the rigid pressure between my legs. She’s in my veins, fiery and weightless. She’s in my head, like a whisper of promises. She’s in my heart, softening it, mending it, and making it pump again.

  I remove my hand and lift it to my mouth. Holding her gaze, I suck each finger clean, slowly, deliberately. “You taste dirty, Ivory. In the most agreeable, delicious, addictive sense of the word.”

  Her jaw drops in a soundless gasp. She closes her mouth, opens it again, but I cut her off with a kiss. My hands slip over her face and hair, holding her to me as I hunt down her tongue, catch it, and tangle it with mine. She follows me, hands on my head, moaning into my mouth and licking her taste from my lips.

  Need coils low and tight in my body. The bed frame creaks as I kiss her deeper, pull her closer, pursuing her with fingers and teeth, silently demanding she take everything I give her, because it’s all hers. I’m hers.

  She moves her lips over mine, her voice husky. “Damn, you…you really know how to kiss.”

  Her sultry exhale carves a space in my lungs, and with each of her little breaths, that space grows fuller and fuller. When she clears her throat, I hear her question in the inhale that follows. What now?

  I have my own questions, more than there are minutes left in the night. But she hasn’t eaten, exhaustion weighs heavily on her eyelids, and we’re not leaving this room until she’s learned a crucial lesson.