Riot

He leans into my hand and God, this boy. I want to kiss his mouth again, cup his face and press my body to his, fear be damned. Taste him. Somehow I feel that underneath the surface, there’s more he isn’t showing.

“Will you tell me what happened to you?” he asks quietly.

His scruff tickles my fingertips. I trail them down to his mouth, trace it. So soft. He groans softly, his breath warm on my skin. His lashes lower.

“I had a friend called Ethel,” I whisper, and wonder if he can hear me over the din of the bar. It doesn’t matter. “We were friends since we were little. She was the wild one, the crazy one. Always dressing up, chasing after boys. Bad boys.”

He draws air to speak, and I cover his mouth with my hand.

“It was my call. She didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to be like her. Free. Independent. Wild. Desired. We had just finished school, and there was this boy she really liked. He invited her over. She accepted. And she asked if I’d go with.”

“Go where?” His eyes have darkened with concern. I love how they change with his moods—arousal, anger, affection.

“I know now I shouldn’t have done it, that it was stupid. That I should never have followed Ethel to that bikers’ club out of town. Never should have stayed. Then I wouldn’t have had to watch as they raped and beat her.”

“Jesus, Pax…”

Not sure why I’m telling him. Why I trust him.

“I managed to text for help before I was tied up to a post. Texted my parents. I wasn’t raped. Wasn’t killed. I was lucky.”

“He hurt you,” he growls, and takes my hand, lowers it, tangles his fingers with mine—and it feels nice. Warm. “Someone hurt you.”

“It doesn’t matter. Rescue came. The police. Picked everyone up, took us to the ER.” I look down at our hands, clasped together. “Her parents paid me a lot to keep silent about what happened. They gave me money and moved away with her.”

“You never told anyone?” His eyes are wide, so wide they look silver like crescent moons.

“I’m telling you.”

“Christ. But you pressed charges, sent the assholes to jail, right? Tell me you did.”

“I did.” He sags a little, but as a counterpoint his fingers tighten around mine. I don’t mind. It doesn’t scare me. It feels reassuring that he’s so concerned. “But I swore not to tell anyone else—friends, the press. I guess I was paid for my service, too. For my silence.”

“As long as the assholes got put away, and you’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re all that matters. Who cares what others think.”

My whole body strains toward him. I’m dying to kiss him again. He makes me feel...important. Precious.

Yeah, right, Pax. Wake up.

“Anyway, now you know. Guess I broke my oath and I should give that money back.” Reluctantly I withdraw my hand from his, feeling instantly cold. “I should be going.”

“Don’t. Don’t run away again.”

“Our time is up.” I’m joking, but his jaw tightens.

“Will I see you again?”

An appointment? I thought I wouldn’t ask for another, but seeing him here, the feel of his soft lips still on my fingertips, I can’t remember why not.

“You said it helped, what we did,” he whispers, and a flash of heat goes through me. “That it’s better now.”

“Yeah, it is. But I’m not sure—”

“I’d do anything to help you, Pax. Anything. More than I’ve ever done willingly with anyone. I’d let you tie me to the bedpost. I told you I would, didn’t I?” He swallows hard as I gape at him. “How about this? You reverse what happened to you. You do it to me, then make up for it. Fix it. Won’t that help?”

Does it matter if it does or not? The image of him tied up—naked and aroused—is hitting me like a wall of bricks. Don’t know if I can formulate a reply.

So I just shake my head and walk away.