Shane (Damage Control 4)

I never told Seth that the real reason I can’t share an apartment with him is that his voice, his presence is a goddamn trigger. He was right there, in my nightmare. He was in the prison with me, a few cells down, and every time I was dragged away to the showers, I could hear him yelling my name, then yelling for the guard—the guard I knew beat him senseless every time—and banging on the bars.

It never helped. His voice became part of the memory, so intertwined with the men’s voices and the pain I can’t pull it apart anymore.

Seth rescued me every time something bad happened to me—except in the prison. I know it was killing him, tearing him apart that he listened but couldn’t come save me. And now there’s nothing worse than waking up from a flashback or nightmare to find Seth there. Throws me right back into a loop.

But Cassie… Cassie wasn’t there. She has nothing to do with my past. She’s my today, and for some reason I can’t quite fathom, she’s my tomorrow.

She’s hope.

***

I wake up again at some later time, my limbs loose and warm, a girl curled up on my chest. Feels like long hours have passed, but my cell on the nightstand reads six in the morning.

Maybe it has been long hours. I don’t know at what time the nightmare woke me up earlier.

“Hey,” she murmurs, looping her arms around my neck, shifting closer. So warm and soft. Her slight weight feels so good where she’s draped over my chest.

Closer than ever, her scent seeping into my senses, her face tilted up toward me. I lean in, drawn despite the blaring alarms inside my head, and brush my mouth over hers.

Sweet. So soft and sweet. I deepen the kiss, my body finally catching up, jolting wherever she touches—awake at long last, so fucking aroused and hypersensitive. My cock swells more with every flick of my tongue against hers, with every tiny moan I swallow. The tip presses into her stomach, smearing precum in slippery circles as my hips rock back and forth and her leg slides over mine.

Oh fuck, yes. I want her so much. I wait for panic to hit, for a flashback to distort the room, for cinnamon to replace vanilla.

Nothing happens. She’s still in my arms, and I’m in hers, trying to get closer, always closer. Her mouth leaves mine and trails kisses down my jaw to my neck, and I groan, the shivery pleasure cascading down my spine to pool in my groin. Never had anyone do anything like this to me, and where a second before my thoughts were on how to touch her and pleasure her, now I can only gasp when she licks and lightly bites my nipples, then mouths my abs and blows cool air on my overheated cock.

Then her mouth closes around it, and my mind goes supernova. Shit… Pressure, heat, suction, and I’m ready to blow my load, my balls tightening painfully. Grunting, I flop onto my back, grabbing at the sheets, and she follows the movement, bowing over me, taking me in deep.

My back arches. My stomach clenches. I vaguely remember blowjobs from the time before the prison, but they’re pale dreams. This is red-hot sensation ricocheting off my nerve endings, condensing in a ball of unbearable pressure.

Her hair trails over my thighs, and she does something with her tongue that makes me see stars. Can’t believe she’s sucking me off, can’t believe how fucking good this feels and how I still wish I could be inside her, fucking her pussy, feeling her clench around me.

Panting, I stare down at her, at her eyes half-closed as if she’s the one getting a blowjob and not me, and my hair catches on something.

A vague sense of unease hits me. I glance to the side, and something flits out of the corner of my eye, a shadow. A raucous laughter sounds behind me, and I jerk, trying to see. The pleasure is ebbing away, replaced by cold and numbness. I see Cassie, and it’s as if I’m watching from far away, her mouth around someone else’s cock, not mine.

No.

Need an anchor. Fuck. I fumble clumsily with one hand on the nightstand, pushing the lamp until it’s tittering on the edge, dip my hand into the half-open drawer and encounter pencils and erasers and loose papers where I draw my terrors sometimes at night.

My hand closes around something jagged. A broken, plastic pencil sharpener. I clench my fingers around it tightly, let the sharp edges press into my palm. Deeper. Harder. Until the edges cut into my skin and my teeth grit.

Oh fuck… I swallow back a groan as the pain shoves me back into my body, and suddenly I feel everything—her lips stretched around my cock, her hand on my balls, the heat and pressure gathering and tightening my muscles.

My mouth opens in a silent cry as orgasm hits me like a sledgehammer, pounding into my insides, releasing a river of fire that pours through my dick before I can even think of warning her.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop, doesn’t move away. Her lips press around my dick, and I pour into her mouth, convulsing on the mattress as wave after wave of pleasure hits me, jolting me.

Hot damn. I stare up at the ceiling, a cobweb darkening one corner, and the shadows cast by the lamp and bed are no longer scary.

So when I push her off me and down on the bed, when I push up her borrowed T-shirt and kiss her nipples, when I tug down her panties and finally settle between her legs to taste her, it doesn’t matter if my brain is still fizzling from going from extreme to extreme—from terror to mind-blowing pleasure.

I know what I want, in spite of nightmares and panic attacks and night terrors. She’s here, she’s still here, and dammit, I’m gonna give her an orgasm she won’t ever forget.

Not because I’m an expert. Not because I have experience or special skills. Nothing like that. I bet she’s been with guys who know what the hell they’re doing.

But I’ve never done this with any girl, and I’ve never wanted a girl like I want her—and right now, everything seems possible.

That’s what she does to me.