Death by arousal. Won’t that look good on my tombstone?
“Missed, how? Looks like he got you good.”
“He was going for the heart. But he forgot I don’t have one. So I’m still alive.”
Why am I telling her all this? I’m so fucking distracted. Last thing I want is her pity, or her thinking I’m trying to manipulate her into anything again.
I don’t want her to think that of me, and fuck me if I know why. I never cared what anyone made of me, how they hated me, how they feared me, loathed me, despised me.
“Ross...” Her voice is soft, wounded. Why does she sound so hurt? I only told her the truth, the truth because I can’t lie to her.
I don’t want to see what’s in her eyes, on her face, what emotions are written there. I take her hand off my chest, press it to my face, then lean in and kiss her. Just a brush of my lips over hers, a taste of her sweetness, and I’m gone. Done for.
It feels so right. So fucking right. She tastes like lost dreams, half-forgotten memories of sunny days and laughter. She tastes like sex and pleasure.
And this time she doesn’t push me away.
The garage is gone, the walls, the floor, the Harley, the people outside, the things that happened before. The constant, crushing weight.
Just her, her mouth, her breath on my lips. I haul her to me, on me, and she straddles my thighs, her short skirt pulling up as she winds her arms around my neck. Her lashes sweep low, hiding her eyes. She licks her lips, and it snaps something inside me. The last of my control, most probably.
With a groan, I cup the back of her head and pull her down to me, crushing our lips together, licking at her mouth, unable to stop a moan from spilling out when her tongue touches mine. Her hands are on my face, cool on my hot skin, but I’m burning all over, her every touch trailing sparks and fire.
Wrapping an arm around her, securing her against me, to deepen the kiss, our tongues moving together like our bodies, obliterating any rational thought. I’m too damn hard to care about consequences, about this being a bad idea, my straining dick pressing into the softness between her legs. Despite the layers of fabric, her heat is drivin
g me crazy.
The need to bury myself inside her is killing me. Every muscle in my body is straining, taut and trembling, the wounds in my side blinding bursts of agony, but the relief of having her so close is greater. Immeasurable. Fucking huge.
A strange urge hits me to bury my face in her hair, against her neck, rest on her soft tits and close my eyes, safe. How can I feel safe with this pretty girl, the girl I wronged, when the whole world is a trap waiting to close around me, snap at me and trip me up?
It’s a mindfuck, a trick. I can’t let myself fall for it. Fall for her.
No weakness. You can’t depend on anyone, can’t need anyone, can’t let your guard down. All my life I lived by these tenets.
As if hearing my thoughts, tasting the doubt rushing through me, she breaks the kiss. Looks into my eyes, hers dark and unfocused.
And kisses me again, this time her tongue pushing into my mouth, tasting me, sending a jolt through my body, to my balls, jerking my cock to diamond-hardness.
Holy shit, I want her, I fucking need her now. I kiss her, touch her, shove my hand under her blouse to cup one round tit, find her hardened nipple and stroke it until she whimpers. Sweet. So damn sweet it’s blowing my mind.
Fuck logic. Fuck rational thought. Fuck the tenets. Can’t fight it anymore. I’m in the river, gone with the undertow, letting it carry me away.
Chapter Fifteen
Luna
Ross is touching me, holding me, kissing me, and I can almost let myself believe it, believe he really wants me, that he’s attracted to me. To me, someone he mocked for years, he and his buddies, bodyshamed me, made me feel ugly. Calling me Fat Slut, Ugly Rolls, Buttface.
I shiver.
Could it be he changed? Really changed? Or that I changed, like Cinderella transforming into the princess of his dreams... It sounds like so much wishful thinking.
Maybe he’s only doing this to play on my weakness for him—the worry, the pull, this stupid infatuation of mine with a maddening, handsome boy—so that he can crush me later under his heel and walk away laughing.
But it’s not the first time he’s kissed me, talked to me, touched me. He keeps kissing me, hauling me against him, and I feel him, rock hard inside his worn jeans, the hard rod of his cock pressing between us.
Surely you can’t fake that. He wants me now, his body as interested as mine is, hot and taut wherever we touch. Somehow he desires me, and though it’s confusing, I can’t deny I want him back, want to touch every inch of that muscular, inked body of his, and maybe even... even find out if Dena was right.