Dark Notes

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?”