Slashed

by Tracy Wolff

  “Fuck,” he whispers, and it’s a prayer as much as it is a curse. “You feel so good.”

  “So do you.” And he does, even though he’s taking it slow, giving me time to adjust. But I don’t want time, don’t want to adjust. All I want is him moving inside of me. Coming inside of me.

  I move my hips restlessly, taking control from him for long moments as I slide myself up and down his cock. Darren would never let me get away with that—he always had to be the one in control, even when he hurt me—but Luc isn’t like that. Luc just braces his hands on the counter on either side of me, rests his forehead against my upper back. And lets me fuck him like I so desperately want to.

  At least for a little while. And then he’s steadying me with a hand on my hip. With his mouth on the back of my neck. With his teeth sinking gently into my skin.

  I cry out then, my knees buckling once and for all under the renewed onslaught of pleasure. “Let go,” he whispers with his still damp mouth against my skin. “I’ve got you.”

  And he does. Oh, God, he does. He’s moving inside me now, faster and faster. Hands grabbing, hips pistoning, long, lean body trembling despite the rigid control he’s exerting—or maybe because of it.

  “Luc, please. I need—”

  He thrusts harder, licks his way across my neck and up my cheek. “Take what you need, baby,” he tells me, voice harsh and strained.

  It turns out that’s all I need—Luc, calling me baby. Luc, stretched to the breaking point. Luc, needing me in that moment as much as I need him.

  I tumble straight over the edge and off the cliff. Pleasure swamps me, pulls me down, pulls me under. And Luc is right there with me, body going rigid. Hands tightening on my hips. Body jerking against mine.

  Nothing in my life—not even boarding off the side of a mountain in the backcountry—has ever felt this good. This right. The feeling would scare me to death if it weren’t Luc holding me. If it weren’t Luc still pulsing inside of me.

  When it’s over—when I’m sated and exhausted and tucked into Luc’s side in his bed—I expect to fall asleep instantly. Despite the rigors I put it through on a regular basis, my body has never felt so drained.

  But that’s not how it happens. Luc drifts off to sleep beside me, his mouth pressed against my hair, and I’m left staring at the ceiling as my mind races over everything that happened today. Over the boating trip with Luc and Z and Ash. Over going home and finding my long-lost mother has moved back in. Over coming to Luc—because it’s always Luc who makes me feel better—and making the terrifying and exhilarating move from friends to lovers.

  If that’s what we are. If that’s what we’ve done.

  What have we done? I ask myself again and again as Luc sleeps next to me and the clock on his dresser slowly counts down the minutes until dawn.

  What are we doing? And where are we going to end up?

  I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, any more than I know the answer to what’s going to happen with my family or the upcoming snowboarding season. What I do know is that if he wants me—if he wants to give this thing between us a chance, I think I do, too. Because being with him tonight, talking to him, touching him—making love to him—has made me happier than I’ve been in a very long time. Certainly happier than I’ve been since the last time we were together turned everything into a landmine just waiting to be detonated. I’m not willing to give this happiness up. Not willing to give Luc up.

  Not now.

  Not yet.

  Chapter 6

  Luc

  I wake up alone—of course I do—and for a second, it’s all I can do to think. To breathe. To just be.

  But I do breathe, slow and steady. In, out. In, out. In, out.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter. In, out.

  Tell myself that I don’t care. In, out.

  Tell myself that this is exactly what I expected to happen anyway. In, out.

  And then I tell myself the biggest lie of all—that I’m okay. That my heart isn’t breaking right down the fucking middle. Again.

  After all, I should be used to it by now. This is exactly what happened the last time. We made love. I went to sleep thinking everything was okay—hell, thinking everything was pretty fucking sick, if I’m being honest—and then woke up to find she’d snuck out in the middle of the night. Worse, to find out that she’d hated being with me. That she hated the fact that I’d seen her naked, that I’d been inside her, that I’d made her come.

  Why should I expect it to be any different this time? Isn’t that the very definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome?

  As if.

  My eyes are wet—allergies or something—so I wipe them real quick, and push myself out of bed without even bothering to check if Cam’s side of the bed is still warm. It won’t be and it doesn’t matter if it is, anyway. She’s gone and there’s no use sitting around fucking whining about it. Not when I’ve got shit to do today. Besides, my pillow still smells like her and if I’m not careful, that’ll be the thing that pushes me over the edge.

  I grab a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the closet, throw them on my bed. I head to the bathroom for a shower. Maybe that’ll put me in a better mood. And if not, maybe I’ll fucking drown.

  I barely make it to the bathroom door before I hear a sound from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. I force myself to ignore it—wishful thinking, anyone—but then I hear water running. Followed by the sound of something hitting the ground. Hard.

  Suddenly, it doesn’t feel so much like wishful thinking anymore. Either Cam is still here or the noisiest break-in ever is happening in my condo right now.

  I yank on my jeans, then hightail it down the hall to the kitchen, unsure what I’m going to find there. A lot of ideas run through my mind, but what I do find is the last thing I ever expected. Cam, standing in the middle of my kitchen dressed in nothing but an old snowboarding T-shirt of mine, holding a frying pan in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other as she stares at the stove.

  She’s here. She’s still here.

  “You okay?” I ask when my brain finally remembers how to form words.

  She whirls around at my question, eyes wide and cheeks a fucking gorgeous shade of pink.

  “I’m fine. I was just trying to—”

  She gestures a little wildly and it takes a moment for her words to sink in because I’m too busy studying the way the thin cotton of my T-shirt hugs her small, high breasts and tight, hard nipples to pay attention to what she’s saying.

  Fuck. She should wear my clothes all the time. I don’t think she’s ever looked better, and I know that damn T-shirt never has.

  “Trying to…?“I finally repeat, after forcing myself to look away from her chest and focus on her face.

  I’m not trying to be a dick here, but she’s going to have to fill in the blanks. With our past, the last thing I want to do is put words in her mouth. I don’t want to assume anything that might end up making her uncomfortable. Or making myself look like an even bigger idiot than I already do.

  “Make you breakfast in bed. But I dropped the skillet on my toe and you’re here instead of in bed and”—she stops, blows out a long, exasperated breath—“it was a stupid idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It’s—”

  I’m a little wary as I step closer and take the offending frying pan out of her grip. Finding her in my kitchen, trying to make me breakfast was so far down the list of how I thought this morning would go that it wasn’t even on the list. And yet here she is, doing just that. And I don’t have a clue how I’m supposed to react—or how I should feel.

  “—nice.” I finally settle on the most insipid word in my vocabulary. “Really nice.”

  She snorts, rolls her eyes. “I’m not a child. You don’t need to placate me.”

  “Believe me, I know you’re not a child.”

  The words slip out before I can stop them. I start to kick myself, b
ut she giggles. Giggles. I didn’t even know that was possible—it’s definitely not a sound I can remember hearing from her anytime in the last decade.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks, waggling the carton of eggs back and forth in front of me.

  So hungry and for so many things I don’t even know where to start. But food seems as good a place as any, so I nod.

  “Yeah, sure. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got it under control now. I promise not to drop the frying pan again—”

  “Drop it a hundred times,” I tell her, even as I slip the pan out from between her fingers. “I don’t give a shit.” As long as she stays, she could bust up my whole place and I wouldn’t give a fuck.

  I walk over to the stove, pop the pan on one of the burners. Then add a pat of butter from the stick she’d obviously taken out earlier. “What kind of eggs are we having?”

  “Scrambled?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” I ask with a smirk.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  She grabs a spatula, pretends to hit me with it.

  “Now there’s the Cam I know and love.”

  Shit. I freeze when the words register, wonder if it’s too late to staple my fucking mouth closed.

  But Cam just laughs.

  “Make the coffee and the toast,” she tells me, after grabbing a bowl to break the eggs into. “I’ll do the rest.”

  I do as she says, keeping the conversation light as I start the coffee, slide bread into the toaster. I’m doing my best to keep my voice even, to keep things as chill between us as I possibly can. Already we’re way further ahead than the last time we slept together—not like that’s hard. Especially since she’s not crying or screaming at me. Now, if we can get through breakfast with her still talking to me, I’ll definitely call it a win…

  Ten minutes later, we’re seated cross-legged on my couch—I have a dining table but I don’t think it’s been used more than twice since I moved in here—eating eggs and streaming one of the more recent episodes from The Walking Dead. Cam’s choice. Is it any wonder I’m crazy about the girl?

  “I have a very important question to ask you,” Cam says during a lull in the action.

  I glance over to where she’s slathering strawberry jam on a piece of toast. My stomach drops to my feet as I answer a very cautious “sure.”

  She takes a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to my imminent freak-out and the fact that my heart might actually pound out of my chest before she’s done chewing. “So, realistically, how long do you really think you’d last in a zombie apocalypse?”

  “That’s it?” I demand. “That’s your big question?”

  She shrugs. “It’s an important question.”

  “Is it? Is it really?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She gestures to the TV. “Obviously.”

  “Hmm, okay.” I readjust my mood, try to keep things as light and playful as she’s aiming for. “So, how long would I realistically last in a zombie invasion?”

  She catches the amusement in my tone, rolls her eyes. “Yes, realistically.” She puts her plate on the coffee table, then does the same to mine. “Let’s say Salt Lake City has been overrun by zombies and they’ve made their way up the mountain to Park City. How long do you think you’d last before they got you?”

  “Well, that depends. If I’m here at my condo, probably a day. Maybe two. But if we’re at Z’s place, I figure we can hunker down and make it a damn long time. The guy’s got everything in that house, plus he’s got that huge security wall to keep the zombies out.”

  “Dude, haven’t you seen World War Z? Even that badass wall in Jerusalem couldn’t keep them out. What makes you think Z’s little wall is going to do the trick?”

  “I didn’t realize we were dealing with that kind of super-fast zombie—” I break off as she straddles me, her knees on either side of my hips and her pussy pressed right up against my dick. All thoughts of zombies leak out of my brain, as Cam rocks her hips a little and another kind of apocalypse goes on inside me—one that slashes right through a bunch of the barriers I’ve worked so hard to keep in place ever since she showed up at my door last night.

  “What kind did you think we were dealing with?” she asks as she presses soft, little kisses to my jaw, my chin, the corner of my mouth.

  I turn my head, try to capture her lips with mine, but she leans back, just a little out of reach.

  I grab onto her hips to anchor her in place, then nearly groan as she lifts and lowers herself on my lap. Fuck, she feels good. Hot and wet and oh-so-open to me. All I’d have to do is unzip my jeans, and I could be inside her—could be right back where I was during my favorite hours of last night.

  My dick hardens even more at the thought, something which normally wouldn’t be a wake-up call, but with me—with Cam—it is. I think back to how I felt waking up in that empty bed. To how I felt when she ran away after sleeping with me a few months ago. To how I’ve felt every time she’s pushed me away in the last few months, the last few years. And I know, I can’t do this.

  Not right now. Not without knowing the rules.

  And so—though it nearly kills me—I lift her off my lap and set her down on the couch next to me.

  She looks confused and more than a little hurt, which is the last thing I want. But I don’t want to be hurt either. At least not any more than I already will be. I made love to Cam last night because I couldn’t help myself. Because she was sad and vulnerable and so was I. But today is another story. I can’t just be her escape from a bad situation. I can’t—I won’t—let myself get all wound up in her only to watch her walk away the second she thinks she might have a chance with Z again.

  “Luc? Don’t you want—”

  She trails off without finishing the question.

  I don’t want to look like a total pussy—or a total bastard either—so I say, “I don’t have any condoms out here.” It’s the truth—it’s just not the whole truth.

  She smiles then, a sexy little smile that shoots straight to my cock. “I’m on the pill. I mean, if you’re—”

  “—I’m clean,” I tell her.

  I just had my mandatory physical two weeks ago and everything came back perfect.

  “So am I.”

  She presses kisses to my chest, traces her tongue along the lines of the compass tattoo I have on my left pec. I can feel myself weakening—she feels so good—but her phone alarm goes off before I can do something that will make whatever’s between us a million times harder to walk away from.

  She jumps, grabs the phone.

  “God, is it really that late?” she demands, leaping off the couch. She winces as her hurt feet hit the ground, but it doesn’t slow her down as she grabs our plates off the coffee table, then races into the kitchen and deposits them in the sink.

  “Shit, shit, shit. I’m supposed to be on the road to Salt Lake City in ten minutes and I haven’t even showered yet. Shit!”

  Then she’s half-limping, half-running down the hall to my room, pulling my T-shirt over her head as she goes. “You don’t mind if I take a quick shower, do you?”

  I’m still a little shell-shocked from the mood changing so fast, but I tell her, “Of course not. Go ahead.”

  “And can I maybe borrow some clothes? My stuff from yesterday has blood on it.”

  She turns on the shower, and steps into what I know from experience is icy cold water. She doesn’t even flinch, just pulls the door closed behind her and shoves her head under the water.

  This girl is hard as nails when she wants to be.

  “You can borrow whatever you want,” I tell her. “But I don’t think anything’s going to fit you.”

  I know she’s worn Ash’s and Z’s stuff before, and while it’s big on her, it still manages to look reasonably presentable. I’m not sure the same can be said of my stuff. Cam’s tall for a girl—nearly five-ten—but I’m six foot four. And my shoulders are way broader than Z’s and Ash’s. It’ll be a m
iracle if my clothes don’t actually fall off her.

  “I can run to the store and pick you something up,” I tell her as she blindly gropes along the shower for my shampoo.

  “There’s no time. I have to go.”

  “What’s in Salt Lake that’s so important any way?”

  She closes her eyes, ducks her head back under the shower and starts washing away the shampoo. She doesn’t answer my question.

  Suddenly, it strikes me that this could all be an act. Could all be her way of trying to get away from me without hurting my feelings.

  Just the idea pisses me the fuck off, so I force the issue, refusing to let her get away with dodging me. Opening the door, I grab the conditioner just as she’s reaching for it, then wait for her eyes to meet mine.

  “Come on, Luc,” she says, trying to get it away from me. “I should be leaving right now.”

  “What’s in Salt Lake?” I repeat, even as I squirt some of the conditioner in my hand. I toss the bottle over my shoulder, ignoring the way it bounces off the sink behind me and hits the tile with a loud thud.

  She blushes, worries her lower lip between her teeth, looks away. My stomach tightens and for a second I’m so jealous I can barely breathe. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, tell myself there’s no way Cam would go straight from my bed to a date with another guy. But the truth is, when it comes to Cam, I have no idea what she’ll do at any given moment. Especially lately, and it drives me fucking nuts.

  Despite the jealousy—and the craz—taking root, I manage to unclench my jaw enough to ask—as casually as I possibly can—“hot date today?”

  She glances back at me, the look on her face a little shocked and a lot uncomfortable. “No, nothing like that!”

  The random, too high pitch of her voice does nothing to alleviate my suspicions. “So, what is it then?” I demand. “A doctor’s appointment? A meeting with Mitch? A—”

  “It’s a photo shoot, okay? I’ve got a photo shoot.” She holds her hand out. “Now that you’ve gotten it out of me, can I please have the conditioner back?”