by Jewel, Bella
“Did I hurt you?” she whispers.
“Angel, it hurts just looking at you.”
She smiles and continues her exploration of my body, openin’ old wounds with every scar she touches, and yet it’s as if she’s tenderly sewing them shut at the same time. I haven’t felt the touch of a woman for a very long time, and never again did I think I would, especially not one as perfect and kind-hearted as this.
“What did they do to you, Jake?” Her eyes are bright with tears, and I grab her hands and hold them flat to my chest.
“I don’t want your pity, Elle.”
“You think that’s why I’m here?” she says, staring up at me with those incredible eyes. “You think that’s all this is between us?”
“I thought about it.” I nod. “I can’t see much other reason that a woman like you would want someone like me. I’m a freak and a drunk, and you? You’re so goddamn beautiful it hurts.”
She takes a step towards me and presses her finger to my lips to keep me from talking. “You’re not a freak, Jake. If you only knew how beautiful you were.”
I scoff and she sharpens her tone.
“I mean it. You don’t see what everyone else sees—”
“Everyone else sees a lie,” I snap.
“I don’t. I see you, and only you.” She pulls off her T-shirt. It lands on the floor with a wet thud, and she stands at the end of my bed, shivering in a black lace bra and jeans, her fingers struggling with the button on the wet denim.
I cover her hand with my own. “What are you doing, Elle?” I reach out and tuck a strand of wet hair behind her ear. My fingertips trace the curve of her neck all the way down to her collarbone where she places a soft hand over my scarred one and squeezes. “If you give yourself to me, I can’t promise I’ll give you back.”
Slowly, Ellie peels the sodden jeans down her legs and steps out of them. She stands before me in her bra and matching panties. “I’m countin’ on that, Jake Tucker.”
She unfastens the clasp on her bra. Full, lush breasts fall free, and I swallow hard. I could cut diamonds with my cock right now. The wisp of fabric falls away and she looks at me with wide, pleading eyes. I trail my fingertips down between her breasts and watch her nipples form hard peaks and her skin break out in goose bumps. I palm one fleshy globe, marveling at how soft she is, how perfect. Such a contrast to my puckered, pockmarked skin. I pull away but she grabs my hand, pressing her lips to the back of it. I cup her cheek. It’s cool from the rain outside and it tempers my burning skin.
“Please Jake?” Her voice catches. “Please?”
I draw her toward me, relishing the feel of her soft breasts, her hard, pebbled nipples against my chest. “You’ll be my ruin, angel.”
I lean down and kiss her, slide my hands into her hair and force her to open further to me, but she pulls away.
“Let me touch you.” Her voice is small, as if she’s afraid I’ll tell her no. The idea of refusing her such a simple thing hurts my heart, and as much as I hate it, as afraid as I am of her rejection once she sees up close how horrifying I am, I nod my acquiescence.
She reaches out her fingertips and runs them over the scar on my left pectoral muscle. I try my best not to flinch. Her gaze meets mine; there’s no pity left in it, just curiosity, desire, and the barest hint of challenge.
I clench my jaw and look away. She presses her lips to the scar in a soft kiss. Her hands follow my disfigurement from clavicle to neck where she places feather-light kisses over my skin and down along the pitted and angry flesh of my left arm.
It itches. I want to tear at it with my blunt nails, but I hold perfectly still, my hands clenched into fists, my teeth slammed together so tightly that no breath could pass between them. Elle’s hand slides down my forearm, glancing over the crisscrossed network of alive and dead flesh. She pries my clenched fingers apart, traces the hard ridges of my palm, and weaves her tiny fingers between my own, bringing them up to her lips.
She releases my hand and touches the brand at my waist before gliding around the back of me. Softly, she kisses my ribs, my shoulder blades—the places she can reach—and the long stripes of scarring across my back where they beat me bloody with a copper pipe.
I shiver as she presses her bare breasts against my back, and her arms come around my front. Her hand rests over my heart, and we’re still, her heart thundering against my back, mine pounding against her fingers. She holds me. I swallow my fear, and some tortured part of me still tethered to Bashir, to that desert, breaks free. I never expected to feel a woman’s touch on my ruined body again. I never expected to let anyone get close enough, and yet here she is, kissing my scars, touching me as if I am someone she both desires and cherishes, and I don’t know how to deal with any of it. I don’t want to be made weak in front of her, but I don’t have another choice. She breaks down all of my defenses; she breaks me in ways that they hadn’t ever been able to, and in that moment I both love and resent her for it. I clear my throat and turn to face her. Tears stream down her face.
“Don’t cry, angel.” I lean down to kiss the saltwater from her cheeks. An indelicate sob escapes her throat, and I slide my hand into her hair as my lips find hers. “Don’t cry. Just let me have you, just this once, please?” I hate the weakness in my voice, the vulnerability, the ache in my heart and the longing I feel for her touch.
I lift her and place her on the bed. I may feel like Frankenstein, as if I’m pieces of a man all stitched together though none of them fit quite right, the edges are too jagged, too large, too damaged and too ugly, but she doesn’t see me that way. Those whiskey eyes are wanton, filled with longing just for me, so I push those dark thoughts from my head as I hook my fingers into the sides of her panties and peel them off.
Elle has a scar that runs across her lower abdomen. It’s neat, and thin, and not at all like any of mine. She flinches when I touch it.
“Caesarean,” she explains. “Spence didn’t want to come out.”
I press my lips to it. “It’s beautiful.”
She laughs, but when I shoot her a stern look she quickly shuts up. I lower my face to her pussy and inhale her sweet, musky scent. “You’re perfect, Elle.”
I trace a finger over the soft flesh, enticing her to open wider for me. She lets out a shuddering breath as I gently tease her lips apart and slide my fingertip over her clit. Her body jerks involuntarily.
Darting my tongue out, I taste her—rich and sweet. So fucking perfect. I’d meant what I said before about not being able to give her back. Even if she can’t live with my demons, she’s mine for tonight at least, and I intend to savor every second, every sigh, every taste, and every wanton glance.
I bury my face in her and lap at her pussy until her legs shake and her hands thread into my hair and she comes, squeezing her thighs against the sides of my head. I have a brief moment of panic, of claustrophobia, but it’s overcome by the sound of her cries.
A beat later, she relaxes and I wipe the moisture from my beard with the back of my hand. I love that I can smell her, taste her still on my tongue as if she were a dessert made specially, just for me.
For a moment I just watch her bathing in the afterglow. Her cheeks flush pink, and there’s a dusting of sweat across her breasts. I want inside her so badly that it becomes a palpable ache. My balls throb and my chest tightens. I stand at the end of the bed, glancing down at her, my cock straining against my sweats, and I have no idea what to do with myself. I don’t wanna fuck this up; she’s too important.
She opens fever-bright eyes, her pupils dilated, a lazy grin spread across those beautiful lips. I’m in pain, so much fucking pain just looking at her, wanting her and yet so afraid that I’ll be rejected that all I can do is stand stock still and inhale deep, shaking breaths.
“Hey.” Ellie sits up, gingerly reaching out to touch me.
I flinch. I always fucking flinch. Jesus. I’m screwing all of this up. She’s gonna realize what a freak I am, and the best goddamn thing th
at ever happened to me is going to leave.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I say gruffly; it catches her off guard. I rake my hands through my hair.
“Please don’t shut me out.” She reaches out to grab hold of my wrists, gently pulling them away from my head. Her soft skin sweeps over the scars on my wrists, and I clench my jaw because this hurts too. Everything hurts. I’m a bundle of seared synapses and raw nerves, and setting myself alight would be easier than letting her see how fucked up I truly am.
“Let me in, Jake,” she whispers, softer this time. I open my eyes and stare down at her, the beast raging within me and every muscle in my body fighting to stay and wanting to flee.
“You should leave,” I whisper.
Her brow creases, and tears prick her eyes but they don’t fall. Instead, she blinks them away and traces the scar over my chest. With a single glare, she meets my anger and frustration head-on. “You should make me.”
“I should,” I agree. We both know I won’t. I want this too much, want her too much. “I could hurt you, Elle.”
“You could, but you won’t.”
God, do I hope that she’s right.
I grab the nape of her neck and lean in, smashing my mouth down on hers. She lets out a surprised whimper. I know I should be gentle with her—she’s so small, so fragile, and yet she holds all the power here.
“Make love to me, please?” she whispers, trailing kisses down my neck and torso while her fingers tug at the drawstring on my pants. She yanks them down, exposing my cock, and a beat passes where I close my eyes so I won’t see the horror in her gaze. They didn’t leave any part of me unscarred. My thighs are crisscrossed with cane marks, and nestled into my pubic hair is a series of long scars that run across my lower abdomen where Bashir threatened to cut off my dick more than once, but settled instead for scoring my flesh.
I open my eyes and peer down at Elle. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she doesn’t say a thing. She reaches out and tentatively takes my uncut cock in her hands, gently sliding my foreskin back and forth over the head. I groan, and when she puts her mouth on me I’m so close to losing my shit it isn’t funny. I thread my fingers in her hair and pull her away before I wind up coming down her throat so hard she gags on it. I kiss her lips and push her back on the bed, engulfing her body with mine.
Her breaths are heavy and labored as I kiss her, thrusting my tongue into her mouth, forcing her to open to me, to give it up to me. I grab hold of my dick and stroke the head through her wetness, teasing us both by pushing the very tip in and pulling out just as fast. She wraps her legs around my back, and angling her hips toward me, she digs her heels into my ass, shoving me closer. I sink in all the way and almost come undone.
Fuck, she’s tight.
“So damn perfect,” I groan and move inside her. My first taste of a woman in too many years, and I can’t pretend I don’t feel some base need to thrust and spill my seed inside her, but she deserves better. So I give her that. I do right by her because someone else didn’t.
* * *
She lies her head on my chest and I toy with her hair, wrapping those long locks around my finger. I wonder what it’d feel like having them trail across my stomach with her mouth around my cock. My dick twitches, but I kiss her hair and breathe in the lavender scent of her shampoo, wishing we never had to move from this spot.
“Why didn’t you run from me?”
Elle leans up on her elbow to see my face. “Because you don’t scare me, Jake Tucker.” She peppers my ruined skin with kisses. “Besides, my daddy never taught me how to run from boys; he taught me how to fire a gun. Now, come on. I’m starving, and I only have a few hours left before I have to get home.”
I smile as she bounds out of bed and walks over to the dresser, pulling out drawers until she finds what she wants. “Can I borrow a shirt?”
“Do you have to?” I ask, grinnin’.
“I’m not cooking naked,” she says with a stern look. “So yes, I have to.”
“You’re cookin’?”
“Yes, I’m cookin’. I just told you I’m starved.” She freezes and then lifts my gun from the drawer.
I’m across the room before she can blink. I take it from her and unclip the magazine. I should have put it away properly.
“You keep a gun in your T-shirt drawer?”
“It’s just a precaution,” I say. A muscle in my cheek twitches, and I clamp my teeth together as I place the gun and the clip in the drawer on my nightstand and lock it with the key.
“It was loaded.” Ellie snatches up a T-shirt and pulls it on over her head. It dwarfs her. She looks good in my shirt.
“Well, won’t do no good to have a gun without bullets when trouble comes knockin’.” I give her a tight grin. Her brows knit and she frowns, I’m sure there’s questions on the tip of her tongue, but I’d just as soon not answer them so I shrug and pull another shirt from the neatly folded pile. She reaches out a hand to stop me.
“Don’t cover yourself on my account.”
I furrow my brow and wrestle with the fabric in my hands. Everything inside tells me to put it on, to cover my scars from her even though she just spent the last hour exploring them, but her eyes beg me not to.
“Please?”
I let out a deep sigh and throw it back in the drawer, walking out of the room before I can change my mind. Downstairs, I stalk into the kitchen and lean against the countertop. Ellie’s feet pad on the floorboards and her soft arms wrap around me from behind. I can’t breathe. I don’t know what else to do, so I clutch her forearms tightly and hope to God she don’t let go.
25
Jake
I drown my pancakes in syrup and load my plate up with bacon, heading toward the dining table, but Ellie keeps walking through to the living room and sits on the rug in the middle of the floor. Like the rest of the contents of this house, it’s old, worn and comfortable. She pats the carpet beside her and Nuke, ever a fan of bacon and pretty women, takes the seat she offers. Ellie laughs and pets his head. “Wrong Tucker, but I suppose you’ll do.”
“Nuke, on your bed,” I command. He obeys with a whine and climbs up on the bed in the corner of the room, giving us his back.
I sit beside Elle and spear my food with my fork, woofing down huge mouthfuls. It’s good. Buttermilk, thick and fluffy, and the bacon is done extra crispy. “These are good.”
“It’s my memaw’s recipe. She taught me to cook.”
“Not your mamma?”
She laughs. “Are you kiddin’? Portia Mason? No, my mamma never set foot in the kitchen a day in her life. We had a maid to do all that for us. My grandmamma taught me how to cook. She taught me everything I know worth any value, that woman.”
I knew Ellie had come from old money; it was one of the things I’d guessed about her the second she opened her mouth. She might have fallen on harder times lately, but no amount of pinching purse strings could eradicate years of proper southern deportment. It was in the way she walked, the way she held herself, and in her ability to completely own any man who decided to take her on. “And where is she now?”
“Dead. God rest her soul. She took me in when I had no one else. When my parents found out about Spence, all hell broke loose. Mamma threatened to run me to the clinic to have him removed, as she put it. Daddy was upset, too, but he was runnin’ for governor, and I think he was more concerned about how it would affect his campaign than anything.” She stabs the food on her plate a little too forcefully. “I think my daddy gave up on me being his little princess long before that. I had a wild streak back in the day.”
I laugh. “I can see that about you.”
She flashes a wry smile. “Anyway, I put my parents through hell when I first met Jimmy, and then when they found out I was pregnant and about to throw my life away on some penniless, redneck hick—as my mamma put it—they told me I had to give up my baby and that under no circumstances was I to marry him, so I did. I did every
thing they told me not to.” She bumps her shoulder with mine. “And look where it got me. A beautiful son who is the honest-to-God love of my life and a hot pancake date in the middle of the night.” She winks.
I grin, but I ain’t done listenin’ to her opening up just yet. “Tell me about Spencer’s birth.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know, all of it.” I shrug. “You were only twenty, right?”
“Twenty-two,” she corrects me, shaking her head. “Scariest year of my life. Jimmy wasn’t there when Spencer was born. He wasn’t dealing too well with the pregnancy side of things, so when the time came he dropped me off and went to look for a park. He found a bar instead.”
God, I’d been such an ass, drinkin’ in front of her, sayin’ all those things I never should have said, about how she was entitled, and all along she’d been runnin’ from her past and raising a boy on her own.
“We spent half the next day waiting at the hospital for him to come pick us up, and when he did he reeked of whiskey. Almost ran us right off the road, too. I got out, used a muslin wrap to protect that little baby from the sun, and even though my arms were breaking and I hurt all over, I walked the rest of the way home. Eighteen hours after giving birth.”
I clench my jaw so hard I swear I hear my teeth creak; Ellie places her hand over mine, probably tryin’ to keep me from murdering the pancake on my plate. I set the fork down and stretch out my aching hands. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I had a lot to learn about men like Jimmy. I never should have gotten in that car with him in the first place. When I got back to the rundown apartment we shared, I packed up our things and called Memaw to come get me and Spence.”
“Not your parents?”
“Nope. They made it clear when I left that I was no longer welcome in their home.” Ellie smiles to herself. “Memaw, though? She loved that boy; she’d have done anything to protect me and Spence.”