by Jewel, Bella
And I seriously want to know why I can’t stop picturing the size of his dick and how good it would feel down the back of my throat.
I keep walking, getting as far away from stupidity and craziness as I can. Even now, I’m hoping he follows, and I don’t know why.
Why? Fuck. Why?
I don’t understand. Nothing makes sense, and still, the feeling is a nagging force trying to break free from my chest.
I want him to continue, and I need him to stop.
“Wait.” This time the request is growled in the deepest command.
I start to jog, making my way along the street, past the fruit vendor and up to the second-hand store when strong fingers grab my elbow, pulling me to a stop.
“Why did you run out?” His frown bears down on me. “I thought we were having fun.”
“You were having fun. This isn’t enjoyable for me.” It’s messy and chaotic.
“We had chemistry last night.” He releases my arm. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“We also had a lot of alcohol.”
He scowls. “You weren’t drunk, and neither was I.”
He’s right, and I can’t bring myself to admit it. I’ve gone years without an emotional link to anyone apart from my friendly bartender. I’ve been alone and strong. Now I feel weak with my need for…something. I can’t even pinpoint my attraction to this man. It’s just there, hovering like a gas cloud.
“Let me buy you a drink tonight.” There’s still no enthusiasm ebbing from him. Not even the slightest glimpse.
Why is that entirely endearing?
I scoff. Maybe because he’s the polar opposite to the last guy I dated. My stomach hollows at the reminder, and I push out a heavy breath to wash it away.
“I’m not much of a drinker.” I tear my gaze from his and focus on the second-hand televisions playing in the window, my lack of interest raking over sitcom reruns and numerous news feeds. “Last night was a one-off.”
“Then dinner. We can go to that wok place at the end of your block.”
I’m about to decline the offer when a news flash crosses one of the television screens.
Senator’s Son Found Dead.
I blink through the hallucination, trying to make the words disappear.
My heart stutters, and my world narrows to those four words. Senator’s. Son. Found. Dead. Then Dan Roberts’ face takes center stage.
Numbness seeps into my limbs, and the sound of the busy sidewalk disappears—the street traffic, too. My pulse echoes in my ears. There’s only my thundering heartbeats and that news headline.
Pounding arrhythmia and panic.
Fear and hysteria.
I’ve killed a man?
I shake my head. No. I’ve never killed anyone, even though there have been numerous people who’ve tempted my restraint. I am the self-appointed person who gives criminals a dose of their own medicine when the legal system fails to provide punishment. I give victims revenge, and assholes a chance to change their ways.
I don’t do death.
That is for a higher power to decide.
“What’s wrong?” That voice sounds near my ear, and I squeeze my eyes shut to find focus. “Are you okay?”
I breathe through the delirium and finally blink to find him staring down at me, his forehead wrinkled, his lips tight.
“I’m good,” I whisper. Then louder, “Just light-headed from the exercise.”
“You need food.” He scrutinizes me, reading me, and my cheeks heat under his surveillance. Under my guilt.
I step back. “I need to get home.”
“No.” He follows, matching me step for step. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I glance back at the television, finding the breaking news replaced with some sort of telenovela. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Maybe I’m losing my ever-loving mind.
“Just leave me alone.” I run, sprint, ditching him somewhere along the way.
I don’t stop. I reach the end of the block, then the next, and the next. I don’t glance at the cars that blare their horns as I cross numerous streets. I don’t pause. Yet, I can’t outrun the nightmare clipping at my heels.
I don’t kill people. I couldn’t bring myself to do so. No matter how vile or disgusting a criminal’s actions are, I always make the punishment singular. I contain the pain to the guilty party. Because once that life is snuffed, an intricate web of people become affected.
The parents who live for their only son are devastated. Those nieces and nephews who dote on their uncle are heartbroken. The innocent sisters and brothers are filled with anger and confusion.
I can’t be the person who inflicts that pain.
Maybe it’s already too late.
Maybe I already am a murderer.
Fuck. I should’ve dug deeper into my research on Dan. There could’ve been a heart condition. An allergy to Rohypnol. Hell. He could’ve choked or had trouble breathing after I fled.
Oh, God, I’m going to throw up.
I push my legs even harder, reaching the corner of my building with shaky thighs, my chest heaving, and there he is, leaning against a black Chevrolet parked in the loading zone.
A sexy car for a sexy son-of-a-bitch.
“What the hell is going on?” He strides toward me, a thick black sweater now hugging his upper body.
“Stop following me.” I sniff, my nose leaking from the vigorous exercise. “Get out of here.”
“You took off after saying you were light-headed. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Clearly, you’re not.”
“Clearly?” I swipe at my stupid nose with my wrist.
He moves in front of me, his gaze softer, on the verge of kindness. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
I straighten and blink through his ignorance. “You’re an idiot.” I won’t cry over Dan. I refuse. My nose tingles due to exertion. My eyes burn because…damned if I know, but it isn’t from building tears.
I sidestep and hustle for the front doors, entering the pin code through blurry vision. He’s at my back before I’m inside, and I no longer have the strength to tell him to leave.
“At least let me call someone. A friend. Or family.”
A harsh laugh escapes my lips. There is nobody here for me. No friends. No family. Nobody and no one at all. Not a single soul.
I make it to the elevator and press the button. The doors open, and he follows me inside, always following, always there.
I slump into the corner, my arms hugging my chest.
“Give me your phone.” The stranger holds out a hand while he presses the button for my floor with the other. “I’ll call someone to come look after you.”
I ignore him, too focused on Dan’s face as it takes over my mind. The snide smile, the laugh, the voice. The feel of his ribs breaking beneath my fist. The crack of his jaw. The sound of his muffled shouts.
I press a hand to my mouth and the other to the elevator wall to hold myself upright. The floor jolts to a stop, and bile rushes up my throat, demanding to be free.
Please let me make it to the bathroom.
I lunge for the doors, pull them apart, and sprint for my apartment. I’m blinded by horrible images as I release deadbolts and enter the pin code. Dan’s hair, his eyes, his mouth. I can see it all.
What’s your name, bitch?
I shove inside my apartment, dump my backpack, and rush to the toilet. There’s barely enough time to collapse to my knees before the contents of my stomach leave me in a heaving purge.
Through the rise of bile and partly digested toast, the face of a murdered man stares back at me. Haunting me.
I want to know what to whisper in your ear when I’m raping you raw.
I grip the toilet, my stomach convulsing over and over and over again until there’s nothing left to give.
“Are you still going to tell me nothing’s wrong?”
That voice pulls me from the panic, stripping away the memories of one man an
d replacing them with another. I wipe a hand across my mouth and glance over my shoulder, finding him leaning against the doorway.
“Get out.” I push to shaky feet, flush my breakfast, and reach for the cabinet to pull out my toothbrush and paste.
“Did you know the guy?”
I rinse my mouth with water, load up my brush, and begin scrubbing. “Leave.” I scour the vomit from my mouth, cleaning my tongue and teeth and everywhere in between.
“The guy on the television,” he clarifies. “The senator’s son.”
No, I didn’t know him. He was a stranger, even after I killed him. I grasp the counter and focus on my reflection in the mirror. I’m pale, my eyes wild, with strands of hair stuck to the sweat on my cheeks.
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“Shut up.” My head throbs with each beat of my pulse. I can’t think. It hurts to breathe. I start for the door, needing space, needing room. I try to push by him, and he doesn’t budge. “Get out of my way.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he shoves from the frame, stands tall, and stares me down.
“I said, move.”
He squares his jaw, preparing for a fight I’m more than willing to give. I have to get this toxic sludge out of my system, and thrusting it out is the only way I know how.
I cock my fist and swing, already anticipating the painful contact that never comes. He ducks, weaves, and steps back in a flash of movement that makes my head spin. I swing again and again, each attack thwarted by his quick reflexes.
I keep advancing, keep punching, keep trying to distract myself from reality.
I pounce forward. Jab. Cross. Hook. My knuckles graze his chin. Almost impact.
His eyes narrow and that harsh face hardens. “Enough.”
I can’t stop. My arms have a mind of their own. I can’t control my thoughts. Not the blinding flashbacks of what I did to Dan, or the snapshots of what he’d done to other women.
I swing again, and this time the ferocious intruder grabs my wrist, wrenching it down and twisting. I’m spun in a circle until my back is plastered against his front, his other arm smothering my chest. He holds me in place, trapping me while I hyperventilate.
“I said, enough,” he growls in my ear.
I whimper and sag against him, my heavy breathing lessening in the long, silent moments he holds me.
“Was he your lover?”
“What?” I struggle to break free and fail. “No. He was a disgusting excuse for a man who deserved to die long ago.”
The truth shocks me. But it is the truth.
“Then why the breakdown?”
“It isn’t a breakdown.” Now I’m lying, because the reality is, I’m scared. I’m terrified of being sent to prison. Not because of what could happen to me once trapped inside. I’m petrified I’ll die behind bars while the person who destroyed my family runs free.
I can’t fail them.
I refuse.
“So, storming out of boxing class, running away from a conversation, and then violently vomiting is a common thing for you?” He scoffs against my neck, making me shiver. “I guess my first impression was wrong. Here I was thinking you had a massive set of balls.”
“I don’t need balls.” I buck against him, and the faintest hint of his erection has me sucking in a sharp breath. “But it’s nice to know you were thinking I had a set to match your own. Is that what turns you on? My massive balls?”
“No.” His laughter is low and sinister, barely audible as it flitters over my neck. “I’ll be honest and say everything about you turned me on last night.”
Those mind-numbing tingles sink deeper inside me. My arms, my legs, even my toes buzz from the potential distraction.
“Everything about you still turns me on,” he whispers.
I close my eyes, sinking under his confounding spell. He’s not begging me for sex. There’s no passion. No heat or urgency. His words are cold and emotionless, yet still coated with a devilishly seductive edge I can’t ignore.
I need to learn to ignore it.
He knows where I live, which wouldn’t be an issue due to my security measures if he’d become the one-night-stand I intended him to be. But now he also knows I’ve lied about my name. I’ve told him I have weapons stashed in my apartment. And he’s aware of two of my regular haunts—Atomic Buzz and the boxing class I now have to quit taking.
He’s chipping away at my privacy, and I need those pieces back.
I wiggle in an attempt to break free and ignore the heavy weight of disappointment when he lets me go. I face him, and the simplicity of what stares back at me turns my insides to mush.
He’s not smiling. No, those lips are a flat line. His arms fall limp at his sides. There’s no warmth or seduction. No cocky smirk. Just him. Just eyes that sink into me, whispering promises beyond my wildest fantasies.
Everything about you still turns me on.
His confession washes away the panic, and in its place, arousal blooms.
He stalks toward me, and I hold my ground, tilting my head to maintain contact with those predatory eyes. He brings us foot to foot, almost hip to hip. The looming wall of a man stands before me, expressionless, emotionless, apart from all the devastatingly calm superiority.
My mouth salivates.
His hand snaps up, aiming for my chin, but I smack it away. He grins, tries again, and fails after another one of my slaps.
My turn, big guy.
I launch my hand at his throat. He doesn’t defend himself. He stands there, letting me wrap my fingers around his neck as his eyes flash. I’m taunting a bear. Poking the giant. I wonder if he’ll crush me, mentally or physically.
“We can spar all you like.” His offer brings chills. “But I’m sure you’d prefer it without any clothes on.”
The temptation of his statement wraps around my chest. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He’s right. So painfully, unbelievably right.
“No.” My grasp on this situation is slipping, sliding. My fingers grip the cliff’s edge, but the ground crumbles beneath my grasp. “Get out, before I make you leave.” The demand clogs my throat, coming out in a garbled mess.
“You don’t want that.”
“Don’t I?” Fuck him and his incredibly clear insight. “Will my knee in your junk prove otherwise? Or maybe you need my fist in your face.”
“Have at it, princess. I’m no stranger to pain.”
7
Her
I believe him.
I think that’s where our connection lies—in pain. He’s been through it. Battled it. The evidence is clear in his emotional scars. The sterility. The harsh communication.
We’re two tortured souls who’ve found each other by chance. And maybe all I need is to get my fill of him so I can cut this connection and go on my merry way. I only want what’s between his thighs. The cheap thrill. That hard, generous length. And I bet my life he feels the same about my snatch.
Once this hot and sweaty masterpiece takes place, I will pull his ripcord and fast-track him in the opposite direction.
Toodaloo, motherfucker.
No emotion. No more attachment.
His lips curve, his growing smirk alluding to that slight dimple in his left cheek. My fingertips scratch over the rough stubble of his jaw. Harsh, yet too damn inviting.
My tongue snakes out, gliding over my tingling lower lip. My body is out of control. My heart vibrates beneath my ribs, my pulse pounds, my stomach flutters with a mass of tickling butterflies.
I release his throat, my fingers gliding over his neck, his chest, before dropping to my side.
I can’t do this.
I can’t continue, and I can’t stop.
He steps back, kicking off his shoes, then grips the hem of his sweater and tank, and pulls them over his head, exposing more sculpted flesh. Not only muscles, but scars. His body is a canvas of brutality, with inch-long lines of puckered skin across his rib cage and a circular mark above his right hip.
He watc
hes me watching him, wordlessly, almost breathlessly.
“You’re accident-prone,” I murmur.
“I guess I am.”
“But still not the violent type, right?” I meet his gaze.
“Definitely not.” His eyes glimmer with the slightest tease. “I hate the stuff.”
I’d be a blind fool not to pick up on his sarcasm. It’s there. Right there. In his grin, in his intensity, in the almost scary way he controls me without even knowing it.
Oh, God. I’m dancing with the devil.
And I love it.
He’s dangerous. There’s no doubt. And those non-violent scars around his ribs look awfully similar to stab wounds. The circular mark above his hip speaks of a bullet injury. Or maybe that’s just my imagination talking, and they’re only construction injuries. Laboring accidents.
Either way, I should pull his ripcord now. I should seriously give him a merry finger-wave as I boot his ass out the door.
I should. I should. I should.
Instead, need wraps itself around me, pulling my limbs, crushing my chest. For once, I feel… I just feel. I’m not hollow. I’m not adrift. This man has me tethered to something, his presence keeping my feet on solid ground.
“Come here,” he growls.
There are mere feet of space between us, but he demands my submission. He wants me to succumb.
I can’t deny his request. I inch forward, my chin lifting to keep our gazes connected.
“Good,” he purrs, slicing a hand around my hip to drag me into his body.
I gasp, and he steals the sound with his mouth, his lips overtaking mine, his tongue delving deep. He kisses me into mindlessness, those strong arms wrapping around me, his hands gliding down my back to cup my ass. He lifts me in a callous jerk, positioning my pubic bone against his hard cock.
I spread my legs, wrapping my thighs around his waist to grind against him. Warmth flood my pussy, my body eagerly preparing for pleasure. There’s never been a better feeling. A greater sensation.
I wrap my arms around his head, tangling my fingers in his hair. His scent is seduction, rich from aftershave and etched in sweat and virility. His kisses are strong, and yet there’s a slight glimmer of softness. The most delicate swipe of affection.