No Saint

by Jo Raven

  “Whazzat?” I can’t formulate words. Her hand drags up the length of my hard-on, pulling on the skin, on the barbells, and it’s all I can do not to close my hand over hers and jack off hard and fast.

  “Why did you get these?” As if to explain, she flicks one barbell end with her thumb and I groan, pleasure rocking me, lights going off behind my eyelids.

  “To feel,” I manage. “Couldn’t feel anything. Thought to try. Oh fuck...”

  There had been no sensation for a long time. I couldn’t feel anything inside or out, in my body or in my fucking soul, empty, hollow. So numb, it was as if something was broken. I was broken, fucking cracked in two. Missing some vital piece that keeps a person ticking, moving, hoping.

  Now I kinda wonder what would have happened if she’d touched me before I put the metal in my dick. I bet I’d have felt things. Since she came back, I feel way too fucking much, I find myself wishing for stuff. Sometimes I believe I could even have those things, and fool myself for a while. And now...

  Her mouth closes around the head of my cock and the world fades away. It goes dark—or maybe my eyes are closing, and I force them open so I can watch her, my hand finding its way to her head, tangling in those crazy, bouncy curls, tugging them back so I can see her put her mouth on me.

  Damn. For a girl who says she’s never seen a naked dick before, whose cheeks go red when she says “dick”, she seems entranced with mine. She licks at it, squeezes it, plays some more with the piercings, and generally drives me insane with need.

  Then she takes the head into her mouth again, and just when I think I’ll die from the heat and pressure, she swallows me deeper and sucks on my cock, hollowing her cheeks and snapping the last thread of my control.

  I rock up into her mouth, swearing, not even knowing what the hell I’m saying, afraid I’ll hurt her but needing to fucking come.

  “Luna,” I grunt, “holy shit...”

  It starts, the pressure uncoiling so fast it jerks my whole body, the pleasure so sharp it blows my already reeling mind. My head knocks back against the wall, the pain lost in the waves of release. I’m vaguely aware that she pulls away, her hand still on my cock, and I shoot all over my T-shirt, stripes and stripes of cum, white against the black cotton.

  Jeez. Can’t remember the last time I came so hard, the last time it was so good that I’d want to pull a girl into my arms and hold her afterward. Never happened before, but now I want to and I just... I can’t catch my fucking breath.

  I reach for her...

  ... but she pulls away, out of my reach, and I’m falling into gray.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Luna

  “Ross?” Oh crap, what did I do? He’s slumped against the wall and looks barely conscious, cheekbones flushed but underneath it white as a ghost. “Don’t scare me. You okay?”

  It takes him such a long moment to reply, my fears redouble and I’m starting to panic.

  “Just an orgasm,” he mutters, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Good one, though.”

  Huh. Okay. I swallow hard and wipe my hands on my top.

  Not sure this is normal, but what do I know? His T-shirt is covered in cum, and... I can’t get over how sexy he was as he came, his cock so big and so incredibly hard with those silver bars that seemed so sensitive when I touched them. The sounds he made... the way his strong body arched... knowing I did this to him, aroused him so much, made him come with my hand and mouth, it’s exciting.

  He’s right, I want him, so badly. I’ve been throbbing inside from the moment I sat beside him, my skin craving his touch, imagining him naked with me, moving inside me—and I feel awful because he’s not well, but my body wouldn’t listen. I wanted to pleasure him.

  I want to make him feel good, to see him smile. Those stories he told me all but broke my heart. I don’t know what to do with him, how to deal with the negative feelings from the past and all this affection for him flooding me now. I should take a step back, think.

  But now he looks worse than before, and I remember that he has a fever, plus blood still trickles from his head wound. He got me so distracted with the things he recounted that I pushed all that to the back of my mind. I need to step back, put enough distance between us so I can think straight again. It’s like he has magic about him and it ensnares me if I’m not careful.

  “Ross?”

  No reply. Has he fallen asleep?

  I shake him a little and he blinks at me, licks his lips, and even pale and worn out like that he looks beautiful.

  Can’t believe I touched him, touched his cock, so long and hard and hot, the silver piercings, felt how he reacted to me. My fingers, my grip, my breath, my tongue. My mouth.

  Can’t believe that I put my mouth on him, around his hard-on. Felt the blood rush through him. Felt him tremble. Lose control. Just like he got me off, I wanted to touch him where he ached for it, taste him, explore what seemed to excite him.

  That saltiness. Bitterness. So fascinating. So like Ross.

  I didn’t expect how hard he’d come, how much he’d shoot.

  Speaking of which.... “You should change out of that T-shirt.” I tug lightly on the hem. “And get into bed. You look beat.”

  “Your fault,” he murmurs, and I grin, not able to help myself.

  I’m still on my knees, gazing up at him, and something sweet is unfurling in my chest, in my mind. He looks so peaceful, and cute, and frigging sexy like that, with his tousled blond hair, his mouth slack, hands lax at his sides.

  I remember the feel of his strong fingers in my hair earlier, tugging as he grunted my name and his cock jerking, flooding my mouth with his taste. Maybe I should be shocked, turned off, but it was the opposite. It was so hot, knowing I was doing that to him. Getting him so hard, so aroused he looked like he was in pain, and then his near shout of relief when he came, his cock spewing all that cum.

  The cock that’s resting now on his hip, not completely soft yet, impressive even so. Never thought much about how sensitive guys are, well, there. How vulnerable. All their pleasure in that hot rod of flesh, so exposed, their need so raw and real.

  I think about how he said the piercings where there so he could feel.

  I almost reach for his cock again, to stroke it, feel it harden against my palm. I want to do this again, I realize with a jolt, do more, see him, hear him. Feel him come.

  He produces a soft sound, and it breaks through my looping thoughts. I get to my feet in a rush, kind of horrified at myself.

  “Ross?”

  “Hm.”

  “You should go inside. You’re falling asleep. You need to rest.”

  He blinks at me, long pale lashes. “I’ll stay here, on the porch.” He lifts one arm. “Come here.”

  I think of the story he told me, spun like a cruel, dark fairytale, about that boy living by the river, about how lonely he was.

  About how he tried to hide he was talking about himself, and the pain in his voice, ringing like a bell in every word. I wonder if he’d have ever talked like that if it hadn’t been for the fever.

  “You need to lie down and rest,” I tell him. “In a bed. And I have to go. I’ve left my phone at home. Dad’s probably worried.”

  “Fuck...” He lets his arm drop at his side. Glances down at his bare cock and his beautiful mouth twitches. “Stay with me.”

  “I can’t.”

  He nods, his faint smile fading, eyes going dark. “Right.”

  “I’ll bring you antibiotics. Dad has a whole box leftover from when he had a molar taken out last year. I saw it in the bathroom cabinet.”

  “You a doctor now?”

  “Unless you decided to go visit a real one?”

  He winces. “I’m okay.”

  I roll my eyes a little. “Okay, macho man. Let’s get you inside, then.”

  “I don’t need no help,” and he kind of slurs the words like he’s drunk.

  Screw this.

  Grabbing his arm, I pull until he groans and pu
shes to his feet. He drapes his arm over my shoulders, hauling his pants up with the other hand.

  He’s so much taller than me, so much heavier, that when he staggers I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop him from falling on his face. But he catches himself with his other hand on the wall.

  “I’m fucked,” he mutters. “Goddammit.”

  “You need to cut yourself a little slack. Infection is like that. It can knock you off your feet.”

  “Infection’s a bitch,” he agrees, soft and rough, and flipping my heart over as he leans on me, trusting me to help, even if he refused it.

  Actions speak louder than words, right? I told him that. And he’s showing me trust right now. I wonder if he realizes what he’s doing.

  I shove the house door wider with my shoulder and lead his lurching steps inside. “Good thing tomorrow’s Sunday. You’re in no shape to go to work.”

  “Fuck that,” he murmurs, and I almost laugh. He sounds so out of it. “Shit.”

  I maneuver him through the cluttered, dusty living room toward what I hope is his bedroom, and he curses, steering me the other way, to another door. We push it open together and stumble into a dark space like a closet. The dust is so thick that I cough, my sinuses stinging.

  “Ouch!” My shin hits the bed and Ross awkwardly falls on it, letting out a surprised yelp, thankfully releasing me as he does. “You okay?”

  “Peachy,” he growls. “Good throw.”

  I giggle and sit down beside him, my eyes getting used to the gloom. Some light enters through the window slats, just enough to make him out sprawled diagonally across the narrow bed, his legs hanging off.

  He rolls on his back, eyes-half closed, and I can’t help but stare at his hard jaw, his pale hair, his soft lips.

  “You should be staying here,” I find myself saying, “Not in a padlocked garage. It’s your home. It’s your right.”

  He turns his face away. “You don’t get it. I can’t stay here. I fucking can’t.”

  “Why not?” A horrible thought strikes me. “Oh crap, did your dad kill—”

  “Not here, no. Fuck, no.” He pales even more. “I’d have burned the place to the ground if he had.”

  The police wouldn’t agree with burning the evidence, but I don’t say that. I want to ask if he knows where it was done, where his dad killed the two women, but I hesitate. The way he talked about his mom, and that tattoo, it tells me he loved her, and that talking about her has to be painful for him. I never gave his mom much thought all my years growing up here. We all knew she’d skipped town, but it was long ago, and nobody ever talked about her, so I guess we all assumed Ross didn’t remember her much, or didn’t care.

  What an awful thing to imagine, right? That a kid wouldn’t care if his mom had left.

  Then again, with his bad attitude and tendency to hurt others Ross reinforced the idea that he had no feelings. Why worry about someone who didn’t worry about anyone else, right?

  Besides, my mom and I never got along, and since she left, I’ve barely seen her at all. It was easy enough to project my situation on him. I’ve had Aunt Emily in my life, though, and she’s been more of a mom to me than my mother ever was...

  God, I need to get back home. I bend over, start to unlace his black combat boots.

  He turns his head back toward me, blinking slowly. “Watcha doin’?”

  “What does it look like?”

  He looks frigging adorable lying there like that, staring at me with those pretty, long-lashed eyes of his.

  Wait, did I say “adorable”? Oh crap, I’ve got it bad...

  “Still trying to get in my pants?” he teases quietly.

  It wins a laugh out of me. “Been there, done that, remember?”

  “Hm. Yeah, that was fucking awesome.” He cracks a faint grin. “Damn, now look what you’ve gone and done.”

  What...? Oh. The front of his jeans is tented. From where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, this fact is right in my face, impossible to miss. As I watch, the bulge grows bigger.

  “You’re a machine,” I whisper, impressed in spite of myself.

  “A sex-machine.”

  “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

  It’s his turn to laugh. He lifts his hand, pushes down on his hard-on, hisses a little. “Damn. What you do to me, woman.”

  I ignore the burning blush on my cheeks and finish with his boots, letting them thump to the floor. I wonder when was the last time these sheets were changed. The room doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while. I guess I didn’t really believe him when he said he didn’t sleep here.

  “Luna.”

  I look up. “What?”

  “Come here.” He curls a hand behind my head and tugs me down to kiss me. His mouth is dry, and he’s so warm. Hot. Scorching.

  I pull back. “I should get you a wet cloth, some ibuprofen. You’re burning up.”

  He’s looking at me from under his lashes. “I want you to sit on my face, Luna.”

  “What?” I stare down at him, torn between laughing and moaning at the mental image of what he wants to do to me. “You’re feverish.”

  “Just hot for you.” He winks.

  “You’re never serious.”

  “I’m very serious about you.” Those blue eyes meet mine, unflinching. Determined. Earnest and full of desire.

  I can’t help the way my heart is pounding. He’s saying such sweet things, and dirty things. And I want to believe everything so badly. Try everything with him. Trust that he means it and won’t discard me once he feels better tomorrow.

  Speaking of which... “I really have to go. I don’t want Dad calling the cops thinking something happened to me.”

  “Your family loves you,” he says, his voice neutral, a note of wonder in its depths.

  “They do.” I smile at him as I get up. “And I was making them dinner. I really hope they got the lasagna out of the oven.”

  “Lasagna,” he whispers, and his stomach growls. Then suddenly he sits up. “Fuck. Buddy. Haven’t fed him today.”

  Aw. This boy...

  “I’ll feed him tomorrow. And I’ll pass by to give you the pills. Look, is there someone I can call? Someone who can look after you until you feel better?”

  He just shakes his head.

  Crap.

  “Listen, Ross... what I said about staying away from the diner... forget it, okay? I misunderstood. If you say you pay every month, I believe you.”

  He stares at me for long seconds, shadows shifting in those pretty eyes of his.

  Then he nods. Dry-washes his face with his hand, like a big cat. “Hey... I wanted to say thanks. For everything.”

  And... that’s it. I’m done, defeated, won over. Despite all the things still left unsaid, unresolved between us, what chance do I stand of hating him after today?

  ***

  “Luna, where were you?” Dad frowns at me over his reading glasses. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, his phone in hand. “I was about to get out there to find you. You left your phone here.”

  “I know. I’m sorr—”

  “She was with that guy,” Josh accuses.

  Dad’s brows rise to his graying hairline. “What guy?”

  “The bully. Ross.”

  “Ross Jones? Is that true?” Dad turns to nail me with his gaze. “Luna?”

  I sigh and throw myself into a chair. “Josh threw rocks at him. I had to make sure he’s okay.”

  “Traitor,” Josh mutters. “You didn’t have to tell.”

  I don’t have the heart to reply, but Dad does it for me.

  “We don’t do that, Joshua,” Dad says. “We don’t throw rocks at anyone. What were you thinking? You could kill someone.”

  “But he was lurking outside. And he’s a bully.”

  “You were looking out for your sister. I get that. But violence doesn’t solve problems. It only makes them worse.”

  Oh gosh, I want to hug my dad right now, but when he turns to me
, he glares. Oops. He’s still upset with me. It would have been too easy.

  “And going off without letting me or your brother know where you are, without your phone, is irresponsible,” he says. “You never know who may be around in the woods. And before you say it, I know you’re eighteen, but please don’t make me worry.”

  “Okay, Dad. Sorry.”

  He taps his fingers on the table in an uneven rhythm. “You really went after that boy?”

  “Josh hit him,” I say, a bit defensively. “Josh told me so. I wanted to make sure Ross was okay.”

  Dad shakes his head, gives a gust of a sigh that speaks of frustration and affection. “I want to scold you. Tell you that Ross hurt you, took you away from us. But I can’t, not about this. I’m proud of you for caring enough to check on him.”

  I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Is he okay?”

  My smile dies before it forms and I shrug. “Not really.”

  “What’s wrong with him? Well, apart from the obvious issue, of course.”

  “Oh Dad, I think he’s changed,” I rush to say, my heart starting to pound. “I don’t think he’s a bully anymore. He doesn’t mock or try to hurt—”

  His gray brows knit together in slight reprimand. “Look at you, rushing to his defense. I meant the issue of his dad being a killer, offing his mom and that other woman, and then going after him. It can hardly get worse than that.”

  True.

  Looks like Dad is keeping an open mind. And Josh is quiet, looking at me with wide eyes.

  So I find myself telling my dad and Josh about Ross. It feels a little like breaking his trust, but I need them to see what I see, that he has some good inside.

  Or to tell me I’m crazy and should keep away from Ross. Who knows.

  Obviously, I edit some parts out of my story, and I feel my face growing warm just thinking about them, but I tell them about the beatings, the drugstore refusing to sell him stuff, the dog, the infection, the fever, the sad cold house by the river.

  It all makes me sad all over again.

  When I am done, silence spreads in the kitchen. Josh is chewing on something, obviously not happy but waiting to see what Dad will say.