by Jo Raven
He’d accept my stupid suggestion so as not to lose me and I’d rush him and hug the hell out of him—only I already am, sort of.
“Deal,” I mumble, grinning, and somewhere in there my eyes drift close and I’m rolling gently into deep dark sleep, safe in his arms.
Isn’t that weird? I think right before I go under, to feel safe in the last place I ever thought I’d feel safe in my life?
***
I wake up lying half atop a rock-solid male body, too warm and yet too comfortable to move, one muscular arm keeping me in place, long fingers splayed on the small of my back—and the top of my ass.
Still too comfortable to move. Actually it feels nice. The way I’m lying, I can feel something long and hard trapped between our bodies, and my belly clenches with a pang of arousal.
“Rise and shine, green eyes.”
“Mmm no. Don’t wanna. This is nice.”
“Yeah, for you, maybe. You’ve been drooling on my chest all night.”
“Lies and slander,” I mumble.
He chuckles, a deep, rich sound. “And you’re still half asleep.”
“Hm. Didn’t know you liked cuddling.”
“Cuddling? This is hardcore snuggling. Besides, I wasn’t given a choice. You clambered all over me as we slept.”
“That’s me. Real hardcore. And... wait a minute. I clambered over you?” I lift horrified eyes to meet his amused ones.
“You obviously can’t get enough of me.” Said in a smug voice that I’d have shot down mere days ago, but today I find... cute. Sexy. Even kind of funny.
“And unless you’re packing a gun, you’re happy to see me,” I quip back, and I’m rewarded by a belly laugh that rattles me around so much I feel it in my bones.
“Goddamn,” he breathes finally. “Yeah, I’m happy to see you, girl.”
It makes me stupidly happy, too. I try to hide it, rubbing my face on his pec. “I should get up,” I whisper. “Must be getting late.”
And we’ve been cuddling, or hardcore snuggling, for God knows how long, and I fully expect him to roll away and get up, only he doesn’t move, except to haul me closer and bury his face in my neck.
“Not yet,” he whispers. “Stay a little longer.”
This doesn’t look like lust, I think vaguely, blearily, my brain still half asleep. He’s hard, but the way he holds me is so...tender, somehow. And intense at the same time. Like he can’t let go.
When he finally pulls back a little, I lift a hand to his white-blond hair, part it a little to check on the scabs where my brother’s rock hit him. There’s a small bump, and I trail my fingertips lightly over it, then down the side of his face, over his smooth cheek, down to the stubble on his jaw.
His eyes are wide open, maybe a bit too wide, making something in my chest clench, but as I stroke an index finger over a pale brow, his lashes lower and his eyes half-close.
“That feels good,” he whispers, and then starts, as if he hadn’t meant to say that.
“It’s supposed to,” I inform him, and get a little smile out of him that looks genuine.
His eyes close again and I stroke his brows, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, then lean in and kiss the same spots, making him shiver. I love making him feel good. He always seems so shocked when he feels pleasure, when a touch connects and doesn’t bring pain or discomfort. Sometimes it feels as if that little boy he talked to me about is still in there, trapped in the back of his mind, pounding on the door and trying to get out.
And sometimes it feels as though, when I’m around, he’s allowed out to play, and laugh, and not be so alone.
Okay, that’s a weird thought when you recall all the sex we’ve been having, because ew. But no, that doesn’t mean anything. The adult Ross wants me, and has sex with me, but the boy Ross is the one I glimpse when I touch him gently like this.
“How much do you remember of your mom?” I whisper, and regret it a little when this time he jerks back, eyes flying wide.
“What...?” He seems confused and I don’t blame him. I’m sorry I shattered this moment of peace I managed to offer him.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“No,” he says, voice vibrating with a feeling I can’t name, “no, dammit. You promised.”
“Promised what?”
“Not to stop pushing.”
I stare openly at him. I thought I’d been pushing him too far, bullying, yes, bullying my way into his past, his memories, his thoughts, and he wants it?
“Don’t let go, Lu,” he says quietly, as if hearing my unasked question and silent doubts. “You asked if I wanted to fall, and I know I told you to let go, but don’t. Please, fuck, don’t.”
“I won’t,” I promise him, my heart in my throat. “You know I won’t.”
He quiets down after that, and I think maybe he’s falling back asleep. Makes me wonder if he was really awake all this time, if that’s why he said the things he said, so open... vulnerable. The Ross I know would have more trouble letting down his defenses, unless...
Unless he’s changed, like I told Dad. Unless he’s changing. Doing his best to become better, at communicating, at allowing others in.
Allowing me inside his world.
And God, this is going way too fast. I should step on the brakes, but can’t find it in me to even try. I don’t want to stop this from happening, myself from falling deeper in love with him. Hope has me hogtied and is dragging me toward the light at the end of the tunnel.
It looks like the brightest sunrise I’ve ever witnessed.
***
Next time I come to, he’s fully awake and spreading my legs, using his thumb to toy with my clit. The little boy tucked away, the sexy, aroused man in full display, broad shoulders and pale lashes, golden scruff on that square jaw. I just wish he’d take that frigging T-shirt off so I can trail my hands over that muscular chest...
He somehow realizes I’m aware and looks up. When he catches my eye, he winks and bends down to lick at my pussy and sweetly torture me until I’m panting and tugging on his short hair, trying to get him to... do something. Get me off. Or come up and kiss me, put his cock inside me and fuck me until we both find our release.
He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to do either, though, using a finger to fuck me as he sucks on my clit, too slow and shallow to make me come but enough to make me moan and writhe.
“Please...” I whisper, too caught up in the swirl of need to even ask what time it is. “Please, Ross...”
“Please, what?” he asks, his hot breath on my clit making me gasp. Blue eyes flick up, wicked and dark with desire, and the coil of need winds up tighter in my belly.
“I want you so much...”
“Damn, yeah...” One last lick that makes me whimper, and then he’s poised over me, on his elbows, a hand cradling my face as he kisses me. My taste on his tongue is always a shock, and I wonder why he likes going down on me—but it’s pretty obvious he does from the massive hard-on poking me in the hip as he moves over me.
Then his hand leaves my face so he can grab his cock and guide it into me. I moan his name when he enters me, the blunt head stretching my pussy so wide I panic that it won’t fit, even if he’s been inside me before. His kiss turns savage, brutal, his tongue lashing mine, taking my mind off the intrusion—and then he’s slipping inside, the discomfort turning into such pleasure that I cry out in his mouth, lifting my hips to take more of him in.
He thrusts, knocking the breath out of me, then again, until I’m moaning his name.
“You like this,” he grunts. “My cock inside you, fucking you like this, making you come so hard you don’t know how to hide from the fucking pleasure.”
“Yeah, I...”
“You like me... Say it, Luna.”
“I...” I hesitate, even through the haze of pleasure, or maybe because of it, my mind all tangled up in confusion. “I don’t know...”
What you want from me.
If you’re teasing or if you’re about to do
something nasty.
What all this means.
He groans, and manages to stop after another thrust. “Fuck. What’s the matter?”
I shrug. Look down. Try not to look at him, but fail.
He’s buried deep inside me, throbbing, but his face is still. He’s watching me, those pale eyes narrowed, and after a while he sighs. “Dammit.”
“Ross...”
“Save it.” He pulls out of me, making me gasp, and climbs off the bed to go stand at the window.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t sweat it, pretty girl,” he mutters, his back to me. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, let alone like me. Nobody could. I’m not worth the effort. I know this isn’t love.”
And he just breaks my heart into tiny jagged pieces. I keep expecting him to revert to his former bully ways, but he was only being playful, and I hurt him. It feels awful.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but it’s probably too late now. “I do like you.”
He harrumphs, clearly unconvinced.
He deserves honesty. He deserves to be loved.
When did I start to think that way about him? When did my crush turn into something different, deeper, stronger?
Admiration. When the hell did I find admiration for him in my heart?
Probably after gathering the clues of his past, how he grew up, how his stints in prison affected him, how his dad’s final act of betrayal almost finished him off. A grudging admiration for Ross still standing, still living, for trying to be a better man than his father.
For being sorry for hurting me in the past. For saving my ass time and again, helping me with the groceries, telling me I’m pretty, talking of matters that seem to open up old wounds inside.
I realize I’ve been collecting all the little clues that seem to say that Ross has a heart, after all, and it’s a good heart, too.
In his shoes, I really don’t know if I’d have managed to keep my heart intact. To stay kind. He says I’m the bravest person he knows, but all he needs is a mirror to see what I am seeing.
“Hey...” I struggle to gather my thoughts, my words as I get up and go join him. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Yeah, that’s what comes out of my mouth. Guess I still haven’t managed to find those words I need to say.
He’s quiet, a tall shadow beside me. I can’t see his face.
It’s probably getting late. Dad will have kittens, and so will Mike, the diner owner if I’m late for work, but I don’t care. I’m not sure if I hurt him, or if the things he said are what he truly believes. That I can’t forgive him, can’t love him.
I never realized I could hurt him, that I have that power. And if I can hurt him, it means... it means that those walls of his are still down. His heart exposed to any barb I throw his way, and if I wanted revenge, now would be a good time, the perfect time to give it a go. Hit him while he’s down, while he’s weak.
But I don’t want revenge, I discover. I don’t want to hurt him. I want to help him, kiss him, hold him—and I give in and do just that, slipping my arms around him from behind, resting my cheek on his broad, cotton-clad back.
Can’t help wondering if he’s let his walls down for me, that his weakness has to do with me. But that’s not possible. He’s just going through a rough time, and I’m here as a distraction, most probably, a new toy, a new game to keep himself occupied.
Doesn’t matter. Not now. His heart is pounding madly under my ear, his muscles are tense, his back like a rock. He’s not okay, you can’t really fake that. And he still hasn’t said a word.
“I do forgive you, Ross,” I whisper in the silence, and a shudder goes through him, but when I try to say more, to say I love him even if I shouldn’t, my throat closes off.
We stay like that until dawn breaks.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ross
Carrying bags of cement across the construction site in this damp heat is damn exhausting, but worse still, it’s a stupid exercise, leaving my mind free to gnaw on the same old thoughts, questions and doubts that have been hounding me for years.
More so now, since Luna came back, since she walked back into my life and changed everything.
“I do like you. I do forgive you.”
My goddamn heart gives a hard thump.
Well, it’s something, I tell myself and have to stifle a snort at myself. It’s a lot. More than I deserve.
So much more.
And anyway, what did you expect? We’ve had this talk before.
I chuckle to myself. Here I am, having arguments with the voice in my head. Some days I fear I’m fit for a straitjacket. If Luna finds out, about my nightmares, about my scars, she’ll run for the hills before Summer is over.
The thought really shouldn’t fucking bother me as much as it does. I haven’t seen her in two days and I... fuck, I miss her.
This is damn scary.
She won’t leave like that, I tell myself. She cares for me.
Does she? The voice in my head snickers.
Yes. She may not love me, but she cares just a little, and it’s enough. Should be enough. That’s also more than you deserve, Ross buddy, I tell myself, so shut up and take it, now, before she changes her mind. Before she runs away again.
All that’s happened has changed nothing. She owes you nothing. You’re not allowed good things. You break them. Get them killed. Or send them running.
Like Mom.
Like Luna.
Letting the bag drop on top of the pile of others, I wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my filthy hand and tug my helmet back in place.
Way too much fucking time to think on my hands, and it’s leading nowhere good. My head’s a damn mess of tangled bodies and choppy dialogue, confusing questions and replies, pain and pleasure and...
“I do forgive you.”
I cling on to that. That’s good, that should be everything. She gave me her forgiveness and her body. Nobody said she has to give me her heart. She should keep it for someone deserving, not a nutcase like me.
The scar tissue on my chest and shoulder itches and aches and I rub at it absently. Feels like rain and storm, and I don’t know the hell why for the first time in my life I feel like the resulting flood could wash me away.
Shaking my head at myself, I go back to work. Useless thoughts. Nothing can wash me away. I got my old man’s height, his big shoulders, big hands, and he made me strong. Had me chopping wood since I was a kid, carrying the logs, cutting down trees, buckets with water. He made me tough, belting me and hitting me at any hint of weakness. I’m unbreakable, unkillable even, it seems. Rooted to this fucking place like a reed, bending but never fucking dying.
I remember falling.
And I shiver.
What he’d make of me now, dear ol’ Dad, seeing me all twisted up about a girl? I wonder sometimes, when I forget for a sec that he’s a cold-blooded murderer with his ass in the slammer and innocent lives on his goddamn hands and his opinion shouldn’t matter. Until it all comes back to me and I realize I shouldn’t care, shouldn’t give a flying fuck about what he thinks. If he thinks I’m a fucking pussy, a damn coward, pussy-whipped and gone soft. Not around to beat me bloody anymore, is he?
No, he’s not. Nobody is around, nobody left, except—
My phone chimes and I fish it out of my back pocket a little too quickly, my heart jumping—only to find a text from Merc. I frown at the strange sting of disappointment.
Fuck, Ross. Stop this shit, this... daydreaming, this damn longing, hoping every time your phone rings that it’s her. Moonstruck idiot.
‘Paging Ross Jones,’ the damn message says, and I can almost hear Merc’s teasing voice delivering it. ‘When will you stop ignoring us, big brother? Tay has been asking me about you again. She has those weird-ass dreams. You know. She’s worried. Drop us a line from time to time to let us know you’re still breathing, okay?’
Snortin
g, I put the phone away and turn back the way I came to grab more heavy bags to haul across the construction site.
Fuck, the man can ramble. As for Octavia’s weird dreams about me... I shake my head and stifle a goddamn sigh. I bet they can’t be worse than my childhood, and yet I keep wondering what she’s seeing that’s worrying her so much.
I have been thinking lately that I should call Octavia, apologize. Apologize to her, to all my siblings: Gigi, Merc... apologize to the kids at school, to the whole town.
Ah, fuck this.
But at least to Octavia I should. She tried to understand me. She was the one girl I hated. My half-sister. The same age as me, I watched her grow in the same town, my reverse mirror, growing up with a loving mother and siblings, poor but happy. Unaware. She didn’t find out we shared the same father until much later. By then her now husband had accused me of kidnapping his kids, landing me in jail and putting me on the police radar, meaning that they watched me like hawks.
And truth be told, I gave them good reason. Drunk and disorderly, all the goddamn time.
It wasn’t Octavia’s fault, none of it.
Or Luna’s.
Yeah. All my rage at the world, all the pain I inflicted was... misdirected. Should’ve punched Dad in the face, had I been able to think straight. Finding out he murdered Mom cinched it—but he got to me first, trying to slice me open.
Should’ve been Dad I was mad at and... myself, but...
The ground goes out from under me, and it takes me a split second to realize I’ve stepped in a puddle of machine oil, slipped...and I’m falling, arms windmilling, thoughts frozen.
I crash on my back, my skull bouncing off the hard-packed earth. A miracle there wasn’t a brick or rock there to bash my head on, I realize a bunch of dazed moments later, blinking furiously to clear my blurry eyes.
“Should look where the hell you’re going,” someone says and I think the voice sounds like Alan. The guy who organized the ambush they laid for me last.
Rolling my head to the side, I watch him go, and why is he holding what looks like an oil can in his hand?