by Nicci Harris
Trust - I don't think I trust anyone anymore. Jimmy. Butch. My own brother who walks and talks like a man but disappoints me at every turn.
With sad eyes, he shakes his head and says, "I'm so sorry for what happened, Max. I said I was sorr-"
Before he can finish his sentence, I lunge at him, dragging him to his feet and pinning him against the wall. "You're fucking sorry!" I bark as his chest vibrates with fast heavy breaths beneath my forearm.
He swallows nervously but holds my stare. "I tried to go after her, Max. She told me she'd be okay. Dustin had guards watching my every move. I tried to stop it."
Fucking Dustin.
I haven't forgotten about his apparent involvement in the attack on Cassidy. He thinks he can toy with what's mine; he's got another thing coming.
The presence of Bronson standing just behind me is palpable, but he's allowing this to play out.
Inching in a little closer to Xander, I hiss, "And yet, there's not a scratch on you. So tell me, my tough little brother, how hard did you really try?" His eyes drop, finally cowering beneath my livid mien. "If you weren’t my brother, I’d kill you," I whisper before letting him go with an angry shove. For a second he looks at me as though I've just ripped his heart right out of his chest and that fucking wrecks me. I growl at the ground. Taking off towards the exit, I glance at Bronson, who appears stoic. As I shove my way outside, the murmur of their voices follow me through the open door.
"No, let him go," Bron states calmly.
"I'm sorry, Bron."
"I know you are, buddy."
Max
* * *
As I make my way to the Rover, I clench my fists at my sides. All I feel is rage again. Rage, yes, and fucking regret. And I hate regret; it's a useless emotion and I know better than to suffer it. Know better but feel it, nonetheless.
I try to ignore the dark voice in my head that stokes my volatility. A voice that tells me to trust no one with her. To suspect everyone. I jump into the Rover and start the engine, turning the music up in an attempt to drown that voice out.
Now that business is done, every muscle in my body twitches with the need to get back to her, an irrational response to her absence these days that I'm still not accustomed to. Fuck, how I used to like my independence. My solo existence. Now, though, I breathe deeper when she's around.
During the drive home, I relive that night. The night I truly realised what was at stake. Finding her half broken on the floor. Finding him metres from her with a blade of glass shoved through his carotid artery. She'd fought him, alone, in the dark. Without me.
I let her down.
By the time I get home, I'm ready to go several rounds on the bag. But when I walk into my room and see her asleep above the covers on my bed, my anger stills. I freeze dead in my tracks. Sighing roughly, I map her little figure with my eyes. She's the tiniest thing. She's on her side, facing the window that occupies the full length and height of my bedroom wall. The glow from the city below us shines onto her naked arms and legs. Her hair is in a low ponytail, and I have an urge to pull the elastic away, to let her long, thick, almost pink-blonde hair spread across the pillow.
When I'm beside her, she sleeps naked, but right now, she's in white panties and a singlet. Wandering around the bed and towards the window, I sit on the two-seater lounge in a corner of the room and look at her. Part of her face is in the shadows, but the part lit up by the moon and city is relaxed, soft, and lightly frosted in freckles. They might be my favourite part of her. Those freckles. And I've licked every one of them.
My gaze traces the curve of her shoulder, down to her tiny waist, and over the small swell of her hips.
Leaning back into the cushions, I crack my knuckles. My attention is suddenly snagged on the tattoo on my finger. The one that reads 'ardent one' - fiery one.
My fiery one.
Realising now that I'm not angry anymore, I fold my arms across my chest and continue to watch her sleep.
"Max."
Although I don’t move, my eyes open instantly to the sound of her voice. She sits up slowly in bed - lazily. Moaning sleepily, she rubs her eyes. "What are you doing?"
Taking a few moments to adjust to being awake, I realise I'm still on the lounge.
"Go back to sleep, little one," I instruct, but she's already climbing from the bed and crossing the room towards me, her little face questioning and concerned.
She stops just short of me, and all I can concentrate on is the slip of white skin between her panties and her single. I lick my lower lip and then look up at her face. She smiles softly at me and fuck - just, fuck.
Batting her long soft brown lashes, her bow-shaped lips curl into a sweet smile - as if she has me all figured out.
As she sits on my lap with her legs to the side, I lean back to get a better view of her face and body.
"Why are you on the couch?" she asks, her voice huskier than normal in a half-wake daze. I like it. My cock pulses.
"Didn't want to wake you," I lie. Didn't want to crawl into bed with you while I smell like formaldehyde. Didn't want to lose my mind over your scent and take my frustrations out on your sweet body. Some fucking bullshit truth like that.
I fix my eyes on her lethargic hazel ones, the flecks of gold and amber in them shining despite her sleepy state. My gaze drops to those velvety full lips and they part immediately. She follows my line of sight as I look down at her perfect thighs pressed together. I don’t like the way she's sitting. I grab her waist and lift, manoeuvring her until she's stretched open over my lap. Better.
Gripping her delicious soft backside, I draw her towards me. She gasps when her soft axis meets my hard one. When her forearms rest onto my shoulders, her nails move up along my neck and she strokes my skin. A shiver runs the length of my spine. Fuck me. What do I do with her? I'd never been touched like this before meeting her. Not sure any previous girl would have dared to.
Her eyes -adoringly- study my face and it's welcome and needed and uncomfortable at the exact same time. I'm just thankful she can’t see what I am.
Leaning forward, I rest my forehead on her shoulder and take a deep breath.
"Max, tell me," she pleads softly. Straightening back up, I look down at the thin piece of fabric between her legs. Stare at it, actually. Her fingers still in my hair. My hands stroke from her knees to that fabric and stop just shy of it, but I can feel her heat. I push her panties aside, exhaling roughly when I see her smooth bald pussy lips spread open a little due to the position she's in. She is breathing heavily now. Her whole-body rocks slightly with each big breath. My cock starts to fill, pressure building inside it as I touch that soft opening with the tip of my finger.
She whimpers slightly - not in a good way. I stop my finger from going any further but don’t move it away. I stare up at her beautiful face just as a single tear slides down her cheek. My jaw tics. I want to fuck that sorrow out of her. Her sorrow makes me want to set the earth on fire. She must see that rage building through me because she's kissing my tight lips now. I can taste the salt from her tear.
"I'm sorry," she says against my mouth. I've heard that far too much today. And from her, it’s the last set of words I need to hear. Her breath, so sweet, floats into my mouth as she says, "I still hear his words."
My teeth grind. Fucking Erik. If he wasn't in pieces already, I'd consider digging him up just to cut his flesh off myself.
"What words? Tell me what he said."
She shakes her head once, timidly shifting her gaze to the ground. "I don’t want to repeat it."
"Cassidy." I lift her chin and press my lips to hers quickly. Lingering close, I brush our mouths together as I speak. "Think about me. My fingers touching you. Pleasing you. Now tell me what he said that's keeping you from me."
Swallowing nervously, she takes a few moments to answer. "He said I'm weak and that men enter women. Like the devil does."
Fuck. I breathe raggedly. "You don't think you enter me?" I snap, but my aggress
ion isn't meant for her.
She sucks another breath in. A strained breath. "He said you control me with my body. With this part of me."
I want to both howl in anger and burst into laughter at the pure inaccuracy of that statement. Leaning into her almost-pink hair, I speak into her ear. Her cheek moves into mine affectionately as I do. "Every time I come, I think about you. You're in my head." I breathe her in. Cassidy. She doesn't wear perfume; her scent is simply feminine. Clean. Natural. My breath on her neck causes her to gasp and then pant. "This soft wet skin." Gradually, I tunnel my fingers between her pussy lips, and her startled moans resonate in my cock. My other hand nearly spans the width of her slim back, pushing her trim abdomen forward and arching her the way I like. "These strong responsive muscles that grip me like a fist. The freckles on your inner thighs. Your smell. Taste. I don't control you, Cassidy. Nothing is further from the truth. You control me. My fingers. My lips. My cock." I shake my head against hers. "You own me, little one." She's crying now, so I pepper kisses all over her face, tasting the saltiness of her tears as if I were licking her wounds. "Control me, little one," I tell her.
She blinks at me for a moment, lips open and eyes hesitant. Understanding my gentle command, she swallows nervously and then begins to roll her little pelvis on my lap, stirring my fingers inside her tight, pulsing pussy. She stabilises herself with my shoulders, delicate fingers holding my tight muscles - tight with restraint.
She's tense, but with every forward wave of her hips, her expression becomes more captivated by the moment. I admire her body as her hips start to sway with a rhythm and grace like nothing I've ever seen before. My little ballerina dances on my fingers like it's an enchanting, beautiful act. And with her, it is. My cock strains with yearning in my trousers. Needing to fuck her. Feeling possessive and in need of reassurance she's still mine, I press my teeth together to stop from growling the following words. Instead, I demand gently, "Whose fingers are inside you?"
The tops of her pert milky-white tits flush as heat spreads across her skin. "Max's." She pants my name. Leaning in, I take her taut, aroused nipple into my mouth, my teeth gripping it through the little singlet she's wearing. Groaning at the feel of her rolling body and circling hips, I suck on that tiny bud. Her sweet breast is so perky, so pointed - perfection. When I twist my fingers against her rhythm, I feel her buck slightly with pleasure.
"Max." She whimpers my name.
"Max who?" I press.
"Max Butcher."
"Tell me you love me," I order, not understanding or analysing why I want to hear it, but goddamn-it, I do.
"I love you, Max." Little whimper-mixed moans leave her parted pink lips, so I swallow those sounds, but although muffled, they only get louder as I steal her breath.
While I finger her slowly, she responds to my penetration, sucking my fingers in and kneading me out with those strong internal muscles of hers. "What do you want?"
She starts to shake. "More."
Using my thumb, I press down on her sweet little clit, massaging it back and forth while the two fingers inside her work at a steady pace. "You feel so good wrapped around my fingers, little one."
Her lips are soft and confused as they strain to kiss me and moan and pant simultaneously. Her body starts to tremble, and I break our kiss to watch her little tits jiggle beneath white fabric and her face come apart with pleasure.
"You're so fucking beautiful."
Her pussy locks onto my fingers. My cock pulses. Anticipating her recoil from the orgasm thrashing through her, I grab the side of her throat and squeeze lightly, holding her down so she remains deeply impaled on my fingers. As I curl them onto that spot twitching inside her, she cries out loudly. Fuck me if she isn't the sexiest thing I've ever seen. How she can look so incredibly sweet - innocent - while purring out her orgasm on my lap like a little kitten, I do not know.
My fingers continue to fuck her, drawing her orgasm out. Not giving up my repetitive motion, I wring every last sensation from her. And goddamn it if I'm not in physical pain with the need to bury my cock deep inside her. Feeling her orgasm on my fingers, her body vibrating, overwhelmed, I groan through gritted teeth in unison with her peaking cries.
When she finally stops shaking and the pleasure she was just riding flattens, she stares blankly at me.
My brows draw in tight at the sight of her blinking, confused expression.
That's not good.
Then her eyes widen with uncertainty. She's breathing like she's just run a marathon, and it's now apparent to me that this is a fucking bad thing. A very fucking bad thing.
Clenching my jaw, I pull my fingers from inside her. "Cassidy, what's that look?"
While my breaths mingle with anger at the crumbling state of the girl on my lap, hers are all of a sudden short. Quick. Shallow.
Panicked.
I sit up and cup her cheeks while her eyes bounce around in a kind of stupor. "Little one?"
"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine," she chants, but tears burst from the corners of her eyes. Fucking tears. And fuck me does the sight of them slice me up.
"What happened?" I growl, wanting to shake her back to coherence.
"I don’t know," she says, her voice faint and unsteady. I pull her against my chest, shielding her little frame with my arms. Tightening with the need to protect her. Too tight. Not tight enough.
I can fix this - I'm going to fix this.
Moving forward, if anyone so much as upsets her, makes her shuffle on the fucking sidewalk for them, I won't be leaving the freezer with a clean shirt.
Cassidy
* * *
I blink at the blonde girl staring back at me in the vanity mirror - her reflection strange and foreign in a way I can't explain. With her big hazel eyes and matching coloured freckles lightly dusting her nose and cheeks, she doesn't resemble the kind of girl who would shoot someone in the face. Less the type to feel no remorse in the wake of that person's death. I'm not sure what that kind of girl looks like, but it isn't this.
Max's bathroom is my favourite place in his house. Although I haven't even seen half of his home, this room is full of fun memories and love. Today, though, it looks different. I can’t explain how. That's all I know - different.
Running my fingers through my hair and scooping it to one side, I note how long it is. How wavy. I don't think I like it anymore. Flicking it back over my shoulders, I decide I'm going to cut it off. Maybe dye it.
If Max won't mind. . .
I glance down at the Carrara stone vanity top, touching the dusty brown veins that run through it like marble. Next, I stare at our toiletries all laid out together - his aftershave and deodorant alongside my many cans and creams. My toothbrush is next to his in a little navy-grey ceramic cylinder, and for some weird reason, I find that oddly painful. Which, of course, is a completely ridiculous emotion to feel in regards to the placement of a toothbrush. Ignoring my silly feelings, I pick it up and begin to brush my teeth.
As my mouth gets a good cleaning, I can’t help but let my mind wander to the events of last night. What it should have been and wasn't. How I ruined it. My emotions shifted uncomfortably fast from wary to needy. I remember his voice being raspy with sentiment as he whispered words to me. And yet, he might as well have yelled them because they held that much power. 'I own him'. We own each other. And I enjoyed that thought enough to allow the lust to take over. But then, as I came off the precipice of the man-god that is Max Butcher, a boulder of complete self-loathing dropped into every fibre of my being.
Clearly, my mind is in a state of anarchy.
Freezing my thoughts, Max strolls leisurely into the bathroom, wearing only white cotton boxers. His penis is hard to ignore in pants; in underwear it's damn right impossible. Shaking my head to try to focus, I ignore the growing need inside me. My body wants his, but my mind isn't so sure, and the two are giving me whiplash.
Last night was the first time we've been intimate since Erik attacked me, and it didn�
��t exactly go well. What must he think of me? Riding his fingers that desperately and then bursting into tears? Oh my God, poor Max.
Like a little voyeur, I watch his reflection as he pulls his boxers down and moves into the shower. He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. As he begins to wash himself, I find myself fixated on the ink that encompasses his strong arms, back, and shoulders. Each tattoo shares a little piece of his soul with the world and yet, no one has any idea how to interpret them. Myself included. Besides the cross on his chest, there is no real straight-forward image. It's like beautiful black, white, and red abstract art.
On a normal day, he's not the talkative type. He's the master of the single word response. And yet, the silence right now is ear-piercing. I stop brushing my teeth and spit into the sink. Deciding I can't go to ballet class, leaving him all day without something good to remember me by, I pull off my shirt and pull down my knickers.
When I step into the shower, he turns to face me with a brooding expression. Anyone else might call it a scowl, but I know it's merely a warning. Warning me not to push him too far. I peer up, craning my neck to see his narrowed turbulent grey-blue eyes, which cloak so much emotion. I know it's there. Hidden deep where no one can touch it.
Hot water splashes off his shoulders and down onto my breasts. Unable to hold that powerful gaze, I drop to my knees on the tiles and he exhales roughly.
His sigh is almost pained as I trail my hands up the tight muscles of his thighs to the thickly defined V-shaped cords between his hips. They pulse in response to my caress. So perfect. Beautiful.
I reach for his large, growing penis, but he catches my wrist.
"No," he growls.
My eyes seek out his, finding them angry and darker than before. "Please."