by Naima Simone
“That’s it,” she murmurs, the thumb of the hand still cradling my face sweeping light caresses over my cheek. Acknowledging it reveals even more weakness, I nuzzle her palm, would burrow in it, in her, if I could.
“Thank you,” I rasp, embarrassment crawling through me that she witnessed me like this—broken, exposed. “Goddamn,” I snap, closing my eyes. But it’s pathetic, without heat. It’s tired. As tired as I am. Removing my hands from her chest and hip, I drag both through my hair, clenching the strands and pulling hard until pain blooms along my scalp. This time my “goddamn” is softer, sadder, carrying the burden of everything that triggered this attack in the first place.
“You okay?” she asks, and I look down at her. Bracing myself for the pity sure to be darkening her blue gaze.
Fuck, it’s going to gut me.
If it were there. But it’s not. There’s warmth, concern, sympathy, but no pity.
“I’m good,” I lie, lowering my arms. True, this episode has passed, but the next one is lurking there in my subconscious, gleefully waiting to be triggered. It’s like living with a demon in my head. And the demon is me. “What are you doing here?”
“My mom used to have panic attacks. Especially right after Dan left. They’ve become less and less frequent through the years, but occasionally, she still suffers them.” She studies me as she almost casually drops this info like it’s a fact of life instead of an aberration of the mind not being able to cope. “How often does this happen?”
Maybe it’s her straightforward, no-nonsense manner that has me answering without hedging or flat-out refusing to speak about it. Maybe it’s just…her.
“Lately…often.”
She nods, her scrutiny almost too sharp, too…knowing. “The scene in the shop? Did it trigger this?”
“Yeah.” I clench my jaw, a last-ditch attempt at self-preservation. Being the secret keeper of this family has ingrained silence into me, and though the truth pushes at my throat, hovers on my tongue, reflex has me trapping it. But her hand curling around my neck, those elegant fingers with their newly formed callouses stroking my throat, unlocks the door. “Ana and I were together for a little under a year before I ended it. At first, it was good. I’m not going to lie, that a girl from the Gold Coast was all about me felt good.”
“Gold Coast. West Coast. What the Hell Coast. Have you seen yourself? Rich, poor, freaking royalty. Any woman would have to be dead not to be all about you,” she mutters.
I trace the shallow cleft in her chin, lingering over the little dip. “Thanks, beautiful.” I don’t remind her that she isn’t all about me. “She was sweet and made no secret about wanting to spend time with me, be with me. But my job, my hours—” I shake my head. “Soon, she wasn’t quite so understanding. Because I’m an artist, I couldn’t escort her to the parties she attended. I couldn’t just drop everything and travel with her to New York, Miami, or L.A. She wanted all my time, and I couldn’t give her that. And then there was the jealousy. She’d fly into a rage if I touched a woman, including my clients. The confident, funny, independent woman I met and fell for became needy, angry, and clingy. I couldn’t deal with that. Didn’t want to deal with that. We weren’t for each other.”
“She obviously doesn’t feel that way,” Cypress murmurs.
I shake my head. “No. I ended it four months ago, but she won’t accept it. Today was just one example of how bad she’s in denial. Calling my phone, texting until I’ve had to shut it off. Dropping in at my house at all hours. Even showing up at the bar when we go out. She’s…”
“A stalker,” she interjects, biting off the word. “And probably a little mentally unstable, if today is anything to go by. Why don’t you call the cops? At least get a TRO. From what I saw, she’s nowhere near letting go.”
I briefly close my eyes, and when I open them again, Cypress goes still. As if sensing whatever I’m about to say is going to drag her deeper into my drama than she intended. Yet she doesn’t remove her hand. Doesn’t stop touching me. If anything, her hold on me tightens.
“A month ago, I was working when she called. I didn’t answer it, not feeling like dealing with the bullshit. She called again, and again, I didn’t pick up. After the fifth time, I did, mad as hell.” I swallow hard, dislodging the emotional mass momentarily blocking my throat, but the effort is reflected in my voice. When I do finally speak again, it’s like a bag of shattered glass has scored my esophagus. “I could barely hear her. At first, because of the slurring words, I thought she was drunk. But…she threatened to kill herself. And I can’t—” I stop myself from revealing too much.
“Oh God,” Cypress breathes, the starlight in her denim gaze bright. “Jude…”
“I had Knox call 911 and rushed over there. I beat the paramedics by minutes, but she hadn’t followed through. Yet…”
I press harder against the wall as if I could escape the memory. And Cypress follows me, aligning her body with mine, her curves countering my frame, giving me something—someone—to hold on to.
“Later, she told me why she said it,” I continue, needing to get it all out. “She thought she couldn’t go on another day without me. That gutted me. Had I done that to her? Dragged her to such a dark place, she couldn’t see any reason to live? I can’t… What if I hadn’t answered the phone at all…”
“Stop it,” Cypress snaps. Rising on her toes, she gets in my face, applying pressure to the back of my neck so I lower my head toward her. I can’t miss the fire in her eyes, the fierceness in her voice. “I hate it that she ended up in such a hopeless place. I’ve seen it with my mother. Hell, I’ve been there myself. But, Jude, her attempting to take her own life? That’s not on you. That’s all her. And I hate to sound like a bitch, but for her to ring your damn phone off the hook five times and not go forward with her horrible plan, she didn’t want to die. Then to dump a guilt trip on you afterward? That’s. Bull. Shit,” she snarls. “Utter bullshit. Even then, she couldn’t take responsibility for her actions but instead continued the manipulation, trying to shame you into going back to her. She needs help, baby. And the help she needs you can’t give to her. So stop going down the what-if path because it leads to nowhere.”
I stare at her, stunned. Lifting my hands, I cup her face, tilt it back, and whisper against her lips, “Thank you.”
For getting me through the panic attack and not looking at me like I’m broken afterward.
For pressing me to flush out part of the acid that’s been eating away at my soul.
I can’t say any of this, so I brush my lips over hers. Gently, tenderly, hoping to convey in the meeting of mouths what I can’t voice.
Her breath catches, and the soft puff of air is a caress that slides over me, in me. My gut pulls tight, and blood storms to my cock. I lock down the groan surging up my chest and throat and lift my head. But then her lips part, and her tongue strokes the seam of my mouth.
My control snaps.
With a groan, I crush my mouth to hers, taking, claiming. I shift my hands to her hair, fisting it, dragging her head back so I can consume more of her. I can’t get enough. I’m a drunk, an addict, a tweaker. Except with Cypress, each hit of her is better than the first. More addictive than the last.
Thrusting my tongue deep, I tangle it around hers, sucking, daring her to get messy, dirty with me. Here, in this fucking bathroom with customers on the other side, and who can walk in here at any moment. Not that I give a damn. Not as long as her taste is in me, not as long as her scent, warm from her skin, is in my nose, and the body that’s kept my fist busy for weeks is pressed against me. Jesus, nothing else matters but her, and getting inside her one way or the other.
Tilting her head to the side, I dive deeper, licking the roof of her mouth, exploring every part of her that’s been driving me insane with lust. The thought of how long it’s been has me plunging harder, taking more, demanding she give me everything. Like I need to punish her for having me so wild for her.
Pushing off th
e wall, I spin her around, never releasing her from my kiss, and pin her to the bathroom door. Only then do I lift my head, staring down into her dark, passion-clouded eyes, dropping briefly to study her swollen lips. Unable to resist the lure of them, I gently sink my teeth into the lush bottom curve. She whimpers, but it isn’t one of pain; I know because this sexy, needy sound is track two on the soundtrack that plays in my head damn near every night. Track one is her growled cry as she breaks apart, that pussy squeezing me in a bruising grip.
Crushing one last kiss to her mouth, I rake my teeth over her jaw, pausing to dip into the shallow cleft denting her chin, then dragging my mouth down her throat. She burrows her fingers in my hair, clutching my head to her. Urging me to suck on that delicate, golden skin, to mark her. Or, at least, that’s what my sex-deprived mind translates to me. And I comply, drawing the patch of skin right over her collar bone between my teeth, sucking hard, flicking my tongue over and over. Maybe it’s the animalistic urge buried deep inside me, rearing its head and demanding I stake a claim. Maybe it’s the lust riding me to brand her so every man who looks at her tonight will know she belongs to me.
Stake a claim. Belongs to me.
The possessive phrases slam against my head and chest, and it’s a battle for the ages even as I lick a path up her throat. Logic protests that she isn’t mine, and not only can I not claim her, but I don’t want to. But that hungry, feral thing in my chest? It’s telling logic to go screw itself.
Jerking the sweatshirt and her shirt above her breasts, I skim my hands up her smooth, flat stomach, satisfaction roaring inside me when her belly goes concave under my touch. Lowering my head, I engulf her nipple just as my fingers drag the cup of her bra down and close around her breast, cupping her, lifting her like a prized offering to my mouth. I suck her deep, flicking the tip then curling my tongue around it.
Her cry ricochets off the tile walls, and I glance up, taking in her thrown-back head, tightly arched neck. The expression on her face—blissed out but fierce, raw hunger—is like a fist to my cock, and I could blow right now, without the slightest touch to it. Just from that need darkening her face and knowing I put it there.
She tips her head down, and our gazes meet. Her chest heaves, and her hips twist restlessly against me as I continue to toy with the dark brown, hardened peaks, pinching and tweaking them. Lowering my head but not releasing her eyes, I press my lips to the silky smooth path between her breasts. Brushing a trail up over the left, full curve, I again touch my mouth to her flesh, this time directly over her heart. The one she would probably describe as hardened. But that’s a lie. Except for being bruised and wounded, there’s nothing wrong with this heart.
“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. And I’ve tried.” Straightening, I grip her chin, tug her head down, and press my thumb to the sensual, ripe bottom lip. “Your mouth. How it owned my cock. Made it your bitch. I dream about this mouth. Imagine it going down on me again with my fist damn near strangling my dick. I want it again, Cypress. But right now, I want your pussy more. You going to give it to me? Right here in this bathroom? Up against the door that anyone can open at any time?” I shift her over, move her until her spine meets the door. Dipping my head, I nip her earlobe. Her jaw. “What’s your decision, sweetheart? You going to let me have you?”
A shiver ripples through her, and I could take it as her answer. But I need to hear it in her low, sin-and-sex voice. Need to hear that she’s right here with me.
With more restraint than I believed myself capable of, I flatten my hands above her head, deliberately removing my hands from her body. That first night we could chalk up to two strangers who never intended to see one another again indulging in a one-night stand.
Now, though, we can’t say that. We know exactly who each other is. She’s my stepsister. Who’s living with me. There’s no walking away in the middle of the night unless it’s down the hall to the other’s room. And the risk is higher, the consequences steeper. Dan. Her mom. My mother. So no, I’m not going to use the searing hot lust between us to sway her. This is her choice. But goddamn, I hope it’s the one that will end up with me balls deep inside her.
“Jude,” she murmurs, sliding a hand down my chest, across my abs, and over my cock. A groan rips from my throat, my hands fisting against the wood as she curls her fingers around me through my jeans, squeezing. Breaking my resolve not to touch her, I lower my forehead to hers, and her breath breaks over my lips in warm, harsh bursts. “Fuck me.”
I bang my fists against the door and take her mouth, plunging deep, hard, relaying without words what I intend to do to her. With her.
“You want to know one of the memories from that night that tears me up most?” I growl in her ear, popping the button on her jeans.
I drag the black denim down over her hips, taking her panties along with them. She moans, continuing to pump me, and I grit my teeth against the pleasure racing up and down my spine, attacking my balls. Much more of this, and I won’t last long enough to get inside her. But nothing can keep me from sliding a finger through that pretty, glistening slit.
“Dammit,” I murmur. Slick, warm, her folds part for me, and my finger glides through. “So wet. I remember this, too.” I soak myself in her cream, then return to the top of her bare sex and circle her pretty, pink clit. She bucks against my hand, her slender thighs falling apart. “I remember how you taste, like the sweetest sugar and the hottest sex. How you rode my tongue.” I roll my thumb over the little button of flesh, loving how she follows my caress, seeking it. Seeking what I’m giving her.
“Stop teasing me,” she snaps. With one hand on my dick and the other gripping my chin, she jerks my head up, and I meet the dark heat in her gaze. “Fuck. Me,” she orders. “Now.”
Lust roars through me like a backdraft, incinerating all reason, all thought except stretching that tight pussy. Removing her hold on me, I grab her hips and turn her around so she’s facing the door. Her palms slap the wood, head tipping back. The slender column of her neck is like a beacon, and my hand answers it, encircling the base, the heel of my palm resting against her collarbone. The other I skim down her stomach again, not stopping until I’m cupping her sex.
“I remember all of that. But one thing has kept me so hard and hurting, I can’t jack my dick enough times to make it go down.” I smooth a caress over her hip and over her ass, molding and squeezing her taut flesh. “You, taking me, riding me, on the edge of coming. But not able to until I finger-fucked this ass.” I squeeze her again. “You loved it, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She moans, and the rumble vibrates against the hand still encircling her neck. “God, yes.”
“You’re going to get it again, then.”
Kicking her legs wider, as wide as the jeans around her knees will allow, I angle her ass higher. Her folds, swollen and dark pink, gleam with moisture. The sight of it has lust clawing at me, sinking its teeth and nails deeper.
Jerking my hands from her body, I attack my belt and button, yanking down my zipper and freeing my flesh. It’s a relief and a torment. Just like being inside her is. It’s the perfect description. Satisfaction and unrelenting greed for more. Always more with her.
Digging in my back pocket, I remove my wallet and a condom before tossing the billfold on the counter. In seconds, I have the latex rolled down my cock and it notched at the entrance to her body. Part of me wants to pause, to savor that moment of slowly pushing in, being swallowed by her. But the hungrier, gut-clenching part…
I drive forward.
“Fuck,” I grind out. Her choked wail almost drowns me out. My fingers grip her bare hips so hard, bruises are a possibility. And that animalistic side of me hopes so. I want her to look in the mirror tomorrow and not just remember this, but feel it in the tenderness of those marks. Knowing who put them there, who claimed her as his, even if only for this moment. “Fuck,” I repeat the whisper against the back of her neck.
So goddamn tight. Strong. I’m in a vise th
at I don’t want to fight my way out of. Her flesh ripples around me, caressing me, stroking me without my even moving. I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my jaw so hard, a dull ache pulses in protest. But I remain still, letting her become accustomed to me. Waiting for her to give me the go-ahead to continue.
That signal comes seconds—hours—later. Her hips roll, grinding that beautiful ass over me. I have an obsession with this ass. I want to kiss it, bite it, slap it…ride it.
I withdraw, gliding slow, grunting as her slick walls clutch at me as if demanding I stop screwing around, and get back inside. With a quick, hard thrust, I obey. We both shudder. My memories have been lying to me all this time. Not reminding me just how good it is being clasped by her. Probably trying to preserve my sanity. Because if I’d recalled that being surrounded by her had been like this—heaven wrapped in exquisite hell—I would’ve jumped her the moment she entered my mother’s living room.
Leaning back, I watch as I slide free of her, glistening and looking almost too big, too brutish for her tender, vulnerable flesh. This time, I don’t slam back inside her, but slowly bury myself, staring, fascinated, as she parts for me, taking me. It’s hot, erotic…beautiful.
I continue to shaft her at this slow, easy pace even though everything within me is demanding I pound her and me into orgasm. Instead, I reach around her, coat my fingers in the moisture covering her entire sex. When I’m completely soaked, I part her ass, revealing the tiny, puckered back hole there. I lube it with her own cream, returning to her for more, making sure she’s good and wet.
Keening, she dips her knees, bucking her hips back and forth, screwing herself on my dick, and at the same time begging me for a deeper, dirtier penetration.
I give it to her.
My fingertips break through the tight ring of muscle, breaching her, then sliding into that smooth, two-sizes-too-small channel. Yet, it’s a perfect fit for my two fingers. She clenches around me, and I almost let go right there.