His throat closed up and the backs of his eyes stung. He wasn’t one for crying, but if anything could do it, it was Keyne and her heartrending wishes for her old life, how things were supposed to be. How he wished they could be. And then she was pressing against his side, resting her head, hair stiff and sticky with hair spray, against his shoulder.
He swallowed to get rid of the too-close-to-tears sensations. “I do, too.”
“We were supposed to . . .”
“You were supposed to what?”
“Nothing, it’s embarrassing.”
“You can tell me anything, you know that.”
Her heavy sigh was hot against his chest and he was aware of her breasts pressing into his ribcage. She mumbled into his chest and he swore to god it sounded a lot like It was supposed to be our first time.
What? He’d assumed—hell, everyone had assumed—Keyne and Gavin were having sex. They had slept in the same bed most nights, were rarely out of spitting distance of each other, had had ample opportunity. Their parents had at some point decided it was a foregone conclusion, and instead of flipping out, had stocked both their en suites with condoms. He should have pretended to ignore it, like he didn’t hear it, but his mouth beat his brain to the punch. “You’re a virgin?”
“Yes.”
Jesus fuck. That put everything into rather harsh perspective. And somehow made all the depraved thoughts he had about Keyne even worse. A virgin? Jesus.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
And he was. Her first time should have been with Gavin. His brother could be goofy and overeager, but for all his fumbling, he would have been gentle with her, tried his best to make her feel good, would have loved her to within an inch of her life. Would it have been any good? Did it matter?
His first time had been a bit of a disappointment. It had barely counted. Lisa Claybourne in her pink chintz bedroom while her parents were in Ibiza. It was more out of boredom than anything else. And when it was over, he’d thought “That was it? That’s all there is?”
It had been eight years until the light had turned on. Not that he hadn’t seen kink in porn, but it seemed cheap and cruel. He liked the women he fucked, he wanted them to enjoy it.
The first time a woman asked him shyly, pink-cheeked and eyes cast down, if he could hold her down while they had sex, his head had imploded and he almost came in his pants. He hadn’t felt that giddy about sex since before he’d actually had it, and this time, it wasn’t a disappointment. He’d come harder than he ever had and he’d loved the way her eyes got glossy and far away, how her fingers clenched into fists above where he pushed her wrists into the mattress. Her tiny noises of pleasure she’d never made before, like she’d lost herself, splintered open and light shone through the cracks.
That had been it. They hadn’t taken it much further—bathrobe sashes tied around her wrists and fastened to a spindle of her headboard, light spanking, his hand fisted in her hair when she went down on him. That had been his first taste; it was like discovering a cuisine you’d never known existed and that was it. He never wanted to eat anything else again. It tasted too fucking good.
When he wanted to go further and she didn’t, he’d waffled. Should he stay with her or go looking for someone who wanted what he wanted? In the end he’d left. It hadn’t seemed fair to keep her from someone who would be satisfied with her desires, who wouldn’t always be wishing he could push her further, hit her harder, control her more.
He hoped Keyne would be luckier, that the first person she was with would be more compatible, that they’d delight each other. He didn’t want her to be one of those girls who thought they didn’t like sex because they’d never had good sex. The more he thought about it, the gladder he was she’d chased away that stupid fuck.
And the more he thought about it, the more jealous he got of whoever was going to be Keyne’s first. Whoever it was wouldn’t be worthy. They might hurt her. Scare her. She wasn’t delicate, but god was she vulnerable under all that toughness. But no one would know, because she hid it away, locked up tight, only let it show when she was at home with him. And if she got upset . . . He thought of those early days when nothing would calm her except being held. She’d call his name and he was the only one she wanted, no one else would do.
To hear her say his name . . . Oh, hell no, Andersson. Fuck no. His relationship with Keyne was already a thousand kinds of inappropriate. He was not going to make it a thousand and one. More like a thousand to the nth power if he fucked her.
He squeezed her shoulder. “Time to get ready for bed?”
She nodded and pushed up, her hair squished on one side from laying on him, the bodice of her dress low. “I’m going to take a shower. I need to get this stuff out of my hair so it doesn’t sound like I’m sleeping on Rice Krispies.”
She slid off the bed and he watched her walk across the room. She reached behind her but she couldn’t quite reach the zipper, tried it the other way before blowing out a frustrated sigh. Ada had helped her get dressed, and clearly Keyne had needed the help. “Jasper, could you . . . ?”
“Of course.”
He laid a hand on the side of her ribcage, the fabric fine under his fingers, her breath pushing the delicate bones into his fingers. He eased the zipper down her back and when it was well within reach, he stepped back. Keyne took over and pulled it the rest of the way down and then stepped out of the heap of green silk and tulle at her feet. Christ.
She wasn’t wearing a bra and her panties were . . . God, why did she own things like that? A collection of straps that seemed to be held on by sheer willpower. He’d hold on for dear life to those slight curves, too.
“I—” His voice nearly cracked and he cleared his throat. “I’m going to go to bed.”
She peered over her shoulder, turning so he could see the curve of the underside of her breast. Jesus. “Okay.”
He had to get out of there.
When he got to his room, he took a shower, too. A cold one. Freezing. And despite that and running numbers and to-dos in his head, all he could think of was holding himself over Keyne, easing his cock inside her, petting her hair and soothing her, stroking her cheek beneath his thumb. He’d study her as he entered her, watch every change of expression, every flinch, feel any gasp or sigh. He would be patient, gentle, and if she told him to stop, he’d stop. He would make it good for her, make her feel good and even if it weren’t perfect, it would be good. She’d be cared for, safe, loved.
He loved her.
And not in the platonic way he had since she’d been born. It was far more consuming than that. He’d been fighting the thought for a long time but it crashed into him, undeniable. He loved her, wanted every bit of her. Her tears, her laughter, her pleasure, her stubborn fits of pique. He could taste it, what it would be like to have her. It tasted like satisfaction, like peace, like everything he’d ever wanted.
Keyne O’Connell was built for him. Not from birth, no. But now, with the way her pieces had been put back together after everything that happened, maybe they were meant to be together.
He shut off the water and ducked out, drying his hair before he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. He climbed into bed and left Keyne’s light on, wondering if she would come. The nights she didn’t, he had a hard time falling asleep, tossing and turning, wondering if she was okay, if she was struggling to let go like he was. But he needn’t have worried. The door clicked open half an hour later and he held up the covers so she could slide in beside him. She nestled in close and he wrapped his arm around her, inhaling the clean smell of her.
Chapter Seventeen
June
In the morning he woke, hard as usual, and was about to sneak out of bed.
“Jasper?”
He froze, his hard-on pressed into her back, and flushed. She never woke up before he did. Ever. He closed his eyes tight, willed his dick to go soft
, unthreatening, but it wouldn’t. Not while it was against her.
“Yeah?” If he could sound less like he was in pain, that’d be great.
“Do you ever . . .”
Curiosity poked at his brain. Do you ever wonder what it would be like to roll me over and kiss me? Do you ever think about me naked? Do you ever wish you could fuck me? Yes, yes, and yes, and he wished to hell he didn’t. Or maybe it was a “do you ever” of the Do you ever think about our dead families, or is that just me variety. He didn’t care to talk about either one. Not knowing what to hope for, he coaxed her. “Do I ever what?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” He rubbed her arm, hoping maybe she didn’t notice how hard he was.
“Do you ever think of me that way?”
Bagpipes went off in his head. Bagpipes of all things. Not fireworks, not thunder and lightning. Not even goddamn butterflies. Fucking bagpipes. What the fuck, brain? He struggled not to let the bagpipes take over, but instead kept his voice steady and calm while his heart beat a mile a minute and his dick throbbed.
“What way?”
“Every morning, you wake up, and you’re . . . You . . .”
His stomach clenched so hard the only thing that stopped him from curling into the fetal position was that Keyne would be crushed. She’d noticed. Of course she had. How dumb was he, thinking she never had?
“I’m sorry, Keyne. It’s, you know, for guys, it’s—”
“Nothing. I know.” Her head dipped and she curled in on herself in his arms. She swallowed. “That’s why I asked but I didn’t think . . .”
She scoffed and his chest collapsed. “I’m not dumb. I didn’t actually think you thought about me like that. I remember your girlfriends. Why don’t you have girlfriends anymore?”
Fuck. Because they’d be threatened by you and they should be? Because you needed me too much and what I get from you is most of what I need, more than I’ve ever had from anyone else? Because I’d rather jerk off to thoughts of you than come inside someone else and because when I’ve tried to fantasize about other women all I think of is you? “Busy.”
“Yeah, but you’ve always been busy.” She rolled away from him and looked him in the face. “I’m sorry I ruin everything. I’ll be at college next year, you can have your life back.”
“No. Don’t say that, Keyne. Not for a second since you’ve come here have I regretted it. I’ve been exactly where I wanted to be and I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re not a chore, you’re a privilege and I won’t have you thinking any differently. If anyone makes you feel otherwise, they’re wrong. They’re flat out fucking wrong.” He meant every word of it, and even as he wished for her to find a partner who would treat her that way—who would care for her, and coddle her even while admiring how tough and intelligent she was, how funny and stubborn she could be, and yeah, her beauty. Another one of those things he’d tried not to think about, but she was more than girlishly pretty. The lines of her were elegant and lovely—he was also exceedingly jealous of this hypothetical man who would get to have her.
“But I’m—”
“No buts. You deserve to be loved for exactly who you are.”
“A busted-up mess?”
He cracked a smile. “Yeah.”
She scowled at him and it knocked all sense of reason from his head. If there was anything else he could want in a woman, he couldn’t think of what it might be. That’s what made him go off the deep end and give into the urges he’d been having for months.
He reached for her. Threaded his fingers through her hair and closed his fist. Leaned in, and . . . kissed her. Soft but firm, and she made a tiny startled noise, making him pull away. He was preparing his apology, guilt crushing his insides but she shook her head and lunged for him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her mouth to his.
They kissed, closed mouth for a while until her tongue, tentative, licked his lower lip and he wanted to die. It was a toss-up between that and ravishment. He wanted to ravish her. But he made himself soft, receptive for her as she touched the tip of her tongue to his mouth and then inside. He drew her in, offering a slow small caress. Yes, Keyne, yes.
This was her choice. He’d let it be her choice, and if this was what she wanted . . . god save them both, but he wasn’t going to stop her.
The second she gave any indication whatsoever this was not what she wanted, he’d stop. She knew enough kickboxing to make a man who plied her with unwanted advances very sorry, and even if she didn’t want to use violent means, he hoped she’d become comfortable enough with him, trusted him enough, to say stop.
She was getting braver, her mouth open and hungry and he stilled himself to respond. Let her have anything she wanted, but not press anything on her. She stopped kissing him and with their faces still close, whispered against him, her lips brushing his. “Jasper? Kiss me, please? I want you to kiss me.”
His response was immediate. He would give her anything she asked for. If she wanted to be kissed, he would kiss her until the day he died. Not wanting to scare her, he held back some, but he explored her mouth and she moaned, a gaspy high-pitched thing that made his dick ache. He cupped her face in his hand and ran fingers into her hair. The feel and the taste of her were so diverting, it was only when she moaned again—this time louder—that he realized his hand was half wrapped around her throat, pressing her into the pillow.
He let go, ashamed of himself. Keyne wasn’t one of those women, the ones he’d met in specific contexts, who knew what to expect, who he’d negotiated with. She was an innocent. While he shouldn’t be doing this at all, he definitely shouldn’t be playing kinky games with her.
But then her hand was on his, pressing his fingers hard around her delicate neck, her pulse beating fast under his palm. Holy Jesus fucking hell. He pulled away, eyes wide. Keyne stared back at him, pink in the cheeks, her freckles not visible beyond the blush.
“I . . . I liked it. Don’t let go. Please, don’t make me . . .”
Her small mouth pursed. He stroked her hair with his free hand as her eyes darted away. Don’t leave, Keyne. Talk to me. Let me in.
“Don’t make you what?”
“Don’t make me feel bad because I . . .” She shook her head, blowing an audible breath out her nose. “You won’t understand.”
“Try me, sweetheart. When have I made you feel bad about something you wanted?”
He loved the way her eyebrows came together, arches of spun gold bunching above the bridge of her nose. She was thinking about it. And when she gave her answer, it slayed him, made pride burst right out of his fucking head. “Never. Not even when I . . .”
Cut myself. That’s what she was going to say. Not even when she cut herself did he make her feel bad. Having said that in her own words, maybe she’d let him cajole her into spilling whatever she was so afraid of.
“So give it a go.”
Her green eyes evaluated him, and though he wanted to laugh at how goddamn serious she was, he wouldn’t.
“I don’t know how to explain it. You’re going to think I’m fucked-up. There’s something wrong with me.”
“I doubt it.” There was a very short list of things she could say that would appall him. And “appall” wasn’t the right word. He might not understand, but he wouldn’t be an asshole about it. He knew enough people with enough different kinks that little made him blink an eye, never mind raise an eyebrow. And hell, he was probably letting the things he knew about the world color his expectations about what she was going to say.
Just because he was a kinky bastard and a lot of the people he associated with after-hours were also kinky as fuck didn’t mean the rest of the universe was. For all he knew, she was going to say something as wild as she wanted to keep the lights on, or be on top. Give him a grapefruit blow job or some other shit she’d read about in one of her magazines.
His heart skipped a beat. Tallulah Tinker Bell had rape fantasies? He tried his damnedest to keep his expression neutral, his breath even, but fuck, she’d done it. Shocked him.
“Not like raped. That would be . . .” She shivered under him. “Too much. But . . . I told you I can’t explain it.”
The bagpipes were back, the bleating loud in his ears. Every expletive he’d ever heard in his life went racing through his mind. No way. No fucking way. He’d assumed she was vanilla and he’d wanted her worse than any woman he’d ever seen in his life anyway, but if she were a submissive? A bottom even? “Lucky” would not describe it.
“I like your hand here.” Her fingers tightened around his that snaked around her throat. “I want to be held. I want . . .”
He closed his grip, not tight enough to cut off any air, but nearly so and her eyes rolled back as she went limp, pliant.
“That? Do you want that, Keyne? Does that feel good?” Her head jerked. Yes, yes. He watched her for signs of distress, but she lay there, calm and still, her chest rising and falling faster than normal, but not with panic. As much as he tried to tell himself otherwise, she actually looked as serene as he’d ever seen her.
“Put your hands up by your head.”
She did and tossed under his hand. Her fingers curled into her palms and he tutted at her. “No. No fists. Be a good girl for me and relax.”
A breath hissed out of her and then back in, her hips rising in time and she made a mewl that kicked him in the head. She opened her hands and let them lie there, open to him, offering, obeying. He didn’t do anything for a moment, too busy marveling at this sylphlike creature under his hands. Her eyes fluttered open and then she opened her mouth.
The glassy look in her eyes, the softness of her face, the slack of her mouth. He recognized that look from the many partners he’d had. Push one of their buttons right, and this is the look they’d get. And Jesus did it look good on Keyne.
After all the times she’d been in tears, or blank like a grey wall, a grimace on her face when someone told her to smile—to see her like this, peaceful and content, was a delight. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I understand.”
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