“When I came home and had to go back to school, I felt empty. There was this hole in my chest that was ripped open by a man who had zero morals. I felt stilted. My growth and freedom halted in that alleyway in France. He took from me. Not just my innocence, but my hope, my will to explore, my desire for the unknown.”
As I watch her like this, her eyes glossy with the memory but shining with strength and voracity, it’s breathtaking.
“I met Wesley then.”
I grimace, thinking of the loser surfer douche who thought he could win my wife back. He can fuck right off.
“Yes, him.” She laughs, and it’s so melodical and light. It’s perfect and sweet. It’s tender and loving.
“He helped me not feel so lost. Made me want to take risks and win. He changed the game for me. Even if he was an absolute waste of time.”
“I disagree. Without him, we wouldn’t have met,” I joke and wink. It’s true, even if it seems unlikely.
“You’re right. He fixed the meek part of me. When I came home and Dad didn’t see the change in me, I didn’t tell him any of it. Not about the miscarriage, the rape, or the disease, and he didn’t care to ask.”
I hug her to me then, hoping to love all the sadness away. Imagine if a hug could do that? Love every bad thing away and only offer hope and peace? We’d have a new cure for all of life’s hardships.
“Meeting Wes was purely fateful. Dad was doing a rally, and he was there to surf on the same beach. When he spilled his beer near my dad and Daddy dearest hated him immediately, I felt a fire I thought I lost in that alley. One that hadn’t rose or erupted for anything. Plus, Wes was cute.”
I growl, nipping her throat.
“Jealousy looks hot on you,” she teases. “Wesley was hot,” she clarifies, and I’m sucking her flesh between my lips in hopes I leave a mark. “Okay, beast man. I’ll lay off. Let me finish my story so you can get back to touching me.”
I smirk, knowing that I make her wet and horny whenever I’m rough in a caveman sort of way. She’ll never admit it, but she loves when I’m possessive. She has since that night at Francis’s house when I showed her exactly whose cock would be filling her for the rest of her life.
“He was checking me out...” I bite her again and pinch her nipple for good measure. “Oh, come on!” she grunts. I chuckle at her flushed face.
“Smart man, knows a hot piece of ass when he sees one.”
“You’re a perv, Tobias.”
“Yet you still like riding my cock.” Her face reddens, and she bites her lip.
“As I was saying,” she deflects. “We hit it off, and he reminded me of why I’d never be still ever again. I’d always seek freedom and peace, even if it meant sticking it out to the shitty times no one could plan for.”
When she says those words, she looks away from me. But I won’t have it. Not today, not when we’re making progress, not when she thinks she’ll hurt me.
It hurts, but it’s my fault not hers.
“I’m sorry I fucked up.”
“Those words don’t mean what you want them to,” she whispers.
“They do,” I argue. “Because I’ll never fucking make the mistake of hurting you again.”
“How can you be so sure?” she questions, finally looking back at me. Her trust is broken, but I’ll work endlessly, even if I never get it back.
“Believe me, Sous,” I swear, holding her jaw and rubbing it softly. “If there’s anything in life I’ll ever promise you, it’s that I’ll never betray you again. If you’re mad or hugging other men, I won’t assume and accuse.” She stares at me in open-mouthed shock.
“If they get too handsy, though, I’ll fucking string them up by their balls myself.”
A giggle escapes her, making me feel so warm inside it’s unreal.
“Love me even when I’m a mess, Sous.”
Her gaze locks with mine, and she doesn’t waver when she responds. “I do. Pretty sure I have since we scowled at each other in that event room.”
“It was foreplay, Sous. All fucking foreplay.”
“I love you, Toby. More than cooking.”
A smile breaks free from my mouth. “I love you too, little chef.”
I waste no time to pin her to the bed, watching as her mouth opens in a moan. This is my fucking wife, and it’s about time I remind her.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Present
Joey
I want to say more, to tell him he changed me more than Wes ever could. That I hated him as much as I loved him for so long that giving in to just the love freaks me out.
But he has different plans.
He splits my thighs and resides between them, rubbing against me slow and torturously. Fighting him with my sweater wasn’t supposed to end with him winning. My scars are still fresh and scabbed over. They’re ugly and treacherous, reminding me of my weakest moments.
They always paint suicidal people as the bad guy.
Committing suicide is selfish.
I’ve heard those words on so many occasions that they’re painted in my mind like a memoir of what not to say to someone who debates living on a daily basis.
Not debating death, nor debating whether to live another day.
Suicide isn’t selfish.
At the time, when the pain is too much, where it overrides every single fiber of your being to where nothing else matters, it’s freedom.
It’s spreading your wings and shedding the weight of what the world has toppled upon you. It’s escaping that constant pain that burrows into your flesh whether you want it to or not. It’s feeling nothing when life has only given you everything in heavy doses.
So no, it’s not selfish. Living is selfish.
Living with a burden of pain that refuses to ebb or ease, that’s not fair. We can only live for others for so long before even that becomes too much.
Staying, now, that’s also selfless. Not to ourselves, the ones experiencing endless torture, but to the ones who surround us. We’re only breathing because you wish it. We’re only staying because you’d be empty without us. We’re only here because letting go would leave us with guilt as our final thought.
Suicide isn’t simple.
It’s not.
It’s hard and full of never-ending pain.
It’s not something someone who has never experienced its thrall can explain or allude to. Because until you’re at the end of your story, the last chapter, last page, and last sentence, you couldn’t understand.
Yeah, you may have an idea of what it means and that a person must be hurting, but you couldn’t possibly feel what a person at the cusp of ending their lives is feeling.
Me wanting death wasn’t Toby’s fault. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t one thing here or there. It was a build-up, something that started young and carried itself on my back through life. It was a burdensome weight that suffocated me if I got too comfortable, one that drowned me when I floated too close to the sun, and one that would bleed me dry if I thought for even a second that life was a little too much.
And as Toby kisses my throat and shoulders, trailing his lips across my arms, I want nothing more than to hide that truth.
“Not there,” I whimper as his face hovers over my forearms. His eyes peer directly into mine, digging deep, making sure I see what he’s seeing.
“Yes, here,” he murmurs, placing his lips on the tender flesh. “And here.” He kisses the juncture of my elbow. “Right here, too.” His mouth touches my largest scar. The jagged one that’s the most tender. “Because these scars, Joey,” he reiterates, hovering his face over mine. “They’re fucking breathtaking. A reminder of what you’ve been through, how much I’ve hurt you, and that I’ll do every fucking thing in life to make sure no new ones join these.”
Through the tears, I see and feel him kissing the same path on my other arm.
“You’re sexy, Josephine. So fucking sexy, scars and all.” He finishes at my wrist and then starts all over again, kissing,
caressing, touching. When all my tears are gone, he’s moving up my body to take my mouth, silencing my demons once and for all.
“Now spread your thighs and let me kiss the wet cunt that belongs to me.”
I push my legs apart and his mouth hovers over my pussy. He stares at me with intent, and as he lowers, my eyes shut of their own accord. Before he even touches my clit, he stops.
Opening my eyes to see him smirking devilishly, I realize my mistake. He wants me to watch. Forcing myself not to become consumed with pleasure is a feat in itself, but he always wants to be seen.
“That’s a good little chef. Keep those pretty amber eyes on me.” Watching him lick my pussy is so much hotter than closing my eyes to feel each tongue-lashing, but fuck, sometimes the pleasure overwhelms me, and I can’t breathe without feeling it all instead of watching.
His tongue flattens and swipes slowly. He wants me to feel every sensation. He’s torturing me. His eyes are hot and ravenous on mine as his tongue flicks over me slowly. I moan as I watch him wrap his lips around my clit. He groans, and I’m already on the fucking edge. We haven’t had sex in ages, and the only orgasms I’ve had are with my hand or BOB.
Unlike most men, Toby knows where my clit is, so he makes sure to only focus on it unless he’s taunting me. He drags his teeth over the swollen nub, and I’m crying out.
“Count.” I know immediately what he’s demanding of me. He wants me to count all my orgasms. Internal and external. Full body shakes and all.
“One,” I hiss as he sticks two fingers inside me, trailing the wetness across and licking it clean. He’s such a ravenous bastard. Always taking his fill and nothing less.
He thrusts into me, curling his fingers, wanting me to scream. He eventually gets what he wants when I can no longer hold in my pleasure. It’s too much.
My clit throbs, and my legs shake. Knowing I won’t be able to handle much more if he doesn’t spread the stimulation, Toby rises and takes my mouth with his. My flavor bursts all over my tongue, swirling, and branding me with memories.
We’re soulmates.
Toxic but perfect.
Bad but so good.
He groans when my hands wrap around his steel length. It’s harder than I’ve felt in a long time. After our conversation, I keep thinking of all the times we’ve fucked, and how he tortured me with the details of his sexcapades. He’d always fuck me, and it was after he had them. He’d use me, and I’d let him.
“Stop.”
He stills, freezing above me, removing his mouth.
It’s not what he thinks, but I just need to know.
“Did they ever suck you off?” I ask, my heart hammering. He doesn’t smirk or make light of the words. I figured he’d come out with an are you jealous, Sous? But he just seems disappointed in himself all over again.
“Yes,” he mutters. “That’s all it was at first. It was an easy way for me to not see their faces...” he trails off, almost like he doesn’t want to explain it.
“To pretend they were me?”
“Yeah,” he says softly, guilt eating him up.
“Then I need to start there. Reclaiming what’s mine.”
His eyes gleam with ferocity. He doesn’t waver as I push him off me, only lifts and assists. I lie at the edge of the bed on my back. “Is this how they did it? Where you couldn’t see anything but their throats?”
He growls, fisting his length as if recreating every past sexual experience, replacing them with me.
“Yes,” he growls.
“Then fuck my throat, husband. And show me how you wished it was me all along.”
His eyes simmer. His cock twitches. He’s going to choke me with that cock, and I’m going to come because of it. He steps to the end of the bed where my head hangs off. He bends a little to place himself at my lips, and I take him in one go.
In no time, he’s fucking my face deep and hard. I keep my throat relaxed. He pulls out, and I peer up to see if something is wrong and realize he’s not just watching me, he’s recording me.
“New memories,” he husks.
Then no more words are shared as he pushes back inside my mouth, recording his cock choking me out. He thrusts and thrusts, and I’m drooling everywhere. Before he’s about to release, he pulls out of me, stroking my throat, then kneeling to lick and nip my pulse point.
He bites and sucks and I just know he’s leaving marks and branding me once again. He traces every inch of me all while holding his phone, recording it.
Grabbing my ankles, he drags me up the bed with no phone in sight.
“No more recording?”
“Oh, it’s recording, sweetheart. But the only thing it’ll have is your moans as I bury my cock inside your tight cunt.”
“Toby,” I moan as he grabs my throat and slams inside me. I’m so full of him, being stretched. It’s so good to feel him rip me in half with his monster cock. It’s so thick and rigid. I’m coming within ten seconds of him rotating his hips.
“Two,” I sound out, and he kisses me on the lips.
“Good little chef.”
He thrusts and thrusts, and when I’m about to combust again, he’s pinching my clit and my back bows off the bed.
“Three,” I barely whisper, not recognizing my hoarse voice.
My body trembles from head to toe as he drills into me. He’s such a beast when it comes to reclaiming my body. Every time he thought I’d fucked Francis, he’d fuck me after. Punishing me with his cock, his mouth, and his hands.
“Fuck,” he growls, pistoning his hips. I watch his taut skin flex, licking my lips as I see the veins leading to his steely length inside me. He’s huge and so fulfilling.
“Harder,” I complain, trying to thrust up as he goes down. I need the pain. He lets my throat go, trailing his fingers down to my breasts. He pinches my barbell nipple, and I scream.
“Four.” It comes out half hiss, half moan. He’s pulling out of me in the next breath and lowering his face to my abused heat.
“I’m going to keep making you come, Sous. I’m going to own every fucking hole.”
“You talk too much,” I grumble.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Then you know... you talk too much.”
He bites my clit and then soothes it with his tongue, eliciting a cry that turns into a moan. I shake as he eats me out, his tongue spearing inside me in tandem of his hands gripping my tits like they’re his last hope.
“So fucking delicious, Sous. Are you going to squirt for me? Come on my tongue?”
His hand snakes down, spreading my folds wide as his other finger enters me. He’s gathering my juices before he’s trailing them to my asshole. His finger presses in, and I moan, wanting more. His mouth is between my legs, slurping and sucking my clit while he spears into my ass. I’m a mess of whimpers and near sobs as the sensitivity takes over. I’m about to combust.
He grinds down on my clit, and that’s all it takes before I’m screaming his name and releasing all over his face. I can feel my body squirt, it comes out of me with my heartbeat as its tempo, yet he’s not done with his assault of my clit.
“Five.”
When he finally lets up, he’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking.
“We should add your cunt to the menu,” he grunts as he works his way into me. “Scratch that, they don’t deserve to taste heaven, and this is all mine.”
“If it’s yours, then why is it not filled with cum?” I challenge, seeing as his face morphs from teasing to desperate. That’s all it takes to get him going again. He takes my wrists, pinning them on the bed, and then he’s jackhammering inside me as I scream his name.
“I don’t hear you counting, Sous,” he husks.
“Six,” I hiss, feeling my body wanting to shut down. He’s definitely not stopping until he hits a number he’s happy with.
“That’s right. Keep counting.” He kisses my sweat-lined forehead before flipping us over so I’m riding him. This is my f
avorite position. Not just because he’s beneath me, but because he hits higher and makes it pinch with every thrust.
“Want me to claim your cock, husband?”
“Yes,” he grumbles. “But we both know it’s always been yours.”
I bounce up and down on him, proving just that. He groans as I use his abs for leverage, wanting to rise as much as I can before I come down harder. After he’s gripping my thighs as if I’m going to break his balls, I rise off and turn around, taking his cock while my ass is the only thing he’ll see. When I slide down, the noise he makes is almost inhuman.
“Josephine.” It’s a bite. I can feel it as if it’s digging into my flesh, leaving a brash red mark. I slide up and down his rigid length, and it’s not even twenty seconds in that we’re both finding our release.
“Seven,” I whimper, barely pulling myself off him. His seed spills from me, escaping me in strings of white. It’s warm and there’s so much. He never comes this much; this must be a build-up.
“Fuck, Joey,” he murmurs, pulling me to his chest. He holds me, and I rub up on him, nestling, feeling him cocoon me with love and warmth. It’s everything I’ve wanted for months, and now that I’m getting it, it’ll never be enough. I’ll always want more. Always want him. Always want this.
I breathe in deeply, kissing where his heart is nestled beneath his ribs.
“Love the hate out of me, Toby.” He shifts us so we’re eye to eye.
“Love me more than I hate myself, Sous.”
When his lips touch mine this time, it’s with finality and promise. It’s with love and lust and everything in between. It’s with hate and sadness and heartbreak.
It’s everything.
We are everything.
When life gets impossible, take a moment. And don’t forget to breathe.
Epilogue One
Joey
“I want to adopt,” I tell Toby out of the blue. “I’ve been thinking about it, and that’s what I want.”
He nods happily.
“I’ve been thinking the same.”
Heaving out a sigh of relief, I seek out his eyes. “I’m glad you say that,” I let out. My breathing coming in short, panicked waves. “Because I already found a little boy.”
Breathe (Hollow Ridge Book 2) Page 33