Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  “Fuck, Lyra.” The thwacking sound gets a little louder, a little faster, and my heartrate accelerates right along with it. Pressing my thighs together, I attempt to quell the ache and realize I’m dripping. My panties have never been so wet.

  Of its own accord, my body inches closer. I lean all of my weight into the door, hoping to catch every dirty sound.

  Instead, the door springs open a few inches.

  My stomach drops. My heart skips a beat out of fear. But when I take in the scene in front of me, my eyes widen in an instant, straining like they might pop out of my head. Forget all the times I cursed myself for deciding to purchase a see-thru, map-printed shower curtain.

  Bad decision, say what? That was hands-down the best damn investment of my life.

  I gulp, drinking in the sight of him. I’m shipwrecked, on the verge of delirium, and he’s an unopened bottle of Evian. His head falls forward, his forehead resting against the inside of his bicep. His back is to me, left arm extended just above his head and palm splayed against the tile as he leans most of his weight forward. A vein stands out beneath his tanned flesh, running the length of his wrist to elbow due to the exertion. My eyes linger on his broad and surprisingly muscular back, before sliding on down to his tapered hips and tight buns. Yeah, squats are obviously a regular part of his workout regimen, he’s got the ass of a professional athlete.

  Nash is an anomaly—living proof that physical perfection exists. And my fingers itch to touch.

  A quiet growl reaches my ears and the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth when my teeth break skin. Want courses through me. I could give him a hand. Or a mouth. I’m not picky about which part of my body I’d be lending.

  There’s an epic battle taking place inside my brain right now—a war of indecision, a wager of consequences and possible outcomes. One part of me has been captivated—entranced by the way droplets of water roll down his defined physique—and would be content to do nothing more than stand here for as long as I can get away with. Another part is daring me to do something accidentally on-purpose, a calculated moment of klutziness that calls his attention to me.

  But I can’t do either of those things. One ends with potential embarrassment, and the other ends with the definition of the word. I grip the door knob carefully, giving a slow and precise pull as I take a regretful step back.

  Creeeaaaak. “Shit,” I mutter in panic, being a little more louder than I intend. I halt all movements immediately, my eyes slamming shut. God, I’m an idiot. Nervous energy courses through my veins, seeping into my body with each jackhammer of my heart. I attempt to talk myself down with a mental pep-talk. The door is only cracked six inches at most—if I’m lucky, he won’t even notice it. Besides, he’s a dude, and men are truly unobservant creatures by nature.

  The soft thwacking hasn’t let up, so I’ll take it as a sign he didn’t even hear the spontaneous noise the hinges made. I’m certain he wouldn’t continue masturbating knowing I’m just over here watching.

  Releasing a steadying breath—a silent brace yourself—I peel my eyes open.

  And I’m fucked.

  Thoroughly.

  He’s regarding me, a smug look on his face as he continues his current course of action without pause. And as if noticing I’m glued to the floor, his brow rises in challenge.

  ~XoXo~

  Nash

  I’m a man. A twenty-six year old, one hundred percent, straight man. Suffice it to say I like pussy. Now, as a man, I can confidently tell you this—men are fucked up, and the powers that be made it so that fucked up creatures do fucked up shit. We’re downright shameless. We’re scoundrels who don’t know the meaning of words like reputable, noble or estimable.

  Case in point, if we drop a piece of pizza, we’ll eat it right off the floor.

  If a nice perky rack is presented to us at eye-level, we’re gonna stare—possibly without blinking—even if we’re on a lunch-date with our girl, her mom, and our grandma.

  If we’re horny, we get laid. And if pussy isn’t readily available, we take the next available option.

  And I’m horny as fuck. Enter my current predicament: I’m barely surviving the perfect formula to produce a nice case of the grimacing gonads—blue balls, if you will. But it’s no fucking wonder after that sexy ass kiss. Lyra’s legs were wrapped around my waist so tight, I could feel her sweet heat as we were grinding against each other. My dick has never been so achingly hard for a girl. So badly so, it started to interfere with my brain’s ability to process coherent thoughts.

  All that, and everything suddenly comes to a screeching halt. It must be nice to be a woman, to be able to shut off your cravings and desires as easily as switching on and off a light—no side effects, no bodily harm, no frustrating repercussions. Not that I don’t respect a woman’s right to change their mind, because I do—it just sucks for me.

  The tropical scent of her body wash clings to the inside of my nose like it’s found its forever fucking home. That could be because as soon as I got my first whiff of the stuff, my dick grew impossibly stiffer, enticing me to pour a nice-sized dollop into the palm of my hand and start lathering myself down—paying special attention to my rock-hard length.

  Or I told myself I was only lathering myself up, and down, even though I knew somewhere in the back of my mind, my intentions weren’t near so pure. “Fuck,” I grate out through clenched teeth, fighting to keep my voice low as it starts to feel overwhelmingly good. My tightened fist slides up and down smoothly as my mind drifts—the first place it heads being straight to Lyra. To her swollen, bee-stung lips, freshly kissed and slightly parted as she tries to catch her breath. To those expressive blue-green eyes, glittering with want and need and muddled with confusion. To the rise and fall of her heaving chest, and the way each intake of breath thrusts her full and perky tits out, stealing my attention.

  I imagine her here, standing before me, stripped bare and dripping with the suds of the same tropical soap currently covering my own body. She drops to her knees, hands falling to her sides as she peers up at me through her long, wispy lashes as if asking my permission. A full body shudder rolls over me and I’m pretty sure I might say her name out loud, but I’m too caught up to notice.

  One palm seeks the tiled wall as I lean forward. I drop my forehead against upper arm, my breaths coming more hurriedly. A tingling sensation brews somewhere deep inside my bones as I continue to stroke myself, picking up the pace as my head plays out the hottest fantasy ever made up.

  Then, a low, creaky groan sounds from somewhere behind me, and I jolt, turning to look over my shoulder. Something purple catches my eye, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the stark white bathroom. The door leading to her bedroom is ajar, and she’s standing there, lip tucked between her teeth. Her eyes are locked shut as tightly as possible, her hand on the door knob like she’s frozen in place and currently fighting her way through indecision.

  I take the time to allow a thorough perusal of her now, starting from the plum painted tips of her toes and skimming up her toned, silky-looking legs. Her legs are fucking killer. Until earlier, I hadn’t gotten a good look at them seeing as she’s worn nothing but blue jeans and leggings aside from that dress she wore to the club—and even that didn’t show anything off aside from a small bit of thigh.

  It’s obvious she’s mindful of her health, taking precautions to take care of her body. I’m betting she takes a spin-class or yoga or something due to the long, lean shape of them. And fuck, my leg studying session seems to go on forever, not ending until I get to the hem of her underwear/sleep shorts. I’m not too sure what to call them, but I sure as hell am not complaining. A white tank-top clings to her like a second skin that’s just itching to be shed, showcasing the in-and-out hourglass curves of her figure. The front of it depicts the moon surrounded by stars, making me smirk because it’s something she’s always been intrigued with—and despite being a little juvenile, it’s somehow still sexy. It’s befitting of her quirkiness.r />
  She releases the knob, taking a slow and methodical step back, but her eyes spring open at the last second, seeking that final parting glance before she distances herself from this fucked up situation I’m sure she can’t believe she walked in on. Her eyes widen and her cheeks grow rosy when she realizes I’ve got my eyes on her—I’m watching her, fully aware I’ve been caught in the act, yet wholly unashamed as I continue stroking myself. Because quite frankly, real Lyra although partially clothed and not kneeling in front of me begging for permission to suck my cock, is a hell of a lot better visual than the one my fantasy concocted.

  When she continues to stand there frozen, mouth agape, I arch an eyebrow in silent question.

  Are you just gonna stand there waiting for the grand finale, or are you gonna come join me?

  Apparently understanding the exact invitation that just rolled around in my head, she blinks rapidly. The spell has suddenly dissipated, and she turns, spinning on her heel and disappearing into her bedroom.

  “Pussy,” I grunt, turning my head forward again and closing my eyes as I chase that happy ending she started. But as much as I try to focus, I can’t. It’s a futile point now that Lyra’s dangled herself in front of me again for the umpteenth time. Nothing but the real thing will stop a craving so intense—which is unfortunate as fuck for me.

  I drop my dick dismissively, growling as I shake my head.

  At the same time, the shower curtain is wrenched back.

  I jerk around to find a fuming Lyra. She stands there glaring at me, her bright, tropical irises have darkened in color and are nearly impossible to even see past the thin slits her eyes have lowered into. Her nostrils flare, as one hand settles at her hip—the tried and true tick of a pissed off Lyra.

  “Did you just call me a pussy?” She asks the question through clenched teeth.

  Obviously, I’ve struck a chord.

  “Just calling it like I see it…”

  “Oh, Yeah? How the fuck so?”

  “Well, hell, Lyra. I don’t know…Maybe because there’s something here between us,”—I motion back and forth between the two of us, not giving a fuck I’m standing here stark naked as I do so—“always has been, and it’s something we’ve been fighting our whole lives, dancing around the subject because neither one of us can wholly comprehend it. But that’s natural. People avoid the things they don’t understand…it’s second nature, instinct to do so.”

  She’s giving me a wary glance, her expression telling me she’s still not ready to have this conversation—still unwilling to put a label on whatever our feelings are toward one another. For now, I’ll just bring up the most basic of them all—our physical connection. “I’m tired of pushing back. I’m fucking sick of blocking my feelings instead of just letting things be. I want to see where this can go…I think I’ve made that pretty obvious tonight. Now the ball’s in your court, but instead of playing, you keep tossing it off to the side.” I look her straight in the eye. “You’re a pussy.”

  I shrug, because it’s true, even if the verdict is handed out none too delicately. Although she seems to have changed in many ways since high-school, she still backs down and gets all indecisive when it comes to me. Just like when we were younger and she had a crush on me, she never owned up to it—and she won’t own up to the chemistry between us now. Not without a little push.

  Her eyes narrow a little further, her brow furrowing just seconds before her palms land on my naked chest. She rises onto the balls of her feet and gives an angry push. But my hands are wrapped around her wrists like handcuffs in an instant, taking advantage of her unevenly distributed weight, and pulling her into the walk-in shower with me.

  Shock is the first thing that registers on her face as her mouth pops open in surprise, her eyes two perfect circles as the full force of the showerhead hits her in the side of the face. Within seconds her tight white tank is drenched, making her rosy, pebbled nipples visible through the fabric. She seems to notice the fact right about the same time I do, probably because I’m blatantly staring. Fury quickly replaces disbelief when she tries to jerk away from my grip.

  I don’t budge, not a millimeter.

  Just as her mouth starts to fly open—to issue some bitchy response, I’m sure—my lips stop her, pressing to hers forcefully as I attempt to feed her all my frustrations through kiss alone. She lets out a tiny squeak of surprise, then her body goes lax, melting against me.

  “Stop fighting this. Stop fighting us. Just give in. And if that’s too much, just give in for the night.” I finally break away to whisper the words against her lips, placing another chaste kiss to them afterwards.

  I’m almost positive she won’t respond this time, not even to affirm, so I ask her. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

  She shakes her head lightly, biting her lip again.

  “Is that a no, I don’t want to do this. Or a no, you’re not going to use your words?”

  Her fingernails press into my skin almost painfully, and she still sidesteps the decision making process.

  “How about this…If you don’t want to do this, Stars, just walk away again. But if you do, then kiss me right the fuck now. Kiss me like your life depends on it.”

  Her tropical-water eyes stare into my own for what feels like a lifetime, and defeat rifles through me. She isn’t moving. She’s telling me no. My hold on her wrists slacken to that of a frayed scarf, easy to rip through with one gentle tug on her part. I’m just not entirely ready to release her just yet, so this is the one big move she’ll be forced into making—choosing to break ties and walk away.

  But then a spark of mischief flits through her expression, a small smirk curling at her lips that’s enough to make me pause, just to marvel at the beauty of it. She wrenches her hands from mine, but quickly slides her fingers through my wet hair, gripping the back of my head like a vice as she pulls me down to her. I asked her to kiss me like her life depends on it—but this is so much more, like my life is the one on the line and she’s resuscitating me with the insistent pressure of her lips molded with mine. With every nip she breathes life. With every tiny suckle she rebuilds the connection. And I’m reading her intent loud and clear.

  She might not have said it outright, but actions speak louder than words and she’s right there with me. When she catches my bottom lip between her teeth and bites down harshly, I growl as the metallic taste of blood tinges my tongue. It should piss me off, seeing as it was purposefully done, but it only intensifies the desperate way that I want her.

  “Too many fucking clothes,” I somehow manage to get the words out. My hands land at her trim waist, taking my time to work the sopping wet tank that’s suctioned to her body off and over her head. Shedding the boy shorts is a much easier feat and they’re kicked to the side within seconds.

  As much as I love having her skin next to mine, I take a step back, the years old need to see every single inch of her consuming my thoughts above all else. As a teenage boy, it was all I could think about, much to my discontent. My aunt and uncle hated the Knightley’s, every single one of them, and I knew I should too. After all, Lyra’s dad was the one who took the lives of my Mom, my Dad, my older brother, Hayes. I almost lost my life that night.

  Yet, even knowing everyone else in town blamed him, that nearly everyone else in town had shunned the Knightley’s as if they were one unified dark entity, and that if everyone else felt that way about my family’s situation, I should too… I couldn’t break the Lyra fixation. I was borderline obsessed, and this went beyond the realms of normal obsession. I detested her. I craved the opportunity to witness her agony at a level far surpassing my own. And for some fucked up reason, I also wanted to murder anyone who caused her the slightest distress. I couldn’t stand the sight of her, but it was her face that popped into my mind at the most inopportune moments—down to picturing her the moment I got off, even when I was balls deep in someone else.

  Now that fucked up fantasy has met reality, I’m relishing in it. I’m
blatantly ogling her like she was made just for my pleasure, a work of art commissioned with a sole owner in mind. And the fact that she doesn’t even try to hide her body from me solidifies it even more.

  And like all works of art should be viewed, I’ll do it good and proper, unhurried. Time knows no bounds, but I’ve wasted a lot of it in my life. Not tonight, though.

  My eyes devour her outright and I catalog each detail to memory. I don’t miss a thing—from the way her silky tresses transition over from the color of over-ripened raspberries to merlot as they absorb the water, the ends curling around the outer curves of her smallish natural breasts. My previous fuckboy ways back in college mean I’ve seen a lot of tits in my life—from A cups to what the cups, big and fake ones, big and natural ones, perky ones, not-so-perky ones—so, you’d think I wouldn’t get so caught up on a pair, that’d I’d just move on to the next thing.

  This isn’t the case though. Lyra might have what I call smallish breasts, and I may have previously thought myself solely a big-titty-committee lover, but I’m putting my foot in my mouth here. I’ve never seen a finer set of tits. They’re high, they’re perky, and they’re a nice, firm handful. They’re definitely natural, and her nipples are—fuck. My fist goes to my mouth as I bite down, like some cocky-ass, horny-ass school boy. I’ve never in my life, outside of the playboy magazines that is, seen nipples that are the exact same hue as the rest of the skin around them. Those were always my favorite kind to find in a centerfold model, because they were so far and few in between—unicorn titties I’ve always referred to them as.

  “Color me fucking obsessed,” I mumble.

  She cocks her head at me in confusion. “What?”

  “Nothing. Stand still,” I order, not nearly done staring.

  Surprisingly, and for the first time in her life probably, she doesn’t argue.

  I may have been with centerfold models, and all shapes and sizes of chicks, but Lyra is perfection in every meaning of the word…and I’m surprised to even be thinking that. I’ve never liked chicks with tattoos—I used to think it was trashy. The same thing goes with the bright colored hair. I’ve always viewed girls with those attributes as being the easiest lays because—erroneously—I thought they were already vying for attention by choosing to make themselves stand out.