Higher. I reach his forearm. His skin feels warm, muscles hard as rock.
I can never have a normal life.
Suddenly he closes his fingers over my wrist. “What are you doing?” he rasps.
What am I doing? I’m touching him. I’m feeling him, understanding him, for maybe the first time ever. I turn my hand to grip him back, wrist to wrist. Our hands form links of a strange chain, joined together against everything impossible.
The air pulses with new energy. Frightening energy. I breathe in the salty, musky scent of him. There’s no trace of perfumes or body spray, just pure male beast, surging with pain.
I feel drugged by his nearness. Unable to speak. I just want to touch him.
I just want him.
His fingers brand my wrist with sizzling heat. With every ragged breath, his chest rises and falls under his T-shirt. The open sides of his jacket move, too, grazing his faded blue jeans. Dull metal snaps set deep into his jacket are grayed with age and shift in the dim light that streams in from the other room.
For a moment I think I must be crazy, kneeling in front of him, holding his wrist like a lifeline, imagining he wants me the way I want him. The way he would’ve wanted the lucky woman he was in love with. Or maybe still is in love with.
Who does he love?
She must be older than me, I think. Worldly and beautiful. And I’m nothing but a sheltered girl who never even had a class with a boy. He would hold himself back from her; that’s how well I know Stone. Whatever woman is strong enough to have taken his heart?
He wouldn’t think himself worthy.
I know Stone, inside and out. I’ve seen him kill. I’ve felt his fingers dig into my flesh as he tried to drown me and couldn’t. I’ve seen him beaten and bruised. I’ve held the broken little bird he made just for me. Touched myself to his rumbled commands over the phone.
God, that phone call. I’ve replayed those words so many times in my head, it’s as familiar to me as the Girl Scout pledge.
Oh yes, sweetheart. I’m there. I’m holding your hands down to your cunt, telling you to fuck yourself. Shoving my cock in your throat until you’ve got tears down your cheeks. Until you’ve got saliva running down your chin. You’re crying, but you don’t dare stop touching yourself.
I pull my hand from his. Peering up at him through my lashes, I reach down and lift the hem of my skirt. I gather up all the useless fabric, pushing it around my waist to reveal pink panties.
“Holy fuck,” he rasps.
My sex feels cool in the air. Soaked.
Slowly and deliberately, I push my hand between my legs. I burrow my fingers under the hem of my panties. I reach down and stroke along the slickness I find there.
Breath shudders out of him. “Brooke.”
I don’t know what he means. Brooke, don’t? Or Brooke, more?
But it doesn’t matter. My life is full of smiles when I’m sad. Of somebody else’s secondhand clothes passed off as couture. A veneer of politeness to cover survival of the fittest.
All of these things are lies.
Me kneeling before Stone is truth. The wetness between my legs is as real as the rough wood floor scratching at my knees. My desire for him is raw. Unbearable.
He’s the man no boy can measure up to. He’s the moon lighting the vast, dark night of my life. “You’re the only one,” I say. “Not Liam. Not anyone. I don’t want them.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I gaze up at him from under my lashes. Meet his eyes, dark with lust. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“I ruined you, baby,” he grates, his voice thick.
“I like it.” I pull my hand from my panties and start to undo his fly, unbuttoning the silver button, drawing down the zipper, clumsy with desire. “It’s what I want, Stone,” I plead. “I want to do it like we did on the phone call. Ruin me.”
He gazes down at me—burns down at me.
I gather the courage to whisper the words I’ve said in my head so many times. “I want you to put your cock into my mouth.”
“Fuck.” He shoves his hands into my hair, grips my head.
“I want you to fuck my throat. I want you to,” I say. “Make me cry while I touch myself. It’s all I can think about.” Maybe he did ruin me. Maybe if I’d never met him by the river that night, I would have had sex with Liam earlier. I would have even been satisfied with that.
But that isn’t what happened. He rewired something in my brain. Or maybe I would have been like this anyway. There’s no way to know. No way to separate who I could have been with who I am now. There’s only lust. Only this.
Strong hands come to rest on my head.
Only that, and I sink into some strange place in my mind. He isn’t even forcing me to do anything, isn’t pushing me forward and back, but the strength of him is unmistakable.
My fingers are clumsy with the hard denim of his jeans. He’s already thick beneath the zipper, and even without experience, I know what it means. It means he wants me.
When I get the zipper down, his cock springs out, thick and pale and ridged with veins. A gasp escapes me, which makes me sound like the untried virgin that I am. I expected there to be something constraining him. Boxers or something like that, but there’s nothing. Only his cock, pulsing with expectation. Larger than I ever imagined.
The musky scent of him works its way into my lungs, into my memories, so deep I don’t think it will ever really leave. He doesn’t make any move to rush me, but lets me study him. The time doesn’t make me any more certain. If anything, I’m intimidated by him. Maybe that’s the point.
But I started this, and I’m going to finish it. Going to see if the reality of this is anywhere near as good as the fantasy. Going to see if I come as hard beneath his hands as I did beneath his words.
My hands are trembling only a little as I take hold of his smooth, marble-hard length. I press my face to his warm, slightly furred belly. I squeeze.
He groans. “Can’t,” he pants. His fingers are clutching my scalp.
Can, I think. We can. “Only you,” I say.
I touch my tongue to the glistening droplet at the tip of him. He lets out a garbled cry. Strangled desire. Holding himself back from this, even as I finally, finally let myself go.
Dizziness washes over me at the salty taste. I fit my lips around his head. I can feel the tremor all the way through him. Or maybe I’m the one shaking, coming apart at my seams, not fitting back together in any order that I knew before.
My other hand moves back down between my legs. I touch myself as I take him into my mouth, just the way he said to on the phone. He feels impossibly huge. I’m riding a tidal wave of feeling, and I want him to fill me, to make him cry, to be everywhere in me. I feel like I could come in an instant. At the same time it feels like we could do this forever.
His breath gusts wild. He fits my hand around the base of him. “Squeeze, baby.”
I squeeze.
A string of unintelligible words tears from his lips as I increase the pressure—swear words mixed with other words I don’t understand. “Harder. Tighter. Let me feel you.”
Except he doesn’t wait for me to obey him.
He rocks into me, slowly, gently. The rhythm of him feels ancient. Savage. It’s like he’s using me, and the realization is hotter than my fingers against my clit. An imprinting so primal that it’s in my DNA, the knowledge that I should open my mouth to him, that he should fill it.
“Yes,” he grunts. “Fucking take it.”
There’s a sound I make. I think it might have been a word—yes or God or please. I’m too mindless to know, his cock too far inside me to let me speak. It comes out as a hum. When he moans, I realize that he can feel the vibrations on his cock. That’s how close we are right now. So deep inside me that he can feel the words I can’t say.
“Touch yourself,” he says.
And I realize I had stopped, lost in the surrender to him. My legs are spread wide as I kneel on
the wood floor. I’m shameful and unashamed. I’m needy and satiated. When I touch my forefinger to my clit, the sensation is sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. This isn’t like in my bed, when I could rub myself, again and again, in that one special spot. The need is too much, the ache almost pain, and I have to make circles instead.
I stroke myself to his rhythm, lost in him, in the surge of us together.
“You like that, little bird?” His expression is dark, knowing. He already sees everything that I feel. He wants me to nod with my mouth full of him, my eyes wide and pleading.
Something gentles in his eyes. “You can’t get off, can you? Your fingers are all slippery. I can see them shining from here. You’re hurting, aren’t you?”
My hand clenches into a fist, slick with my juices like he said. I don’t know why I can’t do this. Is this because I’m a virgin? Or because there’s something wrong with me?
He pushes his boot between my legs. “There,” he says, like he’s given me something.
I blink at him, uncomprehending, even as a spurt of salty precum coats my tongue. My throat works on its own, swallowing him down. My tongue rolls along the ridge of him, making his eyelids drop to half-mast. How does this come so naturally to me? Pleasuring him?
And why can’t I do the same to myself?
It feels good, but I’m hovering on the edge of it. I’m trapped here.
“Go ahead,” he says, coaxing. “Fuck yourself.”
The curved toe of his boot nudges me in the most private place, gentle but still coarse, the curved toe of his boot. And I realize what he wants me to do. To press my sex against the smooth leather. To rock my hips like that while I soak his boot with my arousal.
The humiliation of it does something to my brain. It makes everything sharper, clearer. And when I position my knees around his leg, it feels a little like coming home.
Finding the exact right angle is awkward, but that just makes it better. The way I have to tilt my hips to get friction for my clit, the way he doesn’t let me release his cock, the way he watches me the whole time. God. And then my clit does rub against the leather, with exactly the right amount of pleasure, and my eyes roll back.
“That’s right,” he says, grasping my hair tighter.
I thought he had taken control of this act before, but it’s nothing compared to now. Now he holds my head steady, fucking my face with long, hard strokes. It’s hard to breathe, because I can’t even focus on it. Breathing doesn’t feel important when my hips are rocking against his boot, when there’s pressure building in my sex. When I’m one second away from exploding.
“Yeah, that’s how you want it, isn’t it? That’s how you need it, little bird. Hard and fucking dirty. And I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
I moan my agreement, feeling the climax collect above me like a tidal wave. I’m in its shadow now, in that half-second space before it crashes down, knowing nothing can stop it.
He’s moving faster now too, almost jerking, his words choppy.
“The only one,” he says, but it sounds a little meaner. “The only one fucking dirty enough to count. The only one wrong enough to make you feel bad.”
Tears spring my eyes, because of his fists in my hair. The words in my ears. The climax doesn’t care about the warning in the air. It falls and falls.
“The only one fucked up enough,” he mutters, and I’m not even sure he knows he’s saying it. His expression is hard as granite. “So you can stop being the good little girl.”
The realization clicks with horrible certainty. He thinks he’s my rebellion. That I need a break from the prep school and the rich boys. That I only want him because he’s messed up.
Then the climax crashes down on me. It rushes along my skin, lighting up every nerve ending, taking over every thought until I’m a mindless being of pleasure. My whole body shakes, wringing out the last hint of orgasm from my clit against his boot.
Dimly I’m aware of his roar loud enough to shake the cabin windows. Of the thick, salty proof of his climax flooding my mouth.
My throat moves to swallow him, taking what he gives me. Only this.
Gently he pulls himself from my mouth. He groans. He’s putting his pants back together, snapping them up.
Large paws roam over my face, then up, up, up to grab hold of my hair. I’m panting. The room feels off-balance, or maybe it’s me.
He gets down on his knees to face me. To kiss me. He lets go of my hair, smoothing it down. He pulls away and wipes the tears from my cheeks with the heel of his hand, rough movements, clumsy from his orgasm, maybe.
I feel happy, with him taking care of me like this. I feel…loved.
“God, little bird, look at you, so fucking hot.” He kisses my cheek. “You are so fucking hot with my cock crammed in your face.”
He kisses the other cheekbone.
“I liked it,” I say. “I dreamed of it.”
He gives me a strange look. Like I shouldn’t have said that. But I have more to say than that—much more.
“Stone, I have something,” I breathe.
“What is that, little bird?” He wipes another tear.
“In my clutch. I brought a…you know…” It feels wrong to say the word. Like I’m propositioning him.
He stills. Studies my face. Tilts his head. “What did you bring to the dance tonight?”
My face flashes with heat. “You know.”
“Can’t even say it.” He slides a knuckle along my cheek. “But that’s okay, because your skin is the perfect shade of pink right now, just like your pretty little cunt.” He traces my swollen mouth. “And your tears are the sweetest, dirtiest things I ever tasted. I love that my cock put them there.” His rough, giant knuckle pauses at the edge of my mouth. “I love this little bit of my cum still here on your lips.”
My pulse races. His possessive words wash over me, heat my veins.
“So fucking hot when you’re slumming it.”
I frown. “I’m not slumming it.”
“Shhh.” He pins me with his wicked gaze. “No more talking. I’ll give you what you want.”
He’s touching me with his whole hand now, sliding his open palm along the side of my neck. He drags it, warm and heavy, down the front of me. Calluses scratch tender skin. Hot breath fans over my forehead. Whatever I’d been worrying about before, it turns to smoke. Any thought in my head, blown away by the soft gust of his breath.
“Stone,” I whisper, enjoying the sound of his name. Amazed we’re here together.
Fists close over the fragile black piping that lines the top of the bodice, over the fragile lace-covered fabric. He yanks, ripping it.
I gasp.
“Shhh,” he says. “I got you. You want your junkyard dog to fuck you with the condom, don’t you?”
I don’t understand why he’s calling himself that. My protest dies in a cry and a flurry of sensation as he pinches my nipple between rough knuckles.
“I should make you wear my cum on your face all the time,” he says, voice thick. “Show the world how much you like playing at the dirty little girl.”
“I’m not playing,” I protest. “This isn’t playing, and you’re not—”
He claps his big hand over my mouth, stopping me midsentence.
…you’re not a junkyard dog.
I mumble into his hand, but he just tightens it. He won’t hear it.
“So polite.” He kisses my forehead. He squeezes my nipple between his knuckles, rough and warm, squeezing, pinching, twisting lightning clear through my body, electrifying the place between my legs.
“No talking, I said. Got it?”
Again I shake my head, but he won’t let up. I can’t concentrate with his big fingers rolling my nipple, sending more zings of feeling through my body. He makes me want everything. The folds between my legs feel swollen. Achy. But tickly, too.
I mumble into his hand. I need to tell him that he’s not a junkyard dog. I need to tell him he’s the best man
I know, loyal and good and brave.
But his fingers are between my legs now, making the feelings roll through my body. Everything he does feels like sparkles. I’m panting through my nose, mumbling frantically.
“You want me to fuck you with the condom? You want me to make you a bad girl with that condom you brought for that good boy? Because you know I can. He might have fancy shit and a fancy family for you, but he can’t get you dirty like I can, can he? And that’s what you want.”
My hips move with his strokes, like he’s fucking me already. I should be ashamed, but it feels so good.
He slides his finger harder, invading me. I cry out from behind his hand. He moves it back and forth. It reminds me of camp, rubbing sticks together to make a fire—harder and harder until the sparks come. “That what you want?”
I nod behind his hand. I’m whimpering, crying. I need him to do it.
He takes away his hand. “Yes!” I gust out. “Please!”
He watches me, and something hard comes over his face.
He stands, hoisting me up, the world a whirl. He holds me tight to his chest, breathing hard as he carries me to the bed and throws me down. “You better be out of that thing when I get back.”
He stalks out of the room.
I wriggle out of my dress, pulling off all my clothes. He comes to stand over me, watching me darkly.
I lie there, naked beneath him. I want him to touch my naked skin, but not because he’s dirty or he’ll ruin me. Because I love everything about him. I trust him. Of all the people I’ve ever known, only Stone has never lied to me.
He tosses down the clutch. “Get the condom out, then. I don’t have all night.”
I fumble with the clutch. Something’s wrong. Something’s different.
He pulls off his jacket, throws it aside, then pulls his T-shirt over his head. His chest is thick with muscle, and here and there are strange white lines, like scars. Some seem to be injuries, wounds. Others make designs. I’m riveted by him, by his beauty and his pain.
“Sorry, the tattoo store was all out of yin yangs and thorny roses or whatever the fuck high school boys get. Wanna fuck the bad boy, you gotta get used to a little ugly.”
Need you Now (Top Shelf Romance Book 2) Page 101