by Corgan, Sky
I crawl into bed and lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling, listening to his breathing. If he's asleep, I can't tell. He's not snoring.
After about ten minutes, I turn onto my side to try to go to sleep. Almost the instant that I do, I hear Holden stirring. He stands, and I make my eyes slits, not wanting him to see that I'm still awake. Maybe he's uncomfortable sleeping on the floor and has decided to leave. One can only hope.
He shrugs off his suit jacket and tosses it in the corner. Then he loosens his tie and pulls it from around his neck. Then his hands reach the collar of his shirt and he begins popping the buttons open.
He undresses silently, not even glancing at me. My eyes widen for a better look. In the darkness, I can see the shirt beginning to open and planes of hard muscle peaking through. Holy shit, his body is solid. As he fumbles with the buttons over his stomach, I see the rippling of his abs. Sleepiness leaves me as my core revs to life. When he shrugs the shirt off of his shoulders, I feel like I've died and gone to visionary heaven. He's cut like a God, has that perfect V indentation that points straight down into his pants. I bite my bottom lip as I picture sticking my tongue in that groove and licking all the way up it.
Fuck! Go to sleep, Piper.
I try to still the heavy beating of my heart as I close my eyes and nuzzle my face against my pillow. It was a nice tease, but nothing will come of it. He's just getting comfortable, and I can't blame him. I can't even imagine trying to go to sleep wearing a business suit, though alcohol can make almost anything comfortable if you've had enough of it.
An image of his shirtless torso is burned into my mind. I wish I had seen him in the light. Part of me is glad that I hadn't though. I'm so hot and bothered that my fingers are itching to touch my clit. It's almost shameful how turned on I got by just that little bit of a strip tease.
I wait to hear Holden lay back down on the floor. For several moments, there's just silence, and I wonder what he's doing. Then I feel the bed dip beside me.
A blush covers my cheeks as he pulls open the covers and wiggles beneath them. He rests his head on my pillow with his forehead lightly touching mine. His hand slides around my waist. In my curled up position, he can't really work himself beside me. My knees are touching his legs, creating a barrier to keep him away.
I don't speak—don't breathe. The part of me that hates him feels crowded. Why couldn't he just stay on the floor? I don't want him on my bed—don't want to be this close to him. Even as I think it, though, I can feel my nipples perk. I want to open my eyes and look at him, want to gaze upon his Adonis-like body. Want to reach out and touch him.
To curb my yearnings, I turn over and scoot to the edge of the bed. The further I can get from him, the better. If he wants to sleep on my bed, that's fine, but he needs to stay on his side and I'll stay on mine.
Of course, that's far too much to ask for. The bed moves beside me again. I count the seconds until I feel that wall of muscle pressed against my back. Maybe he just wants to spoon me. Even though I don't want him touching me, that would be kind of nice. It's irrational, the desire to be held by him. Nothing makes sense anymore though.
I can feel him getting closer though he doesn't touch me. For several seconds, the room is still. Then he speaks, “You don't have to pretend to be asleep.”
I say nothing. Perhaps if he thinks I'm not pretending, he'll lie back down.
He shifts his weight, and then I feel his hands on my wrists, pushing me onto my back. I gasp as he crawls on top of me, my eyes flying open inadvertently and looking up at pure, raw sexual energy. The moonlight cuts through the blinds, painting him in strips of pale. Seeing him from the side was one thing. Watching him like this, leaning over me, pinning me down...I can't deny that I want him.
The air is tense as he stares at me. Clarity has returned to his eyes. Only the slightest tint of glassiness remains, which tells me that the water and Tylenol are doing their job. He's still infused with alcohol, though, his lust fueled by it.
I don't know what to say to him. No would be the most appropriate word, but it would only make him advance. I know him well enough to know that much at least.
“I'm going to fuck you now,” he tells me as matter-of-factly as if he's talking about the weather.
“What if that's not what I want?” I gaze into his eyes. They're so certain, so confident.
“It is what you want though. It's what we both want. It's what we've both wanted for a long time,” his tone is seductive as he leans down to kiss my neck. Just the feel of his lips whispering across my skin makes my back arch slightly, the pressure of his strong hands on my wrists. I don't want to submit to him, but it feels like my body is doing it of its own accord.
Deep down inside, I know we both need this. He's pent-up. I'm pent-up. We've both had a shitty day.
Maybe it will be alright. After all, I don't work for Ann anymore. There's nothing to keep us from having sex but our hatred of each other. And right now, even that's not strong enough.
Against my better judgment, I slide my hand around the back of his neck, my nails gliding through the hair at his nape. The other hand slips around his waist, exploring the muscles of his side and back. His bare skin feels heavenly beneath my fingertips.
His tongue darts out to trace my collarbone before he kisses and sucks up the length of my neck. I crane my head for better access, my grip tightening on him. He pushes the covers away from my body, wedging himself between my legs. He clasps my wrists together with one hand and uses the other to hike up my nightgown. As soon as he has it all the way up my thighs, I hook my legs around his hips and pull him down to me. He groans, his lips meeting mine in a flurry of fully reciprocated heated kisses.
As his body writhes on top of mine, the hardness of his cock in the confines of his pants crushing against my soft folds, I try not to grin. He feels amazing against me, and I already know he'll feel even better inside of me. There's no backing out of this now. I've opened Pandora's box, and by the end of the night, we will have ripped the hinges right off of it.
From the Author
I hope you've enjoyed Torn: Part Four. Part Five will be available shortly.
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Bonus Excerpt from Between Two Billionaires
“Eureka! I found it!” Ethel bursts through my bedroom door. A broad smile stretches across her face as if she has the best news in the world.
I groan, turning my computer chair towards her. “Don't you know how to knock?”
Apparently, she doesn't. She's prone to walking into my room whenever she wants, no matter how many times I chastise her about it. You'd think she owned the place. She doesn't own the place. Our parents do. But, if I'm being honest, she was here first. My mom and I moved in a few years ago when our parents finally got married.
“So.” Ethel sets herself down on my bed, making herself comfortable. “There's this rich guy who is throwing a party this weekend.” She looks at me expectantly, as if she thinks I can read her mind.
“And?” I can't hide the annoyance from my voice. It's not like I was doing anything important. Just chatting online with friends. It's the principal of the matter though. I could have been naked, and she just walked right in like it was nothing.
“That's where I'm going to meet my rich husband.” She does a strange head roll, as if the answer should have been obvious.
I can't help but laugh. “You do that.”
“I am, and you're coming with me.”
“Oh?” This is news t
o me. I'm not at all interested, but I know I have no choice but to hear her out. That's what she came here for, to dish out her devious plan.
“Yup. You and Lisa. Maybe we'll all get rich husbands,” she squeals as if she's imagining us all with Prince Charmings on our arms. Sometimes I wonder how she survives, living in such inflated fantasies. Her life is a roller coaster of irrational hope and disappointment. Maybe if she'd just get a job, she wouldn't have to worry about finding a rich husband to support her.
“The rich husband thing is all you.” I smirk, turning my chair to face her. She's not going anywhere any time soon; I can tell.
“Every girl wants a rich husband,” she sighs dreamily.
“If you say so.” There's no point in arguing with her. Then I'd have to sit through a lecture detailing out why marrying rich is the best way to go. The answers are obvious, but that's not what I want for myself. I want to get by on hard work, supporting myself, never having to rely on a man.
“So anyway, you're in, right?” She readjusts herself on the bed, staring at me intently. Her dark eyes are so big, it's hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm.
“I'm not really interested,” I say hesitantly.
“Girl, you haven't even heard my plan yet.” She flips her hand out at me, throwing her head back in an exaggerated gesture. Such a diva.
“Enlighten me, then.” I cross my arms over my chest, completely expecting something outlandish.
“Apparently, this guy throws parties every few months. Security is really lax.”
“That doesn't sound like how a rich guy would run things at all. Are you sure you're not talking about a party in the ghetto?” I tease her.
“Would you just shut up and listen to me for half a second.” Her temper flairs.
I know better than to say anything more, so I simply make a gesture like I'm zipping my lips, smiling all the while. There's a thin line between playing with Ethel and fighting with her. I learned that a long time ago when we first moved in together. Those days were horrible. I can handle her now though.
“Anyway.” She rolls her eyes, sighing out her discontent. It disappears just as quickly as it came on. “I figured that if we pretended to be strippers, we could get in easy-peasy.”
I arch an eyebrow, knowing I'm treading that line with my skepticism. “Me. Pretend to be a stripper.” That's a laugh. I'm the epitome of wholesome. Like, Catholic school girl wholesome, in a very literal sense. Before our parents met, I actually went to an all-female Catholic school. It wasn't until Ethel's father convinced my mom that I needed to learn how to survive the general populous that my mom finally switched me over to a normal public school. I was like such a fish out of water back then, and I honestly don't think I ever really socially adjusted. Maybe that's why I feel so awkward all the time. Oh well. It can't be changed now. All I know is that I took a lot of the values from Catholic school with me. I've only kissed one boy in my entire life, and I wouldn't even dream of having sex outside of wedlock. The idea of dressing up like a stripper just to get into some stupid party is preposterous to me.
“Come on, Sarah, it will be fun.” Ethel scoots closer to me on the bed. “Haven't you ever wanted to look sexy?”
“Nope. Never.” I shake my head. Sexy gives men the wrong impression. Sexy can get you into trouble.
“Ugh. You're so lame.” Frustration takes over the anger she was once displaying. She knows this is a losing battle. I won't budge.
“You have Lisa. You girls go have fun. You can tell me all about it afterward.” I try to calm her with a smile.
She stands, her body ridged. “You know what, you're never going to experience anything that life has to offer if you keep staying inside this little shell you've created for yourself.” She presses her fingertips together and draws them out and around, creating an invisible shell with her hands.
I'm perfectly fine with my shell, I want to say, but instead, I simply reply, “I know.” There's no point in arguing.
A vein in her neck bulges. Cruel words are sitting on her tongue. I wait for her to spit them at me, but thankfully, she just shakes her head and leaves, taking the tension in the room with her. I sigh, grateful that it's over. What a stupid thing to argue about. She should know by now that her and I are as different as night and day. The things she's interested in, I'm not, and that includes finding some man to shack up with.
I sit in silence for a moment, trying not to let the conversation get to me. It's difficult. She may only be my step-sister, but I still want her to like me. Maybe I should try harder. There has to be better ways than this though.
***
It's Saturday night, and I'm exhausted from a long day working at the coffee shop. Saving up to pay for college is hard. If I had known it was going to be this difficult, to take so long, I would have applied for more scholarships. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. It does no good to think of the past. I've made my own bed, slacked off too much in an attempt to be liked by the kids at school, to try to fit in. Wanting to fit in was a mistake. Now I'm struggling like the rest of them. Lessons learned in youth continue to haunt me as an adult. Now I have to rectify my mistakes. I try not to be unhappy about it, but it's hard sometimes.
I can hear heavy footsteps treading down the hall towards my room. It's Ethel. I don't even need to wonder what's coming next. No one walks that heavily in this house when they're angry but her. I turn my computer chair towards the door before she even has a chance to barge in on me unannounced.
“You're not going to believe this,” she growls, slamming my door behind herself. I can't help but wince. This is a ragefit that I have absolutely nothing to do with, but I'm about to feel the brunt of it.
“Tell me all about it.” I reach over and pat my bed, trying to be supportive.
From what I can tell, Lisa and her must have gotten into a fight right before they were supposed to leave for the party. Ethel looks stunning in a short red dress that compliments her mocha skin. I love her skin. It's so dark and smooth and flawless. She's a gorgeous girl, and men generally flock after her, but she doesn't want anyone who doesn't have money, no matter how nice he is. I'm still not completely sure why she's like this. It's not like she grew up in the ghetto. It's not like her father never had money. He's a dentist, and he's always spoiled her. Maybe she's just used to it. Maybe she thinks that's the way all men should treat her.
“That bitch bailed on me at the last fucking minute,” she seethes, dropping herself heavily onto my bed and crossing her arms over her chest. I admire her nail polish. It matches the dress perfectly, as does her lipstick, heels, and ear rings. I've never seen a stripper look so high class.
“I'm sorry, Ethel.”
Her voice softens into sympathy, and she averts her eyes. “She's sick. She really wanted to make it. Got ready and everything. But then she started throwing up.”
“That's horrible.” I know where this is about to lead. She's trying to hide her anger and getting ready to start pouting in hopes that I'll join her. It's not happening. “You said the guy throws a party every few months. There's always next time.”
“Next time,” she huffs. “I don't think I can wait a few more months to get out of this hell hole.” She looks around my room as if it's a dump. Sometimes I wonder if she realizes how easy we actually have it. Probably not, if she's acting so childish.
“You've waited this long,” I sigh, trying not to show my disapproval at her attitude. It's hard though. Unlike her, my mother and I struggled for several years while her and my biological father were divorced. If it wasn't for my grandmother paying for my admission into Catholic school, that wouldn't have even happened.
“Sarah, you don't understand,” Ethel insists. “I went all out for this party. I bought this dress, and I even had business cards made for us.”
“Business cards?” I quirk an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” She digs in her purse and pulls out a billfold, opening it and extracting several business cards. She hands them over to me
, and I look at the embossed front. It shows a picture of a girl hanging off of a pole with the words At Your Service Strippers.
I scowl as I read the fake name of the company. “Could you have picked anything filthier for a name?”
“Yeah, I could have,” the heat in her voice returns. “I could have picked Tits in Your Face or Naked Bitches.”
I roll my eyes, handing the cards back to her. “Well, I'm sorry this isn't going to happen for you.”
She takes the cards and puts them back in her billfold, trying desperately to temper her frustration at me. “It can still happen if you come with me.”
“I think you'd do better as a lone stripper.” It's both a suggestion and a mockery at the same time.
“Strippers don't show up alone, fool.” She glares at me.
“Maybe they do for rich guys.”
“I think there's a rule against it.” She scratches her head. “Safety in numbers, and all.”
“Don't know. Don't care. Not going.” I roll my chair back around to face my computer, indicating that the conversation is over.
“Are you seriously just going to sit here and play on your fucking computer all night?” She gestures to the screen. “There's a whole world out there, Sarah, and you're just letting it pass you by.”
“We're done,” my voice is measured.
I can feel her icy gaze on my backside. The tension in the room is getting thick, and I'm beginning to worry it might suffocate me. Hopefully, she'll leave soon.
“Please, Sarah,” she begs.
“No.” I'm unwavering.
“I've got a really cute dress you can wear,” her tone lifts, trying to convince me with kindness.