by Bijou Hunter
The expression on his face makes me feel as if I have actual power in this relationship. I know other couples enjoy a give-and-take, but I’m nobody while he’s the VP of the local biker club. There shouldn’t be any power in my hands.
Except when these hands stroke his face, Shane looks at me as if my rejection could kill him. This feeling he has won’t last. He’s searching for something in his life. I’m not so sure that something is me, but I’m okay with temporary.
When I kiss him in the dark room, his arms wrap around me possessively. I suspect we’re alone in the house. I didn’t hear anyone leave, but it’s too dark and quiet for his sister and friends to still be around.
“Are we alone?” I whisper against his lips as I crawl into his lap and cup his face.
“They went out to dinner. I said we might join them, but I’d rather be alone with you.”
“By alone, do you mean naked?” I whisper against his lips.
“No, but I wouldn’t mind removing my pants and easing the pressure on my dick.”
“This dick?” I murmur and caress his crotch with mine.
“We can meet up with them if you’re hungry.”
“I’m not hungry. I want to mess around in your room in the dark.”
“I always want that.”
Grinning at his tone, I slide off him. Shane stands and takes my hand, somehow guiding me through the furniture-filled room and toward the stairs. Soon, we’re back in his room, where I wiggle out of my skirt and tug off my bra without removing my shirt. Shane wants to turn on the light. I see him lingering near the switch, but he leaves the room dark except for the light streaming in from the single window in the corner.
This little gesture—one he clearly struggles with—reassures me that I can lower my guard with Shane. Normally, I can fuck without getting emotionally involved. Not with Shane, though. He makes everything feel bigger, deeper, scarier. Yet I welcome him inside my body, knowing the risk is worth it.
THE ROMANTIC
Ramona insists on fucking in the dark. I know pushing the topic will shut down her current confidence. If she wants to hide her body, then we can play that game. I get how women are self-conscious about shit. Even hot women like Ramona. I’m cool with the dark.
Fucking with her shirt on is a whole different matter. I’m as naked as the day I was born, and Ramona loses her panties without a second thought. The shirt needs to stay put, though. It makes no fucking sense.
“Shane,” she moans when my hands slide up her shirt and cup her soft tits.
Her voice doesn’t say stop. She isn’t bothered by my exploration under the shirt. She just wants to keep it on. This fact drives me nuts until she says my name in that warm, trusting tone.
This woman has owned my thoughts for weeks, even before she knew I existed. I swear I feel her when I fucking breathe.
Now she wants me. Right now, in the dark, with her shirt on, she feels safe, and she won’t talk me down to a blowjob. She wants me inside her. I’m winning. I need to stop thinking about shit that doesn’t matter. The prize is literally in my hands. What is my damn problem?
I finally turn off my brain and let my body take over. My hands know where to stroke, how to test between her legs to be certain her pussy is as welcoming as her arms around me. She sucks at my throat, shoulders, and even biceps. Anything close by, she wants to taste. Even in the dark, we’re not clumsy. Our bodies fit together effortlessly as if we’re puzzle pieces creating a complete picture.
Ramona moans my name when she feels my cock probing her pussy. She senses I need permission to take that last step. I don’t dare ask. I can’t trust my voice. Am I even breathing? I kiss Ramona, and her flavor leaves me lost in my lust.
Her body welcomes me. I love the feel of her nails digging into my shoulders when I fuck her just right. Ramona murmurs my name often. I even wonder if she’s reassuring me that despite the lack of light that she remembers who’s fucking her. This seems like something Ramona would do. She needs to comfort people, and she knows I want the lights on. The repetition of my name is her way of splitting the difference.
Ramona comes hard, like harder than any woman’s ever come with me before. I don’t even feel as if I’ve done anything particularly special, but her body shudders with pleasure, and her pussy grips my dick possessively. I’d like to think the surprised tone behind the words, “Oh, Shane,” is because no man’s made her come so hard. Then again, she might just be stroking my ego. Well, with her words. No way did her pussy fake that orgasm.
I can’t hold out much longer. Despite my big plans to fuck her for like an hour and leave her a whimpering ball of pleasure, I go out like a punk. Ramona’s got my head and heart fucked up, and my body isn’t feeling more confident. Her pleasured moans go straight to my balls.
Ramona wraps her thin arms and legs around my body as I try to catch my breath. I don’t know if she’s comforting me, or if she just doesn’t want it to end. She holds me tight until I roll off her and try to get my head back on straight. Ramona immediately readjusts herself to cling to my body. One of her legs slides across mine as her arm wraps possessively around my waist. She kisses my chest frantically before crawling up my body and finding my lips.
Enjoying the lingering kiss, I let my fingers stroke the curve of her sweet ass up to her back. That’s where I notice the skin feels a little different from the area around it.
A tattoo? Some tramp stamp? Is that why she won’t let me take off her shirt? I know she’s not shy about her tits because she was plenty okay with me lifting her top to get access to her hard, little nipples. Is she really just self-conscious about a shitty tat she regrets?
Women are odd creatures. Fortunately, her hang-up is over something I can easily fix. I know one of the best tattoo artists in the state, if not the country. Aaron Barnes can fix whatever ugly shit she has inked across her lower back. Problem solved.
Despite my sex-fueled brain fuzz, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut about her tattoo. She’s literally humming with pleasure and relaxation. We can talk about it tomorrow. For tonight, the world should consist of nothing more complicated than pampering our bodies with boundless fucking.
THE LEGACY
Shane reminds me of a dog I knew growing up. Bella spent her younger years tied up in a backyard with a group of other dogs and very little food. Whenever anyone fed Bella, she devoured it immediately and growled at anyone who got near her bowl. Her fear of someone taking her shit was palpable, and her owner acted the same way when he got out of prison. They ferociously clung to the little they had in life.
But Shane doesn’t seem like someone who’s gone without. I doubt he ever went to bed hungry or fall asleep sore from a beating from his parents. He and his sister have a fun, loving relationship. I see the way Shelby looks at Shane. She’s protective of him. The way she teases him is different from how she does River. It’s softer, with less edge. She loves them both, but she’s more careful with her little brother. That’s how Shane grew up. Cherished, protected, spoiled.
Which means, Shane doesn’t keep me hidden in his room because he’s been deprived like that dog. He chooses to bring dinner to me and watch a movie on his phone rather than go downstairs because he refuses to share.
“Do your parents visit often?” I ask as he finishes off the chicken his sister brought home from her trip to The Barnyard.
Rather than answering, he asks, “Do you want another beer?”
“No, thank you.”
Shane leans back against the wall and smiles at me. “You’re so beautiful.”
I share his grin and touch my face without thinking. “Wait until you see me without my makeup,” I warn.
“I already saw you without it, remember?”
“No.”
Shane studies me. “You were just as beautiful then. The only thing was the bruises from those fapsocks.”
His harsh tone startles me. Shane’s mood changes on a dime, and I instantly feel as if I ought to fear
him. Men can get violent so quickly. Shane, though, isn’t aggressive with his sister and Taylor. He talks shit to them, but he only gets physically rough with River.
Deciding to soothe Shane rather than fear him, I say, “I try to remind myself that they lost their father. Of course, their already trashy personalities would amp up by a few decibels.”
“You lost your father too.”
“Not really. Fuse just fucked Velma. My creation was an accident on his part. He wanted Safire and Dymond. They were his kids. He was their father. They lost someone, not me.”
Shane searches my face for something. “I hope you like my parents. My dad can seem like a dick. You know, like I can,” he says and smiles slightly. “My mom gets weird sometimes. Like she’ll linger in doorways or just walk off while you’re talking to her. I guess the best way to explain it is that she gets spooked. If she feels stress, she pinches her hands until they’re bruised. She’s not crazy,” he says, sounding defensive.
“Are you afraid I’ll judge her?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he says, frowning at me as if I’m the enemy. His expression softens after a few seconds. “I want you to like her. She deserves to be treated tenderly.”
Stroking him under his chin, I ask, “Why do you think I’ll be mean to her?”
“I don’t really. I just grew up worrying about people fucking with my mom. At the store, when we had school functions, or even when around people we trusted. I just knew little things would bother her, especially after Kirk died. Like I don’t remember her that well before she had her breakdown. I only know how fragile she can seem, and people are sometimes assholes without knowing it.”
“I would never hurt your family.”
Shane smiles softly. “I know. You couldn’t even be mean to me after I lied to you.”
His words are meant as praise, but they cut me deep. I’m a sap. I fall for lies and bullshit. The mistakes I make don’t wash off. They stick to me. Eventually, they’ll ruin things with Shane. I’ll always wonder if I had done things differently months ago would Shane and I have a chance to stick.
Despite watching the movie and fucking before we call it a night, my mind remains on the past. Velma couldn’t let go of how her parents never loved her, so she attached herself to the first man she fell for. I’m sure Fuse did love her. They were together for decades, but she wasn’t his wife. Fuse might have loved Velma Verhees, but he wasn’t willing to sacrifice a damn thing for her.
I think Shane wants to love in a different way. Like how his parents love, but he’s hung up on the wrong girl.
After he dozes off in the dark room, I wiggle free from his embrace. I’ve never shared a bed with a guy before. Not romantically anyway. I’m already uncomfortable with how Shane wants to cuddle while we sleep. Then my mind races with worries until I can’t fight the urge for a cigarette.
I sneak out of the room, grabbing my jacket and bag on my way out. I half-expect Shane to follow me, but he remains asleep. Downstairs, I find the house quiet. Not even the dogs are around. Stepping silently onto the back porch, I shiver in the cool autumn night despite my jacket. A minute later, I take a drag on my cigarette and think about everything and nothing. Too many memories and thoughts race through my mind. So much haunts me that I don’t notice Shane’s arrival until he joins me on the bench.
Flinching, I consider putting out my cigarette. I must telegraph my feelings because Shane wraps his strong arm around my shoulders and whispers, “You can smoke in the house rather than sit in the cold.”
“I keep thinking I’ll quit, but then I get stressed, and a cigarette makes me feel better. If I could ever stay calm for long enough, I think I could quit for good.”
“What are you stressed about tonight?”
“I have secrets,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I wish you knew them and didn’t care. Then I wouldn’t worry, but you don’t know them. Or I don’t know if you do. I just can’t stop worrying.”
“Why can’t you tell them, so I’ll know?”
Studying his face shadowed in the moonlight, I whisper, “But you might care, and I’m not ready for you to dump me yet.”
“I’m never dumping you,” he murmurs and kisses my throat.
“You can’t know what you’ll do.”
“I know that I give myself what I want, and I’ve wanted you since I first saw you.”
“I’m not special.”
“To me, you are. And I’m the only one whose opinion matters.”
“What about mine?”
Shane goes rigid next to me. “Do you want me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to want you?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Shrugging, I take a final drag off the cigarette. “I don’t like being pushed out of my comfort zone. Dating does that. It makes me worry.”
“But dating makes you happy too, right?”
Leaning against him for comfort as much as for warmth, I nod. “Yes, but I struggle when out of my comfort zone.”
“For now, but it’s your first day at this house. In a few weeks, it’ll be like a second home.”
How can I respond to his words when I know things he doesn’t? No way will we be together for that long. Shane is so stubborn that he can’t see what should be obvious. He must have heard rumors about me. I almost feel like he chooses to deepen our relationship just to piss off the haters. People must warn him off me, so he doubles down. That feels right for Shane’s personality.
But sooner or later, sticking it to his enemies won’t be enough to make us work.
THE ROMANTIC
After Ramona’s failed attempt to escape my needy clutches, she returns to bed, where we fool around for a while. I know I’m probably suffocating her, but I keep feeling as if she really does want to flee. Of course, the more I hold her tight, the squirmier she gets. If I could relax, she would relax. Unfortunately, knowing she isn’t relaxed keeps me from relaxing. We’re running on two different wavelengths, and I don’t know how to get us in sync.
Finally, around midnight, she slides a bud in her ear. I hear the faint sounds of music playing as her body softens next to mine in the dark room. I promise myself that she won’t sneak off. When that doesn’t work, I remind myself of how obnoxious I’m acting toward someone who matters so much to me.
I finally scoot over enough in bed for her to stretch out and relax like she would at home. This is how people share a bed, not the weird death-grip shit I had going earlier.
Every time I wake up, I reach over to ensure she remains at my side. Ramona is a quiet sleeper, and the room is pitch dark much of the night. Yet her quietly playing music reassures me.
When the sun streams in through the open shades, I open my eyes to find a perfect sight. With her back to me, Ramona curls up, looking so small yet comfortable in my bed. Her loose-fitting black shirt rides up to her chest, giving me a great view of her pretty, pale ass and the less amazing sight of the words “Property of Pinball” crudely inked into her otherwise perfect flesh.
I don’t think I’m angry. I rest in bed, staring at those words for an hour before she wakes up from the sound of Hansel and Gretel barking in the backyard. I see her stretching. Ramona turns over just enough to see me. I love her relaxed smile. Her expression says she’s happy to wake up next to me. She feels safe.
So, of fucking course, I immediately ask, “Who’s Pinball?” and turn the day to shit.
Ramona flies out of bed as if under attack. She yanks down her shirt and stands startled.
“I want to go home,” she mumbles, not fully awake.
Climbing out of bed, I frown at her overreaction and lie, “I don’t care if you have a tat about an ex-boyfriend.”
“I want to break up.”
Her words cut at me, but I only reply dismissively, “No, you don’t.”
“I want to go home,” she nearly begs.
My injured male ego shuts the fuck up long enough to ac
cept that Ramona’s on the verge of tears. Her hands ball into fists when I move closer. I know she won’t hit me. Or, then again, maybe she will. I’m still getting to know her. Perhaps, her fight-or-flight instinct will force her to take a punch. If violence calms her down, I’m willing to endure whatever beating she hands out.
“It’s just a tattoo,” I whisper while holding her gaze.
“You should dump me.”
“Over a tattoo?”
“Because I’m weird.”
“That’s not a good reason to break up.”
“It’s better than the truth,” she says, looking crazed despite being half-asleep. “I want you to dump me now instead of when you know. Wait, do you already know?”
“Know what, Ramona?” I ask softly, and she shivers from the tone of my voice. She wanted to wake up and feel safe, but I had to let my pigheaded ego ride roughshod over my smarter brain and my kinder heart.
“I can’t tell you. I wish you knew,” she says, scratching at her wrists, and I think of those scars. I’m convinced now that she caused them rather than someone else. She hurt herself at some point. Now, she’s in the kind of mood where she’ll do it again. My instincts demand I hold her in my arms and keep her safe from herself, but she flinches when I move closer.
“Why don’t you tell me?” I ask.
“I want you to already know. That way, you wouldn’t care, but I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want you to know.”
I know Ramona is only partially awake. Her eyes remain glazed, and her hair is a mess. Normally, I’d be all over her, kissing and cuddling until she found her smile. But she backs into the wall when I try to approach her again. With her not making sense, I decide to back off rather than take charge like I want.