Ocean (Damage Control Book 5)

by Jo Raven

  But I’ve tried all that, and it didn’t work. I look at this tousled blue hair and hooded eyes, that soft mouth and hard jaw, and I want to fall into him, sink deep.

  Why all the mixed signals? Does he want to be with me or not? It’s obvious I wasn’t only a passing fuckbuddy. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me, that he worries about me, it’s all there.

  Why won’t he talk to me? I’ve told him I believe in him. There’s only one thing left to tell him: my realization about how I feel about him.

  That now I believe in love.

  ***

  The doors close at nine. I’m sold out again, and I’m starting to think this clothes selling business might work out, after all. I should add more items to Amber’s website. The gloves and hats sold much better than I thought.

  God, I’m dying to see Ocean in his T-shirt. I glance over at his stall, and there he is, partly hidden by his last customer who’s getting a small tattoo on her forearm. Words. Maybe something or someone important to her.

  Like the angel tattoo Ocean has.

  Livvy.

  My earlier resolution to tell him how I feel weakens. Crap. Almost forgot about her. What if she’s the reason he’s staying away?

  What if it’s me?

  Not as sure of myself as I was a minute ago, I start gathering my stuff. It’s mostly tidying up my half of the table, as the clothes are all sold. Amber’s jewelry is still on display—though she also sold loads—but she’s vanished somewhere.

  I bet Jesse Lee is missing, too. The two of them are probably making out in the bathroom, and good for them.

  Sighing, I grab my purse and jacket, my thoughts spinning, but as I turn away, a tall shadow falls over me, and my breath catches.

  “Hey.” Ocean shoves a hand through his hair. “Good day?”

  “Yeah. Nothing left to take home.”

  He nods and gives me a mouthwatering smile. His jaw is scruffy, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue.

  Holy crap, he’s more gorgeous than ever.

  “And you?” I ask. “You got lots of customers, I saw.”

  “It was okay. I prefer working on a tat over weeks, slowly putting it together, but this was interesting.”

  “You prefer drawing in parts.” I recall his sketches, stuck on his kitchen door. “Telling your story in parts.”

  He frowns. “I guess. Look, I wanted…” He waves a hand in the air, then stuffs it into his jeans pocket, looking adorably nervous. “Um.”

  Why is he nervous?

  “Yes?”

  His eyes are a brilliant blue when he meets my gaze. “To invite you over. For a drink or something.”

  “Oh.” I open my mouth, close it. Try again. “When?”

  He sucks in his lower lip, releases it, and it’s so sexy. “Now. Tonight.” He gives me a quick, crooked smile that has my toes curling. “I need to test something.”

  “Test? So I’m some sort of experiment?”

  “Nothing painful, I promise.”

  But he can’t promise that. Not when my heart’s already exposed and naked, and a single blow can shatter it. Not when we should talk. When I should tell him. Ask him. Choose a course.

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  First rule of love, as I’m coming to realize, is that control is a thing of the past. You can only let yourself go and brace for impact.

  ***

  I drive us to his place, and we enter his apartment in silence. It’s cold inside, and I smile when he immediately goes and turns on the heaters.

  “Jason not staying with you anymore?”

  “No, he’d left before I came back on Sunday. Left a message, said he was doing much better.”

  Sunday. The day Ocean almost died.

  I have to stop myself from stepping up to him and sliding my arms around him. “Glad he’s better.”

  “So he says.” Ocean shrugs off his jacket. “Damn boy is too proud to accept help.”

  “He’s not the only one.”

  He frowns, points toward the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

  “Why not?” Let go. Brace. “Whatcha got?”

  “Jack.” He takes the bottle out of a cupboard, and two glasses. “That’s all I got, sorry.”

  “That’s fine.”

  I’m not fond of whiskey, but even just having a glass in my hands might be good. Why am I so jittery? I had sex with this guy, for chrissakes. I know what his cock tastes like, how it feels like inside me.

  Heat spreads up my stomach to my boobs. The tips tighten painfully.

  God, just one more touch. One more kiss. One more tumble in his bed. Even if my heart shatters afterward, when he tosses me away like all the girls he slept with before.

  “Here you go.” He passes me a glass, and in one swift motion, he downs his. He pours more for himself.

  “That must be a hell of a test you have in mind,” I mutter and sip at the whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat.

  “It is.” He downs the rest of the Jack and slams the glass on the counter. “Yeah.”

  Feeling unsettled, curious and kind of scared, I retreat back to the living room. The kitchenette is too small and full of memories—of him kissing me, touching me, making me come.

  “So why did you invite me over? Like, really?” I take another sip and wander around the room, checking it out, something I wasn’t able to do much while Jason crashed here. He has a shelf with books—some thrillers, some sci-fis, a couple about art. A few about cars.

  I’m frowning, reaching up to take one of the latter, when he walks up right behind me and stops my hand from taking the book.

  “Kay.”

  I slowly turn around. We’re so close I feel the heat of his body.

  He takes a step back, taking a sip of his glass.

  My glass all but forgotten in my hold, I take a step forward. It slips from my finger.

  He makes a grab for it before it falls and pushes me back against the shelves. He puts both glasses there, his chest brushing mine.

  Again he draws back. His eyes are dark, boring into me, but he isn’t touching me. There’s an inch or two between us.

  It feels like miles.

  “Blue…” I whisper, wondering if this dizzy feeling is due to the whiskey or his nearness. I lift my hand to his face.

  He catches it, drawing a sharp breath at the same time. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls me off the shelves, stepping away again.

  It’s just like it, I think dazedly. Like a dance. We’re dancing around each other.

  And then the dance changes. He stops moving and pulls me flush against him. My boobs are mashed to the hard planes of his chest, and his arms go around me, his hands sliding up my back.

  “Is this your test?” I whisper.

  “Yeah. I’m testing myself. I wanted to see if I can be around you and not touch you or kiss you.”

  “And can you?”

  “No, dammit, I can’t.”

  He crashes his mouth to mine and starts walking me backward. I barely notice when my back hits the wall. His tongue traces my mouth, parts my lips and thrusts inside. My body jerks, my blood on fire. My pulse is hammering in my ears.

  I’m so happy to be close to him again. My whole body is lighting up like a firework. Happy, and nervous, and excited, and holy shit, he feels so good, his big body pressing into mine like he’s trying to wrap himself around my bones.

  Around my heart.

  His tongue touches mine, and I press back. He moans and deepens the kiss, his arms coming to rest on the wall by my head, bracketing me in. He sucks on my tongue, on my lips, his cock pressing on my stomach, long and hard and insistent.

  He tastes like spice and desire and Ocean, and God, I’ve missed him. More than I can express with words.

  Winding my arms around his neck, I kiss him with everything I have, everything I’ve been struggling to hold inside.

  He gasps against my mouth, his hips rocking into me, and the pressure building in my core is skyrocketing.


  My oxygen is running out, and I break the kiss, panting. We both suck in desperate gulps of air, and he winces as he draws back.

  Oh crap, his ribs! I try to sort of push on his shoulders, but not too hard in case he’s bruised there too, but he doesn’t budge. His gaze is glued to my mouth, and his eyes burn a midnight blue under his long lashes.

  His arms are still braced on the wall, not allowing me to move.

  Not that I want to.

  “Kay.” His voice is hoarse. “Need you.”

  “I need you, too,” I tell him. “So much.”

  His next breath is shaky. “I have to tell you about Raine. And Livvy.” He licks his lips. “Tell you everything.”

  The fear returns. Despite dying to know about his past, I’m not sure I want to know about this Livvy and about how she still holds his affection. Not right now.

  “Later.” I tug on the back of his neck to kiss him again. “We have time.”

  He shakes his head. “Tomorrow,” he says, “there’s something I have to do, and before that, I need to tell you everything. I need to tell you, and hold you, and bury myself inside you.”

  The seriousness in his voice, his expression sobers me up. “Okay. So what about Livvy and Raine? Was she your girlfriend?”

  “No.” He draws a deep breath. “I was seventeen. She was thirteen. She was good friends with Raine. And her death was my fault.”

  “So you say.” Oh God. Livvy is dead. Now it makes sense why he has an angel inked on his arm.

  She’s dead…

  “My fault. Everyone said so.”

  “Who’s everyone?” I ask.

  “My parents. Raine. The neighbors. Her parents.”

  “Well, I don’t believe it. I know you. I know how good you are inside.”

  “I’m not good, Kay. I told you how I tried to take care of Raine. Of us.” I reach up, stroke his face, and he blinks, lost in memory. “We begged for food, we ate from the trash, we raided the neighbor’s kitchens. It wasn’t enough. There’s a guy at the trailer park, Duane. He organizes car races with some of the stupid rich city trash. He has two cars, and he hires drivers desperate enough to drive them for some money. If you win, you get lot of cash. If you lose the race, you get a little. Anything was better than nothing. So when I turned fifteen, I started racing.”

  There’s a lump in my throat. “God.”

  “Raine was still twelve. Livvy ten. They thought I was the adult, the responsible person in their lives. I was their idol, their example. One day, Livvy and Raine got into one of Duane’s cars and sped off.” He swallows convulsively. “They crashed into a pole. Livvy died on the spot. Raine survived.” He shakes his head. “I bring flowers to her grave every week. She liked lilies.”

  The dead flowers in his car. Lilies.

  This is so frigging sad. “They wanted to be like you.”

  “And look where that got them.”

  “That wasn’t your fault. You were doing it for them. To help them. You couldn’t foresee what they’d do.”

  He only draws another long breath. It’s not too steady. His eyes look wet.

  I can imagine the girl’s parents accusing him of being a bad example in their grief, even his brother, but the others? What a bunch of losers, putting this burden on him after he spent his childhood shouldering their responsibilities.

  “You were a kid, too, Ocean. You did all you could. Nobody should blame you for this.”

  He lifts his gaze, and there it is again, that flash of hope. “Christ, you mean it, don’t you?” He nuzzles my neck, his breath warm.

  “You bet I do. I told you. I know you. You’re a good guy. Everyone knows it but you. Now…”

  I need to distract him from these sad thoughts, distract myself until it all sinks in. Until he realizes for good that what kept him back so far wasn’t on him. That despite thinking it would push me away, that I’d blame him along with everyone else, he came clean. He told me everything.

  I slide my hands down his chest, reach the hem of his sweater and T-shirt and tug on it. He steps back, lets me lift the two garments and then pulls them over his head and throws them to the floor.

  Holy cow, I wonder if seeing his bare chest will ever get old. There are bruises, sure, dark and awful, but the black ink of his intricate tattoos, the rippling muscles, the washboard stomach, the delicious V of muscle at his hipbones, the light trail of dark hairs leading from his navel into his jeans…

  So sexy.

  He makes a soft noise, and I look up to find a faint smirk on his face. “Like what you see?”

  “Is this another test?” I whisper. “Ocean, I—”

  He presses a finger to my lips, silencing me. He then unzips his jeans and pushes everything down and off, toeing off his boots and socks.

  “No more tests,” he says.

  Oh my God. He’s standing totally naked in front of me, his hard-on pointing at me, while I’m still fully dressed, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve seen. It’s also the sweetest, somehow, like he’s trying to tell me something.

  Like he’s done with barriers and masks. As he lifts his arms to the sides and dips his head, he’s offering me the whole of him.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  No need for the cards to tell me who he is, no palm reading required. I know him. I need him. I don’t believe in love, but my senses tell me it’s real when it comes to him.

  He looks up, his eyes widening, his lips parting. Not sure what he expected, but apparently it wasn’t this.

  Then he guides me down on the sofa and climbs on top of me, placing his muscular thighs on either side of me. “I love you more,” he whispers back.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ocean

  Laid out on my sofa, she’s so hot she burns. She’s wearing a purple dress with an uneven hem and a cloth flower on one shoulder. It molds perfectly to every lush curve, and it has to go before my dick explodes all over it. I roll the clingy fabric up her long legs, leaving them bare except for the shiny tights she’s wearing and her ankle-height black boots.

  Through the sheer fabric of her tights I see her tiny panties. Black with pink lace.

  Oh fuck.

  I run my hands down her legs to her boots, and I tug them off, let them thump to the floor. Then I reach up and pull down her tights, pull on them so hard they start to rip.

  And I don’t give a damn.

  I tried to keep away. I truly fucking did. Tried to tell her everything. To cling to the memory of her warmth, her kindness, her hot body. But it turns out I can’t. The memory isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. I need her here, now. Always.

  With me.

  Few things scare me. My brother never forgiving me. My mom dying alone. But above all, not being with her.

  As I stroke her bare legs, the satiny skin breaking out in goosebumps under my palms, as I lift her feet and place open-mouthed kisses on top, then up her shins, her knees and then on the inside of her thighs, she shivers and whispers my name.

  “Blue,” she’s whispering. “Blue.”

  “I’m here,” I say against her skin, nosing toward her frilly panties, the light musk of her arousal hitting me straight between my legs, making my dick harder.

  She loves me. She doesn’t blame me. She loves me. She said so.

  Fuck, is this really happening?

  The blood is rushing to my ears. My heart is pounding hard enough to break through my battered ribs as I breathe her in, heat pooling in my gut.

  I’m so worked up already, just from smelling her, hearing her, from knowing she feels something for me, that I can’t trust myself to move, even as my balls throb and my dick is so heavy it aches.

  I’ve known I love her for a while. There was never a doubt in my mind about it. But for me that means I want to be with her, only her, and that she’ll be mine.

  Is that what she means?

  But I don’t ask. Can’t push my luck any more tonight. This is already so much more than I ever hoped for.


  I press a kiss on her panties, over her pussy, and she gasps. I press harder, and she writhes underneath me, her hands coming to my head, fingers raking through my hair.

  Yeah, baby.

  My control is quickly unraveling, so I grab the sides of her panties and drag them down her legs. The moment they’re off, I lift her legs up, resting her knees on my shoulders, and go to town.

  She whimpers as I lick her, opening up her seam, then licking deeper, the sweetness of her arousal hitting my tongue.

  “Oh God!” Her hips lift, and I push them back down, teasing her clit, circling the tip of my tongue around the hard nub, while working one hand between her legs.

  The moment I push a finger into her pussy, she cries out and clamps down, squeezing the hell out of my finger. Coming. Pulsing in great shudders, arching off the couch, calling out my name.

  Fuck. Guess I wasn’t the only one on the brink. And it makes me grin as I give her wet, throbbing pussy one last, long lick before I lift my head to see her face, her heavy-lidded eyes, languid with pleasure.

  She does want me. She really does. As I start to pull my finger out of her, she clenches again around me, as if trying to keep me inside her.

  I don’t even know how to deal with this rush of tenderness and satisfaction and need that’s churning me up inside. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before in my life.

  “Don’t move,” I say and dive in again. This time I push a second finger inside her, stroking her deep, while I torture her clit with my tongue faster and faster.

  She can come again from this, I’m sure of it. I can feel it in the way her body is tensing up, her hand in my hair tightening, in the way she sobs for breath.

  I pump my fingers in her slick pussy, then curl them to find her sweet spot, my other hand going under her sweet ass and my thumb brushing over her back entrance. Again and again, and I close my mouth over her clit, sucking.

  She screams, coming hard, milking my fingers in never-ending waves.

  Love it when she’s so loud. When she can’t hold back.

  God. I’m dying of need. Need for her. To be deep inside her, to feel her closer than any other person on earth, feel her pussy around my dick, her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck.