by Jo Raven
Focused on his reactions, the subtle shifts in his expression, the slight movements of his body, I miss the moment he decides to reverse our roles. Suddenly, the world tilts and I’m lowered on my back on the sofa, Rafe bent over me, those long-lashed, pretty eyes gleaming.
“What…?” I begin, breathless.
“Today’s your birthday,” he reminds me as if I care about that right now.
Not even sure I remember my own name.
And then he presses his mouth to my neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses, and I think I’m going to lose my mind.
Losing seems to be the game of the day.
He’s tugging on my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders, and I help him, twisting and taking it off. Anything to feel his mouth on other parts of me. Next he’s pulling off my sweater and my shirt, and the moment they’re off, his mouth is back on my hyper-sensitized skin, kissing the mounds of my breasts, moving his lips over the lacy bra, over my hardening nipples until I’m writhing underneath him, panting, needing more.
Needing him so bad.
He puts his hands on my breasts, squeezing them together, kissing them, tugging on the lace with his teeth. My body lifts off the couch when he manages to pull the lace down and put his hot mouth on the hardened tips, sucking and licking.
“Please,” I hear myself moaning. “Please.”
He looks up, a wicked glint in his gaze, then dives back down and trails his soft lips down my belly, licking at every ridge and hollow with his rough tongue—just like a cat, I have a moment to think, and then he’s drawing my jeans and panties down my legs, taking it all off—including my shoes.
Leaving me naked on his sofa.
Cool air rushes over my skin, between my legs, where I’m hot and throbbing, and I shudder. Panic sets in, and I don’t even know why. I feel…vulnerable. I’m bared and he’s still fully dressed. I told him about my past and he’s still a mystery.
I start to sit up.
“Meg.” His smoky voice sends a shiver through me. “What do you need?”
He’s kneeling between my legs, and the tent in the front of his pants is impressive. Makes me lick my lips, and restarts the almost painful throb deep in my belly.
“I need…” You. All of you, not just random bits and pieces you throw at me as if you’d throw at a stray animal. I need your trust and your heart.
But I can’t say that. I can’t even need that from someone I know so little.
“Just tell me,” he whispers, kneeling so still, his arousal and his labored breathing the only signs of how affected he is. “Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
A corner of his mouth lifts, breaking the mask. “It’s your birthday.”
Right. It is my birthday, and what I want right now… “Take off your shirt. And your pants.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh that shakes his whole body, then shrugs off his jacket, grabs the hem of his sweater and T-shirt and pulls both off.
My mouth goes so dry I can’t swallow. My heart stops.
Holy Mary and Baby Jesus. This boy’s chest should be on sale on the black market. It’d bring millions. Sculpted pecs, an eight-pack to die for, muscular arms, so much silky skin on display, covered in beautiful ink.
Really beautiful ink, though it’s not enough to distract me from the beauty of his body. A scorpion on his side. Colorful sleeves on both arms. A big dragon flowing over his shoulder, fanged mouth opening on his chest. A scar under the colors. Names inked on his ribs on one side, the words “Mi ricordo,” on the other, and I wish I knew what it meant. What looks like a river of blood flowing down to his right hip.
His hands go to the buckle of his belt, drawing my eyes. The snick of it opening, the whoosh of leather against leather, and then he’s shoving his pants down and off. He kicks off his boots, tugs off his socks, and he’s left clad only in his black boxer briefs.
The outline of his hard-on is perfectly visible through the soft cotton, and I feel hot all over. God, this boy’s packing some serious heat down there. It’s both scary and exciting.
I lick my lips, waiting for him to lose this last bit of fabric that’s covering what I’m dying to see—but his hands fall away. Why? I lift my hand to touch him there, feel how hard he is—but he grips my hand, lifts it to his mouth and presses a kiss on my palm.
Hot. It makes me tremble. “This is about you,” he whispers against my skin, and his mouth curves in a smile. “I want to make you feel good.”
“You are,” I say as he pushes me back down and presses my hand into the cushions. “It feels good.”
His gaze moves over my breasts, lingering, then dips. I try to close my legs, but he puts his hands on my thighs and slowly parts them until I’m completely exposed.
“You’re not pretty,” he says, his voice hoarse, and before I can work up any anger at this statement, he lowers himself between my legs and whispers, “You’re a goddamn goddess.”
Then his mouth is on me, and my mind goes white. I heard tales from other girls at the coffee shop, spoken in giggles and whispers, about how it feels to have a man go down on them. I always thought they were exaggerating to make the rest of us uneasy.
Or maybe Rafe is just that good with his lips and mouth—I wouldn’t know. My experience is limited, but oh good lord, his warm, rough tongue inside me is making me arch my back and moan helplessly. His stubble scrapes on my inner thighs, tiny stings of pain, while his satin-soft lips slide over every sensitive inch of me, hot and…
The sensations change, become more intense, and I look down, trying to see what he’s doing. His hand is between my thighs, too, and he’s pressing deep inside of me. Fingering me, I realize, just as the pressure inside me rises to combustion levels and my hips start moving of their own accord, trying to get more—of his hand, his mouth. More of Rafe.
I should be mortified. I should be at least embarrassed about the incoherent sounds falling from my lips, the writhing of my body, the moisture I feel leaking down my legs. For what I feel coming, something so intense that will tear me apart.
But I don’t care. I can’t care, not when he’s playing my body like an instrument, and I stand no chance to stop the pressure from cresting. My hands twist on the sofa cushions, scrabbling for purchase. As my body tightens deep inside, I feel as if I’m about to fall off a skyscraper.
And then I do. My body detonates, my senses explode. I cry out as pleasure rips through me like a hot blade, and he keeps fucking me with his fingers, sucking on me, pleasuring me, so that my orgasm goes on and on.
When the last tremors finally stop, for a long moment I’m unable to move, my limbs like lead, my body a puddle of satisfaction.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers breathlessly, and I can hear the grin in his voice. He lifts his head, leans over me.
“Thanks,” I mutter and smile. “Jesus. That was…crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“Crazy good.” I reach up with an effort to touch his chest as he accommodates himself between my legs, his erection throbbing through his underwear, pressing into my sensitive folds.
We stay like that for a bit as I try to get my breathing back under control. My hand moves over his ink.
“Love your tats. Zane did them?”
“Some of them.” Rafe bends lower, kisses my breasts and I loop my arms around his neck.
“Those names, they are your family’s?” I’m groggy. I feel as if I’m on drugs. Really good drugs. My body is floating. “And this phrase? Mi ricordo? What does it mean?”
Abruptly he pulls away.
“Rafe?” I mutter. “What is it?”
He’s already climbing off the sofa, turning away. He clasps a hand to the back of his neck and squeezes, and a shudder goes through his body. The muscles in his back and his legs stand out in sharp relief.
“It means I remember,” he whispers. “That it was my fault.”
Confused, I watch him stagger out of the room. After a few moments, I sit up, the haze cleari
ng from my mind.
Locked inside. Inside a thorny maze. He’s lost, and I need to find him, before it’s too late—before the monsters find him and swallow him whole.
Chapter Eight
Rafe
How could I forget? Her taste is on my tongue, sweet like sugar, and my dick is so hard it fucking hurts, and I forgot.
I slam the door behind me and stumble to wall, slam my shoulder into it. My heart’s trying to hammer its way out of my fucking chest. Dammit, I barely managed to get out of the room before I completely lost it.
Well, I’m about to lose it now, and it won’t be pretty. Nausea rises in my throat and I double over. Goddammit, what fucked-up timing. Guess it caught me by surprise—the assault of memories and guilt as I hovered on the edge of pleasure. If she hadn’t spoken, if I hadn’t heard her where she lay, naked and goddamn sexy, I’d have entered her then and there, pounded into her until I came so hard I blacked out.
But she spoke, and I heard her. I remember, and the walls are closing in. I slam my hands into the wall, but it’s not enough. Not enough pain to snap me out. All this pretending that I’m okay, that everything’s okay, it’s wearing me out. Breaking me apart. With the anniversary looming, I’m stepping closer to the edge of the void, day after day, hour after hour.
This isn’t for me. Pleasure is not for me. I reach down¸ tug on the piercings in my hard cock, but that doesn’t help, either. The pain isn’t sharp enough, and it’s too mixed up with pleasure. It’s been way too long. My balls are throbbing. My cock is on fire. The urge to grab on and jack off is driving me crazy.
It hurts, but if it didn’t hurt, it wouldn’t be a punishment, would it? For my sin. For my part in it. For surviving.
My fault. I shouldn’t be the one here.
Darkness is crowding my vision. I feel as if I’m looking at myself from a distance. Dizziness hits me and I brace my hands on the wall. I bend my head, ignoring the howl that’s building in my chest, and press my hot forehead to the cold surface. It’s moments like this I think of the pills I’ve managed to stop taking, the addiction I thought I’d shaken off.
Oh God. I’m shaking, my teeth chattering. This sucks.
Through the deafening pounding of my pulse in my ears, I hear the door creak, and I think it’s my imagination, the ghosts haunting me, toying with me.
“There you are,” a soft voice says. Megan’s voice. “Crap, it’s cold in here.”
I turn my head to the side to see her, and I just stare, my voice gone, my thoughts derailed like every time. My brain is one fucking big blank.
Forgetting the world again, the reality of my past and my role in it. I stare stupidly at her smoking hot body, her dusky nipples, then look up into her dark eyes and my hard-on is back with a vengeance. Can’t help it, she’s so fucking perfect, her bronzed skin, her rich curves, her delicate features and that shiny black hair…
My dick twitches and a spasm of pleasure goes through me. It’s been so long, and she’s so damn sexy. I might come just from looking at her.
“Rafe.” She reaches for me, tugs on my arm until I push off the wall and turn toward her. “Are you okay?”
I swallow hard, my throat so dry it clicks. “I’m fine. Gimme a minute. I’ll get ready and we can go—”
“I don’t care about that—dinner and drinks,” she says, reaching for me. “You don’t look so good. What happened?”
Damn. I want to kiss her, cover that beautiful mouth with mine, stop the words. But I’m not fast enough, still kinda dizzy and out of it.
“You said it was your fault,” she says. “That’s not true. That’s not what happened. Zane told me. It had nothing to do with you.”
Shit. “I don’t wanna talk about this. Just gimme a minute, okay?”
She shakes her dark head. “It was murder,” she whispers. “You were just a kid. Nothing about it can be your fault. You’re a good guy.”
My heart jackhammers in my chest. Ow. I can’t escape her words, or the memories they carry. Everyone else tiptoes around this topic, never mentioning it—well, apart from Zane, but Zane is a bastard sometimes. Her eyes are full of innocence as she talks, as she pushes the knife in my chest and twists.
“You don’t understand,” I whisper.
“Then explain.”
“I opened the door.” I opened the fucking door. “The bell rang, and I didn’t check first, like I was supposed to do. I’d gotten a new cell and I was so fucking engrossed in it I didn’t do my job.” Goddammit, why the hell am I telling her this? The pounding in my ears returns, louder. “I don’t deserve to be here.”
“Rafe…” She lifts a hand to my face, and I flinch real hard.
“No.” I turn away from her, stumble to the sink and brace my hands on it. There’s more. So much more she doesn’t know, and I can’t tell her. How a knife stopped me, how I watched my sister die and was unable to do a single thing. “I should have stopped him. Should have saved them.”
“You were only fifteen. Just a boy. Nothing you could have done.”
“Leave it be, Meg. Just stop.”
“You couldn’t have known they’d come to kill your family.” She’s approaching me, her voice now so close she has to be right behind me. “It was a random murder.”
“I said stop!” I twist around and grab her shoulders, walk her backward until her back hits the other wall. I shake her lightly, do my best to control my spasming muscles. “Just fucking stop talking.”
Her dark eyes are round, clouded by shock, and I groan, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth are grinding together. I force my hands open, let them slide down the silky skin of her arms.
Goddammit. Shivers rack me, and I try to remember my breathing exercises. Haven’t needed them in a long time. Once they were all that got me through the day. In and out. In and out.
Her dark lashes lift and she looks up at me. A soft smile lifts the corners of her pretty mouth.
“Told you that you’re not a violent man,” she whispers and slides her hands up my neck and tangles her fingers in my short hair.
Fucking kills me that she trusts me not to hurt her, even after witnessing this. This breakdown. This loss of control. This goddamn walking disaster that I am.
Her hands move over my chest, over my nipples, down my abs, brushing over the head of my cock—and I jerk at the lightning pleasure. So close to coming.
I put my hands over hers to stop her. Shit. Now that I remember, that I am in the here and now, I can’t.
“Let me,” she whispers. “I want to touch you.”
“No.” I grit my teeth, because I’m dying for her touch, fucking dying, but I can’t. Her touch will break me, I know it. Pleasure will break me. Pain is the one thing that keeps me going. “Dammit, no.”
A flash of hurt goes through her gaze. “Sorry.”
Fuck. “Don’t be.”
She starts to turn away, her eyes wet, glittering in the low light. “You don’t want this.”
“Meg…” I catch her arm. “I do want this.” I want her, so bad. If my diamond-hard, leaking, throbbing cock isn’t proof of that… “But not now.” I force my brain to snap back into focus, to produce a coherent thought. I brush soft hair out of her eyes. “My head is not in a good place. And I want to take you out. If you keep distracting me, we won’t be going anywhere tonight.”
“Maybe…” She licks her lips and my dick twitches. “Maybe I’d rather stay here with you tonight.”
So tempting. I could just give in, let her touch me, hold me. I’d spill on her, inside her. Then make her come again, and again. And again.
Fuck. “Just…let me take you out. You had a rough day. Probably haven’t eaten since morning.”
She bites her lip, shakes her head.
Just as I thought. Besides, she’s sad and lonely tonight. She’ll probably regret this tomorrow. I’m not who she needs, and she’ll realize, sooner or later. I’m giving her time to see.
Yeah, as if my freaking out on her, coming to
hide in the fucking bathroom and then not letting her touch me isn’t enough of a clue.
“Two minutes,” I say. “I’ll shower, dress and we can be on our way. I know a nice restaurant nearby.”
She nods and turns to go, the slight sway of her heart-shaped ass hypnotic.
Fuck. Me. I need to turn away, I have to, but she lingers at the door, casting me a sideways look.
Hell, those eyes will be the death of me. Liquid darkness and heat. Her lips part as if she’s about to say something more, and man, she’s got the prettiest mouth—soft, full. Warm. Her gaze moves down my chest, to my crotch, and my dick jerks in response, trapped in my boxer briefs.
My resolve is about to shatter. My fists clench at my sides and my legs tense. I’m about to stride across the small bathroom, pull her against me and fuck her into the wall, my fears and excuses be damned. I’ll make her scream, and whimper, and call out my name until the neighbors come knocking on my door. She thinks she knows me? I’ll make her come so hard she’ll forget her worries about me, forget her own problems, forget her own name.
So it’s just as well she turns away and leaves, closing the door behind her.
***
The joint is small, a family-run Italian diner a few streets down. A creepy sensation makes the hairs on the back of my neck lift, and I glance uneasily around. I think I see a shadow slip into an alley. Meg’s stalker?
But I don’t see him again as we walk down the street. Without thinking, I reach for her hand, and she slips it into mine without a word.
What am I doing? Didn’t I convince myself I’m not who she needs? Isn’t holding her hand a boyfriend’s job?
But I don’t let go. Her small hand fits perfectly in mine—just like her body fits perfectly against mine, my traitorous mind whispers, and I tell it to go fuck itself.
The only reason I’m here with Meg is to celebrate her birthday and put a smile on her face. She’s frowning a little as she walks beside me, feathery strands of dark hair brushing her small face.