by Shey Stahl
Smiling, I nod, my stomach burning. “Yes, pretty much.”
I’m standing in the middle of my new apartment and it feels something like a tornado struck my small studio apartment and then River’s bedroom and landed our mixed belongings in Pasadena.
Do you notice the man standing in the corner of the room? Having Tiller in the apartment with us is slightly more nerve wracking than I imagined it to be. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes scanning the room. I want to ask what he’s thinking, why he insists on paying for it and where we stand after last night. I still haven’t asked him. We’ve been busy today. After the DNA test, we had lunch, and finally introduced River to her new home. I still need to bring Kona over, but one step at a time.
My mind floods with thoughts I can’t ask and don’t understand myself, let alone how to put them into questions.
Tiller stands next to the windows overlooking the outside garden terrace, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. He looks uncomfortable, his posture rigid, his jaw tight.
River comes down the hall, dragging her blanket. “I like Tiller’s house better. I want to live there.”
Tiller chuckles. “This place is cool too. Less people.”
River drops her blanket to the ground, arms crossed over her chest. “No, it not.” She spots the cake Willa sent over, the one that says “Welcome Home” on it. “I want cake.”
I’m a fan of cake before bed, or pretty much any sweets for that matter, but then I remember we’re supposed to be providing a stable environment for River and not weekly trips to the dentist.
Kneeling, I motion for her to come over to me. She does and sits on my knee. “It’s time for bed, sweets.”
“I’m not tired,” she whines, flopping herself on the floor and then sprawling out like she’s going to do a snow angel on the hardwood floor.
Tiller comes closer and scoops her up in his arms like she’s a princess. “I’ll put her to bed.”
I stand there, stunned, unsure what to make of it. He’s putting her to bed? Even last night, at his house, I put her to bed. I’m kind of jealous he’s going to do it, but also, my heart soars at the idea because do you hear that giggle down the hall when he tickles her belly? She loves him, and she’s only known him a few weeks.
An hour later, I’m putting things away in the kitchen and feel Tiller come up behind me.
“After reading Beauty and the Beast three times, kid’s asleep,” he tells me leaning into the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, looking proud of himself for accomplishing it. “I’ve never seen someone fight sleep like she does.”
“It takes me hours to get her to sleep at night.” Smiling, I turn around to face him, brushing a piece of stray hair out of my face with my arm. “I don’t know how Ava did it. She always seemed like she had it together at bedtime.”
“She probably drugged her.” His words are meant to hold humor, but it’s his intense eyes that pin me in place. He does this on purpose, knowing it affects me. It pisses me off and turns me on at the same time, and it’s the latter that has me nervous. “I meant to tell you something.”
My heart jumps into my throat.
That you love me? That last night was the best night of your life? “What?”
He looks away at the ground, breaking our contact. “I ran into Ava once. We never talked about it.”
Never talked about it? Confusion takes over. “You never talked about what?”
“About River,” he tells me, breathing in deep. With hesitation, his stare lifts to mine. “I mean, she never came out and told me about River. But I saw her, and pretty much knew there was a possibility of it.”
“But you knew?”
“Well yeah, look at her.”
“So why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because she’s better off without me, and Ava knew that.”
I hate that he keeps saying that, like he honestly believes he wouldn’t do right by her.
“Stop saying that,” I whisper when he steps forward, cornering me between the kitchen island and the stove.
Trailing his finger from my collarbone down to the neckline of my tank top, he creates goose bumps across my fevered flesh. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he demands. “And don’t lie to me.”
I wait, but then I think, I need to be honest with him. He needs to know. “I’m upset you slept with my sister.”
There’s a shift in his eyes, a flicker of something that shows some sort of emotion. It’s all I get before he dips his face next to mine, his nose skimming my cheek. “I wanted it to be you.”
Is he telling me the truth? I can’t tell, but then I can’t remember a time when he’s ever lied to me. “Why?” I ask, wanting to shut myself up but also wanting to get this off my chest and out of my heart.
“Because I did.” His eyes close, shadows dancing over sun-kissed cheeks. “I know you want some drawn-out answer where I confess my feelings to you, but even I don’t understand them.” Stepping forward, his arms wrap around my waist, drawing me into his warm embrace. “I can’t give you an answer other than I wanted it to be you.”
For so long, Tiller and I have existed in this very fragile little world that’s only ours and no one else knew about it.
When I look into his eyes, that dirty smile suffocates me and makes my blood rush to my face when he touches it. No one could ever make me feel the way he does, completely aware, completely alive, over the bars in love with him. Even if I can’t say it.
Taking my hand, he leads me back to my room.
The moonlight reflecting off the large windows in every room lights the inside just enough that Tiller doesn’t turn on any lights. A stream of light comes through the large floor to ceiling window where my bed is pushed against
“No candles this time.” He chuckles, sitting on the bed. He motions me over with a flick of his hand. “Ya gonna give up round two now?” His smile is bright even in the moonlight.
Relaxing at his humor, I laugh and move toward the bed.
He nods to my bedspread. “I like the color,” he notes, gesturing to the green, and then the purple rug on my floor. I remember his words at my parents’ house. Beauty without expression is boring. He’s always liked my odd sense of style.
When I sit beside him, he looks over at me. Neither of us say anything. His arms move into a stretch as he removes his shirt and tosses it aside.
Burying his face into my neck, he kisses my throat, working impatiently on my clothes. He takes control, but this time seems different, more passion, more love, more of everything even if we can’t say it.
When we’re alone, we don’t have to make sense of anything. I know in my heart it’s not just sex with him. It’s so much more of an undefined thing. . . but it’s our thing, and I’ll take it.
His pants are undone and I’m trying to get them off, but he’s not having it. Tiller likes to kiss these days and I feel like it’s happening more and more. He shows emotion this way, the little that we give is shared in the passion of his lips. He’s kissing and worshiping. His strong hands push mine away and pin them to the bed. My arms wrap around his shoulders, gripping muscles that flex as he holds me. Grunting, he pushes his hips into mine, wet swollen lips capture my own.
There’s things I find sexy about Tiller that no one compares to. It’s why no man has ever come before him, despite the game we played with each other for so long of never admitting how we feel. It’s his arrogance and the mysterious side of him.
That arrogance comes from him knowing he’s good at this and the reason we’re still doing this is because he gives me what I’m looking for. He’s right. He also knows what I like. Every move he makes, he knows my reaction to it. There’s a sense of comfort between us.
Drawing back, his hands wander up my thighs to the edge of my panties. Drawing them down my legs, he lets them fall at his feet. I push back with my feet on his chest, smiling at him and then sitting up with my feet touching the floor. My head is at his waist, and I lo
ok up at him through my lashes. His hands travel over my shoulders and cup my face, his thumbs dragging over my lips.
I don’t waste time. My hands eagerly stroke his erection, so hard, smooth and perfect. When I take him deep inside and let him hit the back of my throat, his hands fist in my hair.
“Stop,” he tells me and shoves me back. I scoot to the center of the bed, watching him reach for the condom in his shorts after kicking away the remainder of his clothes. The moonlight catches his eyes and I get a glimpse of the lust in them and the way he has his head bent, concentrating on the wrapper of the condom.
When he gets the condom on, he climbs between my legs.
There’s a moment I can’t shake. It’s when he enters me and my body curves around his. It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as it did the first time.
His hand flies from my hips to my neck and pushes my head down into the pillow. Tiller knows how to fuck. It seems so dirty to say it like that, but he’s a god on a dirt bike and fucks just as good.
“You fucking love this shit. . . don’t you?” he whispers in my ear, the roughness somewhat unnerving. “You portray innocence, but you crave fucking my cock, don’t you?”
“Yes!” I moan.
Nipping at my neck, his teeth drag over my heated skin. It’s like fire and ice. I fear the cold but crave the burn.
“Fuck. . . .” Tiller shudders, his body trembling when I wrap my arms around his neck. “You’re so fucking wet.” His feet move, his knees spreading slightly, bracing himself and gaining some leverage to move easier. When he does, his head falls forward to my shoulder. He’s found the right line for sure.
Tossing my head back, I close my eyes, letting him take me. His hands stay on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh with each thrust. No words are said after that. We’ve gone to that place where our problems don’t exist. A place that we’ve created and we’re the only visitors.
His left hand moves to my neck when he lifts up slightly, watching me, his thumb on one side, his fingers on the other with just the slightest pressure on the artery. It’s enough that I feel the blood flow leave, but not enough that I can’t breathe. He’s rough. He’s always rough and that’s where the arrogance comes from. He knows what I like, even if I can’t tell him; he doesn’t give a shit. I’m quickly finding out when I’m with him, like this, there are no rules. He takes what he wants and gives it just as hard.
My nails dig into his arms, each pass leaving a raised red mark. This is me begging him to fuck me harder, give me everything he has to give.
He knows.
He provides.
With a grunt, his hips drive into me unrelenting and his right hand pushes my head into the pillow a little harder.
Gasping at the sensation, Tiller moves both hands and then curls them over the tops of my shoulders, the leverage he needs. Still on my back, with my feet flat against the mattress, I push up and arch into him, working together.
With a frustrated gasp, Tiller moves his hands to my ass, forcing me into his movements. “Jesus. . . I fucking needed you so bad,” he cries into my hair, pushing it to the side, his hands tangling in it.
Me too.
Me.
Too.
I exhale noisily, moaning into his ear. That provokes him, and he groans again, and then finds my mouth.
Maybe it’s his lips.
Maybe it’s the passion.
Maybe it’s just. . . him.
We come together, panting and cursing. His entire body tenses as the warmth crashes over us. While I have him, like this, it’s his heart I can’t reach.
Moments later, he’s restless in the silence around us, bathed in moonlight and the Santa Ana winds rustling through my cracked window. He’s near the window, smoking, and this is when I’m curious. He gets quiets, a weight on his mind, heavy on his heart. These are the times when I want to beg him to talk to me like he did when we were kids, before he shut down inside. I want him to speak the truth because sometimes, even the roughest of us need to get the messy thoughts out. But he doesn’t because he always says, “I can’t dirty you with me.”
I don’t know what that means, but behind the lost eyes, he’s begging to be loved.
We’re at a jump show. And by we, I mean Tiller and me. We even rode together. River stayed back at the house with Scarlet since she wasn’t feeling well, and Scarlet wanted to cuddle her. Poor River caught a cold and all I can think about is my parents getting upset that she’s sick and somehow blaming me for it.
“Riders meeting in ten minutes!” they announce over the PA system.
I’ve been around dirt bikes my entire life. Motocross, Supercross, flat track, you name it and I’ve been involved in it. I can say without a doubt freestyle is home for me. Probably because it reminds me of Tiller. I can still remember the first time I saw him perform at the level he’s at now. He was sixteen, two weeks before the X Games and I snuck into the practice runs to watch him perform a double backflip combo and land it with no hands.
I was not only in awe of his ability, but the dedication he put forth to training for the event. When I watch him now, he’s not the same rider he used to be. Something’s missing, but every once in a while, you’ll get a glimpse of the old Tiller. Like tonight. And I can’t tell if it’s the event, or that he’s changing.
Look at him. He’s sitting on his bike with Shade, Roan, and two other riders, discussing the jumps. But do you notice the way girls are all around them, hanging on their every word?
Even with the distance between us, the heat of his stare burns my skin, conveying his want, his need through his eyes. And I know very well the power those eyes hold.
Women flock to him, surrounding, pushing their tits in his face and their children at him in attempt to say, “My little girl loves you.” When in reality, it’s not the child, it’s the mother. Heck, sometimes they use other people’s kids to get close to him. It’s so disturbing the levels women lower themselves to when they want to get an athletes attention.
When they lean in for a selfie with him, he gives them a thrill by wrapping his arm around them, giving them a little something to take home. Only it bothers me more now that I’ve slept with him than it ever did before.
Half dressed, inked from head-to-toe, woman after woman walk past me after getting photographs with Tiller, Shade, or even Roan. Each one gush over things like, Shade’s riding ability or his eyes, what little they saw of them behind his sunglasses he usually never removes and commenting on, “Did you see how blue his eyes are up close?”
They’re attracted to Roan’s smile, dirty yet playful.
And after meeting Tiller, “He looks scary, but I’d totally fuck him.”
When the women leave, Tiller looks at me, watching my reaction. Running his hand through his hair, he winks at me and then leans forward, resting his arms on the handle bars of his bike. I hate the jealousy gnawing at my belly and my heart.
The event is far from over. There are people partying everywhere, music blaring through the streets. The scream of the bikes fills the night, an open field in the hills of Pasadena taken over by the wild and out of control lifestyle of freestyle motocross. A light haze moves in the air, a combination of the smoke from the distant fires and the exhaust from the bikes screaming in the night. I walk around, the grounds dry and dusty from the blazing heat of the California drought.
There I am, between the trailers, tucked away from the crowd, trying to gather my nerves and get a handle on being jealous. I knew this would happen and I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? I’ve been to these events before and seen women hang all over him. Heck, I’ve even seen him kiss other women in front of me, just to get a rise, and though he’s not taking it that far tonight, I can tell he’s judging my reactions every time one approaches him, waiting to see what I might do.
I know before I feel him, because his presence near me sends a thrill of ecstasy through my body. He grabs my hips from behind, his face buried in the crock of my neck. “I don’t w
ant them.”
Turning around, we stare at one another for a moment, and then he steps forward, his eyes low on my body. Pushing the hair from his forehead, I let my fingers linger on his face. “It sure didn’t seem like that.”
“I don’t want them,” he repeats, his voice never wavering.
“Just because we’ve had sex now, you expect me to believe that? Why would it change anything?”
He ignores me.
I push back away from him, just a few inches when he traps me against the side of the trailer. “Not right now.”
“You’re saying no?” He raises an eyebrow, and I nod. “Don’t you want to show those girls who I belong to?” Resting his hand on my jaw, he moves it back slightly so his thumb runs over my bottom lip.
His eyes fall—watching the tentative touch—lazy-lidded, and then back to mine. He stares at me, memories flashing of the way those women hung on him plaguing my thoughts. And then his demeanor softens, shifts away from the harshness he usually displays.
“I can’t stop thinking about how much I want you.” Leaning in, he kisses me, hungry lips seeking mine, desperate, needing. His tongue strokes my lips before pulling my bottom one into his mouth harshly. “I saw the way you were watching me. You want this too.” Sighing, he draws back, mouth lingering over the top of mine. “Why do you torture me?”
My body trembles. His fingers knot in my hair, grasping a handful and pulling his mouth to mine.
“How am I torturing you?” Losing myself in the moment, my need is just as strong, and I kiss him back. Part of me knows we shouldn’t be doing this, outside in plain sight for everyone to see, but nothing can stop me when he’s like this with me.
In the distance, Imagine Dragon’s “Radioactive” blares through the night as Shade is announced over the loudspeaker.
Certainly aware of the reasons why we shouldn’t do this here, Tiller cares about none of that as he unzips his riding pants to get himself freed enough to move. “You just are,” he says, finally answering my question.
Gripping his neck, my hands fist in his hair, tighter, never wanting to let go. Still working on his pants, he moans quietly again as our tongues meet, a sound barely heard over the uproar surrounding us. Laughter to our left draws my attention. It’s those same girls who were hanging all over him, only now they notice me, my legs wrapped around his waist and him pinning me to the side of his trailer.