SACRED (The Kingwood Series Book 3)

by S. L. Scott

  I sit on the end of the mattress and pull her to my lap. She settles in and looks at me. Her hand on my shoulder is shaking. Not much, but enough for me to notice. It reaches her voice and it quivers when she asks, “Do you do this much?”

  “Seduce incredibly sexy women?” I cock a smile to ease her nerves while running my knuckles softly over her cheek. “No. Never.” She smiles. With my hand on the back of her head, our lips meet in the space that remains between us.

  For someone so bold earlier, she’s sweet and nervous now. Lying back, I move so she’s on top, and say, “We’ll go at your pace. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you like kissing me, Clara?”

  I’ve never asked questions like this but with her I want to know. I need to know, and I want to take things slow.

  Savor this for me.

  Build it for her.

  “I do, so much.”

  I kiss her again because I like the way she moves, molding to me. I love the way she tastes—strawberry, beer, and desire. She’s my undoing before we’ve even begun. There’s no way I can stop our bodies from becoming one.

  5

  Cruise

  The light filtering in from the hall is just bright enough to see her, really see her. It’s a different side than when she was feisty and confident on campus a few days ago and sexier than the girl who I met earlier tonight when she was both fearless and tempting.

  Clara distracts me both times. She makes me crave her sweet, cherry-kissed lips.

  When I came home with Clara, I thought I might get laid. I want her. Badly. I want to taste her sweetness and savor her until she’s on the bed rendered useless for all others. And that will be just the first time.

  I want the warmth of her hands to sear my skin not just heat through clothes. I’m no stranger to hookups or one-night stands, but I already know, with Clara, this is much more. The cool air outside has sobered me, but I don’t think it’s the alcohol that has my mind spinning. In the peace of her bedroom, I’m seeing the beauty for who she is, who she really is—shy, a little quiet, bold to be lying in front of me, but present with focused eyes.

  Like her room, her skin is pristine, too perfect for me to mark with the filth of my past. Like a criminal, I can’t stop myself. I’ve had a taste . . . Her sweater is tossed to the floor. On the bed, her jeans follow right after. She doesn’t protest, but encourages, lifting, tugging, wiggling free from the confines as if her clothes are suffocating her.

  Positioning herself on her knees, Clara pulls the hem of my shirt up as high as she can reach. I take it from there and drop it at my feet. My socks and shoes have already been discarded, but my erection is still caught inside the denim of my jeans. It’s a painful reminder when I lean down over her just as her back hits the mattress again. Bending in the stiff denim hurts.

  But fuck that. I’m kissing the center of her chest, my lips on that skin that pebbles under my hands and mouth, and then I go lower between her breasts. Clara squirms, arching her back, but the pressure of my body on her lower half keeps her steady. Her eyes are on mine as I taste her bare skin, licking her from navel to neck while squeezing her tits through the silky lace-edged fabric of her bra.

  “Does that feel good?” I ask, pressing my dick against the mattress because being with her feels too damn good, and I want her to come first.

  “You feel good.” She moves her legs wider, wrapping them around my middle.

  I move down on her. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

  “No.”

  I’m about to fucking eat her through these panties she has me so ravenous, but I stop. Did she just say no? I look up, catching her eyes on me, and ask, “What? You don’t see how beautiful you are?”

  “I don’t feel it.” What the hell?

  “How is that possible? You’re stunning.”

  “I’ve lived what some would call a sheltered life. So no, I don’t know.”

  “You are. You’re so beautiful.”

  A sweet pink colors her cheeks. She’s so goddamn enticing. Opening my mouth, I exhale a hot breath against the soft cotton of her white underwear. Those fuckers cause my dick to ache. So much fucking innocence wrapped inside them.

  They’re going to be in shreds on the floor if I don’t control myself. I flatten my tongue against the fabric and breath until she’s wet and panting. “Oh God,” escapes her lips.

  “God has nothing to do with this, Dove.”

  I’ve been with enough women to recognize the level of their experience. She’s so innocent, maybe never touched. Lowering my head to her stomach, guilt invades me, because I won’t be gentle tonight. I’m too turned on for that, and she deserves gentle. Fuck.

  Fingertips run through my hair, as she begs for answers, “What’s wrong? Is it me?”

  My head jolts up. “What? No. You’re perfect. I’m not.” It may be the last time I get the chance, so I kiss the soft skin right above her hipbone, right before pushing up. Sitting down on the bed, I reach for her hand. When she takes it, I pull her until she scoots lower and is sitting next to me.

  Concern runs through the lines of her eyebrows. Even worried, she’s so pretty. “What happened?” she asks. “Were you not enjoying yourself?”

  I love how a trail of goose bumps follows as I stroke her leg. “It’s not that. I promise.” I want to fuck you. I want to leave my fingerprints all over your body. I want to lick you and cover you in ways that are despicable. “I’m bad for you, Dove.”

  I love the feel of her hands on me. One is comforting my shoulder like I actually matter while the other splays across my thigh possessively. “Bad? How, Cruise? Explain why even though I’ve only known you for five seconds, I want to know more. Explain how you can be so bad, when despite you pushing a man’s head to the bar table earlier, it was you I wanted to leave with. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I see someone . . . good. And I want to be with you. You told me you’d never hurt me, so please just tell me the truth now.”

  She wants to know me? She, who is so pure, so strong, so vulnerable, wrapped in a beautiful, irresistible package. She sees who I want to be, not who I am. Covering her hand with mine, I turn to look at her. “You’ve had a few drinks. I’ve had a few drinks. I’m not the kind of guy you bring home to your parents. I’m the one you hide, the one that you see when you want to walk on the wild side. I’m not the one someone marries. You’re good inside, so if you’re seeing that in me, it’s because it’s reflecting from you.”

  Quickly standing, she goes to grab a T-shirt from a drawer and pulls it on. With her jeans in her hands, she backs away from me. Pain morphs her delicate features, the gentle slope of her nose to the downturn of her eyes that are filling with tears. It’s the cherry-kissed lips that taste like heaven that start to tremble.

  Jumping up, I go to her. “Don’t cry, Clara. I want you. I do. We just need to slow down. Want me not because I’m the guy you ran into tonight, but because it’s me.”

  The trembling chokes her when she asks, “You don’t want me how I am?”

  “God, no. That’s not it at all.” Running a hand through my hair, I say, “I want you so much that I’ll fuck you when I really want to make love to you.” I turn my back and grab my shirt. I can’t believe that shit just came from my mouth. It may be true, but it’s not the kind of stuff I should be spewing. I need to remain in reality and forget the froufrou shit.

  I said it myself. I’m not the guy she will want to take home to meet the parents. I realize my problem isn’t that I want to fuck her. The problem is that I want to fuck her and then hold her all night.

  I’ve lost my mind. Clearly.

  But even when rejection is justified on one side doesn’t mean it is on the other. “I want you to leave, Cruise.” Her own anguish comes out through her temper. “Now. I want you to leave.”

  “I’m sorry.” I put my shirt on over my head.

  Turning away from me, her head drops. “No. I knew better and I
broke my own rules. Rules that exist for a reason.”

  I slip on my socks and shoes as she disappears into her thoughts. “My father warned me about other men. How they’d hurt me. I just thought they’d use me first, but you don’t even want me.” This time her voice wobbles under the tears choking her. “Please. Just leave.”

  I want to comfort her, make her understand that I want more than just sex with her. I want tonight if nothing more, but the mood is ruined because I fucking forgot how fucked up my life was for an hour or two. Being with her gave me a reprieve and now I’m paying the price for letting my guard down.

  When I reach her bedroom door, I stop, the situation feeling similar to when I left Celeste. Except this time, I’m the one being told to go. My head is down, too ashamed to look at the pain on her face. “I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t say anything, so I go, making my way back through the living room. I failed to notice the obsession of French knickknacks when I arrived, blinded by the brunette beauty. I swing the front door open, turning the little lock on the inside of the knob before shutting it. Hope she locks the bolts once I’m gone.

  I shove my hands in my front pockets and head to the street where I parked my car. Only looking back once, I keep going. I royally fucked this up. I shouldn’t have left the bar with her, or walked her home. I shouldn’t have kissed her, or gone to her bedroom. I really shouldn’t have taken her shirt off and kissed her tits like an addict needing a fix. I really shouldn’t have taken her jeans off and inhaled her deep into my lungs. Fuck. I think I just met the one person who speaks to my body and mind, and makes me feel alive again. Dove. My little peacemaker.

  She smells like heaven, but I bet she tastes like sin.

  Undoing.

  If there’s one person who can make me lose myself, she’s it.

  Fuck.

  I click the car alarm and open the door.

  I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I see someone . . . good. And I want to be with you.

  Am I, though? Is there any or enough goodness in me for someone as sweet as Clara? Her dad was right to warn her off men like me. I hate that I left, but I knew at that moment I needed to. She needed me to leave, even though I wanted to stay and make things right. I want you, little dove. Could she be the answer to my problems? Or is she my destruction in disguise?

  I don’t know if she’ll give me a second chance to make this right, to do things right next time. I’m willing—desperate—to try again. Something tells me she has a forgiving soul. Maybe she’ll even be able to forgive a sinner like me.

  6

  Clara Eckerd

  Staring at the ceiling, I count the stars. Eighteen . . . nineteen . . . twenty. The plastic glow-in-the-dark constellation stickers give me comfort just like in my old bedroom. Each one represents a year of my life, another year I survived.

  I’m not sure how to feel about what’s to come next week. I took the day off from work just in case. It was safer that way. I don’t expect to feel different, but who knows how I’ll feel. The first one is always the hardest, so I’m told. People don’t understand what I feel. His death was so unexpected, but it’s marked the date forevermore. Just not for the reasons others think.

  I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, hoping not to relive every tortured moment in my head. I need sleep, to erase the thoughts and drift away. It used to be more than my thoughts I would wish could drift away. I never did though. I lived through every last day from dawn until dark, present in the punishment served daily.

  Rolling onto my side, the muscles around my eyes start to pinch. I give up trying to block it out. My eyes being closed won’t shut out the memories anyway.

  A new sting runs through me—Cruise, and although I told him to go, it was on the heels of rejection. He was leaving anyway. Leaving me half undressed, half begging him to have sex with me, half of the person I wanted to be. I wish I were stronger. I would have taken back all the halves he refused to leave behind.

  He’s a coward.

  For not telling me why he had to go.

  For pretending it was me he was worried about.

  He’s selfish. He just wanted an easy way out.

  I learned a long time ago that humanity doesn’t exist in a world of liars and monsters.

  The humiliation of what I did, teasing him with my name in hopes of him wanting to know more, hoping he’d find me attractive. Coaxing him to my house, practically seducing him. That’s not me no matter how hard I want it to be. Sex is a tool and I’m not skilled enough to use it. I don’t even know how.

  Why can’t I be normal? Why am I so fucked up?

  My body clenches in fear as my father’s words come back to me. “The slip of the tongue is the devil’s doing. Watch your words, Clarissa.”

  I flip the covers off and slide into a kneeling position beside the bed. “Dear Lord, please forgive me for my sin. I promise to be better and to obe—”

  What am I doing? Squeezing my eyes closed, I say, “Stop.”

  The habit is formed. Breaking it will be a challenge, but I’m determined to destroy it. There’s no one to hold me to those words anymore. No one to hold me down.

  I’m free.

  I stand, my knees aching from the hardwood floors. Climbing back under the covers, I reach for the little teddy bear with one eye and start counting stars again. The ritual calms me. It’s a habit I can live with. Perhaps the only one.

  . . . Seventeen

  . . . Eighteen

  . . . Nineteen

  . . . Twenty

  . . . One

  . . . Two . . .

  One Week Later . . .

  Standing over the grave, I don’t feel sadness. I don’t feel remorse. I don’t feel much of anything. Not even the joy I thought I’d feel.

  Toby is running over the plaque and no one stops him. I’m jealous I can’t do the same.

  Run over it.

  Step on it.

  Jump on it.

  Dirty it.

  Smash it.

  Instead, I kneel down like the good little girl I always was and use my hand to dust the dirt away. Toby whacks me on the back of the head, and I snap, “No, Toby. No hit.” By his giggles I don’t think he got the message.

  My mom bends down and picks him up, scolding him for his bad behavior at the cemetery. He’s lucky. A talking to from my mother is a walk in the park compared to what could have happened if my father was here.

  Maybe he is—in spirit.

  A chill runs up my spine and I turn to look behind me. Vaughn stands at a distance, refusing to come any closer. My brother just turned seventeen and has grown so tall, taller than my father. My mom won’t force him to pay respect, and can’t anyway. He’s stubborn. We all understand though, but as the oldest, I’m expected to keep up appearances.

  I need to keep our secrets safe. I glance to Toby who’s wriggling in my mom’s arms and causing a scene because he wants down. She finally gives in to him while giving me a look that pleads for me to keep going.

  All eyes are on us, so I don’t smile.

  I don’t find happiness in this hell anyway. Though I should. I’m free, except for one day a year.

  Today.

  Today I’m back to being shackled by a monster that I pretend to love, to miss, to cry over. I sniffle, the sound so fake. I know I can do better, so I sniffle again and again until I perfect the sound. My mom hands me a tissue and I dab at my dry eyes, pretending they’re wet.

  I won’t be able to produce real tears, so it’s probably best if we cut this act short and leave. Grabbing Toby’s hand in one of mine, I walk to Vaughn, standing toe-to-toe, and whisper, “Keep your eyes down when we go to the car.”

  He usually listens well.

  Just like me, he was trained to obey.

  But at seventeen, and with my father gone, he’s starting to act out. “I know what to do.”

  We hold each other’s hard gaze a few seconds before I reply, “Okay,” and walk away. I hear his
footsteps fall in line behind me. He’s stubborn, but he doesn’t want to make a scene.

  A few mourners—my dad’s family, friends, and colleagues—showed up to pay their respects, and move to the sides, allowing us access to the street. They didn’t know who my father really was or they wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t have allowed him to do what he did. I’ve convinced myself this must be true or I’d lose all hope, and hope is the one thing I regained once he died.

  I make an error in judgment. I look up only to be met with hate I used to see in my father’s eyes. I glance away not sure who the man is, but afraid to look his way.

  When we’re inside the car, we close the doors, and wait for our mom. She made the mistake of making eye contact with someone and is now stuck listening to condolences for a man she hated.

  Vaughn says, “I’m not a kid anymore. Don’t treat me like one.”

  “You’re seventeen, not thirty.”

  “And you’re twenty, not my mom.” He glances to Toby.

  I fasten Toby into his car seat and sit back, ready to leave. “We’re not enemies, Vaughn.”

  “Don’t talk to me.” His tone is so full of hate, something I’m not used to hearing from him. We’ve always been in this together, but now I feel the distance growing and the cold seeping between us. Why? Why does he seem to hate me now?

  Toby’s a good distraction. He insists on playing with my hand. He drags his little finger along my palm, specifically my lifeline.

  It’s impossible for it to have lengthened since my father’s death, but I’m surprised when his finger still traces the line as if it has. A smile comes without my permission. Toby catches it and smiles in return. He’s only one and a half but he’s been so much happier in the last year compared to the first six months of his life. Maybe babies sense distress and despair.