Daring You

by Ketley Allison

  “If you’re worried I’m going to take that away, I won’t,” Astor says, and she gains strength as she talks. “I may not like you, but I’d never go so low as to disrupt your life.”

  “Astor, what happened in college…”

  “We’re not talking about that,” she says, then steers the topic back. “Your parents, your real ones, did you ever look them up? Want to remember them?”

  I shake my head and look to my hands, fisted and curled between my thighs. “No. I wasn’t allowed to. No internet history allowed. And after a while, I guess I stopped wanting to.”

  Astor rises from her curl on the couch, and pads over to a small table near the window, opening up her laptop. “Do you want to see them?”

  “I…” My posture straightens as I take this in. “I don’t know.”

  Astor cuts to me, her laptop screen carefully turned away from me. “This is how I fix things. I can’t really—I’m not the best at talking through my emotions. But I’m aware of the turmoil you’re going through, of what strength it must take to know your parents’ killers are making the news and yet, you can’t read about it. Discuss it. Do anything to compromise your identity. So, I have a picture of them. A portrait. It’s what I can give you—it’s all I have to give in this situation. And I…”

  Her fingers curl on the top of her laptop as she looks to the floor, and I’ve never, in all my years of knowing her, have seen her so vulnerable, so willing to expose any part of her that might help me.

  It can’t just be the booze.

  “I…sure,” I say, and start to lift off the couch. “Show me.”

  She spins the laptop, and I freeze mid-rise, as my own eyes on another person’s face look back at me. My nose on another’s. My slightly elfish, pointy ears.

  My parents.

  Rose—Mom—stands a head lower than my dad, in front of that cloud-blue background everyone who’s taken photos at a department store booth is familiar with. Her hair is in that classic nineties style of more gel than natural, but it’s my shade. A brown color when indoors, but blond when it hits the sun. My dad stands stoic beside her, an arm around her waist, but there’s a tic of a grin, like my mother just muttered a joke to him and he’s trying not to laugh.

  I see a lot of myself in my dad—the broad shoulders, the height, the square jaw. But my expressions, my eyes, my one dimple, they’re all Mom.

  That’s the thing about being adopted. Although the Donahues loved me, treated me as their own, I felt different. I didn’t look like them, so how could I be a part of them?

  It took me a long time to come to terms with the idea that one didn’t need to share blood to have parents.

  Instead of summoning up the courage to say all this to Astor, I find words, more emotion than English, and say, “I wish I could’ve loved them.”

  Her fingers slide from the computer. “Oh, Ben…”

  I shrug off her sadness. “I don’t know them, so how am I supposed to care about them? But everyone looks to me—you, Aiden, my parents now—everyone looks like they’re waiting for me to cry. About what, I don’t know. My mom—Callie Donahue—she’s constantly bracing for when I ask to find my real parents. She doesn’t know I’m already aware who they are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m devastated over the murders, I’m fucking furious my original family was taken from me, but why the hell do I feel guilty for loving this new life of mine?”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Astor says. “Or what anybody expects from you.”

  “Oh, no? Then why do I see this photo and feel nothing?” My voice is rising. “They’re strangers, you know that? That woman is a stranger who, I’m told, did everything she could to protect me. Sacrificed her body for me. Crouched over me while they beat my father so I couldn’t see. Screamed for me to run when they tore her away and threw her to the ground—”

  I stop.

  Because Astor’s regarding me with a heavy-lidded stare, like she already knows.

  Of course she knows.

  She has my fucking case file laid out for her to search through, whenever she damn well wants.

  “Do you have the photos?” I ask.

  I can practically see the shutters to her emotions crash down. “I’m not letting you take a look at them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to do that to you.”

  “I would think that should be my choice.”

  “You may not know it now,” she says carefully, “but there is more love behind these faces than you can grasp. If you see them the way they ended…you’ll never recall how they were with you—whatever snippets that remain—ever again.”

  I bite my molars together, hating that she’s right. “You don’t get to make that decision.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Show me.”

  “No, Ben.”

  I step forward. “Show. Me.”

  She doesn’t flinch. Tilts her head up in rebellion. “No.”

  “I’m not testifying,” I grit out.

  “I know that.”

  “If you think you’re tainting any testimony or evidence, you won’t be. So you can stop trying to protect these murderers like they’re your babies.”

  A swirl of indiscernible passion floats behind her eyes, but she staunches it as before it can drift to the obvious. “I’m not trying to protect my firm, as much as you’d like to believe that’s the reason.”

  “Then ask me,” I say.

  “Ask you what?”

  “If I were on the stand. If you had complete access to my memories—which you do, right now—what would you ask? What would you do to protect your client?”

  “Fuck you, Ben.” She slams the laptop shut.

  When I bend to grab it, she swipes it out of the way. Fuckin’ woman has better reflexes than I do.

  “You don’t look this kind of gift horse in the mouth. I’m right here, ready and willing to answer any of your questions.” I know I’m goading her, but I don’t damn well care.

  Her teeth grind together, a sure sign she’s putting that sharp mind of hers to use. Then, as if she’s coming to terms with something, she glances back at me. “You said it yourself, you don’t have any memories that are worth a courtroom’s ears.”

  “I can tell you what I know.”

  “Fine, Ben. Why didn’t they move you farther away? Why do you still reside in this city?”

  “You mean WITSEC?” I’ll admit, I’m shocked she started off so light. But that’s the problem with Astor. You never know where she wants to end up.

  She nods.

  “They moved me to Connecticut. I don’t know why they chose that state. Perhaps because New York is so populated, so dense with people, that the risk was low by keeping me nearby. Hell, maybe it was better than shipping a four-year-old all the way to California.”

  “And what do you remember that night?” She studies me closely. “Not what people have told you. What do you, personally, remember?”

  “Having a bedtime story read to me,” I say. “Being under the covers with my mom. I don’t know the book. I like to think something by Dr. Seuss, but I’m pretty sure that’s my mind playing tricks on me.”

  “Any noises? Triggers?”

  I shake my head. “A light going on outside my closed door, maybe. Voices. No words. Then…” I close my eyes abruptly. “Bright lights. Like I was dragged out of my dark bedroom. Dark clothing—forms. Loud, yelling. Hitting the floor, hard.” I press fingers to my cheekbone. “I think I broke my face. The weight of Mom, the sounds of dad. Unfamiliar, grunting sounds…”

  I’m aware of Astor stepping closer, but it’s not enough to pull me out of the memory.

  “The smell of body odor. Laughter. Then…smoke. A lot of stinging, black smoke. Being unable to breathe…”

  “Okay. Okay, Ben.”

  Astor’s rubbing my back, and I guess I’m breathing rapidly, maybe gasping, but I can’t stop.

  “Ben.”

  My name has more
urgency, but I still can’t crawl out. Whatever hole I’m in, whatever dimension, it has me by its talons and won’t let me into Astor’s light.

  “Breathe. Breathe, baby.”

  Hands, warm, thin, grab my face, force me to focus on wondrous, turbulent blue, a color that’s mesmerized since they first crossed my vision.

  “Look at me,” she says. “Really look.”

  I’m trying. Really, I am. But all I see are clouded forms, racing toward, then back, grabbing at my tiny body, holding my arms down, telling me, your filthy parents are gonna get the death they deserve, and so are you, little boy. Go to hell with them.

  Heat sears my mouth, a tongue explores, and my eyes fly open.

  22

  Astor

  When my lips hit Ben’s, it’s to bring him back. Ben is bordering on hysteria, drowning in memories he didn’t know he had, so I do the one thing guaranteed to bring him back to Earth.

  I kiss him.

  Hard, desperate and deep. My nails claw into his biceps, my head tilts, and my tongue coaxes his return.

  Ben’s landing is in the form of his arms wrapping around my torso and lifting me off this Earth, so my legs wrap around his waist, his head tilts up, and our lips don’t break apart.

  His tongue fills my mouth, curling and flicking like I’m imagining he’d do down below, and I’m instantly wet.

  I grind against his abs, wanting the rub, the pleasure, and he whispers into my mouth, “Bed. Now.”

  “No,” I say through our heavy breaths. “Floor.”

  “Here?”

  Ben’s palms cup my ass, and he balances me like I’m nothing but a beach ball as he looks around.

  I grab his face and yank him back. I missed his taste the instant he let go. “Yes. Now.”

  He moans as he bends down, and with more grace than a ballet dancer, he lays me on the cold wood, spreading himself on top.

  “Rough,” I say, and my voice mimics my wish. “I don’t want it gentle, or nice. I want you hard. I want it to hurt—”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Don’t act like you know what I want. I’m telling you.”

  “And I’m responding,” he says, and lowers a hand between my legs. He gives a single, firm, erotic swipe outside my underwear, and I arch into it like a cat. “By doing that.”

  My back’s torqued off the floor, and I’m begging him to do more. Not in so many words, but in moans.

  Ben answers by moving my underwear to the side and dipping his fingers in, one by one. I bite my lower lip to stop the shout. I don’t want to give him the credit.

  “Just because I won’t be an asshole to you,” he says above me. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get you to come so hard you’ll rip your G-string in half.”

  I can’t answer. I’m too busy moving when he moves, meeting his thrusts, and thinking if he puts his whole fist in me, I won’t even notice, I’m so wet.

  And then I think—I want his everything in me. Always.

  “Ben, fuck me. Do it now,” I manage to say through my gasps.

  “In my own sweet time, Astor,” he says. “I want to savor you. You’re gorgeous. Sexy. Lethal.”

  My eyes are closed and I mutter a laugh. I don’t want to watch him while he says those things—compliments that would’ve speared my heart a few years ago, but now can only hit a wall of ice.

  I won’t thaw. Not for him.

  When one of his fingers slides down, hits my anus, my eyes fly open and land straight on his.

  Ben cocks a brow. “I don’t treat women like shit. I’m not gonna slap you around or demean you. Shove my cock down your throat until you gag. You want rough, but I’ll give you different. And I’ll still work you so good, you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow. Got it?”

  “Yes,” I say before thinking. And that’s a first.

  “Turn around.”

  I comply, and when I’m on all fours, he pulls my G-string down to my knees. There’s rustling, and I turn to notice he’s taking off his jacket, then shirt, then jeans. His boxers go next.

  He’s stupid hot. There are no other words for it, no kind of description that could encompass the kind of man that makes Hercules look like an afterthought.

  “Straight ahead, Astor,” he commands, and I realize I’m licking my lips at the sight of his dick.

  I do as he asks, my sweater the only thing I’m wearing. Ben moves behind me, grazing his rough palms on the sensitive skin of my ass, up my soft stomach, and cups the mounds of my breasts and squeezes. Hard.

  “You’re not wrong,” he says. “I don’t know what else to do other than fuck until I’m blind. Forgotten.”

  “It’s just you and me,” I say, turning my head slightly. “Ben and Astor. That’s all.”

  He dives between my legs again, fingers pushing deep, and curls them to center my pleasure. Anything else I was going to say gets caught in a feline purr.

  Ben slips out, toys with my butt, paints it with my scent. My head rises with realization.

  “You want this?” he asks.

  I swallow. Not because I’m afraid, but because I’ve never done it before. And ever since—then—I’ve wanted to be nothing but an expert in front of Ben. Cool, confident and composed. Not timid. Not all tremulous and googly-eyed.

  “You’ve done it before?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

  “So you know what to do, then. To…prepare me?”

  Jesus, I sound like a scared virgin. The exact opposite of the dominant, hot sex I—

  “I believe, Astor, you put me in control, so I get to choose what I will or won’t do to your ass. Understood?”

  The threat makes my thighs shake. In a very, very good way.

  I nod, and he moves behind me. Tangles a hand in my hair to pull my head back. Uses his other hand to lubricate me, a mixture of spit and my dampness, of which I’m giving him plenty.

  I’ve never anticipated anything like this before. I’m both curious, turned on, and terribly unsure.

  I feel him as he uses his dick to explore. Rests in my crevice and moves back and forth, lubricating himself. He moans, and I push my ass back against him, asking for more.

  He goes in soft, at first. Delicate, because as he said, he’s not a jerk in bed. At my murmurs of approval, he pushes deeper, and deeper. I clamp tighter, on instinct and in pure pleasure.

  Ben pulls out, and I’m pissed at my whimper.

  “I have to stretch you out a little more,” he says, then uses his fingers. “I can’t just go all in. Believe me on that.”

  “Because you’re so big?” I joke with a smile.

  “Well, yeah, that, and it’d fucking hurt if I stuck a pencil in there without massaging you a bit. Now be quiet.”

  I’m about to retort, but then his other hand starts doing sinful things to my clit, and I shudder at the sparklers going off at the end of his fingers.

  “The only sounds I want from you are those,” he says.

  In all this time, I still haven’t looked at him. He’s a disembodied voice with the skilled fingers of a pianist—or pro athlete. And his coaching makes me grind, and dig my teeth into my lower lip, becoming the animalistic side of myself I figured I’d long evolved out of.

  When he slips his dick in, I’m in a wondrous whirl of delight, and the surprising fullness only adds to my demise.

  “Yes…” I say, then hiss as he moves deeper, “Yes.”

  “This is how you want it, huh?” The growl swirls from his throat. “Really, truly, fucked from behind.”

  “Faster,” I whisper in response.

  “You sure?” Ben sounds like he’s speaking through his teeth.

  “Hell yes.”

  He’s all the way in. I groan, but not in total pain. It hurts in a way that feels good. Ben starts moving, in and out, in and out, and after getting used to the new stretch, the elicit goodness that’s building into my core, I’m able to meet him, pound for pound.

  “Fuck,” he hisses
above me, and moves faster.

  I’m fueled by the unexpected power of having him this way. When he pulls my head back harder, the yank has me searching for my pleasure center, to add sweetness to the pain. I rub. I twist and flick. I arch in a way yoga instructors would be proud of.

  Ben twists an arm under me, reaches under my baggy sweater and grabs one of my breasts and tweaks the nipple. I open my mouth to tell him—harder, always harder—but he shocks me when he pulls my torso up with his own, so our knees are on the hardwood, and he keeps thrusting, pounding, shouting—

  Ben digs his face into my neck. Uses a hand to tilt my face up at the jaw, and bites down. I cry out at the same time he releases, feeling so exposed, so fulfilled, so thoroughly sexed—

  He lets go, and I fall boneless onto the cold floor.

  As my cheek hits the wood and Ben thunks down on his back beside me, I swear I see steam wafting off our bodies.

  I muster the energy to utter, “That was…”

  Ben turns his face toward me. His chest heaves. “You sure you haven’t done that before?”

  “Pretty damn sure.”

  “‘Cause you’re fucking awesome at it.”

  I laugh into the floor, thinking maybe today didn’t have to be so bad, if it can end like this. Even if I do always end up letting Ben do things to my body no other man has.

  Another piece of me he can keep for his own.

  Neither of us hear the ding of the elevators, and by the time I register a key slipping into the lock and the resulting click of the door, I’ve only made it to a seated position.

  The lights flick on, and Ben and I both hiss like vampires.

  “Well,” Mike’s ominous voice says through the glare. “I guess this is one way to fuck a fiancé out of a relationship.”

  23

  Ben

  “Mike—”

  Astor’s voice immediately changes. Transforms into a pleading, light, melodic tone that I’ve never had the pleasure, or the pain, of hearing before.