Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

  “Let me go!”

  “No fucking way.” He flexes his hips and shoves his dick harder against me. “Not after that fucking stunt.”

  I don’t stop moving, trying to get away, and Mike doesn’t stop talking. “Dexter had you long enough, babe. You wanna fuck him and some other chick? Great. Fucking perfect. Now it’s my turn. You can fuck me.”

  “Stop it!” I keep trying to squirm away. “I don’t want to fuck you!”

  “How do you know?” He sounds so amused, so goddamn sure of himself. “You never had me.”

  “I never had you because I don’t fucking want you!”

  Somehow, I tear my head free and scream the word at the top of my heaving lungs. Can anybody hear me? The music throbs through me, and raucous laughter tears at the air. I don’t care. I try again.

  “You fucking cunt!” shouts Mike, his anger growing.

  He aims for my mouth again, but I’m not going to make it easy for him. I keep jerking my head from side to side, angling my pelvis back, screaming louder and longer, hoping—praying—somebody will see or hear something.

  I’m running out of breath and my throat is getting sore, and that just pisses me off. What is it about men—boys—and this bullshit way they treat women?

  Something—is it my raging thoughts?—gives me a momentary boost of energy. I’m able to shift and twist and turn just enough to bring my knee up between his legs, smashing it into his disgusting erection.

  Now Mike’s the one screeching, and he falls back. That, finally, is enough movement to attract some attention.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “Help!” I give it everything I’ve got. “That asshole was going to rape me!”

  Seconds later a crowd surges around me, and somebody jerks Mike back. I’m trembling suddenly, and I only want one thing.

  “Noah. Where’s Noah?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Noah

  Present Day

  A noise, soft but distressed, pulls me awake. I wasn’t sleeping very well, so it doesn’t take much. I blink into the darkness, listening. Paige is next to me, and I notice when she gives a sharp, jerky movement.

  She was in bed and asleep when I got home. I was later than I’d thought I’d be, always a risk when the band gets together. We started jamming with Angel and time got away from us.

  And—I admit it—I wasn’t in a big hurry to face Paige again.

  That shit we talked about was pretty damn deep, emotional, even after all this time. Took me back to when I was young and stupid and selfish, and I did shit I never meant to that would hurt her. Remembering things, hearing about them from her side? It hit me harder than I thought it could.

  I thought about sleeping on the couch but figured that was a bad idea. We agreed to share the bed, and I’m not screwing with the balance of things unless we talk about it first.

  Hoping it’ll turn into something more? a smug voice taunts.

  I can’t afford any more lies. Especially not to myself. Why not admit the truth? Nobody else will know, and something in me needs to say it.

  Or at least think it.

  Hell, yes. I’d give my left nut for another chance with Paige. To make up for the hurt I caused and make her feel—

  She moves again, lets out another kind of anguished noise, and whispers something that might be my name.

  “Noah,” she moans. I’m almost sure of it.

  “Sweetness?”

  I turn on my side and reach for her shoulder to wake her. She flinches.

  “Don’t,” she mutters, twisting. “I—Noah!”

  It scrapes my feelings raw to know that, even in her sleep, she doesn’t want me to touch her, but that doesn’t stop me. I can’t let her just thrash around in misery.

  “C’mon, sweetness.” I smooth damp tendrils of hair away from her face, my touch heavy enough to be insistent, but I work to keep my voice soft and soothing. “Wake up, baby. It’s just a dream.”

  “Noah?”

  It sounds like a question this time, and she shifts towards me. I’m not sure if she’s actually awake, but I take advantage of the moment and slip one arm under her shoulders so I can pull her close.

  “Shh. I’m here. Everything’s okay.” I press my lips against her ear.

  She shudders like she’s suddenly come awake, and then she blows out a short, harsh breath. Another follows, and she turns into me. I can feel her heart pounding.

  “Oh, God,” she pants and shifts like she wants to crawl over me. Into me. She nuzzles her face against my chest, her lips soft against my skin, and her hand on my stomach. My cock zooms in entirely on that.

  Shit. I do my best to ignore it and tighten my arms around her. Enough so I can smell the light, floral scent that defines her and make out the feel of every soft curve. I close my eyes, loving having her against me, but don’t let myself enjoy it for too long.

  That is very dangerous ground, I warn myself. I can’t let myself stay there too long.

  “Noah.”

  She says my name again, but this time it sounds like relief. A prayer. She clutches my side and lets out a couple more ragged breaths.

  “Shh, baby. Shh.” I stroke my hands up and down her back, her arm. “It’s okay. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  She moves her head, her torso, like she’s trying to burrow into me, and I let her, because something about it seems to soothe her.

  “I had a dream. I—a bad one.”

  Shit. No need to guess what’s behind that. A lot of shit’s gone down the last couple of days. Her nightmare had a lot to pick from.

  Drake. Marlie. And me.

  “You wanna talk about it?”

  “No! Uh, not really. No.” She takes a breath, and her breasts rise and fall against me. I don’t move. “Why won’t it get out of my head?”

  “You had it before? The same dream?”

  She swallows, rubbing her cheek against my chest. Comfort? I suppose, but goddamn, I like it.

  “Yeah,” she admits. “But not in a while.”

  Not sure exactly what to say, so I give it a few seconds while I try to decide.

  “It was . . .” I’m surprised when she starts. “You know. That night.”

  Oh, Jesus. Not about the night with Marlie. I try not to go stiff, but a fist clenches around my heart. That was such a fucking mistake, and I’ll never live it down. Never forget it. Always regret it.

  Maybe more than anything else I’ve ever done.

  “What night?” I ask carefully.

  “You know. Drake’s party, and—”

  “Christ!” I tighten my hold on her. I’m relieved and pissed all at once. Selfish enough to be grateful that she isn’t thinking of that stupid goddamn ménage, but the night she’s talking about? “One of the worst nights of my fucking life.”

  The words sound like a snarl, but that doesn’t really surprise me. Not when I remember everything that went down.

  “Mine, too.”

  “Did you know I broke Mike Richards’ arm for that?”

  “What?” Her head drops back, and though I can’t really see her in the darkness, I can feel her shocked expression.

  “Fucker was not going to get away with that.”

  “Noah! I . . . Jesus. I had no idea.”

  I settle her more comfortably against me. “He should have never touched you.”

  “I wish he hadn’t. I hate that night, that time in my life.”

  “I know, baby. I know.”

  How do I comfort her when I’m the reason all that shit happened?

  We lay there for a little while, me stroking her, and Paige moving just enough to get closer and closer and closer. And, for fuck’s sake, if she gets too much closer, she’s going to find one very hard cock begging for her touch.

  “That’s how it all ended.” Her voice is soft. Stark. “Marlie Davis and Mike Richards. They ruined my last memories of us together.”

  The words tear through me, because I know what s
he’s not saying. I ruined her memories. My need to experiment, to be like the worst asshole in my life. Him. Why didn’t I guess beforehand that it—he—would ruin my life?

  Just like he always did.

  “I’m sorry.” It sounds raw, but it’s all I have.

  “I know.” It shocks the shit out of me to realize that she sounds like she actually does believe me.

  Doesn’t change anything, but it’s still a relief to think that she might know I never deliberately wanted to hurt her.

  “Why do you think it all happened that way?” she asks after a minute. “How did we go from loving each other to . . . that?”

  I don’t know if she really expects an answer. Wish I didn’t have one, but I do, and now that I’ve opened that door to thoughts of the old man, they won’t stay inside me where they should.

  “It’s him,” I grate. “It’s always fucking him.”

  “Him?”

  “My fucking father. Ought to call him the sperm donor, like Knox does, because Jack Dexter was never a dad to me.”

  She goes still. “You never talk about him,” she says after a minute. “Your dad.” Her arm moves, and then she’s stroking her hand lightly over my upper chest. “Or you never used to.”

  “Still don’t. He’s an asshole.”

  “Have you . . . seen him? Talked to him?”

  “Not since the day he dropped me off with Lolo and Pops.”

  I was thirteen then. Ten years ago. I used to wonder if he’d show up, now that I was some fucked-up version of rich and famous, like Knox’s old man had, but I haven’t heard a word.

  Maybe he’s dead. No great loss to the world, if you ask me.

  “What . . . why do you say it’s his fault?”

  I snort an ugly laugh. “He fucking started it. Just like all the bad shit in my life.” And then more words come, and I can’t seem to stop them.

  “He used to fuck random women when I was little. Hotel room, piece of shit studio apartment—you figure it out. I was always right fucking there. Watching. Listening.”

  She makes an odd sound. Don’t have to see her expression to get the disgust in it. It doesn’t stop me from saying more.

  “One day he brought home two. Musta liked it, ‘cause he started doing it more often. Always sounded like a fucking party, women screaming about his cock and telling him how hot it was to have him watch them fucking each other. Put him in a better mood, he’d get me McDonald’s or some shit, and I thought, ‘Fuck, yeah. Gonna do that some day. Gonna be the guy women want. Gonna show him I’m as good as him.’”

  She must think about that, because it’s a minute before she asks, “How old were you? The first time he brought two women home?”

  “Ten.”

  Her hand stops moving, she doesn’t breathe, and then I feel the soft flutter of her lips against my chest. Again, and precum leaks from my slit. I feel it, can’t stop it, but at least she doesn’t know.

  We lay that way for . . . I don’t know. A minute? Two? Five? I know I might never get this chance again, and so I just appreciate it for now.

  “Noah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Make love to me.”

  The words shoot through me like a stab of lightning. “I . . . what the fuck, Paige?”

  It’s a sigh. A whisper. A prayer. I can’t comprehend it well enough to refuse or accept. My brain, my body, everything is suddenly frozen.

  Nothing in me, not even my deepest freaking desires, prepared me for that.

  I cough. Swallow. Lick my lips. Try again.

  “What are you saying?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. She doesn’t move, either. Then, almost gently, she kisses my chest again.

  “I have one giant memory of the last time we were together. You were going down on Marlie, and she was so smug. So satisfied. I knew then that I’d lost you.”

  Son of a bitch.

  Goddamn, but I don’t have words for that. The idea, the certainty in her voice, rips through me like a hurricane, and I hate myself all over again.

  “Jesus.” I sound gutted, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  “And you.” She continues before I find something to say. “Your memories of how we got here are of your father and . . . well, I don’t even know what to say about what he put you through. You were a little boy, and—”

  She cuts the words off suddenly, leaving me as dumbfounded as I’ve been since she said those wonderful, awful words.

  Make love to me.

  “Paige.” I settle on her name. “Sweetness. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  She turns then. Pushes up and fully drapes herself over me. “Let’s make new memories, Noah. Just for tonight. Something to take away the bad and leave us with something better.”

  “Something better,” I repeat.

  “Better,” she says again and drops a light, quick kiss on my mouth. “I know you have a different life now. You aren’t looking for a change. A girlfriend. You have lots of women you want to be with and who want to be with you. Beautiful, thin, accomplished women. But for just this one moment in time, let’s give ourselves a chance to heal.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paige

  My words shock Noah. It’s too dark to see much, but I can feel his surprise. Honestly, they kind of shock me, too. It isn’t something I thought I’d ever say, something I thought about ahead of time, but now that it’s too late, I know it was the right thing.

  Everything in me is certain.

  I know better than to think that I’m over everything. I’m not. But something changed tonight. Noah and I shared some pretty intense honesty. I woke up remembering how awful it was that Mike Richards wouldn’t listen when I told him no. That he hit me and thought his messed-up desire mattered more than my right to say no. And I learned about things in Noah’s life that drove him to his choices.

  It isn’t all so black and white anymore.

  It’s a lot to take in, but it leaves me sure of one thing: Noah and I both deserve the chance to let that stuff go. For good.

  What better way to do it than the way we let it get all messed up?

  “Paige.” His voice sounds a little ragged, but is it from his confession or is it possible that he might feel some desire for me? I still can’t tell when he continues, “I don’t think you know what you’re saying, sweetness.”

  I cup one hand over his cheek, my palm against his jaw. It’s a tender gesture that I didn’t mean, but it feels right. “Yes. I do.”

  He touches my forehead lightly, pushes my hair back, threads his fingers through the length of it, and then he goes motionless. Thinking? Deciding? Looking at me through the darkness?

  I wait until I can’t any longer. Until the tension and excitement drive me to surge up and press my lips against his.

  They’re soft and sweet, and I want to taste him. Need to taste him. I stroke my tongue over the seam of his mouth. Daring him. Teasing for entrance.

  He doesn’t move. At all.

  His lips don’t part. They don’t acknowledge what I’m doing.

  He doesn’t kiss me back.

  Slowly, almost achingly so, I pull away. My brain scrambles for an explanation, understanding.

  He didn’t kiss me back?

  My thoughts get nowhere before he’s moving me, turning me. He adjusts our positions, arranging me on the bed, and then my back is to his front. Not really touching but kind of close. His hand rests loosely at my waist.

  I . . . he . . . rejected me.

  He doesn’t want me.

  He was kind about it, I suppose. Maybe even sweet by some fucked-up definition. I can’t find a way to make that matter.

  Rejected is rejected.

  I lay still, completely motionless. Appalled. Mortified. Unwanted.

  What have I done?

  The room stays quiet until he says, “There you go. Get some sleep.”

  Get some sleep?

  Oh, my God.

 
; Humiliation tears every bit of air from my body, and emptiness blooms in my chest. My nervous system revolts, sending sharp frissons of sensation up my spine and through to the tips of my fingers and toes. I can’t breathe, and so I pant a little, hoping for a random puff of air to save me. It doesn’t come, leaving me to gasp from my core. I snap my mouth closed, trying desperately to hold back any more sounds, but another wheeze escapes me.

  “Sweetness?” Noah’s hand tightens a fraction. “You okay?”

  I have to move. Have to move. The words run together like a litany—movemovemovemovemove—that propels me across the bed and onto my feet.

  “Paige?”

  “God, I’m so stupid!” Am I talking to myself or Noah? Both or neither? And why am I saying anything out loud? But what does that matter if I can’t stop?

  The words continue on their own. “Of course you don’t want me! Why would you? You haven’t wanted me since the day you brought Marlie into the bedroom with us. What was I thinking? Why would that change now?”

  “What the fuck, Paige? What’s wrong with you?”

  Why does he sound so confused? How much more obvious could it be?

  I find enough breath to huff, “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  I start to circle around the low, dark shadow that I know is the end of the bed. I hear indistinguishable noises that don’t quite register, and then a looming figure blocks my way.

  “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “What’s wrong?” Does my voice have to sound like some dramatic, soap-opera shriek? “What’s wrong?”

  “Sweetness . . .”

  “Do not call me that anymore! I am not your sweetness! I haven’t been in years—and we were just pretending back then, anyway.”

  I take a breath, throw my shoulders back, straighten my spine. “No, fuck that! I wasn’t pretending. I loved you and gave you everything I had. You were the one who was pretending.”

  I’m panting now but keep going. “Maybe I should be relieved you didn’t pretend tonight. You didn’t fake it. You didn’t take me in a pity fuck. You don’t want me, and you made it clear. End of story. So just let me sleep on the goddamn couch, and I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. Simple as that. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, except without the fucking.”