by Nicole Dykes
I know she’s all good. She has been since the first night when I couldn’t fuck her, and she didn’t make me feel like a freak. She came back for more.
“Tell me, Rhys.”
I shake my head slowly from side to side. “No.”
“Rhys.” Her voice is begging, a strangled cry as she pleads for me to divulge my deepest of secrets.
“We have to go.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “You can’t go like this into our marriage. You have to tell me. Get rid of these demons so we can move forward.”
“I’m the fucking demon.” I stand up, and she stands with me, denying it with a shake of her head. But I grab her chin with my hand gently, making her look at me. “I am. I fucked my foster mother.” I feel the shame and horror creeping up through me, but I need her to drop this shit. “And I liked it. From fourteen to fifteen, for almost a year and a half, I fucked her.”
I release her, and she watches me with caution but not disgust. “That’s not it.” Mother. Fucker. She is a pain. “There’s more to it. I know there is.”
“God damn it, Blair. We have to go.”
“No.” She places a hand over her chest as it rises and falls. She looks sick. “That’s not why you flinch when I touch you. That’s not why you can’t kiss me. And I say ‘can’t’ because I see you look at my lips and I know you want to.”
I stare at her lips now, full and painted pink. And God she’s right. I would love to feel what it’s like to kiss the ever-loving fuck out of her, to taste her mouth and let my tongue take over instead of my fucked-up mind. But I know I’d scare her when I would freak the fuck out.
I pry my gaze from her lips and move toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Rhys, tell me. Tell me why you can’t stand to look at me when we fuck. That’s not why.”
I march back over to her, fury flying through me as I clench my teeth and will my body to calm down. “Don’t fucking talk about it anymore. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go. Now.”
And this time, her shoulders slouch and stay that way as we grab Bree and pile into the car.
On the way to our wedding from hell.
We stand in front of the judge and exchange generic vows as I watch the man about to become my husband.
I know he’s tortured. I know there’s so much more to his backstory, and for whatever reason, I thought he’d tell me before we got married.
It was naïve to think that. It was stupid to believe he’d want to do that when this marriage is only on paper, but I wanted to know.
I want to take the pain away, even if it’s only slightly.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Missouri, I now pronounce you ‘man and wife’.” The judge finishes and tells us we can kiss, but I shake my head, just asking him to sign the paper.
Rhys won’t kiss me.
We take Bree to school three hours late, but we made sure her absence was excused this morning, and then we part ways. Our wedding day is spent in separate parts of the city, working. After work, everything is normal for us.
I pick Bree up at Rhys’s shop. We go home. I order dinner, and then Rhys comes home at night. Nothing has changed. We didn’t even exchange rings, although I know we need to get them for the show we’ll need to put on.
We all hang out, watching television, and then Bree heads to bed. I pick up the living room and then turn to Rhys who is still on the couch, looking so fucking numb I think I could stab him in the leg and he wouldn’t feel it.
“I’m going to bed.”
He nods with barely even a grunt as I climb the stairs and go up to my room. I strip out of my dress and stand naked for a moment, looking into the floor length mirror near my dresser.
“What exactly are you looking at?”
I turn around and see Rhys in the doorway as I stand there naked. There are so many things I want to say, but I don’t. Somehow, I feel conquered tonight and just want to crawl in my bed, but I know I'm supposed to wear clothes now, so I pull open the pajama drawer in my dresser.
I hear the door click closed, and I feel him behind me before I can decide what to wear. “I’m sorry.”
I turn around to look up at him. “What?”
“Blair.” He looks so fucking tormented. “I’m sorry for such a shitty wedding.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” My voice is quiet as I look up at him.
“It was.” He slowly drags the back of his hand over my bare arm, sending shivers through my entire body, making the fine, blond hairs on my arms stand up. “I hate thinking about that house.”
I want him to talk to me so badly, but I know I can’t force him. “Maybe telling me, actually saying it out loud will help somehow.”
“I want it buried.”
I ache to touch him, but I don’t. His hand drifts over the skin on my stomach, just barely grazing me. “It’s not though, Rhys. It’s alive in you.”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat with his own agony, and I feel it inside. “I wasn’t lying. I fucked her.”
I had a feeling that part wasn’t a lie. “Okay.”
His eyes snap up to mine. “Doesn’t that disgust you?”
“Did you want to?” I hate asking these questions. I hate forcing him to talk, but I know it’s the only way to free him. I can feel his shame.
His head shakes side to side as he drops his hand, and I yearn for his touch to return. “When I first moved in with the Bradfords, everyone thought I was so fucking lucky. I was fourteen, and they chose me to live with them. Scrawny little street kid with dirt under his fingernails in their great big mansion.” I try to show no emotion. “But then a week went by and I began to see just how unlucky I was. Mr. Bradford would get extremely fucking drunk and beat the living shit out of me. They had three kids of their own, all younger than me, prized possessions and, as far as I know, he never touched them.”
He takes his shirt off, unbuttoning it slowly and letting it drop to the floor as he takes more steps back away from me.
“I don’t have any scars. None. My body is flawless on the outside, but to me it’s fucking ugly.”
I scan every carved muscle, every dip and ridge before meeting his eyes. “You’re anything, but ugly.” He’s painfully beautiful, but I know it’s the scars on the inside that torture him.
“A couple months in, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I was having a wet dream or something, but when I pushed the cover down, I saw it was a living nightmare. Mrs. Bradford with my cock in her mouth.”
“So, you didn’t want it.”
He undoes the button on his jeans. “I came down her throat.”
“That doesn’t matter. That’s biology. Someone sucks on your dick, you come.” I feel defensive for him. I hate that he thinks he asked for it.
His jaw ticks as he pushes his jeans down and off, leaving him naked as well as me. Both of us vulnerable and bare to one another. Soon I started waking up to her riding me, assuring me it was okay, that her husband didn’t care and she was on birth control so I could come inside her.”
I try not to vomit, thinking about this bitch acting like they were in a relationship when, in fact, she was a predator. She was supposed to protect him.
“I’m sorry, Rhys.”
“Don’t. Don’t do that.”
I shoot him a questioning glance. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t pity me. I was fourteen. I could have told someone. I didn’t.”
“You were a kid. In their care.”
He walks to me, standing before me, this magnificent, gorgeous man. “Four months in, it wasn’t just us in my room.” My eyes widen, and he’s in a numb state again, looking right through me. “He would watch. And then beat the living shit out of me after I came. If she came too, he’d beat me more.”
I clutch my throat, my body reacting no matter how hard I try not to. I want to weep for him, but I keep the sobs at bay.
“Six months in, it wasn’t just her fuckin
g me.”
I feel tears sting my eyes. “Rhys . . .” It’s a weak gasp.
“I thought he was just going to watch again.” His eyes close, and words can’t describe the pain radiating from him and going directly to my heart. “But he fucked me. For almost a full year. And I let them. I was small and weak from years of malnutrition and barely enough food to live when I lived with them, despite their wealth.”
His eyes open and scan my face as I struggle not to let the sobs wrack my body.
“They made it feel good, Blair. I came, every fucking time. My dick was hard for them.”
I shake my head from side to side. “That doesn’t mean you wanted it. And then he beat you. It’s all abuse, Rhys.”
He shrugs his large shoulder. His body bare, but for the first time, I don’t want to look anywhere except into his eyes.
“You didn’t deserve that.”
He laughs without an ounce of humor. “I was their fuckdoll. And when I was good, they bought me shit. Although they didn’t want to feed me much so I’d stay weak. I’d shove my face full at school and use their gym until finally, I added muscle.”
That’s why he works out so often, why he stays muscular. “That’s why you don’t like to be touched.”
“I’m fucked-up, Blair. Damaged. They made sex feel good when I didn’t want it, so I grew to despise sex. When I finally got big enough to fight back, I beat the shit out of Mr. Bradford and I threatened them both that if they came after me, I’d slit their throats in their sleep.”
Good.
“I ran, and they didn’t report it. I found a shitty apartment, and I tried my best to forget about them. I dated Quinn. I tried not to be a nervous wreck, but the first time I kissed her, I felt so fucking sick like I was going to puke that I numbed myself with anything I could get my hands on.”
“I don’t blame you for not wanting to remember.”
I go to him, keeping a small distance between our naked bodies. “So, you haven’t kissed anyone since?”
“Not that I remember. I had to be drugged or drunk out of my mind before I could get my dick to work. I barely remember any sexual experiences after that.”
I hate that he’s missed out on so many things because of what those sick motherfuckers did to him. “Rhys . . . you’re not damaged. They are.”
“I’m pretty fucking damaged, Blair.” He looks down at my body. “Look at you. You’re fucking beautiful, and when we have sex I rush as fast as I can to get off because I just want it to be over.”
The admission guts me even if I already knew that. “So, don’t.”
He looks at me, confused and angry. “Don’t?”
“Don’t rush. Don’t pull away from me. I’m not them.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter. I close my eyes, and I smell her fucking expensive, gag-inducing perfume. I feel his cock pressing into me.” I cry for him, and he keeps going. “I feel his fists slamming into my face. Her hands and mouth on my dick that swelled for her.”
I shake my head, tears falling. “You got hard because you were fourteen and someone was touching your cock. It wasn’t because you wanted it or even because it felt good.”
I see his eyes filling with hot, angry tears, and I want to scream. Fuck every adult who ever hurt a child, who robbed them of their innocence. “Rhys. Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
His head hangs down, and I do the only thing I can do to try to bring him back to me.
I touch him.
I jolt to life when I feel her hand on my bare stomach, the muscles tighten as my hand grabs her wrist to pull her away.
“Rhys. It’s me.”
I look into her eyes. “I know who you are.”
She shakes her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. I wasn’t even sure she was capable of crying, but hey, my fucked-up reality would make anyone sob.
I’ve never, ever spelled out the abuse I suffered at the hands of the Bradfords. I got drunk one time and told Quinn in a slurred mess of words I’m not even sure she could decipher, but I've never talked about it sober and with so much clarity.
But Blair needs to know who she married.
She needs to know just how fucked-up I am because right now as her fingers touch my skin, I feel sick to the point of throwing up.
Because sex is confusing to me. They made it feel so good I had an orgasm, but inside I felt like I was going to die, like I wanted to die.
I don’t let go of her wrist, but she flattens her palm over my abs and slides it up over my heart with my hand still latched onto her. “Thank you for telling me. I know that’s probably only the surface . . .”
“No that’s it. They both fucked me, and he beat me for two years.”
“You’re generalizing it.”
“You want more details?” I glare down at her, but she doesn’t back down now.
“No,” she shakes her head, “unless you need to talk about it. But everything they did was wrong, no matter how good they made it feel. It was wrong.”
“I know that,” I snap.
“Do you think I’m going to see you differently?”
“Ha,” I laugh coldly. “Don’t you?”
“No. I already knew who you were, but now that I understand why you flinch when I touch you . . .” Her hand drags down over my ab muscles again, my hand still around her wrist. “Now, maybe I can help you get through it.”
“How?” I’m so fucking angry I could scream. I know this is Blair’s hand in mine. Not either of the Bradfords’, but it doesn’t matter. I still feel repulsed by the touch.
“Do you trust me, Rhys?”
I look at her, really look into her eyes, searching the depths of her soul. But I shake my head. “I don’t trust anyone.”
Her lips lift with a small smile I don’t expect. “I think you do. I think you trust me.”
Her hand smooths over my lower stomach, and I fight the urge to jerk away.
“I’ve been used before, Rhys. My whole life I was a toy, a warm body for men to do what they wanted with it and then throw away.” I feel sick knowing that’s definitely the truth and that I'm one of those worthless motherfuckers. “But you’re the only one who makes me feel useful.” I’m surprised by that. “Like I helped you in some way.”
“You did.”
She smiles sweetly, almost too sweetly for Blair, but I don’t point it out. “So, let me help you.”
“I freak out, Blair. Touch is just . . .” Disgusting. I think it, but it’s like she filled it in.
“Not mine.” She takes her other hand and brushes it over my cheek, and I feel like I'm going to leap out of my skin, but I stay put. “I think whether you wanted to or not, you kind of like me.”
“I do.” I close my eyes. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s not you, Blair.”
“Shhh . . .” What the fuck? I open my eyes just as her lips approach mine, but don’t touch. “Did you ever kiss her?”
“No. Fuck no. She was always slobbering all over me, but I would rather cut out my tongue than kiss her back.” I force my eyes closed again, trying to will away the memories of her acting like she was making love to me. Like I wanted it. Her lips all over mine. Her tongue in my mouth. Mr. Bradford was all about control and showing me who was in charge. For her it was some sick fantasy. And I don’t know which one was worse.
“Rhys . . . Come back to me.” I feel her breath on my lips, smell her sweet breath that smells like the strawberry ice cream we had after dinner.
“Blair, don’t do this. I don’t want to hurt you when I freak the fuck out. Because I will.”
I can feel her desire to fix me and only feel guilt because I know she can’t. No one can.
“Kiss me.” My eyes snap open as I stare down at her.
“What? I just said I don’t kiss.”
“You said you didn’t kiss her, but this is me. Blair.” Her free hand rests on my shoulder, and I wince at the touch. “Kiss me because you want to, and I know you do.”
&nb
sp; God, I do. I look down at her lips and swallow the need to touch my lips to them. “I can’t.”
“You can. I want you to. You want to. Take your power back, Rhys.”
“You mean my balls?”
She looks down between our bodies, straight at my junk and then up at me. “You definitely still have your balls.”
Oddly enough, just that simple glance stirs my dick to life even though we’ve been talking naked for several minutes now. “I’ve never kissed anyone sober without freaking out.”
“So kiss me, and we'll see.”
“You act like it’s so fucking easy.”
Her lips ghost over mine, hovering there, but allowing me to have the control. “It is.”
I urge her to move back until her back is pressed against the wall. I want the control. I want to fucking kiss her without running away and throwing up. But I don’t know if I'm capable of that, no matter how easy she thinks it is.
I take both of her wrists now and pull her arms up, pinning them to the wall. But I don’t release them, I cling to them.
“You can’t fix me.”
“I don’t want to. You’re exactly who I want you to be.”
I search her eyes, waiting for her to laugh at me or call me a freak. Something. But she doesn’t. She just tilts her chin up, her hands lax in mine, letting me have the power.
My heart is jackhammering in my chest. But I push through because I want this, and I'll be damned if I let them take this from me even if it’s only one kiss.
I press my mouth against hers tentatively at first before she whimpers softly against my lips, and I lose it. I kiss her with everything I have, and she parts her lips, allowing my tongue to sweep in, lashing against hers. I taste her sweet mouth as she nips on my bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth and then kissing my lips passionately like she wants to devour me, like she can expel all of my demons with her mouth, and I want to let her. I feel her breast pressing against my chest, feel her panting with need as my now rock-solid cock presses against her stomach.
“God, Rhys,” she gasps, and I want so badly to fuck her against the wall, but then it happens.
The memories of what we talked about, of that fucking delusional succubus dragging her lips all over my body, of her straddling my lap and insisting on eye contact while she rode me. And I push back.