Damaged: The Dillon Sisters

by Layla Frost

  I hoped it was the latter because I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anyone.

  He moved his finger from between my slit and lifted it to his mouth, the sound of him licking it clean obscenely hot. I inhaled sharply as his cock jerked, as desperate for me as I was for it.

  Disappointment overpowered my need when he released me and stepped away. “You need to get ready for work.”

  I didn’t bother to ask how he knew my schedule—it was more predictable than a cheesy sitcom.

  Wrapped in my turmoil, I hadn’t thought about work. My eyes darted to the time, and the tension that’d rapidly infused me drained right back out when I saw my internal clock had woken me with plenty of time to spare.

  Except, for the first time since I’d started at the rescue, I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay and get fucked—in the good way, for once. It was also entirely possible I would completely fall apart when my shame spiraled, inevitably sucking me up like a twister.

  Either way, my response was the same. “I’m not going today.”

  “Why?”

  Because I want to spend all day in bed with you.

  Or spend all day in bed, numb and in a sink hole of depression.

  Because I deserve a day of fun.

  Because I don’t deserve the comfort of animals.

  Not having the desire or mental equipment to wade through my circular thoughts, I left it as, “Just decided to take the day off.”

  He turned me to face him, and not for the first time, I was breathless at the way he looked at me. Like I was desirable and sexy and not damaged goods. “As much as I’d kill to keep you naked and in bed all day, skipping work will fester until you’re miserable.”

  At his presumptuous statement, I raised my chin. “Who said you’re invited to stay?”

  My attempt at not feeding his ego was rendered moot when he ran a bent finger down my breast, and I immediately leaned into his touch.

  Luckily, he didn’t gloat verbally—though his smirk was cocky enough to do it for him. “Okay, then if you stay home alone, you’ll retie those knots we just loosened. Either way, the end results are the same.”

  He had a point. Being alone without a distraction guaranteed I’d feel guilty about flaking on work, which would allow my brain to do what it did best.

  Fuck shit up.

  He knew he had me and ordered, “Go shower.”

  I could’ve argued. I should’ve argued. But I was still calm and there was a lightness inside me I rarely experienced, so I took the rare opportunity to enjoy it.

  Once I was showered and dressed, I returned to the living room to find him waiting with toast and—based on the familiar herbal smell—tea.

  My wild and exciting breakfast of choice.

  It should’ve freaked me the hell out that he knew that, but my brain still wasn’t operating correctly. Well, correctly in its usual incorrectness. Instead, I was just confused. “I’m out of tea.”

  “You were. I ran to the store this morning.”

  That’s crazy and weird and so fucking thoughtful.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, making quick work of the toast. After glancing at the time, I transferred the tea into a travel mug. “I’ve got to catch the bus.”

  Surprisingly, he didn’t argue or insist on giving me a ride. It was like he knew I needed my routine and some space. He waited while I gathered my things before walking me to my stop just as the bus was approaching.

  After giving me a quick kiss, he stepped away. “See you later, Briar.”

  His words held more weight than a typical farewell. They were a promise.

  Or maybe a threat.

  _______________

  IT’S HIM.

  I’d just locked myself in my apartment after work and hadn’t even taken off my shoes when someone knocked. Since there was only one person who said—or threatened—he’d see me soon, my mind jumped to Alexander.

  And not for the first or second—or fiftieth—time since we’d said goodbye at the bus stop that morning.

  Ignoring the not unpleasant buzz of giddiness that zipped through me like a live wire, I reminded myself of my earlier decision.

  I wouldn’t let him in.

  I wouldn’t let him touch me in any way, shape, or pleasurable form.

  Other than throwing his cameras at him and telling him where he could shove them, I wouldn’t even talk to him.

  I can do this.

  All my hype up was for nothing because when I opened the door, it wasn’t Alexander. It was some random guy.

  “Delivery for Miss Dillon.” He handed me a small bag and an envelope before holding out a massive vase.

  Matte black—same as the others, though much larger.

  When I didn’t take it, the guy offered an apologetic smile. “I don’t know what happened to the flowers, they were like this when I got them. I’m sure there’s a number you can call to complain.”

  I wasn’t sure they could even be called flowers at that point. There were only a few deep red petals on each thorny stem.

  Flower.

  His nickname for me drifted through my head.

  All the flowers have been from him. He’s been taunting me with the sparse flowers. Insulting me?

  If that’d been his intention, he’d failed because as ruined as the bouquet seemed, there was something oddly beautiful about it.

  “Miss?” he prompted, wiggling the vase. “I can just throw them out if you’d like.”

  I hurried to snatch them from his hold. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

  Before I could grab my purse to tip him, he turned and started walking away. “Have a good day.”

  Closing the door, I set the vase and bag on the island before tearing open the envelope that had my name on the front in bold, masculine handwriting. There were two pieces of paper, one large and one small. I unfolded the larger of the two and scanned it quickly before reading it more thoroughly when I realized what it was.

  If the results were real and not just a load of bullshit he’d printed himself, then Alexander Thornton was free from STDs. I’d still keep the appointment I’d set earlier to be safe, but seeing his clean bill of health was a massive relief. Since I had an IUD, I was covered. Still stupid, but covered.

  Tossing the evidence of his squeaky-clean dick to the side, I opened the small one. The letter head at the top was labeled with the business emblem of Thorn Tech.

  I’ve got his last name and company name. We’re practically BFF fuckbuddies now.

  Flower,

  Proof that something damaged can still be beautiful. I’m stuck in Seattle longer than expected, but I’ll see you soon.

  -A

  P.S. These results should make you feel better.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood as I thought about how literal that soon could be. I dropped the note and hauled ass across the room to rip the tiny camera down.

  I aimed it at my face, though I had no clue if it was upside down or sideways or whatever.

  “Hey, I don’t know if you can hear this,” I started, feeling awkward but hoping I came across as firm and fierce. “But I don’t want to see you again. As long as you leave me alone, I won’t tell anyone what happened or who you are or anything. So… just stay away.” I started to move the camera before turning it back. “And no more flowers.”

  Fisting the camera, I grabbed the one in the bedroom and threw them both in the garbage. I did a full sweep of the apartment for any others, but there were none.

  Satisfied, I returned to the kitchen when the smell of something delicious breached my brain. Remembering the bag the delivery guy had also handed me, I cracked it open to see Mexican food.

  Cheesy enchilada perfection with a side of inferno hot sauce—something I hadn’t mentioned to him.

  And two huge containers of salsa.

  Like the tea that morning, it was disconcerting he knew my eating habits. I was tempted to throw the food away out of spite, but it smelled so good that my stomach a
udibly growled.

  Wasting food is wrong. And this is… it’s a nice parting gift.

  With that justification, I grabbed a fork and the bag before plopping onto the couch. While I ate, my fingers seemed to move by themselves to bring up Google.

  I’m just being thorough. Uh, in the name of science.

  Alexander Thornton

  There were plenty of articles that mentioned the different coding software he’d developed, some virtual security system he’d implemented, and some other nerdy hoopla, but they might as well have been in Latin because I couldn’t understand a word of it.

  I switched to the image tab—again, strictly in the name of science—but there was nothing. Not a headshot. Not a faked spontaneous photo to accompany a press writeup. No Linked-In, Businessperson Digest, or Tech Nerd Weekly.

  Not even an old Myspace page.

  Huh.

  Weird.

  With technology being his career, I’d assumed his digital footprint would be the size of a T-Rex’s. But unless he used an alias, he was surprisingly off the radar.

  Which was good.

  Because that meant I wouldn’t be tempted to Google him again to see his handsome face, stubbled jaw, and overgrown hair that said he was too busy solving all the computer problems in the world to go for a cut and shave. I’d made my stance clear over the camera, and if he didn’t see it and came back, I’d make it clear in person.

  I didn’t want to see him again.

  Ever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Control

  Briar

  For waking up

  IT’S FINE.

  No one can tell.

  Leaning closer to the mirror, I parted and re-parted my hair. I had to hide it. I had to.

  So focused on my ugliness, I didn’t notice her come in.

  Not until she grabbed a thick chunk of hair and pulled hard. Hard enough to make pathetic tears spring to my eyes.

  Hard enough to rip the hair out.

  Hair I couldn’t afford to lose.

  “God, you look awful,” she slurred.

  “I know,” I agreed because as bitchy as she was, she was also right.

  “What a waste.” I thought maybe she was talking about my formerly gleaming blond hair or my good looks or, hell, maybe even my health. She wasn’t. “All that time and money I spent on those pageants. All for nothing.”

  It wasn’t my fault I was sick. It wasn’t my fault I was balding at sixteen. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t participate in the pageants she’d been forcing me into since I was a toddler. It wasn’t my fault I’d ruined her picture-perfect façade of a picture-perfect family. It wasn’t my fault her fake friends viewed her with pity instead of envy.

  None of it was my fault.

  That didn’t stop guilt from crushing my chest until I couldn’t breathe.

  As if she smelled my weakness, she went for the kill.

  Grabbing the bloat that’d developed at the side of my stomach, she tsked. “Just because you can’t do pageants anymore doesn’t mean you should let yourself go. Have some control.”

  Have some control.

  God, if I had a nickel for every time she’d hissed, sneered, or screeched that at me, I could’ve escaped to my own private island.

  Pinching hard enough to bruise, she let me go with a small shove and sashayed from my room, leaving the wafting scent of Chanel Nº 5 and vodka in her wake.

  That and pain.

  So much pain.

  Giving up on the impossible task of hiding the bald spot she’d just helped expand, I lifted my tee and focused on the muffin top she’d bruised.

  I’d always been thin, but never thin enough for her. She was tall and lithe, like perfect Aria. I was shorter and had curves that no amount of carb cutting, calorie counting, or exercise could get rid of.

  And that was before the chemo caused water retention.

  I couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how much I starved myself.

  She was right, I had no control. Not over my body. Not over my weight. Not over the disease that raged through me. And not over the cure that was worse than the disease.

  No. Fucking. Control.

  But I can have control over my hair.

  Leaving my room, I didn’t bother to sneak since no one paid attention to me anyway. I went into Dad’s bathroom and grabbed his expensive straight razor, taking it back to my room to stand in front of the mirror. Gripping my hair taut with my free hand, I held the razor to the roots and deep breathed.

  Do it.

  Shave it off and get it over with.

  But I didn’t. Couldn’t.

  “Weak,” I taunted myself. “Weak and ugly and fat. No control.”

  Filled with so much disgust and hatred—for every damn thing in my life—I reached my breaking point. Before I could think, I lifted my shirt and sliced the blade across the fat that bumped up at my side. Like I could cut it off. Like I could drain the bloat.

  It wasn’t a deep cut, but that didn’t matter. The initial pain grew to a sharp sting.

  And, fuck, it felt good.

  I did it again, lighter and more deliberate.

  It was even better.

  Because I was in control.

  My mother’s laughter filled my room. “No you’re not.”

  This isn’t right.

  “You fail at everything. You even failed at dying. Instead, you let him fuck you like the whore I always knew you were.”

  No, this isn’t how it went.

  “That’s why none of the angels of mercy thought you deserved their compassion.”

  Get away!

  “You’re a disappointment. You always let me down. You always mess up. You are a worthless whore, Briar… Briar… Briar…”

  My eyes shot open, and I was already partially across my bed, scurrying away from the ghost of my past as my hands gripped my hair, making sure it was still there. Only instead of my nightmare, it was Alexander sitting on the bed next to me.

  In the light streaming in from the bathroom, he didn’t look like the handsome tech nerd. The shadows played with his sharp jawline, his massive size, and his wild gaze.

  He was a stalker.

  My stalker.

  Menacing.

  Sinister.

  His inner darkness called to mine.

  And I’d never been so happy to answer.

  Not thinking about anything but him and the relief that I was no longer imprisoned in that awful memory, I grabbed his shoulders and yanked him down. I must’ve taken him by surprise because he nearly slid off the side of my mattress. That didn’t stop him from bending at the uncomfortable angle so I could kiss him.

  And I fucking kissed.

  When the ghosts that haunted me faded into the shadows, I was able to focus on how good his lips felt. How strong and dominant his tongue was as it danced with mine. How willingly he let me bite and claw and clutch him to me, as though he knew I’d been floating in the seas of hell and he’d become my life vest—even temporarily. And when he shifted, keeping our lips connected as he covered my body with his large one, I focused on how good his weight felt.

  And how alive it all made me feel.

  If only for a brief moment.

  Riding that high, I rocked my hips against him. His hardness pressed between my legs, my thin sleep shorts offering little protection against the fabric of his pants. It was still too much of a barrier, though. I wanted to feel their roughness against my oversensitive skin. I wanted to feel the sting and burn from the cuts on my thighs.

  I wanted to feel him.

  Gripping his soft sweater, I yanked it up. Alexander tore his mouth away in order to help, and I let out an involuntary whimper at the tragic loss. I expected him to laugh or tease me for attempting to magically remove his shirt without separating my lips from his. He didn’t. That addicting heat filled his dark eyes, as though he were getting off on how desperately I wanted him.

  No longer letting me control the kiss, he nipped
and sucked and bit every inch of my flesh he could as he frantically undressed me. I did the same to him, my movements just as hurried and uncoordinated.

  Once we were both naked, he pushed himself up onto his arms, taking his touch, his kiss, and his weight with him.

  I wanted them all back.

  Clutching his shoulders, I lifted off the bed to bite his jaw, licking down his strong neck to nip a tendon. His sharp exhale gave away his pain, and I bit harder, my nails digging into his skin. I could feel and hear his groan rumble before he gripped my wrists and slammed them down to the bed.

  Being restrained wasn’t something I’d ever dealt with well. Too many overzealous staff members at the expensive mental health spas. Too many nights strapped to a hospital bed because the fevers I’d gotten from chemo infections had made me delirious and a safety hazard.

  But right then, it was different. Like when he cut me, I didn’t mind that I was powerless. Under his control. Vulnerable and defenseless.

  I liked it.

  That didn’t stop me from fighting. Not because I wanted to get away. It was because I wanted the ache in my shoulders. The sharp bite of his hands on my wrists. The power of his body.

  I just needed to keep feeling.

  So I thrashed. I wiggled. I tried to dislodge my hands from his, and when that didn’t work, I tried to attack with my legs and teeth.

  He took everything I gave and held steady until he found his opportunity. The moment my thighs spread enough for his hips to fall between them, he slammed his cock into me. Impaling me. Keeping me in place.

  “Fuck.” Rough and raw and filled with wonder. Like I was the best thing he’d ever felt, too.

  My own voice was just as raw when I pleaded, “More.”

  He gave me what I needed, moving hard and fast. Frenzied. Unable to get deep enough. Or maybe he was just unable to get enough of me.

  Whatever the reason, his cock continued to slam in deep and at just the right angle to make my toes curl and my body tighten. With his relentless hold and thrusts, my brain didn’t have the chance to fight my orgasm. Intrusive thoughts didn’t push in and chase it away. I didn’t have to work to find the fleeting pleasure.

  “Fuck, Alexander,” I breathed as it barreled at me, leaving me no choice but to take it. Starting at the center and radiating out, it washed over me until I was unable to move much less allow my brain to fuck shit up.