Stupid Boy
Page 54
He pulled me to him, his mouth against my ear. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then he kissed me there, and my hands sought his face, marveling in the scratchy feel of his unshaven jaw against my fingers. It was all so new. So many emotions. Sensations.
I shifted my weight and leaned into him, and he grunted slightly. I jerked back, my eyes drawn to his ribs. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I—”
His mouth closed over mine, silencing me for several seconds as he tasted, suckled, and he smiled against my mouth. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “Just a little sore.” Sliding his hands along my hip, the curve of my backside, he slid them beneath my sweater, my tank, until he found my skin. My breath caught, and he stopped.
“No,” I said, and brushed my mouth against his. “I don’t want you to stop, Kane.” He looked at me, his eyes liquid pools, and they asked me silently if I was sure. “You trust me,” I said quietly, “and I trust you. I’ve never wanted to share this part of me with anyone.” His eyes regarded me, made my insides heat. I didn’t want to tell him it was forbidden. A sin, in my overbearing grandmother’s eyes. Not now. “I want it to be you, Kane McCarthy.”
Without closing his eyes, he settled his mouth gently against mine, and he swept his tongue along the seam of my mouth, and I gasped. “Are you sure?”
I kissed him back, mimicking his movement. I drew back. “More sure than I’ve ever been.”
“I didn’t bring you here to seduce you,” he said quietly.
“But you did,” I answered, then gave a timid smile. “I’m pretty sure I am one hundred percent thoroughly seduced.”
His smile came easy then, and he rose from the sofa with a slight grunt, pulling me with him. Bending down, he grabbed the mason jar candle with its alluring scent curling from its mouth, laced his fingers with mine, and led me across the studio to a small hallway. In the room where he’d been taken after the attack, he set the candle down on the nightstand, pulled me inside and closed the door.
Why wasn’t I freaking out? Why weren’t the deluge of terrifying memories, of consequences washing over me? Was it because Kane was right? He and I together were right? That all along what I needed was to find trust in just one single person?
As his room closed in on me, I allowed Kane to replace the terror.
Christ, what was I doing? Part of me knew I should stop. Just get up and walk out the door. Go outside in the forty-degree weather and cool the fuck off.
Harper’s hand reached toward mine, slid her delicate fingers through my big ones, and her large eyes looked like pools of seawater as she stared at me. She just stood there, inching closer, leaning in. The flowery smell of her shampoo drifted up as she tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ve never wanted anyone to touch me before,” she said in that quiet, breakable voice. “I want you to.”
I was gone then; just four words, and I was fuckin’ gone. I gathered her face in my hands and inspected every feature, every curve, and then my mouth was on hers, so hungry, so starved like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. Her lips were full, soft, pliable, inexperienced yet moved exactly where mine did, traced my path, tasted where I tasted. Her hands rested lightly against my chest, slid down to my stomach, and I was already so far gone, just from that brave touch, that I had to check myself. I pulled back, and she looked at me, and her mouth curved into the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen on her face. This smile wasn’t broken. It was real. And it was mine.
“I like the way you kiss me,” she admitted. And even in the candlelight of the room, I could see her cheeks redden. Her eyes cast downward, then back up. Shy. Brave. And in her eyes, desire.
I lowered my head again, moved my lips over hers, and moved my hands over her collarbone, down her shirt where I unsnapped it, pushed it off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor. I touched her as easily as I could; she seemed so delicate, small, and she then mimicked me, reaching for the buttons on my shirt until they’d all been undone. Just like me.
She pushed my shirt open, and her eyes widened when she saw the ugly black and blue across my ribs, and her fingers were there, tracing the marks, then the ridges of my abs. She looked up at me, slid her hands around my neck, and pulled my mouth back to hers.
I picked her up in my arms, and it hurt, but I didn’t care. She didn’t weigh hardly anything, but my ribs were still broken. With her wide eyes on mine, I laid her down on my bed, but her arms didn’t leave my neck. Her mouth didn’t leave my mouth. We shared the same air, the same matter, same space. We might as well have been one.
We lay beside each other, and her kissing grew as hungry as mine, and when I slid my hand along her hip, her thigh, feeling every curve through the soft jeans that hugged her skin, she moved closer, groaned. My hands moved under the thin tank she wore, her skin soft, untouched, and I hesitated. I leaned back, searching her eyes in the soft light, searching for answers without asking for them. Searching for acceptance. Consent.
She sat up then, pulled the tank over her head, dropped it to the floor. And she reached for my shirt, and I let her pull it off my shoulders. Then she reached for me again, and I went.
Our mouths fit, no matter which way I moved, like locking pieces of a puzzle, and when her fingers moved over my back—skimming that offending memory scarred there, kissed my chin, my jaw, and my throat—it felt healing. It felt fucking perfect. Like I’d waited my whole life to find her, just to trust with the darkest parts of me. She’d seen that darkness, and had accepted. I devoured her. It still wasn’t enough.
I shifted my weight and leaned into him, and he grunted slightly. I jerked back, my eyes drawn to his ribs. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I—”
His mouth closed over mine, silencing me for several seconds as he tasted, suckled, and he smiled against my mouth. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “Just a little sore.” Sliding his hands along my hip, the curve of my backside, he slid them beneath my sweater, my tank, until he found my skin. My breath caught, and he stopped.
“No,” I said, and brushed my mouth against his. “I don’t want you to stop, Kane.” He looked at me, his eyes liquid pools, and they asked me silently if I was sure. “You trust me,” I said quietly, “and I trust you. I’ve never wanted to share this part of me with anyone.” His eyes regarded me, made my insides heat. I didn’t want to tell him it was forbidden. A sin, in my overbearing grandmother’s eyes. Not now. “I want it to be you, Kane McCarthy.”
Without closing his eyes, he settled his mouth gently against mine, and he swept his tongue along the seam of my mouth, and I gasped. “Are you sure?”
I kissed him back, mimicking his movement. I drew back. “More sure than I’ve ever been.”
“I didn’t bring you here to seduce you,” he said quietly.
“But you did,” I answered, then gave a timid smile. “I’m pretty sure I am one hundred percent thoroughly seduced.”
His smile came easy then, and he rose from the sofa with a slight grunt, pulling me with him. Bending down, he grabbed the mason jar candle with its alluring scent curling from its mouth, laced his fingers with mine, and led me across the studio to a small hallway. In the room where he’d been taken after the attack, he set the candle down on the nightstand, pulled me inside and closed the door.
Why wasn’t I freaking out? Why weren’t the deluge of terrifying memories, of consequences washing over me? Was it because Kane was right? He and I together were right? That all along what I needed was to find trust in just one single person?
As his room closed in on me, I allowed Kane to replace the terror.
Christ, what was I doing? Part of me knew I should stop. Just get up and walk out the door. Go outside in the forty-degree weather and cool the fuck off.
Harper’s hand reached toward mine, slid her delicate fingers through my big ones, and her large eyes looked like pools of seawater as she stared at me. She just stood there, inching closer, leaning in. The flowery smell of her shampoo drifted up as she tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ve never wanted anyone to touch me before,” she said in that quiet, breakable voice. “I want you to.”
I was gone then; just four words, and I was fuckin’ gone. I gathered her face in my hands and inspected every feature, every curve, and then my mouth was on hers, so hungry, so starved like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. Her lips were full, soft, pliable, inexperienced yet moved exactly where mine did, traced my path, tasted where I tasted. Her hands rested lightly against my chest, slid down to my stomach, and I was already so far gone, just from that brave touch, that I had to check myself. I pulled back, and she looked at me, and her mouth curved into the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen on her face. This smile wasn’t broken. It was real. And it was mine.
“I like the way you kiss me,” she admitted. And even in the candlelight of the room, I could see her cheeks redden. Her eyes cast downward, then back up. Shy. Brave. And in her eyes, desire.
I lowered my head again, moved my lips over hers, and moved my hands over her collarbone, down her shirt where I unsnapped it, pushed it off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor. I touched her as easily as I could; she seemed so delicate, small, and she then mimicked me, reaching for the buttons on my shirt until they’d all been undone. Just like me.
She pushed my shirt open, and her eyes widened when she saw the ugly black and blue across my ribs, and her fingers were there, tracing the marks, then the ridges of my abs. She looked up at me, slid her hands around my neck, and pulled my mouth back to hers.
I picked her up in my arms, and it hurt, but I didn’t care. She didn’t weigh hardly anything, but my ribs were still broken. With her wide eyes on mine, I laid her down on my bed, but her arms didn’t leave my neck. Her mouth didn’t leave my mouth. We shared the same air, the same matter, same space. We might as well have been one.
We lay beside each other, and her kissing grew as hungry as mine, and when I slid my hand along her hip, her thigh, feeling every curve through the soft jeans that hugged her skin, she moved closer, groaned. My hands moved under the thin tank she wore, her skin soft, untouched, and I hesitated. I leaned back, searching her eyes in the soft light, searching for answers without asking for them. Searching for acceptance. Consent.
She sat up then, pulled the tank over her head, dropped it to the floor. And she reached for my shirt, and I let her pull it off my shoulders. Then she reached for me again, and I went.
Our mouths fit, no matter which way I moved, like locking pieces of a puzzle, and when her fingers moved over my back—skimming that offending memory scarred there, kissed my chin, my jaw, and my throat—it felt healing. It felt fucking perfect. Like I’d waited my whole life to find her, just to trust with the darkest parts of me. She’d seen that darkness, and had accepted. I devoured her. It still wasn’t enough.
