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“Oh, fuck,” I moan as his tongue lashes against my heat. He doesn’t tease me. He devours me. Two fingers slide past my slick folds. My chest rises, and my lips part as my head falls back. He takes and takes with his fingers and greedy tongue until I can’t see straight.
“Who you thinkin’ about?” he asks, his voice vibrating against my clit. “Whose tongue you thinkin’ about fuckin’ you?” My walls start to spasm with each filthy question. “Fucking tell me—”
“You,” I breathe out. “I’m thinking about you.”
His tongue and fingers are gone. Within seconds, his jeans are pushed beneath his ass, and his cock is thrusting into my swollen cunt. I can’t hold back as he pounds into me, filling me to the hilt and pulling back before powering into me again. “That’s right, baby. Let go.” My pussy clenches around him, and he digs his fingers into my hair, forcing me to look at him. “Say my name when you come. Hear me?”
I want to defy him, but he fucks me so deep his name comes out in a hoarse moan before I can stop myself. His grip on my hair tightens as he thrusts one last time, holding his cock in place as it pulses inside me.
I can’t catch my breath. I’m not sure I ever will. Before I can speak, Tate pulls out, and his weight is gone. The next sound I hear is the slamming of my bedroom door.
Chapter twelve
Mindy
After my parents died, my life became a blur. Years passed before I was able to pull my head out of the sand and accept they had really left me, taking my dreams with them. I can’t fault them. They didn’t ask to be hit head-on by a fuck-wad teenager. But they also hadn’t acknowledged things like that could happen and had no plan on how to protect me if they did. I’d been angry at them. Forced into a new life, all my choices taken away, losing all sense of faith.
I remember the dance studio just being there one day and gone the next. The house I grew up in was sold to another family. I’d only been able to bring a small suitcase with minimal photos and sentimental items. If I had known that would be the last moments I had there, I would have eaten the last piece of pie in the refrigerator my mom had made days prior. Taken one more whiff of my dad’s cologne to memorize his smell. I would have slammed my bedroom door for the hell of it because it would be the last time I could.
Dance became part of my past, my foster parents claiming they didn’t have the money. Instead, I continued teaching myself, allowing the memories of my mother to play in my head. I’d spent so much time watching her, every routine had been ingrained in me. I’d push myself until my feet bled and still wouldn’t stop. And once I turned eighteen, I’d be awarded the money my parents had saved for me to enroll in a dance school. All the way in New York. Just like my mother. I applied to all the schools that didn’t require an enrollment fee, then paid for the ones that did with the money I made from cutting lawns or babysitting.
I cried the day mail came from the dance academy my mother had gone to, shedding tears of happiness as I read the acceptance letter. I’d done it. Then I cried because my mom wasn’t there to see me follow in her footsteps, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it on my own. I had to believe my parents were watching over me and my life with the Hillsons, and the harshness I’d endured for five long years had just been a test of will.
I remember the day Betty Hillson came to me asking about the account my parents had opened for me, explaining the court had contacted my social worker about signing it over to me because I was turning eighteen soon. God, she’d been so happy for me. We’d hugged, and I’d cried. I’d held so much anger toward my parents, but that money would finally allow me to have a future. Betty convinced me signing the inheritance over to them was best. Being more knowledgeable, they would invest and manage my finances. IRAs, savings account, CDs—whatever other mumbo jumbo words she threw my way.
I don’t know why I didn’t see past their scam. I was so overwhelmed with how kind she was being, so desperate for attention and too wrapped up in the dream of it all, I never thought to look over the papers I was signing. And when I found out I had granted them legal ownership of the trust, I’d refused to believe it.
They had left me with nothing.
I tried hiring a lawyer. But it was no use. I was an adult of sound mind. What was there to argue?
I’ve never understood cruelty. There’s so much in the world. Selfish people who don’t think past themselves and get behind the wheel after drinking more than half a bottle of whiskey. People who steal and lie. Take advantage of vulnerability.
I don’t know what brought these feelings back. Why these memories are resurfacing. I’ve worked too hard to numb the anger. Accepted my life and the person I became a long time ago.
I crawl out of bed, thankful for the minimal discomfort and wash my face. When I look in the mirror, the person staring back is unfamiliar. I look deeper, seeing my mother, hearing her inside my head.
“Spin for me, my little ballerina, spin.”
“I am. Look at me, momma! Look at me!”
“Tell me, my sweet girl, what do you want to be when you’re all grown up?”
“A dancer like you.”
“And you’ll take the world by storm with your talent. I can see it now. My baby girl. Lights flashing as you dance for the world.”
“Just like you did.”
“You can be anything you put your mind and heart into. You control your destiny. Always remember that. You are brave. Beautiful inside and out. There’s no stopping you.”
My cheeks are wet with tears. “I tried, Momma. I tried. I just couldn’t do it.” I cover my face, emotion overwhelming me. Everything I lost. The mess I’ve made of my life. All the things I have no control over. A future that feels just as bleak.
“Stop.” I stomp my foot, shaking my head. “I need to stop. Fuck.” The tears fall harder. All I want is to break this cycle. Create a life I love. Have a job I’m passionate about. A family to come home to. Instead, I’ve cowered to my circumstances. Feeling like I didn’t deserve better, I clung to being the victim, and where has that gotten me? I have nothing. I’ve built nothing.
I don’t hear Tate knock. He’s just suddenly behind me, pulling me close. I keep my face hidden behind my hands and hold my breath, but his tender voice breaks my resolve, and I sob harder. “It’s going to be okay.”
He has no idea how much it’s not.
