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“Ross, I’ll keep pushing,” I warn him. “I won’t give up.”
“Fine. Guess I can’t stop you,” he mutters.
He could, if he wanted. He could push me off completely, send me away, revert to the thug he used to be, not teasing, not defending himself but hurting others to feel better.
But there’s something like relief in his eyes, because... what? I’ll make him open up to me? Spill all his secrets? Is it really so hard for him to tell me?
It seems it is. Lord knows what that bastard of a father of his instilled into him, what macho codes of manly honor. I swear to God, I’ll break through that faulty mold, smash right through it, and find the man within.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ross
As we make it back to the house, a dark feeling crushes my chest. I didn’t want to snap at her. Didn’t mean to push her away again.
I can’t believe she’s still here. That she’s not pissed off, yelling at me, walking away. Isn’t that the way it works? Anyone daring to come near me sooner or later gives up.
I tug her along, into the house, letting the screen swing closed behind us, then press her against the wall, to keep her from leaving.
Even if she isn’t showing any signs of wanting to.
This girl confuses the hell out of me. She refuses to react in the way I expect, the way I’m used to—from her, from everyone.
She smiles at me, gazing back at me steadily, those pretty eyes expectant. What does she want from me? How can I give her whatever it is? She should have pushed me away long ago, hell, she should have never showed up at the garage, should have let me fall.
Not so long ago, when I couldn’t get a reprieve from the dark, I’d take others down with me. Make them hurt, like I hurt. Their pain mirroring mine, mimicking mine. Taking mine away. Like my dad did with my mom, and with me, and with all his children.
But it didn’t work then, and it doesn’t fucking work now.
Why the hell doesn’t it ever work?
Why does her smile feel so damn right?
Trapping her with my arms, my hands flat on the paneled wall on either side of her head, I let my gaze roam over her, force the thoughts back inside their steel box in the back of my mind. Who cares? Who gives a flying fuck why she’s still here, why she makes me feel so weird, so good? The memory of her pussy around my cock is enough.
She’s here. I need her. I can’t remember why her seeing my scars is so important anymore, but I keep my T-shirt on anyway. I don’t need to undress.
The only clothes that have to go are the ones on her, hiding those full curves, that creamy skin, those hard nipples, that dark place between her legs.
Hauling her off the wall, I walk her backward to the sofa and shove her down on it. She lands on her back with an “oof” of surprise, and I’m already on her, undressing her, ripping seams and little buttons and not giving a damn.
“Ross...”
“I want you.”
“Okay, but...”
“Now.”
There’s thunder in my ears, my blood rushing way too fast. Somewhere in my mind I keep waiting for her to push me off her, to slap me, hit me, knee me in the crotch. It doesn’t happen and when her hands trail up to my face, I glance up and find her eyes half-closed and that damn faint smile on her lips that drives me to distraction.
“Yes,” she whispers, and it takes me a moment to understand she’s answering my demand, treating it like a question.
Because I’d never force her... Fuck, no, I wouldn’t. What the fuck’s wrong with me? But by then her hands have fallen away and she’s helping me undo the clasp of her bra, and the need is back, full force, overriding all other thought.
I have a moment of confusion until I realize her undies are wet from the stream because she used them as an impromptu swimsuit, and fuck, wet undies are even harder to take off than dry ones.
Finally, finally, the bra comes off, spilling her round tits, and the damn panties are off, torn on one side, and I fling them away, not caring where they land, burying my face between her legs to smell her, taste her. She yelps, then moans when I spread her open and lick at her, again and again, tasting her.
