AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“So naïve,” he sighs, brushing my hair behind my shoulder with his fingertips. “Still want to help me?”
It’s a taunt, concealed in a dare, and I feel like we’re back in his gym, on the verge of a monumental decision.
“Yes,” I say, surprised by how honest the word comes out sounding. “I want to.”
Daze steps toward me, backing me against a wall until I’m pinned to it. He towers over me, and I have to strain my neck to look up at him. Without wasting another second, he smashes his lips on mine. His hands roam my body, leaving a warm, tingling sensation in their wake.
I lean into the kiss, fisting his shirt at his chest. A feeling of longing builds up inside me. Being with him just feelsright. Despite all the many reasons I should be fearful, I feel safe in his presence. Protected.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
Daze seems to think so too. He eyes me in such a strange way. It’s like he can clearly read every thought in my head, but they just confuse him. Irritate him worse than my speaking out loud had.
“Do you really think you can handle me, Frey?” he asks in a tone that makes my stomach drop through my body and hit the floor. “Reallyhandle me?”
I don’t think he expects an answer. Without warning, he grasps my waist and yanks me closer. Before I know it, his hands creep toward the hem of my dress, but mine? They fan out over his chest, sensing the coiling muscle twitching beneath his shirt. He makes a low sound at the sensation, and our eyes meet.
“I know what you think of me,” he says, and I shudder. Could he really gauge me so easily? “I saw it all over your face back there,” he adds. “That I’m a piece of shit. A punk. That I shouldn’t be anywhere near someone like you—” He does that thing with my hair again, grasping a chunk of the wig between his thumb and forefinger to twist around. He tugs slightly harder than normal dislodging the wig before tossing it aside to grip my natural hair. When he’s done, he doesn’t smooth the hair back into place. He lets it dangle apart from the rest. Next, his gaze goes to my cross and stays there. “Maybe I am those things… But you’re still here. Still with me. Why is that?”
The potential answer seems to matter to him, though I don’t know why. I can’t stop myself from fingering my necklace as I mull over a possible explanation and come to a grim conclusion—there isn’t one. I’m still here—even when his eyes take on a fathomless quality that makes him resemble the frightening stranger I’ve only caught glimpses of before now. The real Daze he seems determined to suppress.
For whatever reason, the very enigma of him intrigues me like nothing else. Finally, I say, “Maybe you need me to stay.” I can’t look at him, and eye the floor instead, still twisting my chain around my finger. “I’m not used to feeling needed.”
At least, not by anyone other than Hale, who I failed. The other men in my life would deny such an accusation. Colton would murmur something about both of us only needing prayer, nothing else.
Daze doesn’t argue, though. He bites his lip and deliberately flicks my cross with his thumb. It doesn’t feel like a dismissive gesture. More like his silent way of answering his own question—this is why you’re here.You’re too good. I’m too bad. You can’t resist, can you? It’s only natural that you want to save my soul.
“If we do this… We do this differently than before,” he says, referring to something far more ominous than mere conversation. “I’m not in the mood for cuddling right now, Frey.” His body pulsates with an electric quality. He means that.
But in my limited repertoire of sinful acts, I have no idea what exactly he intends. “How?”
“First, you turn around,” he boldly instructs. From his pocket, he grabs an item he must keep on him at all times—a foil packet. One that he expertly rips open with his teeth. “And bend over the couch.”
My chest tightens. He’s using that guttural, unfamiliar voice again, but it doesn’t scare me the way it should. My heart seems to beat faster as if to match the rugged cadence of it. A crazy thought comes to mind—if I were angry and Colton was around, he’d tell me to pray. Meditate. Something as vulgar as sex can’t possibly be useful in such a situation, right?
Wrong,at least where Daze is concerned. He seems to thrive on physicality rather than spiritual endeavors. Oddly enough, I can’t deny that there may be appeal in his method. When I’m with him, I can’t think about anything else. Nothing.
I watch him hook his thumb beneath the waistband of his jeans, eager to take them off.
Ignoring the logical part of my brain warning me to run, I turn around. Then I lean forward and grip the arm of the couch.
“Good girl.”
He groans amid the telltale hiss of fabric sliding against skin. The two thumps I hear next must be him stepping out of the material and closer to me. What feels like his hand nudges my legs apart before ghosting up my thigh. He removes the knife first, and my panties follow. Then, his hand returns, wrenching up my dress to brush me intimately with what feels like the broad pad of his thumb. Then the contact withdraws, and a wall of muscle presses into my lower back. Then his hands on my hips. Finally,him.He enters me without warning.
The ache between my legs returns in full force, and I still can’t get over how I’d been taught this was such an awful sin. How can it be when any pain I feel is followed immediately by pleasure—a harsh, euphoric mixture of the two? His invasion of my body isn’t the only sensation I’m reacting to.
It’s his touch. He wrenches himself into me, ensuring that there is very little of me he can’t contact from this angle. His hand grips the back of my neck, driving me down. Startled, I dig my nails into the worn-out material of the cushions and push back against him, meeting each thrust.
Before, he went slower, letting me adjust to his pace. This time it feels feral. Savage. He takes me punishingly, slamming his hips into mine, seemingly without care if he goes too rough.
At the same time, used and abused isn’t what I feel. I feel… Burning heat. Wetness pools between my thighs, and I’ve never felt so consumed. My back arches, straining the angle he has me in so I can feel more of him. In response, his hand briefly grazes my pelvis before he slips it between my legs, tracing his fingers over the sensitive flesh there. My senses are heightened. I can feel each deliberate touch in a way I never have before. Like his fingers alone drive out any shame or taboo. Groaning, he presses into me, right near where we’re joined, rotating his fingers in slow, precise circles.
“So wet,” he lets out, slamming into me harder, sending me toppling onto the couch cushions. For leverage, he firmly grasps my shoulder with his other hand, keeping me in place as he drills into me relentlessly. “You like this cock, baby?”
He sounds as unsteady as he moves—as though with every passing second, any semblance of politeness he put on is crumbling. He’s vulgar. Primal.
I nod, unable to form words. My face flames at the word choice, but for some reason… I don’t take offense to it. The feeling washing through my belly in response feels just as dangerous as the pressure inflicted by his still teasing fingers. I tilt my head, offering my ear to him, and he nudges the earlobe with his mouth.
