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“In the beginning you said you wanted to understand me. What about now?”
He stares at me, contemplating his answer, probably debating on the truth versus what he thinks I want to hear.
“Honestly, I thought I wanted to kill you. If I couldn’t kill him, maybe murdering his killer would be good enough.” He takes a breath. “But then it started to feel like I’d be doing somethingforhim, and he doesn’t deserve shit. He’s not entitled to justice or vengeance. He got exactly what he deserved, but part of me will always regret not taking action sooner.” He pauses. “What made you kill your parents?”
I shake my head. “It’s hard to explain, but I think I always had something wrong with me. I was never a happy kid. Chronically upset, without a reason I could explain. My parents were decent enough, but absent. They knew something was wrong with me, I think, and they didn’t know how to deal with me. I overheard conversations, but the breaking point was when I had finally learned to blend in with societal norms. In their eyes, they should've seen a happier person, capable of normal emotions. I was perfecting it. They found me even more odd. They talked about me and stayed away from me. Even after all I had done in an effort to make them like me. So—” I shrug.
“They had to go,” Kas finishes.
“Basically. I felt better after. It was no longer necessary to put on a front. Not that it seemed to do any good anyway.” Kas nods, and I continue. “So, again, what do you want from me now?”
His dark eyes meet mine, and he stares at me for several long seconds before he answers. “I just want you to want me the way I want you.”
“And how’s that?”
“Overwhelmingly and all-consuming. I want you to feel my absence like you’d feel a knife in your chest. I don’t need you to tell me you love me. I’m not sure I’d believe it anyway. Love feels obligatory in a relationship. Like you have to say it even if you don’t mean it. Love is just a trite four-letter word. People use it for every fucking thing. They love a movie, a song, a particular cup of coffee. I don’t want to be lumped into a bunch of random shit. What I want is to be accepted and desired. I want to be craved. I want you to feel like you’d be miserable without me.”
He stares back at me, waiting for my response. I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide out from under the wheel across the bench seat. His eyes track my movements.
I point at his chest. “Did you see my little gift to you?”
His fingers brush gently across his shirt, right where my cuts were inflicted. “I did.”
“I took a knife to your chest and carved my name into your skin. My real name. Tell me that doesn’t mean something.”
His teeth drag across his bottom lip. “Means you want to brand me.”
“It means you’re mine.”
“Yours,” he says softly. “You did it right after you found out about my dad. You almost killed me that day. Your confession was basically scribbled across my chest.”
“If I had killed you, I’d have cut that from your skin.”
“Always thinking a step ahead,” he says with a small grin.
“Look, I won’t tell you I love you, but I’ll always tell you I want you.”
Kaspian smiles slowly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, and right now, I want you naked and on my dick.”
Kaspian
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Stripped of our clothes and prepped, thanks to a packet of lube I shoved in my pocket for moments just like these, I bounce up and down on Quintin’s cock.
His hands run up my sides and around my back before lowering to my ass where he squeezes my cheeks. I have one arm slung around his neck with the other one braced against the back window, my head bent and nuzzled into his neck so I don’t keep banging it on the roof.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” I breathe.
“You feel how much I want you?” he grunts, moving his hands to my hips and lifting his own to push deeper inside me. “Every inch of my desire for you?”
“Yes, I fucking feel it,” I moan.
“Good.”
I sit back, putting space between our chests, and he brings his hand to his mouth and spits in his palm before wrapping his fingers around my shaft.
