Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

33. Remy

33

Remy

W hen he said I'd be aching and burning, I'm pretty sure he didn't mean my stomach from laughing so hard.

“Are you done?” Win sighs, adjusting the cuff of his borrowed mint green button-down. Like a stubborn asshole, he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, complaining it was too hot and, “It looks way better like this .”

The shirt is one thing.

It’s the shorts that are killing me.

Easter egg pink and hitting a few inches below mid-thigh, they’re a stark contrast to the extensive tattoos covering his legs.

“I can’t,” I wheeze, smacking the steering wheel again. He smirks despite the grouchy mask he’s been wearing since I got carried away dressing him like a preppy tool. He’s not fooling anyone though; the bastard is totally milking it and I can’t blame him.

It’s funny as fuck.

“What is it now ?”

I snort. “I’m picturing you on the putting green. ”

He wiggles his brows suggestively. I can’t breathe. Tapping his chin, he muses, “There’s Emo Barbie… Does that make me Goth Ken?”

I’m gonna throw up. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. He exits the truck, boat shoes crunching on the shell-gravel drive. Although ridiculous and a little loose, his ass looks criminal in those shorts.

Rounding the vehicle, I find him staring at the house.

“They painted it blue.”

I’d gotten so used to the color, I forgot what it looked like before. “Oh, yeah, they got bored a few years ago.”

The corner of his lips lifts. “Let me guess, Lucy Sullivan lost her shit when you moved out and started renovating to fill the void?”

“You forgot the obsessive gardening. She’s very serious about her plants.”

With a barked laugh, he shakes his head. “Not remotely surprised.”

“Come on, Dad’s probably well on his way to pulling a muscle.”

“Don't golfers carry around giant ass bags all day?” he asks, falling into step beside me as we follow the dark grey pavers to Ma's dream backyard.

“That’s the extent of his physical activity. Now pick up the pace, my little pony.”

A feral grin overtakes his face. “You wanna ride me, Sir Remington?”

I shove the cackling imbecile into one of Ma’s precious mini palms. He unfortunately isn't deterred. As soon as I open the gate, there’s a shriek.

“Is that him?” Ma squeals, running at us. I duck away from the oncoming tornado of a woman, her heavily highlighted bob flapping in the breeze as she barrels for Win —

She stops abruptly in front of him, neck craned and hot pink lips in an O.

“My eyes must be lying, because you, handsome man, look just like an all-grown-up version of Winnie Rhodes,” Ma says, hands on her plump hips.

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Sullivan,” Win smiles— a genuine one that nearly knocks me on my ass.

Ma’s lashes flutter as she fans herself. “My lord, what did they feed you on the other coast? You always were a cutie pie but you’ve become quite the hunky monkey!”

Where’s the duck tape when I need it?

Win’s eyes dance with amusement, shooting to me briefly before returning to my mother. He leans in conspiratorially. “Lots of avocado.”

She bursts into a fit of giggles, grasping his inked forearm and guiding him toward the shaded awning where Dad is unfolding a table. “Tell me, how on earth did Remy convince you to wear color ? I must say, this mint really suits you.”

Win throws a wink at me over his shoulder.

“He said I wasn’t allowed to wear black.”

“Nonsense! You can wear whatever you’re comfortable in, Winnie dear.”

Flanking Ma’s other side, I glare at my unintentional plus-one over her head. “ Winnie dear has to abide by the dress code like the rest of us.”

Ma scoffs. “Muffin, are you constipated again? You’re wound too tight.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Win chokes, turning away to hide his laugh. Ma’s completely oblivious as she calls to Dad, “Beau! Did you see who Remy brought along? It’s Winnie! You remember Remy’s best friend from high school before we got his diagnosis, right? ”

She’s always talking about it like it’s some badge of honor, not a label stapled to my forehead.

“Can we not constantly bring up my defective brain, please?”

Ma waves me off, “Oh Remy, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

But Win’s smile has vanished, his smoky eyes locked on mine. He withdraws from Ma’s grasp and turns to me.

“It’s not defective.”

I scowl. “Pretty sure a chemical imbalance means the brain isn’t working the way it should.”

His lean arms cross over his chest. “And I’m pretty sure that one sensor misfiring on a car doesn’t mean the whole thing is totaled. It just needs a manual adjustment to get back on track.”

No one speaks.

An earthquake rumbles through the fortress I’ve built around my fragile, wounded heart. The shift in perspective is a free fall through bottomless crevices. For years, I've been funneled opinions, suggestions and advice from every well-intentioned person around me, but none of it broke through the barriers of blame. Of self-loathing. Of despair. I’ve been mourning the person I believed I’d be for so long that I’ve lost all sense of purpose. If Win’s logic is right… with medication and therapy, I’m exactly who I was meant to be all along.

Dad grunts appreciatively. He’s never been a man of many words, preferring to let Ma do all the yapping while relying on subtle facial expressions to deliver his unspoken thoughts. So when the corners of his eyes crinkle, it speaks of affection.

“You make a good point there, Win.”

Win blushes.

It's the cutest thing ever.

Ma’s phone honks like a duck from across the patio, rescuing me from doing something idiotic like kiss the beautiful heartbreaker's pink cheeks. She throws her hands in the air. “Gosh darn it, I bet you that’s Bev and we don’t have a single table ready!”

Dad, Win and I sigh in unison.

We get to work setting up the main buffet first, moving to the cocktail and appetizer tables next. I have no shame in consuming three cheese Danishes before Ma catches me. By the time we're almost finished laying platefuls of food on white linen, we’ve sweat through our shirts.

Win grimaces at the shadows staining his underarms. “I fucking reek.”

“ Language, Winnie! ” Ma howls from a few feet away.

He smirks. “I literally heard you yell, ‘fuck,’ a few minutes ago.”

“No, you didn’t!” Ma snaps. We exchange a loaded look that says, She’s so full of shit .

The gate squeaks open and a nasally voice calls out, “Lucy? Was that Remy’s truck in the drive?”

Fan-fucking-tastic. Bev is here.

I immediately drop a tray of candied bacon on the table, snapping at Win to get his attention. He squints. I jerk my chin in the direction of the house, mouthing, “Now.”

His brows knit. “But—”

We don’t have time for him to stall. I round the table, grab him by the shoulder and shove him toward the back doors. In his ear, I hiss, “The cougar is here.”

“Scared she’ll think I’m a hunky monkey too?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not you that she’ll be hounding.”

He slams to a halt, spinning around, scowling. “Has she fucking come onto you before?”

“Oh, so it’s hilarious for older ladies to hit on you but it’s unacceptable for them to flirt with me?”

Actual possessive flames flare in his smoky glare. His palm finds my lower back as he leans in close. “I don’t give a fuck if it’s your mom’s buddy, a guy at a club, a dipshit with LED teeth, your best friend or an ex-girlfriend. If anyone dares to flirt with you, check you out, or god forbid, touch you , they’re dead.”

Shit, he looks serious.

“That’s a bit extreme.”

A dangerous curve to his lips sends tingles to my balls.

“Not at all. You’re off fucking limits.”

His hand slides to my hip, fingers curling in the cotton of my shirt as he backs me through the French doors into the AC.

“You’re a hypocrite,” I huff, pulling away from him and angling for the hall. Like a gnat I can’t shake, he hovers behind me all the way to my old room. It’s decorated in anchors and seashells now; a fluffy unused duvet from a fancy home decor store covers the queen-sized bed, about six hundred pillows piled in front of the headboard.

I hate this room. It’s full of tainted memories shrouded in vivid nightmares seeped in melancholy.

Win's voice cuts through the silence.

“You never told them about us.”

There’s a thread of hurt in his tone.

“I didn't have to.”

He pauses. “They knew?”

Keeping my back to him, I sigh, “Not exactly. They assumed I had a crush on you but after… everything happened, they finally confronted me.”

“What did you say?”

Phantoms of my younger self hover in the periphery, showcasing the unseen scars littering my soul. The broken boy abandoned so many years ago clings to bitterness while the man I am now sags beneath the weight of defeat.

“That it was nothing more than a one-sided infatuation and I'd get over it. ”

“And did you?” He asks. “Get over it?”

I turn to face him. Those eyes burn with hope and hurt, regret and guilt, longing and adoration. I wish I couldn’t read them so clearly.

“I wanted to,” I whisper.

Knuckles graze my cheek. “Let me set the record straight. It was never one-sided.”

I drop his stare.

He pinches my chin. “Look at me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “It hurts to.”

“Please,” he begs, “I need you to see the truth.”

Obeying him might be a mistake, but I do anyway.

Something fierce scorches from deep within him.

“I’ll never be able to take back the hurt I inflicted and that’s a burden I’ll carry with me until I’m in the dirt. But my feelings for you never went away. They never will. You are, and always will be, the best thing that ever happened to me.”

It’s sitting on the tip of my tongue: Then why would you leave me?

I almost ask. I can see he’s bracing for it. Preparing to answer me whether I’m ready to hear it or not.

Which furthers my dread.

I think of the young, destroyed boy I’d been, sitting on the edge of my bed wishing my shattered heart would just stop fucking beating. I begged and pleaded for answers— for someone to put me out of my misery. But did I really want to know or was I disillusioned into thinking it would magically reverse the damage?

I’d like to think I can handle it now. And maybe I can soon, but not today. I don’t ask the question he’s silently begging me to. Instead, my hand finds his waist, gaze flitting between his mournful eyes and pouty lips .

“I guess… you can prove it to me.”

A hint of a smile forms. “That’s all I could ever ask for, but you do realize what that means, right?” His fingers sink into the hair at the base of my skull. I’m trying not to lose myself in the sensation when his breath tickles my lips. “It means we're not doing any secretive bullshit. I’m taking you out. Holding your hand whenever I fucking want. Kissing you and showing you off because you deserve it.”

My heart pounds. “I want that too… but I’m scared.”

“Of what people might think?” He asks. Familiar hurt shines through his somber eyes. “Or of being with me ?”

Rather than answer him, the question that's been gnawing away at the inside of my skull tumbles out.

“What if I’m too much for you again?”

He pulls back, stunned.

I want to stuff the words back in my mouth and swallow them.

“Remy.”

Denying it is pointless. “Because I was. I wasn't just sick. I was selfish and stubborn and in denial. Most of the time I’m still all of those things, even when I don’t want to be.”

His grip in my hair tightens. “And I’m any better? We can trade flaws all day, but it doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t push me away. I never let you in .” There's no air. What he's saying goes against everything I've known as the truth for six years. His jaw rolls. “It’s not easy for me, but at this point, I have no choice. I want to be with you more than I want to shield you from my darkest parts. Please, baby, I'm begging you, give me another chance.”

This could end in disaster. The rational thing to do would be to stop it now, put our ghosts to bed and avoid the risk altogether. But that doesn’t feel like logic. It feels like fear.

And I’m getting sick of fear dictating us.

“I never could say no to you,” I whisper.

In return, he gives me the most beautiful smile right before kissing me hard. Tugging my head back, his tongue swoops into my mouth, flirting with mine as he walks me toward the bed.

It shouldn’t be so easy to fall into someone. So effortless to descend into this frenzied, intimate dance. Hands roam greedily over clothes, seeking invitation. Lips suck and demand while fingers work the buttons of our shirts in desperate search of skin.

“Are you sore?”

My face burns. “A little.”

He kisses the sensitive spot behind my ear, raising goosebumps. But rather than continue, he retreats.

“I mean, not really,” I stammer, “We don’t have to stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” He smirks, grasping my hips and spinning me around, palm landing between my shoulder blades as he shoves my top half to the bed. Immediately, my shorts and boxers are yanked down to expose my ass.

“Wait, I don’t think I’m ready to—”

My voice dies when I twist to find him on his knees behind me.

Good god.

His hands slide up the backs of my thighs to my cheeks, pushing them apart. My breath catches at the hungry gleam in his eyes. Then he kisses the top of my crease.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not fucking you,” he murmurs, flashing wicked grin. “At least not with my dick.”

“What the fuck does that—”

Oh.

Oh… that .

Have I been curious about anal play? Yes. Have I always imagined myself giving rather than the receiving? Also yes. But here I am, bricked and bent over while my not-ex-boyfriend eats my ass in my childhood bedroom .

“ Holyfuckingshit .”

His tongue circles my rim again, the vibration of his chuckle making me gasp. He retreats— pauses— then sighs wistfully, “I’ve wanted to do this for fucking ages.”

Sharp pain radiates from my ass cheek.

I yelp, “Did you just bite me?”

A sloppy lick over the mark and a snicker come in reply.

He taps my hip.

“Be a good boy for me and scoot up.”

That command shouldn’t send more blood to my dick. It really shouldn’t. So why am I getting impossibly harder and eagerly obeying?

I’m fucking hopeless.

The way he’s got me positioned smashes my throbbing cock under me. His palm rubs soothing circles over the bruising bite mark on my ass as he nudges my thighs apart further, reaching beneath for my balls. I suck in a breath at the contact, my hips jerking—

“That’s it, gorgeous, fuck yourself on the mattress.”

He’s trying to kill me.

That filthy mouth returns to my hole— hot and wet— and I can’t help moaning.

When he disappears again, I groan, “Why are you stopping now?”

He rises behind me but doesn’t answer. I roll my head to the left in time to see him grab one of the decorative pillows— the smallest one with a sailboat stitched on it.

“Open.”

“The fu—”

Cotton and embroidery stuff between my teeth. My eyes bug.

This psycho just shoved a throw pillow in my mouth. I try to prop up on my elbows, earning a swat on the ass.

I howl.

It’s drastically muffled.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, kissing a trail down my lower back as he kneels behind me again. I’m writhing in anticipation, so fucking worked up it’s embarrassing but I can’t find it in me to care. I just want him to—

Yes.

Apparently what he’d done initially was a warm up because this time, he’s not playing around. Sucking, flicking, circling. But he doesn’t stop there. The tip of his tongue nudges inside—

My hands fist the duvet, my cry of pleasure drowned by the pillow. He thrusts as deep as he can, retreating to tease my rim before going in again. And again. And a-fucking-gain.

I’m losing my mind.

My hips move on their own, chasing the rhythm he sets, rocking back against his face and forward into the bed. Precum leaks from my cockhead, dampening the blanket, but I need more friction. I snake my hand beneath me, whining as my fingers wrap around my shaft.

He breaks from me, panting heavily, “Get there, baby. I want your sweet ass clenching on my tongue when you come.”

Oh god, I’m almost—

No, it can’t end yet . I want to stay suspended in this winding, buzzing limbo forever. Dangling on the precipice, I squeeze the base of my cock, straining to push my orgasm off.

But Win is onto me. He releases my ass and rips my hand away. I whimper, heaving through my nose. Suddenly, the pillow leaves my mouth, a string of drool slapping my chin.

I’m shivering. “Please, please .”

“You’re ok, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he rasps, finally returning his mouth to where I need him. Relief blurs my vision. His hand glides between me and the mattress, long fingers strangling my cock.

“Yes,” I sob into the comforter, humping into his grip. The second he thrusts his tongue inside again, he starts stroking me rough and fast.

And I lose it.

It’s endless. Streams of cum pulse from me until my balls ache while Win’s tongue remains buried in my hole. When he finally pulls out, I’m quaking and spent.

“You’re a fucking dream,” he moans. “Don’t move.”

I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

The metallic zip of a fly and a shuffle of fabric draw a sliver of my consciousness to the surface. I glance over my shoulder. He's sitting on his heels stroking his beautiful pierced cock, raven hair falling over his glazed eyes as he aims at my ass. I'm transfixed and desperate for him to fall over the edge too.

“Come on me, Win.”

“Yeah?” he pants, jerking himself faster. “You want my come on your pretty ass?”

Shamelessly, I beg, “Fucking paint me with it.”

“Oh shit ,” he hisses as his head whips back. Ropes of hot cum drench my lower back, ass and thighs. My balls seize one last time as a gush throbs out.

Whatever the hell just happened was the single hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.

I’m drifting in a post-orgasm daze when I realize he's swiping through the mess on my backside. Then he's at my hole, smearing slippery, warm cum around my rim and—

My entire body vibrates as his finger enters me.

“ Jesusfuck ,” I choke out. I’m so sensitive it almost hurts.

He pulls out and repeats, this time adding a second finger.

“You’re mine and you’re going to feel that reminder while we socialize with all of your parents’ friends,” he growls, molding over me with his fingers still knuckle deep in my ass.

“You’re feral,” I groan as he pumps into me lazily.

“What I am is yours ,” he whispers, nipping the back of my neck. “Now, once I’ve stuffed you full of cum, we’re going to clean up and go back out there holding hands.”

“Win, I don’t think—”

The tips of his fingers graze my prostate and I buck.

“Yes, ok, yes .”

He presses a kiss to my temple. “That’s my boy.”

What have I agreed to?