Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DELLA
I pace the house, back and forth, while he’s gone.
There’s no food, but I saw a gas station with an attached market on the way in.
My stomach growls, and I know he’ll be hungry when he gets back.
So, I leave, even though I know Jensen told me not to.
But it’s a short walk, and I don’t see anyone but the clerk.
There, I get some groceries. On the way back, I pass a farmstand and pick up some vegetables. They even have meat in a cooler in the back of their truck. I buy some cracklings and chicken, still half frozen, and lug it all back up the winding driveway.
The house is quiet as I unload my groceries and start cooking. It reminds me a lot of where I grew up. Simple, neat, with a pretty view out the window. The only unsettling thing is the pistol Jensen left by the stove.
Everything is so quiet. I turn on the radio and make cracklin’ bread and chicken soup. It brings me right back to all those nights spent cooking in the kitchen while I was pregnant with Landis.
In retrospect, I’m not sure all that cooking was about anything more than trying to pull back a little bit of control. Tonight feels the way it did back then. I didn’t realize how much I needed the comfort of familiar food.
The sun creeps towards the horizon, but he doesn’t appear.
Worried, I eat alone and set a plate in the microwave for him.
He’s still not back when it gets dark, so I go out and feed the horses in the barn and lock it up.
Then, I climb the ladder to the loft and lay down, staring at the peaked ceiling.
Is he alright?
Surely, he didn’t abandon me out here.
My stomach churns. Rolling onto my side, I close my eyes tight. It takes a while, but slowly, I slip away, only to be jerked awake a minute later by the front door opening.
Heart thumping, I listen. I’m attuned to the footsteps of men, and I know instantly it’s Jensen.
Thank God.
I hear him move around downstairs. Then, his weight creaks the loft ladder.
I see him in silhouette against the window as he unbuckles his belt.
He looks so damn good, windswept and a little sweaty.
The ache that only he ignites is back. He pulls his shirt up, revealing that trail of hair that goes down to his waistband.
Then, he comes to the edge of the bed.
“You awake?” His voice is a rasp.
I push myself up, shifting over. “Yeah. There’s cornbread and soup in the microwave.”
He leans over me, hand wrapping around my throat. For a split second, I think he’s angry, and my heart speeds up. Then, his mouth meets mine, open and starving.
I inhale, tasting bourbon on his breath, but he’s not drunk. I can tell by how deftly he picks me up and sinks against the headboard, upright.
I’m in his lap, thighs around his waist—the position he said made him claustrophobic. I’m so tensed up, I know he can feel it. He hits the bedside lamp, and it turns on, a pale yellow glow across the side of his face.
I freeze. His eyes are dark—so dark, they pull me into his undertow.
“Are you alright?” I whisper.
He shakes his head, hand slipping under my panties, grazing my pussy before tearing through the fabric. I gasp as he pulls my t-shirt up and tosses it behind us. His hands, rough in the way Leland’s never were, cup my breasts.
His skin is hot to the touch, like he’s been in the sun, and he smells of worn out deodorant and sweat. I didn’t think that could smell good, but it must be all the pheromones mixed in, because it has me aching for him.
“Put me inside you,” he says hoarsely.
I hesitate. He grips my hip, and I reach between us, taking the hard, heavy length of him and guiding it inside my body. He grimaces, muscle in his jaw twitching. I bite my lip, but a whimper works out. Our bodies ease together until we’re joined.
I feel him, the blood pumping through him, deep inside.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
“Hit me,” he breathes.
My jaw drops. “What?”
His unsettling eyes flash. “I said, fucking hit me, Della. Across the face. Backhand me.”
My head is already shaking of its own accord. “No.”
His hips start pumping, harsh and deep inside me. It hurts. He wants it to hurt. His hand wraps around my neck and squeezes, holding me still as he fucks up into me.
Every thrust is electric, tight, painful on purpose, forcing into me again and again, harder. Faster. I’m gripping his wrist, knowing in the back of my mind I can stop him if I want to, but I’m drowning with the desire to let him loose and see what he does.
He’s as naked as he was in the motel room last night, and it scares me again.
“Hit me,” he says through gritted teeth.
My jaw drops. His eyes flash like a thunderclap. We’re fucking against the headboard, slamming it into the wall. I can’t fight him. I don’t want to fight him.
“Jensen—”
“I said, fucking hit me, Della,” he says from between his teeth.
“I don’t understand,” I wail.
He’s fucking me so goddamn hard, vein standing out in his forehead. “Give me this.”
His voice breaks at the same time I do, and I backhand him across the face. The slap is a gunshot through the night and a jolt of pain through my wrist. He grits his jaw, breathing out from between his teeth. A crimson stain appears on his tanned skin.
Our gazes lock.
“Harder,” he demands.
Stunned, writhing on his cock as he slams it up into me, I obey, hitting him across the face a little harder.
He takes a half second to recover, blinking, shaking his head like a dog.
Then, his eyes lock back on mine, and he grips my hair, up by my scalp.
Desire surges through me, pulling me down.
I could have fucked a hundred men before I fucked him, but I know right now, nothing would compare to him.
He makes me feel everything after being dead inside for so long. He’s a dangerous drug, and I’m tying up my arm, injecting him into the most delicate parts of me without knowing what he’s made of.
“Hurt me,” I gasp out.
I don’t know where that came from. His pupils dilate, and he flips me onto my back, pressing me into the mattress. His hand encircles my throat, rough and broad.
I taste it—what he tasted, an edge that heightens everything.
“You hit my arm if you need it to stop,” he breathes.
I flutter my lashes, nodding as best I can. His fingers burn the sides of my throat. My hips rise, begging for him. He braces his knee and thrusts into me, hard enough that I cry out at the shock of pain and ecstasy.
My God, he’s big.
I need more of this, whatever it is. There’s no judgement with him. So I look him in the eyes, his hand tight on my throat, and wrap my legs around his waist to pull him in.
“Fuck, you’re a dirty whore,” he grits out.
My brain buzzes.
I like the thought of being a whore if I can be his.
He ruts his hips into me, breaking me in a way Leland was never capable of.
The bedframe begs for relief, screeching at its hinges.
Pleasure hits me like a wall of bricks. He’s not even touching my clit, it’s just grinding against him every time he fucks in.
But with him, that’s enough. My hips lock and shake as I go over the edge.
Triumph ripples in his eyes. In one, smooth movement, he releases my throat and flips me so he’s up against the headboard, and I’m in his lap, shaking on his cock.
“Good girl,” he breathes.
The look on his face stops me short. It’s like he’s seeing me for the first time, really looking into my soul.
But I’m a mess, and I can’t appreciate it.
My body convulses in his lap, wave after wave of pleasure rolling through.
Slowly, lips parted and gaze locked on mine, he starts fucking up into my pussy.
“That’s right,” he murmurs. “You take it. Come all over my cock, baby.
I whimper incoherently. He digs his hand into my hair, fisting it.
This is different from the connection we felt before.
It’s like the sharp edge of a knife. Dangerous, but God, so damn thrilling.
Maybe because all our secrets are spilling out.
We’re not pretending to be perfect. He knows all the messy parts of my life, and I have a pretty good idea his are just as dark, if not worse than mine.
I love this.
I love the flip side of him.
I want it, so deep, it hurts. My hips pick up, riding him hard. We’re going faster and faster, falling into a frenzy together.
“Put your nails in me,” he pants. “Into my chest. Drag them down, baby, I want to see blood.”
He tightens his grip in my hair. Pain shoots through my head and neck. Thoughtless with desire, I dig my nails into his pecs and rake them down, hard.
He groans, fucking haphazardly as the veins raise in his neck. I’ve never been the person who got to do things during sex. I was always on my back, legs open, trying to disassociate while things were done to me. Causing him pleasure, seeing his body respond to me, is a brand new feeling.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The headboard hits the whitewashed walls. I’m grateful there’s no Clockface Jesus over this bed, because I think this is some kind of sacrilege.
It’s too much, too dark, too visceral.
He drags me close by the nape of my neck, our breath mingling. There’s a dark trickle of blood and welt-like scratches on his tanned skin. It smells like metal and Jensen.
I touch the hair on his chest, between his pecs. Smearing the blood, I leave my fingerprints on his skin.
“Hit me again, baby,” he breathes.
His hands grip my hips, his thrusts speed up.
The sound of our bodies coming together fills the tiny house, wet and hungry.
In the half second before the back of my hand meets his face again, I see something new in his eyes, all raw and painful, like somebody reached into his chest and skinned his heart.
I strike him hard, clenching my stinging hand. His cock jerks, and his eyelids flutter shut. A tremor runs through his body, and I feel him coming inside me, nothing between us. No condom this time.
But I’m not scared.