18. Nash
EIGHTEEN
NASH
Knock, knock, knock.
I yanked the pillow from under my head and threw it over my face, muffling the annoying sound of someone knocking on my door at this ungodly fucking hour of—whatever time it was.
Of course, the knocking only got louder, until even the pillow atop my head didn’t drown it out.
"Alright, alright, I’m fucking coming." The pillow flew across the room, a testament to my frustration, as I marched to the fucking door and yanked it open just in time for Rowan to knock again.
Right on my fucking forehead.
I stared up at him blankly, though I could feel the anger building in my veins. "What the fuck could you want from me at—" I looked across the room to my clock, rolling my eyes. "Eleven in the fucking morning? We didn’t even go to sleep until well after six."
The fucker had the nerve to shove his way into the room, closing the door behind himself. Now the two of us were standing here in the dark, nothing but the sound of our breathing a sign of where exactly we were as our eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Well, his eyes. Mine were already adjusted.
I watched him shift from one foot to the other, his habit when he was nervous or something was bothering him. I might not be in charge of the group, but as the eldest brother, I had picked up on a few things.
"Something on your mind, asshole?" I tossed out, waiting for him to deny it or tell me he wasn’t sure about a specific part of the plan?—
"I almost fucked Harper last night."
My jaw fell open, and I stared at his bulky form in the center of my room, unmoving, unable to form a coherent sentence in response.
Never in a million years did I expect that to be what he led with in a conversation before noon.
"Good for you?" It sounded like a question, and I mentally cursed myself for it. I had no idea really how to approach this. There were quite a few conflicting emotions roiling in my gut at his revelation.
Anger.
Frustration.
Jealousy.
Jealousy? The fuck?
I was not jealous of my fucking brother for almost fucking a woman for the first time in, like, I don't know, years? Sure, he was no virgin, but in the seven years we’d been living together in Port Wylde, I’d never seen him bring home a quick lay, or visit a whorehouse, or even go to a strip club.
I scratched at the side of my face and realized I’d never removed my paint from the night before. There wasn’t time to examine the whys of that, though. I had an unstable, very horny Rowan to deal with.
Apparently.
"Uh, good for you and also bad for you, I guess. But what the hell am I supposed to do about it?" I looked him up and down, scoffing at what I found. "I ain’t got the right parts to solve your blue balls problem, bro. And I’m into a lot of shit, but incest ain’t on that list."
"Shut up, you idiot," he snapped, punching me playfully in the arm. "I sent her to my room to get some sleep, and she curled up on the office couch instead and refused to move when I woke her up."
I was ashamed to admit that news made me feel a little better. It looked like Harper was cock-blocking him herself. "Sounds like she’s not as interested now that she’s had a minute to think about it." I shrugged, slowly tromping over to my closet. "Go complain to someone who cares, bro. I’m not getting any over here, either, and you don’t see me moping about it."
He shook his head and didn’t argue, just wandered back out of my room. I grinned and flopped back on the fucking bed, determined to finish the very X-rated dream I had been rudely interrupted in the middle of.
Don’t worry, baby, Nash is coming back to give you all the dick you’ll ever need. And we’ll make you pretty while I dick you down, too.
When I woke up hours later, in a better mood, my dick was unfortunately still rock-hard and very inconvenient to try and stuff into my pants. Usually, I just ignored it and went about my day with a hard-on until it went away, but something about today was different.
I reached for myself, slipping a hand beneath the blankets, my fingers tugging at the band of my boxers to sneak inside and stroke myself. I was rock-solid, and the simple touch sent a shockwave of pleasure through me that had me biting back a moan of relief.
Fuck, it’d been so long since I’d rubbed one out just for the hell of it. My cock felt foreign in my grip, but I shoved that feeling aside and set to work, well aware that this time of the day, I was likely to be interrupted by just about anyone.
The thrill made it all the more enjoyable.
The headboard rocked slightly as I slid my hand up and down the length of my shaft, my hips thrusting in time to the strokes. It was getting increasingly harder to hide the noises I was used to making without reserve.
Wait. Why was I hiding my actions? I wasn’t doing anything wrong .
This was my house. I’d make the fucking noises if I wanted to.
The next moan that rose in my throat made it out, echoing around the room as I leaned my head back and sped up the pace.
Let them listen; I didn’t care. I wanted them all to feel uncomfortable about this situation.
I kicked the blankets to the foot of the bed and tugged myself free of my pants, sucking in a breath as my cock met the cool evening air in my room. Temperature play wasn’t my first love, but it had its uses. Though the air wasn’t as intense as an ice cube or hot wax, it still heightened the sensations as I rolled my palm over the tip of my dick and moaned again.
I spit in my other hand and switched gears, giving my wrist a break as the sound of someone shuffling around in the living room started up. The thrill of being caught had my balls tightening in anticipation, and I rolled my hips again, fucking my hand as my eyes closed and I tried to bring an image to mind that would take me over the finish line.
The woman who came to mind was a surprise, though.
Fuck, Harper—what?
"No," I muttered, hating the thought of getting off to her image in my head. Of course, this encouraged my errant brain to supply more illicit images—Harper with that torn shirt in the alley, a blade to her throat. Harper beneath me, blood running down her smooth stomach, dripping from my blade suspended above her as I fucked her pretty cunt, Harper, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she came, my bloodied hand on her clit, the other leaving handprints on her chest as I filled her with my seed?—
"Fuck, oh, fuck, fuck yessss.," I hissed between clenched teeth, hating myself and loving the sensation of my cock throbbing because of her in the same beat. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care anymore. She never had to know I was touching myself to the thought of her, naked, bloodied up, and begging beneath me?—
I grabbed my knife off the bedside table and pressed it to the side of my arm, sucking in a gasp as the blade sliced through my skin like butter. The cut was shallow, but the red welling from the wound was just enough to take me to the edge.
I needed the pain. I needed to feel to come. The precipice was right there. I closed my eyes, digging my spare fingers into the gash, groaning at the agony as I came all over my fucking hand?—
Just as fucking Harper herself burst in, a look of concern on her face.
"Nash, are you okay? It sounds like you’re— oh, oh my god."
Neither of us moved, but I couldn’t stop coming. Tucking myself in at this point would have been useless, and it’d only serve to make me a fucking mess, so I left my dick hanging out, tucked inside my grip, still spurting jizz like a fucking horny teenager caught in the act.
I wasn’t sure who turned a deeper shade of red—her, or me. Suffice it to say that it was insane she didn’t look away. Instead, her eyes zoned in on my arm, and I’d never felt more ashamed of my self-harming habits in my life.
"You’re bleeding," she muttered, her eyes frozen to the spot like she was afraid to look anywhere else. "How do you get a cut that bad in bed, Nash?"
Angel walked in behind her, spotted the situation, and rolled his eyes, turning her away by the shoulders. "He does it to himself, that’s how," he mocked. "I hope you didn’t think we were the same innocent boys we used to be. Things change, Harper. People change, too." As he shut the door, I threw my knife at it, satisfied by the sound of the metal finding a new home in the soft wood. I hoped he could see the tip through on the other side, too. Let him realize he shouldn’t be putting his nose where it didn’t belong .
Fucking asshole.
He’d do whatever it took to alienate her.
I shoved my dick back in my pants, wiped my bloody hand on my sheets, and hopped out of bed, storming over to the door with a single-minded intensity fueled by rage and desperation.
The door bounced off the wall as I swung it open, the knife driven further into the wood now poking through on the other side. Harper was nowhere to be found, but Angel sat in the middle of the couch, a smug smirk on his face as he twirled a strand of his perfect fucking hair around his perfectly manicured finger.
My face must’ve spoken volumes, but he pretended ignorance as he hoisted those plucked eyebrows high and looked the other way, intentionally ignoring me.
I was not about to be ignored by this prick. I wasn’t. In a matter of seconds, I was across the floor and had my hands around his throat before he could fucking blink, throttling him to within an inch of his life.
"You think you’re so fucking great, don’t you, Mr. Perfect, with your mani/pedis, your bleached hair, your highbrow attitude, your refined fucking clothing?—"
His nails dug into the skin at my wrists but I refused to let go. Like a dog with a bone, I wouldn’t let him steal my enjoyment away, even if it cost him his life.
Two tiny hands wrapped themselves around my bicep, and I vaguely heard Harper’s voice in my ear, begging me to let him go, but the rage had taken over. I was so done with him and his high-and-mighty attitude, doing whatever he could to piss everyone around him off.
I shook the interloper off and doubled down, enjoying the way Angel’s face started to turn a beautiful shade of purple. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he stopped struggling as much, though I could tell there was still some life left in him when I finally turned him loose and stormed away .
The last thing I saw as I marched back into my room and slammed the door was Harper hunched over him, her hands on his neck, assessing the damage I’d done.
I didn’t so much care that she cared about him, but I was livid that her first concern was the asshole who told her to her face that he’d rather her be dead, so he didn’t have to interrupt his perfect fucking life.
How could she care about a monster like him?