Chapter 8 - Debbie
I don't know what possessed me to bring him to our room.
My tiny, pitiful space that holds everything Tyler and I own in the world. Derek stands in the doorway looking around, taking in the bed that barely fits me and Tyler, the secondhand dresser with the crooked drawer, the window seat covered in children's books and toy cars.
He must think I'm a complete failure. A grown woman reduced to a single room in a shelter, with nothing to show for her life except a four-year-old and a box of donated clothes.
But something in his face when he looks at the children's drawings taped to the wall, something in the way his jaw tightens when he glances at the teddy bear Tyler sleeps with every night, tells me this isn't just pity I'm seeing.
This is understanding. Like he's been here before, like he knows what it means to lose everything and start over with nothing.
"I'm hoping to find a job soon," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
"Something with flexible hours so I can be there when Tyler gets out of school.
Then we'll find our own place, something small but ours.
Things will get better." I pause, looking at the pictures Tyler drew of the two of us holding hands under a bright yellow sun. "He deserves better than this."
"You're strong," Derek says, his voice low and certain. "You'll find a good place. I can even talk to some contacts in the city, get you a good deal on an apartment when you're ready."
I turn to look at him, this massive man who fills my doorway like he was built to protect it, and something inside me breaks loose.
I want to step forward, grab his shirt, pull him down to my level and see if his lips are as soft as they look.
He's so tall, so powerful, all coiled muscle and dangerous edges, but never dangerous to me. Only to the people who would hurt me.
"That would be lovely," I whisper, taking that step toward him. "Thank you. I don't have anyone else to help me, besides the women here. My parents are gone, and it's just me and Tyler now. I just need someone to help me get started, and I promise I'll work hard to make up for it."
I don't mean to cry. Don't mean to let the tears start falling, but they do anyway, hot and humiliating as they streak down my cheeks.
All the fear and pain of the past months, the terror of seeing David on the porch this morning, the relief of watching Derek handle it so easily, it all crashes down on me at once.
"I'm sorry," I say, swiping at my face with my sleeve. "I don't know why I'm—"
Derek moves before I can finish, crossing the space between us in one long stride.
His hand comes up, impossibly gentle for someone so large, and brushes the tears from my cheek.
I look up at him, have to tilt my head all the way back to see his face, and find his dark eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the closeness, by the heat radiating from his body, by the way his scent—leather and soap and something musky—surrounds me like a shield.
When I open them again, his face is even closer, and his gaze has dropped to my lips.
I must look a mess. Eyes puffy from crying, hair uncombed, wearing day-old pajamas that have seen better days.
Why would a man like him notice me when there are prettier women everywhere, women without my baggage and damage and stretch marks from carrying a child?
But I need this. Need to feel wanted and cherished, to know that someone could still look at me and see something worth having.
"Would you..." I swallow hard, embarrassed by my own neediness. "Would you hug me?"
His eyes widen, genuinely surprised. "Why?"
"Please," I whisper. "Just... please."
He doesn't make me ask again. His arms come around me, strong and secure, pulling me against a chest that feels like it was carved from stone. One hand cradles the back of my head, the other spans my lower back, and I'm enveloped in warmth and safety and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
It feels so good, so right, that I melt against him without meaning to, let myself be held in a way I haven't been held in years. Not since before Tyler was born, before David started seeing my body as something to criticize instead of cherish.
Derek's face presses against my cheek, and his lips brush my ear as he speaks.
"You're beautiful," he whispers. "This is too much. I should leave, but fuck, Debbie, I don't want to. I don't know how much more I can take being this close to you. All I can think about is ripping your clothes off and worshipping every inch of your body."
The words send heat surging through me, pooling low in my belly and making my panties suddenly, embarrassingly wet. I can feel myself throbbing, desire pulsing through me in a way I'd almost forgotten was possible.
"Wait," I manage to say, pulling back just enough to see his face.
His expression shutters, and he immediately steps away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was inappropriate and—"
"No, you misunderstood." I move toward the door, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. "I'm not asking you to leave."
I close the door with a soft click, then turn to face him. My hands are shaking as I reach for the hem of my pajama top, but I force myself to keep going, to pull it up and over my head before I lose my nerve.
His reaction is everything I could have hoped for. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and a muscle jumps in his jaw as his eyes rake over me like he's memorizing every detail.
"I know I'm not... I mean, I had a baby, and I never really lost the weight." I gesture awkwardly at my soft stomach, the stretch marks that web across my skin. "But I hope you like what you see."
Derek makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan. "Like it? Fuck, Debbie, I don't like it. I love it. You're perfect."
Then he's moving, closing the distance between us in two long strides. His hands find my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp, and then his mouth is on mine and everything else fades away.
The kiss is nothing like I expected. Not gentle, but hungry and demanding, like he's been waiting years for this moment. His tongue slides against mine, exploring and claiming, and I make a sound in the back of my throat that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for embarrassment left.
My thighs rub together, seeking friction to ease the ache building between them. I want to touch myself while he watches, want to show him how much I need this, need him.
But that feels like too much for a first time, so instead I let my hand slide down his chest, across his stomach, to the impressive bulge straining against his jeans.
He's hard as steel, throbbing against my palm, and the sound he makes when I squeeze gently is the most erotic thing I've ever heard.
Without thinking about it, without questioning why, I sink to my knees in front of him. I want to feel powerful, to know that I can affect this dangerous man, that I'm choosing this because I want it and not because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't.
Derek looks down at me, his dark eyes burning with desire but also concern. "Are you sure? You don't have to—"
"I'm more than sure," I tell him, and I mean it. I've never been more certain of anything in my life.
He doesn't argue. Just unbuckles his belt and tosses it aside, the metal buckle hitting the floor with a soft thud.
I pull his jeans down, eager in a way that should probably embarrass me but doesn't. It's been so long since I wanted to touch and be touched, so long since desire was something joyful instead of terrifying.
When I free him from his boxers, I can't help but stare.
He's huge, bigger than I've ever seen, thick and hard and already leaking from the tip.
For a moment I wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew, but then I wrap both hands around him and feel the velvet-over-steel heat of him, and all I can think about is how he'll feel inside me.
I stroke him once, twice, three times, watching his face to see what he likes. His head tilts back, throat working as he swallows a groan.
"Use your mouth," he says, voice ragged. "Please."
The fact that he's asking, not demanding, makes me want to give him everything.
I lean forward and take him between my lips, as much as I can manage, which isn't even half his length.
He's too big, stretching my mouth in a way that borders on uncomfortable but somehow isn't. I use my tongue along the underside, tasting salt and musk, and feel a surge of satisfaction when his legs actually tremble.
I'm doing this. Me, Debbie Wilson, making this mountain of a man shake with need.
I keep going, taking him as deep as I can, using my hands on what doesn't fit in my mouth. When I pull back to catch my breath, I keep stroking him with one hand while I use my tongue on his balls, and the sound he makes is almost animalistic.
"Fuck," he groans, his hand coming to rest on my head, not pushing or guiding, just connecting. "You're so fucking good at that."
The praise sends another flood of heat between my legs. I've never been told I was good at this before, never felt like my pleasure mattered during sex. But Derek is watching me like I'm performing miracles with my mouth, like there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be than right here.
Suddenly he steps back, his hands shaking as he reaches for me. "We need to stop or I'm going to cum."
"I wouldn't mind," I tell him, and it's the truth. I want to taste him, want to know I can bring him to that point.
"I don't want to finish before I'm inside you," he says, and the raw need in his voice makes me clench with anticipation. "Need to feel you wrapped around me when I cum."
I swallow hard, suddenly nervous despite my eagerness. It's been months since I've had sex, and never with someone Derek's size.
He must see the hesitation in my face because he reaches down and lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing at all, and carries me to the bed. He lays me down with surprising gentleness, then hooks his fingers on the waistband of my pajama pants and pulls them down.
His smirk when he sees how wet my panties are should probably embarrass me, but the pure male satisfaction on his face just makes me want him more.
"I'm sorry," I say automatically. "I get really wet. It's always been—"
"Why the fuck are you apologizing?" he asks, genuine confusion in his voice.
"David used to complain about it. Said I was so wet it was hard for him to... you know, stay hard."
Derek's expression darkens for a moment, and I can see him fighting down the same anger I glimpsed this morning when he dealt with David on the porch.
"That's not going to be a problem," he says firmly. "Trust me when I say I fucking love how wet you are for me. Shows me how much you want this."
He pulls off his shirt, revealing a torso that would make men half his age jealous. Broad shoulders, defined pecs, abs that speak of a lifetime of physical work rather than hours in a gym. A roadmap of scars that tells stories I'm not ready to hear but want to know anyway.
"You're gorgeous," I whisper, running my hands over his chest, feeling the way he shudders at my touch.
"And you're perfect," he answers, pushing my legs apart with his knee. "Fucking perfect."
He doesn't rush, doesn't just push into me like I half-expected. Instead, he takes himself in hand and guides the head of his cock to my entrance, watching my face as he starts to press forward.
The stretch is immediate and intense, bordering on pain but not quite crossing that line. He's so big, filling me in a way I've never experienced before, and for a moment I wonder if he'll even fit.
"Relax," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me softly. "Let me in, sweetheart."
I force myself to breathe, to relax around him, and suddenly he slides home in one long, smooth thrust that has both of us gasping.
"Fuck," he groans against my neck. "You feel so good. So tight and wet and perfect."
He starts moving, setting a rhythm that's neither too fast nor too slow, each thrust hitting spots inside me that I didn't even know existed. I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle slightly, and suddenly every stroke is sending sparks of pleasure up my spine.
"Derek," I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders. "Oh God, that's—"