Chapter 9 #2
"It looks worse than it feels," I said. Another lie.
"You played two periods like this," she said, looking up at me. Her eyes were swimming with tears. "Why? Why do you do this to yourself?"
"Because," I reached out with my good hand, gripping her hip to pull her closer. "If I stop, the noise comes back. If I stop, I'm just my father's son."
"You are nothing like him," she said fiercely.
"Prove it," I whispered.
"What?"
"Make me forget him," I said. "Make me forget the pain. Make it quiet, Heather."
She stared at me. She saw the desperation in my eyes. The need that went deeper than bone.
She stepped closer. Her knees bumped against mine.
She reached out and placed her hands flat on my bare chest—on the right side, avoiding the ruin of the left. Her palms were brands.
"Okay," she whispered.
She leaned in and kissed the center of my chest, right over my sternum.
My breath hitched.
She moved up, kissing my collarbone. Then my throat.
"Is this okay?" she murmured against my skin.
"More," I groaned. "Don't stop."
She pushed the shirt off my shoulders. I hissed as the movement pulled my ribs, but the relief of the fabric leaving my skin was worth it. The shirt fell to the floor.
I was naked from the waist up. Vulnerable. Broken.
And she was looking at me like I was a masterpiece.
She moved her hands to my shoulders, massaging the tension there. Then she slid them down my back.
She kissed my jaw.
"I can't lie you down," she whispered. "It'll hurt too much."
"Then keep me up," I said. "Anchor me."
I reached for the hem of the jersey she was wearing—my jersey.
"Take it off," I commanded softly.
She didn't hesitate. She grabbed the hem and pulled it over her head. Her hair went wild with static. She tossed the jersey aside.
She was wearing a simple white tank top underneath. No bra. The cold air of the room made her nipples peak against the thin cotton.
My vision narrowed.
"Come here," I growled.
I pulled her forward until she was standing between my spread legs, her stomach pressed against my bare chest.
The skin-to-skin contact was electric. It was a grounding wire. The pain in my side was still there, a dull roar, but the sensation of her softness against my hardness drowned it out.
I buried my face in her neck. I inhaled her.
"Heather," I murmured.
"I'm here," she said. She wrapped her arms around my head, holding me against her. Her fingers threaded through my hair, scratching lightly at my scalp.
It was soothing. It was erotic.
My hand moved to the small of her back, sliding under the tank top. Her skin was warm silk. I traced the dip of her spine.
"You have to be gentle with me tonight," I admitted into her neck. It was the hardest thing I had ever said. "I can't... I can't do what I want to do to you."
"What do you want to do?" she asked, her voice breathless.
"I want to throw you on this bed," I said, biting lightly at her shoulder. "I want to pin you down. I want to be on top of you until you can't remember your own name."
She shivered. "We have time for that. Later. When you heal."
"I don't want to wait," I frustratedly muttered.
"Then let me take care of you," she said.
She pulled back. She looked me in the eye.
"Let me be in control," she said.
It was a terrifying proposition. Giving up the reins. Especially in bed.
But looking at her—at the flush on her cheeks, the determination in her eyes—I realized I didn't have a choice. I was already hers.
"Okay," I whispered.
She smiled. A wicked, beautiful smile.
She pushed gently on my shoulders until I leaned back against the headboard. I groaned as my ribs settled, but the pillows supported me.
She climbed onto the bed.
She crawled over me on her hands and knees. A predator in cotton.
She straddled my lap, her knees on either side of my hips. She was careful not to put weight on my chest. She settled her weight on my thighs.
The friction was instant.
I was hard. painfully hard. Straining against the fabric of my dress pants.
"Heather," I warned, my hands gripping her hips.
"Shh," she soothed.
She leaned down and kissed me. Slow. Deep. Drugging.
Her hands explored my chest, avoiding the bruises, mapping the muscles.
"You're so tense," she murmured against my lips.
"You're sitting on my cock," I pointed out.
She laughed, a low vibration that I felt everywhere.
"I know."
She ground down. Just once. A slow, deliberate roll of her hips.
I saw stars.
"Fuck," I hissed.
She pulled back, sitting up straight. She reached for the hem of her tank top.
"Watch me," she said.
She pulled the shirt up. Slowly. Inch by inch. Revealing the pale skin of her stomach. The curve of her ribs. And finally, her breasts.
They were perfect. Small, round, tipped with pale pink.
She tossed the shirt away.
She was topless. Straddling me. In my bed.
"Is the pain gone?" she asked softly.
I looked at her. I reached out with a trembling hand to cup her breast. Her skin was so soft it made my heart ache.
"What pain?" I whispered.
She leaned into my touch, closing her eyes.
"Good," she said.
She reached for the buckle of my belt.
The metal clicked. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
"I'm going to take care of you, Jerry," she promised, her eyes dark with intent. "I'm going to make you feel good. And you don't have to do anything but breathe."
She unzipped my pants.
I let my head fall back against the headboard, surrendering completely.
The contract was ash. The fake dating was a memory.
There was only this. The heat. The need. And the girl who had looked at my broken pieces and decided she wanted to hold them together.
"Show me," I groaned.
And she did.