13. Isla #2
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. I’m eighteen.”
“Yes, dimples.”
That’s better.
First, I wrap my hand around him, feeling the weight and heat of him and trying really, really hard not to look completely overwhelmed.
His head drops back against the pillow, and he makes a sound that starts a buzzing sensation between my thighs.
When I lower my mouth and take him in, the sound he makes is low and rough, and it does something to me I feel everywhere.
His fingers tighten in my hair—still not pushing, just holding—and I take my time the way he took his time with me.
Slow. Paying attention to what makes his breath hitch, what makes his hand grip harder, what makes him say my name like it’s the only word he still knows.
I use my tongue. I use my hand where my mouth can’t reach, because he is not small, and I’m learning my limits in real time.
I find a rhythm that makes his thighs tense, and his breathing go ragged, and I stay there, focused the way I focus on everything.
I guess it has its advantages outside of school.
My head bobs, and my hand works him, and he’s totally under my control right now.
Mine. It’s… well, it’s really, really hot.
He starts to swell in my mouth before he grunts, “If you keep doing that, I’m going to...”
I pull back. Not because I want to stop, but because I have a different idea, and it’s been forming in the back of my head since I started kissing him. I’m going to do it before I lose my nerve.
I sit up and pull my shirt over my head, then ditch my bra. He watches me with that one dark eye and doesn’t say a word, but his chest rises and falls faster now, and his hand has moved from my hair to my hip, thumb pressing into the bone.
“Want to know something?” I whisper after I’ve stripped off my leggings and panties, swinging a leg over him and settling onto his hips.
“When I turned sixteen, Grandma strongly suggested I get on the pill. Just in case. She said she’s too young to be a great-grandmother, and why am I talking about her right now? ”
He barely stifles a laugh. “Well, I’m glad,” he grunts, while I settle over him, and his hands find my waist. He steadies me, holds me up so I can guide him inside me.
“Careful,” he warns with a tight jaw. “My ribs.”
“I know about your ribs. I bandaged them.” I place both hands flat on his chest. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“It won’t.”
“It might.”
“Then it’ll be worth it.”
I sink down onto him slowly, and we both stop breathing for a second.
I’m so full, sitting on the line between too much and exactly right.
I hold still for a second, adjusting, letting my body catch up to the reality of him.
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough that I’ll probably have bruises tomorrow, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Then I start to move. Slowly, because his ribs are wrapped, and I’m terrified of hurting him, but also because slow feels right. I roll my hips in a way that I’m mostly figuring out as I go, but I’m glad I did it, because oh my god.
His hands guide my hips without forcing them, letting me set the pace. Every time I sink down, he meets me with a small thrust that sends heat racing up my spine. “You feel...” He swallows. “You have no idea how you feel.”
I don’t have words for how he feels either. My brain never shuts up, but it’s finally quiet. There’s nothing in my head except the sound of his breathing, and the feeling of his hands, and the slow, steady rhythm we’re building together.
I can’t help but move faster. Not much—I’m aware of his ribs, conscious of every wince, watching his face for signs that I’m hurting him.
But all he does is watch me move on top of him with an intensity that makes me feel powerful in a way I’ve never felt before.
Me. Isla Pickel, the girl who can’t make eye contact with baristas.
I’m making this man fall apart underneath me, and the knowledge of that is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensations that are getting stronger all the time.
His thumb finds the spot between us and presses, and my whole body jolts. “Oh, god!” I gasp. My rhythm falters, and he takes over with just his thumb, steadily circling while I try to keep moving and keep breathing and keep existing all at the same time.
The orgasm builds fast. Faster than I expect.
It starts somewhere deep and radiates outward.
When it hits, my hands clench against his chest, and I cry out in a way that I would normally be embarrassed about, except I’m too far gone to care.
I feel myself tightening around him, and he groans.
His hips snap up once, twice, and then he’s there, too, his hands gripping my hips, his jaw clenched, his whole body going rigid underneath me as he fills me with a rush of heat.
We stay like that for a long time. Me on top of him, both of us breathing hard, his hands still on my hips. My legs are shaking. His chest is heaving.
And suddenly, I feel a spike of panic. “Are you okay?” I whisper, trying to lift my weight as I brace my hands on either side of him. “Your ribs—”
“They’re fine.” He pulls me down against his chest, carefully settling me against his good side. His heart hammers under my ear. “Everything is fine.”
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“You could never hurt me, dimples.” His lips press against the top of my head. “Not possible.”
I find that hard to believe. I’ve seen what hurts him, and it’s not always physical. Right now, though, in this bed? I’ll let myself believe it.
I can only completely relax when I know he’s asleep. If he’s sleeping, he’s not feeling the pain. God, the guilt. I know it was his choice to take a fall, but that doesn’t shake my guilt. Not even a little bit.
But now he’s resting, and his body can repair itself, so I can melt into him. His arm tightens around me when I do, and he snorts a little in his sleep.
I’m exhausted. Now that everything’s over, and the adrenaline rush has passed, my body feels like lead. I was held hostage tonight. It still doesn’t feel real. Neither does this, lying in bed with him while he holds me, and I worry about him.
But isn’t it funny? The meeting with Christine is tomorrow, and I’m worried about Everett.
Twenty-four hours ago, that meeting was the scariest thing in my life.
I’ve lost sleep over it. All it took was getting kidnapped and thrown in a trunk, and watching somebody get beaten half to death for my sake to put everything in a new perspective.
Christine Jones isn’t so scary anymore. I know I can face her because I’ve already faced so much worse.
My eyes close when I can’t keep them open any longer. For the first time in a long time, I sleep without dreaming about anything at all.