Chapter 6
I’m contemplating painting the walls of my room.
I read an article about Baker-Miller Pink.
I don’t remember all of it, but basically it was about this scientist who found that a certain shade of pink reduced strength and aggression, so Asylums started painting their walls the shade.
It turned out that, over time, patients surrounded by the color actually became more aggressive.
My walls are a lilac purple, chosen during eighth-grade summer vacation when I was determined to elevate the ambiance of my surroundings.
I’m almost certain that I’ve discovered a new scientific phenomenon because the shade is making me crazy.
It could be the constant of my four childhood walls, but I've decided to blame the color. If I have to sit another second in this damned purple room, I’m going to end up shaving my head and becoming a SoundCloud rapper.
My phone dings. I’ve ceased being hopeful whenever I receive a notification. It’s never a job opportunity, just scams and junk. Surprisingly, it’s a text. I don’t receive many of those these days. It’s from Chrishell.
Hey, girl! Wanted to see if you were up to joining Rachel and me for a costume party at Zinc this weekend!?
I’m shocked people still go to that nightclub.
It’s an hour outside of town, but the only place for a night out nearby.
Chrishell and I went once in high school after scoring shitty fake IDs.
The bouncer didn’t care much that I clearly wasn’t Rebecca Evans, like my ID suggested, but he barely looked up from my chest, so it was easy to sneak in.
A night out with alcohol running through my system is the perfect solution to a shitty few weeks, but after seeing her, I’m wary of accepting the invite.
Chrishell is nice—nicer than me, and even if she seems superficial and betrayed me in high school, she doesn’t deserve my avoidance.
It’s just that my insides feel heavy from all the new info about Derek she gave me last week.
And after what happened the other night, I don’t need him on my mind any more than he already is.
As if summoned by Satan himself, a moan sounds from the other side of my apparently paper-thin walls. Yeah, I need to get out of this fucking house. I type a reply, Count me in! I’ll just have to come up with something to wear.
I reach for my headphones, ready to block out another jerk session, but he moans again.
This time, I can tell it’s not from pleasure but from pain.
I stand, creeping toward the wall and pressing my ear against the cool purple.
Derek breathes heavily, suppressing cries.
I shouldn’t care, but my feet walk toward my door, leading me to Derek’s.
I knock, my knuckles barely grazing the wood.
Silence follows, and I cringe at my stupid decision.
Right before I’m about to retreat, Derek’s door swings open.
He stands before me, shirtless, with a bloodied bandage over his shoulder.
His hair is even more unruly than usual, and his dark eyes are shaded with gray.
“You look like shit.”
He tenses and attempts to shut the door.
“Wait!” I say before I’m blocked from his view, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”
He grimaces. “Why do you care?”
I eye his bandage. “Whatever you’re doing, you’re making it worse.”
“Again, why do you care?”
I clench my fists. “Because if you die from sepsis, it will make my room smell since our walls are apparently made of tissue paper.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll jump out the window right before I kick the bucket.”
“Wow, how generous and very unlike you.”
“You’re right, never mind. I’ll die in here and haunt you in my afterlife.” He attempts to shut the door again, but I push my way in. “Seriously, just let me help.”
He studies me for a moment. “Fine.” He charges toward his bed and drops to a seated position. His sweaty muscles glisten in the low light from his bedside lamp. “I’m trying to clean my bandage and put a shirt on.” He attempts to cross his arms but winces.
I eye the ointment and clean gauze on the dresser next to me, grabbing the items before walking to his window and pulling up the blinds. He seethes in pain when the sunlight pours in. “What are you, a vampire?”
He chuckles, a strange sound that sends my stomach sideways. “Something like that.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to burn for a bit because I need light.” I sit next to him and reach for his shoulder. He jerks back as if I’m about to hit him. “Jesus Christ, does it hurt that bad?”
“Yes,” he says, clenching his teeth to mask the pain.
I scoot closer, leaning over him. “Well, maybe stop working out and doing other things that cause it to worsen.” I can’t help the heating of my cheeks as I touch his bandage, gently pulling up the edges.
“I would if I could.”
I pull back the adhesive strip, revealing the gunshot wound, bloody and ripped at the edges. I hiss. “You’re lucky I’m fine with blood because this looks like shit.”
“It feels like shit.”
I spray the brown liquid on the clean gauze and slowly position it over his wound.
“Fuck!” he yells, muscles straining.
“Sorry, I’m not trying to hurt you.” I reach for the tape and carefully adhere the white material to his skin.
An uncomfortable silence passes over us as I carefully press down all the edges of his bandage.
He clears his throat. “I wanted to apologize.” I nearly pass out from shock, and my eyes widen as I search him.
There’s so much he could mean. He clears his throat, continuing, “For the other night, what happened in my room…”
I want him to stop talking, his words and the memory already heating me. “It’s fine.” I shake my head and continue to work on his bandage.
His expression pulls taut as I press a little harder. “I’m not myself lately, and with my injury, it’s making it hard for me to think clearly.”
“Whatever.” The bandage is on, and it gives me a moment to realize my position.
I’ve been so worried about hurting him that I haven’t noticed I’m practically kneeling in his lap, straddling one large tattooed thigh, hovering above a black inky stream.
I catch his tented athletic shorts. I gasp, darting back to his gaze, but it’s too late.
He’s already caught me. His lips curve into a soul-crushing smile.
My whole body burns, and I’m mortified, yet I don’t pull away.
“See something you like?” His tone is a hushed whisper. His lips part, and it’s like a dense gas has replaced the air in the room.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, failing horribly at playing innocent. I try to pull back, but his hands find the small of my back, keeping me in place.
“You’re such a pussy.” The words roll off his lips.
“What happened to your recent apology from the other night?”
“Yeah, still sorry, but obviously you’re curious about what’s beneath my shorts and can’t even admit it to yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“Then get off of me.”
“I’m trying to.”
“That’s the best you can do? I know you’re stronger than that.”
I yank back, feebly, and his grip tightens, holding me by my waist. “Come on, try harder. Or do what you really want and see what’s beneath my shorts. You owe it to yourself. You’re practically drooling.”
I’ve always been competitive, especially when it comes to Derek.
He’s taunting me, and I should resist or turn into a vulnerable, weak mess at the implication, but I do neither.
His negging emboldens me. Yes, I want to prove to him that I’m not a pussy, but it’s something more.
I want to see the full extent of him, and my body trembles with ignited anticipation.
Before I have a chance to think, I reach for him, not letting our eye contact break as I pull him free from his shorts. I revel in the shocked and helpless expression that washes over his features before darting my attention to the searing member taking up too much space in my hand.
Chrishell was right—he’s huge, and it boils my blood that it’s the first thought that comes to my mind.
His shaft stands proudly, thick veins running up to his prominent mushroom head.
I can’t help but salivate, thinking of him entering me.
God, I must be desperate for release. Desire almost clouds my reasoning—almost. Something is not right.
“What’s that?” I point. Thankful that I can actually embarrass him.
“A cock.” He grins and leans back, holding himself up with one outstretched arm.
Cocky bastard.
“No, what’s at the base?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the extra bulge at the end of his shaft.
His eyes flick to his length for just a moment. “Extra fun.”
“You should get that checked out.”
“Trust me. I’m clean.” He leans forward, ghosting his breath across my neck. “And no one’s ever complained about my knot.”
I jerk backwards. “Your knot? What are you, a fucking dog?”
“Worse.”
He’s smiling, taunting me as he licks his lips. “Are you scared now?”
“No.”
“You look scared.”
“I’m repulsed.”
“You’re a shit liar.”
“Whatever makes you feel better about yourself.” I move to stand, but he pulls me down, and I can’t help the subtle jerk of my hips against his large thigh and the tight gasp that escapes my mouth.
He tsks. “Such a pussy. I know you won’t suck it. You’re such a prude.” He’s drunk on his words. They leave his lips not as if he’s teasing me, but as if he’s luring me in, begging me with a delicious sort of chant.
He knows me well—more than he should. It’s working—his coaxing words dragging me off his lap and bringing me to the floor, pushing myself between his knees.
I’m hypnotized by his wide eyes, the low hang of his jaw.
He’s speechless for probably the first time in his God damned life, and it makes me feel powerful—a feeling foreign to myself after the past couple of weeks.
I take him in hand, and he moans, low and lust-driven.
I don’t break our tethered gaze as I bring myself lower, taking him in my mouth and slowly rolling my lips down his girth.
I don’t stop until I reach the end of his length, to his knot that he speaks of.
Maybe it’s some sort of modification, like a dick piercing.
I should spend more time contemplating his otherness, but I’m delirious from my lust, driving me to bob my head, up and down, fucking him with my mouth as if I’m starved.
My curls slide over my shoulder, brushing against my cheeks, but I don’t stop.
Derek leans forward and I watch as his abdomen muscles tense.
He gathers my hair in his hand, smoothing the strands into a ponytail.
He pulls. I glance up at him, still not stopping my bobbing motion.
He stares down at me, parted lips, complete awe sparkling in his eyes.
I get lost in the sight of his large frame shadowed from the low light, caging me in.
I speed up my pace, eager to watch as I bring him to his edge.
I witness the euphoria melt way from his harsh features, but before he gives in, his eyes widen.
It happens quickly—he yanks my hair, pulling me from him, a strand of my saliva the only thing connecting us. “Wha…” I can’t even finish the word. Derek pulls me to the bed, slamming me against the comforters and flipping me to my back. He pulls my legs to him, and kneels at the edge of his bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask, already out of breath as I rise to my elbows. The idiot probably fucked up his wound again.
He runs one illustrated hand up my thigh, reaching for my sleep shorts and pulling them down my legs.
“My turn.” He smiles, and damn him for looking so good between my legs.
He spreads me with his fingers, and I squirm.
It’s one thing to take him in my mouth as a weird form of revenge; it’s another for him to return the sexual favor and look so eager while doing so.
I feel vulnerable and nervous and although I want nothing more than for him to continue what he’s started, the rational side of me knows this should stop.
I don’t have time to reason, though. He makes up for the uncertainty, bringing his mouth to my core, no teasing, no prodding, only an animalistic hunger as he laps through me.
I cry out, giving in and falling backwards on his bed, immediately enveloped in the musky yet surprisingly clean smell of his bedding.
It must be the knowledge that we are utterly alone together, but I melt into the moment, letting him have his way with me and damn, does he do a fantastic job, lapping through my arousal as if he’s dying of thirst and I’m a damned Evian fountain.
He pulls back and stares into the depths of me. “It’s like honey,” he whispers before returning to his task.
Perhaps it’s my lack of intimacy, his words, or how inappropriate this entire situation is, but I find myself nearing my edge more swiftly than I could have anticipated.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper. I wanted to remain quiet, not give him the satisfaction of my pleasure, but I can’t. It’s too fucking good.
He groans into me, pushing his tongue harder against my clit, shoving his fingers in and out in perfect rhythm.
I prop myself back up, eager to watch him.
His shorts are pulled down and he tugs himself frantically.
It’s impressive that he can pleasure himself and eat me out so effectively, all with an injured shoulder.
The sight of him does it for me, and my body turns into fast-melting butter.
I cry out, convulsing, not pulling away as I watch him jerk uncontrollably—succumbing to his own demise.
Something happens. Perhaps I’ve lost my mind momentarily.
Derek changes before my eyes as he comes.
Fangs, hair—he’s an animal. But no, the irrational image is gone as quickly as it comes.
My face must tell of my sudden delirium because he catches it, staring at me wide-eyed and panicked as he rises.
“Get out,” he orders, his voice tinged with fear.
“Wait, what?”
“Get the fuck out,” he says louder this time.
I’m stunned—embarrassed, confused, mortified—all the above.
Part of me worries I did something cruel, gazed at him like he repulsed me as I came, but I can’t even gather the words to question further.
He’s somehow larger than before, towering over me, veins straining in his neck as he rushes me out his bedroom door.
As if tossed out by an angry wind, I find myself in the quiet of the hallway, Derek’s door slammed behind me.
My body hums with satisfaction but it’s quickly replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread.
What the fuck did I just do? It’s clear.
Now more than ever, I need out of this house—to find a way to escape the close corridors with the obvious beast hiding inside the dungeon so near.