Chapter Thirteen #2
I don't answer because the truth would terrify her. Because she's the only thing that ever made me feel anything real, because she's the only person I can't control, because she's the only one who ever made me want to try.
"You know why," I say instead.
She closes her eyes. "I should have run when I had the chance."
"But you didn't," I remind her.
She pops her eyes open and stares at me, searching for something. "No," she finally agrees. "I never do." She swallows hard, her throat working. "I never even wanted to run."
Jesus.
I kiss her, soft and slow. For the first time, I'm not trying to prove anything or win. I just want to feel her, to see if maybe she can heal what's broken in me.
She lets me kiss her, lets me hold her. She even lets me slip my hand between her legs. Like usual, she's already soaked for me.
She bites my lip when I slip two fingers inside, her body trembling against mine. She's so wet I could drown in her.
I finger her slowly, relentlessly, until she's panting and clawing at my shoulder, her inner walls fluttering.
"You're going to make me come," she says, her voice shaking.
"That's the idea," I whisper against her ear. "You're supposed to like it when I ruin you. You should fucking love the way it hurts, Brielle. If you don't, I'm doing it wrong."
She comes hard, biting down on my neck to keep from screaming. The sound is muffled, desperate.
When she's done, I pull my hand away and lick her juices from my fingers. Her taste might be my favorite flavor. If I could bottle it and drink it instead of wine, I would.
She watches, glassy-eyed, and then laughs. "You're such a fucking bastard."
I pour her another glass of wine. "Maybe. But you keep coming back."
She sips it, then sets the glass down. "What do you want?" she asks again, but this time it's not a challenge. It's a plea, like she's desperate to understand why I won't let her go, or why she loves that so much.
I want you to stay. Fuck our agreement, just…stay.
This whole agreement was supposed to be about exorcising her from my mind. Instead, exactly like expected, it only embedded her deeper into my psyche.
I can't help myself when it comes to her.
Just like I've never been able to keep from following her everywhere she goes, watching her every minute of the day.
She'd probably kill me if she knew just how much surveillance I have on her, just to keep her close, just to ensure no one else gets close enough to take her from me.
But the threat of her finding out never really stops me.
She's always been a drug to me. No matter how much I feed the addiction, it just grows worse.
"I want you on my cock, moaning that you belong to me," I say instead of asking for more than she's willing to give.
She shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're delusional."
I kiss her again, hard. "You love it."
"Yeah, I do," she sighs, defeated.
I pull her onto my lap, cradling her like something precious. "Then stop fighting so fucking hard," I say, my voice hoarse as the plea slips out without permission. "Just…stop."
"You're the only thing I've ever wanted to fight, and the only one I never want to fight," she says.
"Jesus." I kiss her again, until both of us are starving for oxygen.
She curls up against me when I let her up, biting her lip. "Can I ask…?"
"Ask what?" I ask, searching her face when she trails off like she's afraid to finish her question.
"About the accident," she whispers.
I flinch, going rigid. "I don't want to talk about the accident, Brielle."
"We have to talk about it at some point, Asher," she argues, her voice a scrap of sound in the cabin. "You want me to stop fighting you and just give in, but I don't understand why you hated me so much after the accident. I don't understand why you hate yourself. I just…I need to understand you."
The plea in her voice wrecks me. She doesn't even realize what she's asking, not really. Or maybe she does, and she's just desperate enough to see how much of my poison she can swallow before she breaks for good.
I grip the armrests, my knuckles turning white. "No," I say, "we don't. We never have to talk about that night." My voice is a hollowed-out ghost. "It's done. It's over."
Brielle shakes her head, curls falling into her face. She shoves them aside, scowling up at me. "It's not over. You said it yourself, remember? You said you've never forgiven yourself for almost killing me. You said it still haunts you every night."
She's right, and I hate her for it. I want to snap at her, to call her a brat and tell her to drop it, but the words dissolve into acid before I can spit them out. Instead, I stare straight ahead, blinking hard against the memories clawing at the inside of my skull.
They're always the same: the taste of her lips on mine, the haze of the red light reflecting off the dashboard, the sound of the garbage truck as it rumbled through the intersection.
The sickening crunch of steel folding in on itself.
Most of all, it's the sound of her screaming my name, the high, desperate pitch of it as she realized what was about to happen, that haunts me.
I remember every fucking detail. I remember thinking my life was complete because she was finally kissing me.
I remember thinking I could save us, that if I just braked hard enough, if I just steered the right way, I could keep her safe.
I remember the whiplash crack of her skull on the glass, and the sight of her blood already soaking her dress by the time the world stopped spinning.
I remember holding her when she stopped breathing, my own hands slick with her blood.
I remember thinking that I'd rather die right there than lose her.
But I didn't die. She didn't, either. Not all the way.
The girl I loved stopped breathing for three minutes and came back different.
She came back a shadow of herself. And I kept making her different, every fucking time I gave her a reason to hate me, every time I hurt her, every time I destroyed something in her life.
Making myself so monstrous that she forgot she ever loved me at all was the only way I could survive the goddamn guilt.
I try to say something, but the words get stuck. My throat feels like it's closing, the panic of memory choking me even as I sit here, alive, whole, able to fuck her whenever I please.
She notices, because of course she does. "Asher?" she whispers, softer now. "Are you okay?"
I can't answer. I don't want to lie to her, but I'm not going to tell her the truth, either. I can't ever do that. I want to slam my head into the fucking bulkhead, just to see if I can finally bash the memories out.
She slides off my lap and kneels between my legs with her hands on my knees. I flinch, but she doesn't move away. She just looks up at me, her green eyes too clear, too bright, too much.
"You're not the only one who remembers," she says. "I remember, too. It haunts me, too. I never forgave myself, either."
She takes my hand and brings it to her face. I try to pull away, but she holds on. She presses my palm to her cheek, closing her eyes.
For a second, I let myself feel her—the warmth of her skin, the way her cheekbones rise under my fingertips.
The urge to hurt her is almost as strong as the urge to hold her.
Hurting her is the only way she's ever learned to protect herself from me.
She needs that. Christ, maybe she needs it now more than ever.
I let my thumb brush her lower lip, just to feel the softness. Just to remind myself that she's here right now and she's mine.
She leans into my hand. "Use me," she says, her voice a rasp. "Whatever you're feeling—give it to me. I can take it."
I want to say no, but the word doesn't exist between us.
I want to break her, to make her feel even a fraction of the pain that's eating me alive.
I want to see her face when I ruin her for good.
Maybe that little kernel of hope—the one that constantly whispers what if—will finally die then.
Maybe she'll finally hate me hard enough for it to stick.
But…not yet. Christ, not yet. I can't let her go yet.
I thrust my hand into her hair, yanking her back onto my lap. She gasps, but there's no fear in it, just anticipation. Her legs straddle me, her hands finding my chest, clawing at the buttons until they come undone.
"You want this?" I growl. "You want me to fuck the memories out of you?"
She nods, biting her lip. "Yes. Please."
I haul her closer, crushing her body to mine. I grind my cock against her and watch her shiver. I want to rip her dress off, shred it until there's nothing left but her bare skin and the heat of her against me.
Instead, I hike it up, exposing her thighs, the bare curve of her ass. I fumble with my zipper, pull my cock out, and line it up with her pussy. She's still soaked from her orgasm a few minutes ago, her heat searing my shaft.
The friction is enough to make me lose my fucking mind.
She grabs my shoulders, holding on as I thrust into her, all at once. She's so tight I see stars, but I don't let up. I set a brutal pace, pounding into her as if I can fuck away the memory of her scream, the sight of her bleeding, the terror that I'll lose her again if I blink.
She moans, the sound sharp and desperate. I slap my hand over her mouth, muffling the noise so no one hears her, but she just arches into me, taking every inch, every savage thrust.
The plane isn't silent. The engines drone, the silverware from dinner rattles on the table, but all I hear is her. Her gasps, her cries, the wet slap of skin on skin.
I dig my fingers into her hips, leaving bruises. She claws at my chest in response, leaving red lines. I want to mark her everywhere, so she never forgets who she belongs to.
I want her tighter.
I want her mindless.
I want her to forget she hates me.