kissing, and my body goes tight, arching off the
chaise against the delicious pressure, the exquisite fullness of him inside me.
He groans, and drops his head down against mine. I fucking love the feel of his
beard bristling against my breast as he struggles to catch his breath.
“You’re
fucking tight, baby,” he whispers.
I
shift, my hips moving in a tiny circle and he groans. “Don’t,” he begs. “Go
slow.”
“Fuck
slow,” I snap. “Fuck me.”
It
breaks whatever control he has left—his hand catches in my hair and he pulls my
head back, kissing me hard, a bruising kiss that has
my head spinning as his big body thrusts into me.
He
knows my body. Knows just how to fuck me. Each thrust ends on a tight twist of
his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that I didn’t realize I had, until I’m panting,
begging as he fucks me. “Rike,” I groan, and I reach for him, all the achy need
in me bubbling up.
I
bite him. Hard. And he grunts, a deep hungry noise. Shoves me down and fucks me
hard, until I’m tossed into orgasm, my body writhing against his mindlessly.
“Yeah,”
he groans, “just like that. Fuck me just like that, baby.”
I’m
clinging to him, my nails in his shoulders as I meet his thrusts, the orgasm
spinning on and out and then he groans, a long noise, goes still and tight
above me. His face drops, so I can see him through the shaggy hair and the
beard and—
He’s
fucking beautiful. Gentle, and so fucking vulnerable, as he comes inside me
with a low groan that I can feel in my toes. Staring at me while he comes.
When
it’s over, he falls to the bed next to me, and gathers me into him, sighing. A
content noise.
I
lay awake for a long time after he’s asleep, wondering just how badly I’ve
fucked things up now.
Chapter
15 : Before
Here’s
what I learn, reading the journal she left with me:
Who
she was doesn’t matter.
Facing
the truth is fucking painful.
She
is the bravest girl I’ve ever met.
It
takes me three days to get through the journal because it’s hard as fuck to
read. There are a few times, reading it and looking at the pictures,
that I have to bolt for the toilet before I throw up.
How
did she go from this shell of a girl,
this walking corpse, to the girl who is so vibrant and alive, whose passion and
daring make my head spin? I am trying to wrap my head around something that
makes no fucking sense.
I
realize, with almost sickening quickness, that I loathe her family.
Seeing
her past on paper, seeing the demons she fought and how much she hated who she
was being molded into--I've never met them, and part of me hopes I never do. I
don't know how to be in the same room as someone who had the chance to care for
a girl like Peyton and who fucked it up so completely.
"I
want to sing tonight," I say, staring blankly at the photo clipped to the
inside of the journal.
Scott
glances at me, at the picture, before he nods. "Do what you think is best,
man."
I
offer him a sick smile and shove to my feet.
"She
trusted you," he says before I leave the room. "Are you going to
return the favor?"
I
look at him. I know what he's asking. "It's not only my story to
share," I say carefully.
"Don't
hide behind that," he says. "Do what you think needs to be done. I want you to be happy, Rike. Whatever that means. And
this girl—she makes you happy. In a way I haven't seen since we were
eight."
When
we were eight we had been living in a group home, and he'd been the shit head
who picked a fight. We beat each other senseless, but when it was time to take
the fall, neither of us was willing to throw the other under the bus. It was
the first time in my life someone had my back and I never forgot it.
We
were separated a year later, tossed into separate foster homes that got
progressively worse. But for that six months, we had each other. We weren't so
fucking alone.
We
were miserable little shits the world didn't want, but we were fucking happy.
I
let out the breath
chaise against the delicious pressure, the exquisite fullness of him inside me.
He groans, and drops his head down against mine. I fucking love the feel of his
beard bristling against my breast as he struggles to catch his breath.
“You’re
fucking tight, baby,” he whispers.
I
shift, my hips moving in a tiny circle and he groans. “Don’t,” he begs. “Go
slow.”
“Fuck
slow,” I snap. “Fuck me.”
It
breaks whatever control he has left—his hand catches in my hair and he pulls my
head back, kissing me hard, a bruising kiss that has
my head spinning as his big body thrusts into me.
He
knows my body. Knows just how to fuck me. Each thrust ends on a tight twist of
his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that I didn’t realize I had, until I’m panting,
begging as he fucks me. “Rike,” I groan, and I reach for him, all the achy need
in me bubbling up.
I
bite him. Hard. And he grunts, a deep hungry noise. Shoves me down and fucks me
hard, until I’m tossed into orgasm, my body writhing against his mindlessly.
“Yeah,”
he groans, “just like that. Fuck me just like that, baby.”
I’m
clinging to him, my nails in his shoulders as I meet his thrusts, the orgasm
spinning on and out and then he groans, a long noise, goes still and tight
above me. His face drops, so I can see him through the shaggy hair and the
beard and—
He’s
fucking beautiful. Gentle, and so fucking vulnerable, as he comes inside me
with a low groan that I can feel in my toes. Staring at me while he comes.
When
it’s over, he falls to the bed next to me, and gathers me into him, sighing. A
content noise.
I
lay awake for a long time after he’s asleep, wondering just how badly I’ve
fucked things up now.
Chapter
15 : Before
Here’s
what I learn, reading the journal she left with me:
Who
she was doesn’t matter.
Facing
the truth is fucking painful.
She
is the bravest girl I’ve ever met.
It
takes me three days to get through the journal because it’s hard as fuck to
read. There are a few times, reading it and looking at the pictures,
that I have to bolt for the toilet before I throw up.
How
did she go from this shell of a girl,
this walking corpse, to the girl who is so vibrant and alive, whose passion and
daring make my head spin? I am trying to wrap my head around something that
makes no fucking sense.
I
realize, with almost sickening quickness, that I loathe her family.
Seeing
her past on paper, seeing the demons she fought and how much she hated who she
was being molded into--I've never met them, and part of me hopes I never do. I
don't know how to be in the same room as someone who had the chance to care for
a girl like Peyton and who fucked it up so completely.
"I
want to sing tonight," I say, staring blankly at the photo clipped to the
inside of the journal.
Scott
glances at me, at the picture, before he nods. "Do what you think is best,
man."
I
offer him a sick smile and shove to my feet.
"She
trusted you," he says before I leave the room. "Are you going to
return the favor?"
I
look at him. I know what he's asking. "It's not only my story to
share," I say carefully.
"Don't
hide behind that," he says. "Do what you think needs to be done. I want you to be happy, Rike. Whatever that means. And
this girl—she makes you happy. In a way I haven't seen since we were
eight."
When
we were eight we had been living in a group home, and he'd been the shit head
who picked a fight. We beat each other senseless, but when it was time to take
the fall, neither of us was willing to throw the other under the bus. It was
the first time in my life someone had my back and I never forgot it.
We
were separated a year later, tossed into separate foster homes that got
progressively worse. But for that six months, we had each other. We weren't so
fucking alone.
We
were miserable little shits the world didn't want, but we were fucking happy.
I
let out the breath
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