Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (14 page)

“There was a tiny piece of popcorn hanging out on the corner of your lip.”

“Oh,” is all I manage. I watch him suck the minuscule piece of popcorn off his thumb. I’m suddenly jealous of both his thumb and Orville Redenbacher’s creation.

He stares at me a long moment. “Are you mad at me?”

“I am, but I think you know how to seduce me into forgiving you.”

His grin drips sex. “Do you like when I seduce you?”

“Yes, to a point.”

“I do too,” he whispers, lifting his knuckles to my cheek. The featherlight touch sends goose bumps along my skin. “You’re very reactive to me. But I want your forgiveness without having to seduce it out of you.”

“Then you should stop touching me.”

He drops his hand, his grin widening. My attention flits to the screen. It’s the part where Richie finds out Potsie’s fixed him up with Mary Lou.

I bring my eyes back to Brock’s, a weak smile on my lips. “
Happy Days
has helped a little in the forgiveness department.”

“I thought it might.” He studies me another long moment. “There’s more behind why you like the show as much as you do, isn’t there?”

“No.”

“I think you’re telling me another lie.” He lifts his hand again, this time massaging the back of my neck. I shiver. “Whatever it is, why are you hiding it from me, Ber? Do you not trust me with it?”

“I do, or will eventually. I’m not sure.” I take a breath, a shrug tugging my shoulder. “But we’re all allowed to keep pieces of our pasts to ourselves. If not, what would there be to run after?”
Or in my case, run from?

“You think that’s why I’m coming after you? Because you’re keeping pieces of yourself from me?”

I shrug again. “I don’t know why you’re coming after me.”

I honestly don’t. The only thing remotely appealing about me, other than being able to spit my fucked-up past onto paper faster than a writer smoking crack, is that I can fuck, suck, and swallow better than most porn stars. I’m convinced Hugh Hefner would promptly acquire me as his next barely legal wife if he saw me in action.

“I thought it was obvious why I’m coming after you,” Brock says, his voice soft. “You think I intrigue you, but it’s really the opposite.”

“Right.” I nod. “My
unseen
pieces.”

“No,” he whispers, sliding his hand to my chin. “The beautiful ones you’re unaware you’ve
already
shown me.”

It’s my turn to stare at him a long moment. Before I can think of a remark psychotic enough to let him know I’m not a mental mess he needs in his life—no matter how clotted up his is—Brock curls his hand around mine and stands me up with him. I pull in a staggering breath, my eyes pinned on his lips.

“You know I’m gonna decode you, right?” He moves a lock of hair off my shoulder. “I hope you do.”

I bring my eyes to his, my words shaky. “You think you can?”

“I know I can. No matter how hard you make the ride, I’m not getting off, so stop trying.” He drags his hand down my waist. “I’m a fighter, and I won’t rest easy until I know I’m securely in that heart of yours. You’re a challenge. Nothing short of trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. I like that about you.” He searches my face, his hold tightening as he presses his lips to my forehead. “I think we’re alike in more ways than either of us realizes. That by itself is gonna make us work. Just let it happen.”

He takes me in a second before leading me toward the balcony, my heart thumping with every step. A sticky breeze hits my skin as he pushes open the French doors. The cloudless sky—pregnant with a full harvest moon—casts a silver glow on the harbor below us. Small waves rip against the docks as Brock gestures to a rattan chair. I sit, my body taut with a nervous energy I’m starting to realize comes from being around him.

“You need to learn to relax.” Brock pitches me a playful look as he sinks into a chair on the other side of a marble table. “You think too much.”

“Why are you always trying to read me?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You make it impossible not to.”

I prop my feet against the railing. “How so?”

“You always look like you’re thinking.”

“Aren’t we
all
always thinking, Einstein?”

He chuckles. “True. But there are
several
ways to help you tame those bad boys.

He reaches down to his side and brings up a black-and-silver glass-blown bong. Producing a lighter faster than I can produce my next breath, he lights the bong and takes a long pull. After a few seconds, he coughs, blowing out the smoke. I watch it curl away like a ghost, its odor colliding with the scent of the harbor and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass.

“One of them being this.” He hits the bong again, then he slides it in my direction. “The other’s a combination of sweaty body parts, a healthy dose of sheet-clawing stimulation, and me deciding if your lies taste bitter or . . .
sweet
.”

“Bitter or sweet?” I stare at the bong, my heart firing off warning shots.

“Yeah. Bitter or sweet.” Another smirk kicks up the corner of his mouth. “However, I’d bank my life on the latter.”

I wonder if he can see the debate settling over my face. I’ve never smoked weed. Hell, I barely take anything for a headache. I slowly bring my eyes to his half-mast ones. His gaze is stuck on mine, and it feels like a wrecking ball to my gut. Anxiety piles thick in my throat as I try to level my breathing.

“I’ve never smoked weed,” I blurt, prudence glued to my statement. “I’ve consumed enough tequila that I was sure my skull was splitting in half the next morning, I’ve gone skinny-dipping at a house party in front of the entire student body, and I’m almost positive my foster parents’ chinchilla tried to rape me one night.” I take a shaky breath, my voice a whisper. “But I’ve never smoked weed.”

Tension fills the air as Brock watches me carefully, his smirk sliding away. He stands, rounds the table, and squats before me, capturing both my eyes and waist. Nervousness punches through me, tightening my chest to the point where I feel like I can’t breathe.

Brock stares up at me, his brow lifting. “I’m definitely feelin’ the skinny-dipping part and look forward to seeing that for myself. But I can’t say the same for the chinchilla. It’ll now be my life’s mission to find the little fucker and beat him to death. Fuck animal cruelty. He fucked with you; I fuck with him right back.”

We both smile. His genuine, mine nervous.

“And it looks like I’m on my second apology for the night.” He massages my side. “I’m sorry. Like an asshole, I just assumed you’d smoked it before.”

I shake my head.

“But I think this will help you to chill.” His voice is calm, soothing my nerves in a way I can’t explain. “Just a little. That’s all you’ll need to temporarily forget the shit that’s happened to you. It’ll wipe it from your head for a few hours. You’ll be okay because you’re doing it with me. I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, Amber.”

A silent minute goes by.

Two.

Three.

Four.

I nod, and though I’m somewhat settled by his reassurance, perspiration surfaces on my forehead. I want to say no, that I can’t. That I’m more than aware this could lead me to darker places. I want to tell him I watched my parents wither away under their own drug addiction, but the words get stuck in my throat, verbal gridlock holding them captive.

Brock reaches for the bong and lights it up. He sucks a hit into his lungs, keeps it in a few seconds, and brings his hand to the nape of my neck. Gently pulling me down to his face, he stares at me a moment, searching my eyes for a signal to stop.

Though it’s only weed—and more than half my generation gets blazed on this shit—I know I’m staring at the birth of what could be my demise. I was born to become an addict, my past sprinkled with needles, paving a path in its dark direction. Still, something tells me to go for it. To finally let go and live. Let go of my parents and the love they held from me. Let go of the day that forever changed the colors of my world. Let go of my fear of loving anything or anyone.

I just want to feel.

Feel life.

Feel this moment.

Feel . . . human.

I nod again, and Brock crashes his lips to mine, coaxing them
open with a slow sweep of his tongue. My arteries—just a few seconds before filled with fear and hesitation—are thick with adrenaline and sexual desire as Brock simultaneously licks into my mouth and pushes the smoke into my body. I’m not sure which to concentrate on: the sting in my lungs as I inhale what I hope will erase my past or the feel of Brock’s lips on mine.

I do neither. A cough bursts from me, my hand flying over my mouth.

“Are you okay?” Brock asks.

“I think so.” I nod, trying to catch a decent breath. “Should I be feeling something?”

His eyes widen. “You
don’t
feel turned on?”

“You know what I mean,” I half cough with a smile.

“I guess I have to try harder,” he says with a grin, repeating the process of taking another hit from the bong as he stands me up with him. After setting it on the table, Brock’s hands slide to my hips, dominance wild in their grip, as he layers his mouth over mine. I close my eyes, surrendering to his warmth as I clutch his shoulders and inhale another pull. It doesn’t burn as much, and my body welcomes it like an old friend. Brock tastes different from the first time we kissed, but still amazing, an exotic mixture of mouthwash and weed. I barely register my arms becoming lethargic as Brock’s hands move up my rib cage, his thumbs grazing my nipples.

“Christ, I could kiss you for fucking days,” he growls, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth. He licks into my mouth, his kiss growing relentless with each uneven breath we take. “Please, Ber, I’m begging, baby, let me fuck you like you need to be fucked. Let me give your body what it’s craving.”

Need, want, and lust lightens my head, his sudden plea spreading over me. Without breaking our kiss, Brock lifts me onto the table, wedging himself between my thighs. A gasp shoots from my parched throat as he draws my legs up around his waist. I rest my palms on the
cool marble, my gaze submerged in the hungry look prowling his face.

“Tell me you’re gonna let me fuck you tonight,” Brock commands, his stare connected to mine with infallible precision.

“Yes,” I breathe without a second thought. “You’re fucking me tonight.” I need, want, and ache for this.

My stomach plummets to my toes as Brock snakes his hand up my thigh, finding and ripping my lace panties clear off my body. He trips a finger over my clit, sending delicious pinpricks of pleasure across my skin.

Another gasp leaves me as his mouth lands on mine, his voice strangled. “Do you like kissing me while you’re high?”

I moan, shudders bombarding every previously relaxed muscle in my body as he barely pushes a finger inside me. My head lolls back, my eyelids heavy, hooded like cement’s weighing them down as I clutch the table.

“Yes,” I answer, thrusting my hips forward. “I love it.”

“Do you want to know what it feels like to be finger-fucked while you’re high?”

I nod, heat coiling around me.

“Say it,” he slowly whispers, his eyes glued to mine as he cups my ass, pulling me to the edge of the table.

On instinct, I bring my hands to his hair, gripping the soft caramel waves. “Finger-fuck me,” I beg, shame having no damn say in this moment.

He pushes a scant inch inside me. “Say it again,” he growls.

“Finger-fuck me,” I pant, digging my fingers into his skull.

Another inch, another finger. My pussy clenches, throbbing for more.

“Again, Ber. Say it again. Tell me to finger-fuck you harder.”

At this point, I don’t know who’s the one begging. The only thing I know is that in some sick, twisted way, he’s playing with me. I know it by the way he’s waiting for me to answer, his eyes smug with control
but still delicious with promise. I know it by the way he’s teasing his lips over mine, just enough to make me bite my own when he pulls back. And I know it by the way he’s slowly seducing me into loving everything he’s doing.

I’m in uncharted territory, every fiber in my fucked-up being aware it’s a fiend for the drug that
is
Brock Cunningham. Everything about him is dangerously beautiful, an untapped high I want to fully experience.

Fully consume.

Fully shoot through the curious blood in my veins.

Still, I’m not about to let him steal away my sexual control. It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane thus far. I’m going in for my next hit, but this addict’s not about to make it easy for the dealer.

At. All.

I grip his hair tighter and pull his face to mine, my eyes fierce as uncut gemstones. “If you don’t finger-fuck me harder, I’m getting off this table, calling a taxi, and going back to my dorm. A good porno and a dildo’s brought me to the
exact
same place you can without the added bullshit. Take it or leave it.”

With a wicked smirk, Brock goes knuckle-deep with three of his talented fingers, their rhythm matching the harsh breaths pushing from our lungs.

“Is that deep enough for you?” He buries his face against my sweaty neck.

With words disappearing from my brain—vanished, poof, gone—I can’t answer. I can’t focus or think straight. Sweet hell of all fiery hells, I can’t breathe past the intoxicating sensations pulsing through my body as I claw at his T-shirt.

“Yeah, that’s deep enough. This pussy’s as ripe and ready as they come.” Brock pulls back, his warm breath flirting over my lips as he stares into my eyes. “You want my cock? Need to feel it inside you?”

“Yes,” I hum. “I don’t care. Just fuck me right here on the table.”

Desire buzzes thick through my veins as he rips open my blouse, the buttons scattering against the floor, along with my sanity. He slips the scalloped edge of my bra down, palms my breast, and flicks his tongue across my nipple. I surge forward, my body’s primal need to fuck exploding.

“Mm,” he groans, suckling the hardened peak, his fingers relentlessly manipulating my flesh. “But you’re begging me for it before I give it to you, baby. I wanna hear you beg for my cock.”