Ruin Box Set (9 page)

“Oh God, please,” she gasped. “Finger me.”

Finger her. Very permissible. He gripped the cheek of her ass firmly while sliding his middle finger slowly inside her body. The feel of her hot muscles biting down on his finger made him push his manhood against her inner thigh. But touching it against anything was a huge mistake at that point. He began rocking his hips, giving it the steady friction he needed, his breaths labored as the power screamed for something he didn’t quite understand. When his finger reached bottom, he shuddered at the entirety of it, the feel of her. His
cock
needed to be where he probed and the idea sent sparks firing in his brain, the heat and ice roaring in avid agreement.

“Ruin!” She moved her hips with frantic little pumps and the sound of that name on her perfect lips and voice, shattered the loathe he had for the wretched title. His fingers bit into the firm muscle of her ass while he answered her demand, moving his finger in and out, rapidly. The sound her delicious heat created from it, brought the epitome of torment he craved.

“Give it to me, Isadore.” He could feel it coming; the orgasm that he’d read about, this had to be it. Her muscles quivered and cries rose higher and faster. “Give it to me.” He’d never wanted anything more as he jabbed his finger deeper and squeezed her ass with a near brutal force, helping to move her even faster on his finger.

She erupted in screams and shudders. He’d not seen her do that before. And he liked it so much better than her silent episode, he’d witnessed.

Her body gripped his finger hard as he growled, imagining his manhood in its place. Could she take him into her the same way?

“Fuck me,” she gasped. “Please, fuck me.”

Ruin got off of the bed, winded.
Fuck me
. There it was. The one definition of that word she’d not yet used. That was certainly it. And yes, to fuck her was so very
exactly
what he wanted. What he
had
to have. And what he’d
surely
deny himself.

Chapter Nine

Isadore turned in the bed at feeling Ruin get up so abruptly. In her hasty need, she’d forgotten to be ashamed. He stood at the foot of the bed, dressing. Dressing?

“What…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

His tone was pure honesty as usual. She watched in confusion as he hissed to get his enormous cock into his jeans. Then he covered those delicious tattoos on his delicious torso with the black t-shirt she hated herself for finding.
Why
did he, seemed like a perfectly logical question to ask and yet, the way he behaved as though stopping there was the right thing, made her doubt herself. And did she want to look like a needy swamp slut? Not really, no. But then, did she want to feel like he’d pleasured her as a way to-to
calm
her? Reward her? Pay her?

“You’re angry,” he said, turning to her.

He seemed and sounded shocked. What did she have need of now that he’d fingered her and brought her to orgasm? Why should she not be
satisfied
?

She dragged the sheet from the bed and went downstairs to check her gumbo. And to have coffee on the pier past midnight. Maybe that alligator would happen by and eat her.

“What’s wrong?” he called following her.

“Why nothing at all is wrong.” She poured her coffee.

“You’re lying,” he said.

“So what. Are you a judge? Oh yeah, you are.” She waved a flippant hand. “Judge away then.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“Not a thing.”

“You seemed to like it.”

“Oh I
loved
it, thank you for that
service.
You should add it to your resume,” she loaded her cup of coffee blindly with cream and sugar, not counting.

“That was sarcastic,” he observed.

She gave an exaggerated gasp, “Awww,” she patted him on the shoulder. “You’re learning so
faaaaast.”

He stood there, showing signs that her passive insult hit home. Good then. She tapped her spoon on the cup, tossed it into the sink a few feet away, and headed for the pier.

“Where are you going?” he said, alarmed.

“On the pier to have a cup of coffee. I don’t smoke and seeing as we just sort of had sex, feels like the thing to do.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Her anger shot up. “Ohh no no no, only those who actually orgasm get to partake in the after-math party. Sorry JD.” She headed out, mumbling how stupid could a stupid fucker be? Obviously, very.

She sat on the pier, boldly dangling her feet, trying to ignore and breathe around the huge pressure in her chest, still mumbling.

“It’s not safe out here, Isadore.”

She shrugged, sipping her coffee. “I’m not afraid, JD.”

“Why are you calling me JD?”

“Well if you like the name
Ruin
I can call you that if you insist.”

“I didn’t like it.”

“But now you do?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Great,” she muttered. “Let me know when you sort it out.”

“I liked it… when you said my name just now. I didn’t like it before.”

Pain cut at her heart. She couldn’t take any more of that. “I would like to be alone, Ruin. Please.” 

“I can’t leave you out here.”

“Then go…away from me.”

“I just want to understand what I have done wrong. Is that so much to ask of you?”

“I will
not
tell you,” she glared at him. “You need to go ahead and deal with that. I will not tell you. Telling you is pointless, will only bring about more problems in fact.” The last thing she wanted was to be reduced to a
pity
fuck.

“I can’t leave you.”

Obstinate resolve echoed in the words. ‘Fine.” She got up and headed back inside and busied herself with finishing the gumbo. She eyed the home-made bottle of muscadine wine Mr. Thibodeaux had given her and decided it was a good time to take the edge off. While she mopped.

Half a bottle of the nasty stuff later, she stumbled to her stereo and put on her mopping song. Back in the kitchen, she sloshed Pine-Sol into her mop bucket in the sink. “Mmmm,” she sighed, working her mop up and down to the tune, or very close to it.

Eying the hair clip attached to the curtain, she grabbed it, twisted her hair and clipped it, then twisted the mop hairs, ringing it out.

Starting from her usual corner, she splatted the mop to the floor and gave herself over to the pet psychosis she’d grown too fond and dependent of. Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck all of ‘em who had a problem with it. Fuck the swamp people, fuck the bait stealers. Fuck that alligator, fuck the hurricane she felt coming. Fuck all the hurricanes! Fuck all the shit trying to tear her apart! Fuck JD, fuck
Ruin
!

Ruin grabbed her from behind, his arms hot bands around her. “Shhh, okay. You’re okay.”

Isadore realized she’d said all those things out loud. Maybe real loud. “Sorry, I was… just mopping.”

“I know.”

She was suddenly being carried and too drunk and tired to care. “I always wanted to be carried like this. A handsome man, a prince, carryin me someplace. Don’t ask where he carried me. One day it was a palace, another time the woods. Even the hospital.” She let her head flop back. “I would always be like this. Like a dishrag. Danglin’ all beautiful and helpless.” She brought her head up. “All
pathetic
!” She erupted in snickers and then promptly sobered, “Hey,” she scolded, “a girl is a girl, and it’s normal to dream. That’s what I keep saying. I have to hope, don’t I?”

“You seem to, yes.”

He laid her on her bed and she moaned turning on her side. “Get away from me.”

Isadore shut her eyes and sleep came right to her, a handsome prince, picking her up in his arms and carrying her to her silly dreams. Silly dreams of a man with brilliant green eyes and strange tattoos that didn’t quite find her worth loving.

****

Ruin felt…ill. But he wasn’t sure why or how. His body roiled with heat and ice, like he’d been struck with some awful power that confounded it, scattered its purpose and reason. The symptoms sprung up directly from Isadore. Her words. They were doing this to him somehow, some reason he couldn’t understand. Her every syllable kept replaying itself in his head
fuck JD, fuck Ruin. I used to dream of being carried like this. By a prince.
Those words. Those were the source of his torment. And
please, leave me alone. Go away.

That she’d meant them had affected him beyond meaning. The ice had turned into razors, slicing him everywhere it touched, and the heat burned the cuts, seared them, only for the ice to do it again. And again. A deep part of him was satisfied with this. A deep part said that was good. The pain and torment, it was good. A good answer for that need in him, that need for…Isadore. Isadore was everything he hated. Her hope when things were so hopeless, her kindness when she should be wrathful, her love where hate was the justified response. That’s why he needed torment. She behaved contrary to what was truly right and logical. That was it. He had to make it right. Punish that wrong. He gave her pleasure because he couldn’t hurt her. But he could hurt him. He could hurt him and hurting him was okay. Right even.

So why was she hurt? Maybe the wise man could help him with some of these things. Tomorrow would tell. And while he waited impatiently for dawn, he read more of her books. He hated the poetry one and yet had to finish it. It affected him somewhat like the Bible had. Confounded him. Only the poetry one, he understood
why
he despised it. Perfectly good words strewn together by a mind darkened with lies, empty wishful truths. But then…why did he think that? How could he know that? What had he seen in the few days he’d become aware, or alive, or awake, to draw such a conclusion? Not really a whole lot. But he didn’t need a whole lot to know things. The patterns were there.

He settled on calling it a hunch. And time would tell if his hunch was correct. That the world was indeed as hopeless and wretched as he sensed it was. Without hope, without real joy, without real peace. Without real anything.

****

Ruin stared up at the church as he walked toward the front entrance with Isadore, an ominous pressure setting itself up in the air with every step he took, hands pushing, trying to prevent him. He waited for the heat and the fire to give him direction but it was in that scattered disarray again, like it had gotten with Isadore. He wasn’t sure what to expect here. But he did expect something. Maybe clarity.

“Can’t believe I’m late to church. I have never been late to church,” Isadore muttered, her steps faster than he’d ever seen.

For some reason, the bite in her tone made him feel like she blamed him. And it seemed prudent to concur. “I’m sorry.” That was as far as he could take those words without bringing about trouble he couldn’t address in the ten seconds remaining before they entered.

She paused before the door and smoothed the thin buttery colored material along her legs. The fabric stopped just above her knees and the white top with thin straps on her shoulders gaped at the hem. Ruin was sure if he leaned to look, he’d be able to see her breasts. She likely wore a bra. Hopefully. 

“Do I look stupid?”

Ruin met her troubled blue gaze, confused. “What? No, you’re very intelligent.”

She rolled her eyes. “Nevermind. Stay close and don’t talk to people please.” She froze with wide eyes. “Oh my God, who are you? To me?” She latched a frantic hand to his arm. “You’re my distant cousin, visiting from Boston. Your name is JD.”

Ruin shook his head. “Don’t count on me to tell people that.”

“Oh come on! It’s a harmless lie, they don’t need to know.”

“Then tell them it’s none of their business.”

“I can’t do that!” she cried, looking astounded. “Whatever, fine,” she hissed. “I’ll do all the lying, keep your stupid righteous mouth shut.”

He barely shook his head, once again confounded by her. She pulled the giant door open and singing rang out. Walking as close to Isadore as he possibly could without stepping on her, he met as many of the sudden gazes that he could while following Isadore’s discreet yanking into the very back pew.

He watched her smile at a few people then jump right into the song, mid-lyric. He listened to the racket for several minutes, pinpointing a clear distinction among the voices. Not all of them had the grinding quality that stabbed into the ear drums, some of them were very gifted. Isadore wasn’t one of them. The design of the building with the open ceiling and beams didn’t serve to buffer the torture but rather amplify it. It sounded like a war, and the few gifted were being massacred.

Ruin fought down a smile as Isadore sang loudly, either oblivious to her lack of talent, or not caring. He hoped it was the latter. He rather appreciated the entire
fuck it
motto she’d vehemently taken up while mopping last night, even if it had ended with her hating him for some reason he still didn’t understand. Yet.

The eardrum rape finally ended and they all sat. Ruin had the urge to touch Isadore but refrained as the man at the front leaned over a microphone and boomed his greeting into the building. Then he proceeded to recite things for the next thirty minutes that Ruin had read several times. He waited for the man to offer enlightenment, his hope dwindling with each minute as he listened and studied the members of the
church.
By the time it was over, he’d learned one thing. How very wicked each of them were and in need of judgment.

Ruin felt ill by the time the eternal hour was up. “Are you okay?” Isadore whispered.

“I need some air.”

She slapped her hand on his leg. “Well let’s go get some.” She hurried them out, but he had a feeling it was more to avoid confrontation. Either way was fine with him, just so they left.

“Isadore!”

“Oh shit, Geraldine!” Isadore hurried her pace. “Don’t turn, keep walking.”

Not a problem.

“Izzy! Wait, I got you that recipe you ask for.”

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. We’ll never leave.”

“Not stopping.”

We climbed into the truck and she fumbled the keys for five seconds. “Shit, really?”

“She’s still coming.” Ruin wasn’t worried when he saw the woman’s five by five build, moving at a snail’s pace in all her hurrying.

“Don’t look at her! Look at me!” The truck roared to life like she stepped on the gas too long.

“Careful, you may run her over.” Ruin watched the muscles in Isadore’s arms and legs flex as she worked the clutch and shift, then braced her arm on the back of the seat, stepping on the gas. He braced, taken by the visions of her muscles flexing the same way while he used his cock to do what his finger had. The thin material over her breasts pulled tight and gave a clear image of their perfect shape, adding to the tormenting vision in his mind.

“Ohhh, I’m the devil for doing that,” she gasped, looking in the rear view mirror. “Poor Geraldine, she’s such a sweet woman. She’s got
nine
children and she doesn’t get out much, church is the only social life she has and I usually take time with her.” She tossed him an angry glare, like he was the fault for that.