Trashed (15 page)

But then he grips my hips and holds me aloft somehow and I don’t know how he manages it, but he does, and he drags his hips back, pulling out, and I knot my fingers in the sheets beside me, my mouth falling open, eyes widening, and then he thrusts into me.
 

“FUCK!” I scream, my entire body jolting, my hips driving on their own into him, and Adam’s chest rumbles, his fingers dig into the flesh at my hips and he pulls me into him.
 

“Fuck me, Des, you feel so good. I wanna make this last, but you feel too good.” He pulls back again, slowly, and then glides in, quickly and smoothly.

I know what I want now; when he pulls back again, I wait until he’s about to start his inward thrust, and I roll my hips toward him, meet his thrust, and when our bodies clash together, I gasp breathlessly from the dizzying, heady ecstasy that thrills through me. He’s so deep, now, pushing into me until I can’t physically take any more. He thrusts, and my clit smashes against his body and I’m shaking, and then he pulls out and I groan at the emptiness, and he’s growling now with each thrust.
 

His whole body is tensed, as if he’s exerting all his significant power to hold back. Each thrust in is measured and careful and slow, and I realize this is because he
is
holding back, being gentle and careful.

I don’t want gentle or careful, not totally. I don’t think I’m ready for Adam to totally unleash, but I want him to loosen just a little, at least. I move with him, grind against him, and he starts to move faster, so I move faster with him, and I can almost predict his motions now, and I’m greedy for him, needing him more fully, needing all of him, needing his heat and his weight.

I feel the upwelling of pressure, the coiling heat, and I know full well what that means: I’ve got an orgasm coming, and I want it. But I want even more to feel Adam come, to feel him explode, to feel him take his own pleasure.
 

So I rock against him, wordlessly urging him faster, and he mirrors my increased tempo, and even begins to increase it on his own. His eyes close and his hands grip my hips more tightly, almost painfully, but I like it, I like the little signs that he’s losing control. And now he’s growling nonstop, grunting, really, and I like the sounds of his exertion too, like the low throaty rumble of his voice as he begins to grind against me now, not thrusting and pulling back but rolling, pushing deeper and deeper.
 

He releases my hips and falls forward with both hands beside my face and his hips begin to circle faster and faster. I run my hands down his back, greedy to touch him, to feel the sinuous ripple of his massive muscles, and then I take his ass in my hands and pull, pull, urge him onward.
 

God, this is amazing. He’s close, I think. And the closer he gets, the better it feels for me. Each rolling thrust drives the heat hotter, pulling moans from me, and ratchets the pressure tighter within me. His face is buried in my breast and his spine arches and straightens, glistening with sweat, and I cup his head and hold him, and I say his name…

“Adam, yes, god…don’t stop, don’t stop…YES Adam, yes!” I don’t even care how I sound, if it’s cliché, because I now realize why those clichés exist, that you can’t even help what comes out of your mouth when he’s in you and losing control and taking your control and you’re exploding and he’s on the verge of detonation inside you.

“Oh fuck, Des, I’m right there, babe, I’m so close…”

“Me too, Adam, oh god…fuck me harder!” Holy shit, I don’t even know where
that
came from, but it makes him wild.

He growls loudly and scoots closer to me, deeper between my thighs, and I wrap my ankles around his ass and clutch him to me and rock my hips against his and he’s groaning, his face showing strain now.

I don’t dare close my eyes, even though I feel an orgasm ripping through me, even though I’m gasping and shrieking as fire sweeps through me and the pressure implodes inside me and has me writhing beneath him and clinging to him and rocking with him. I watch him, and I see the moment he lets go. His eyes flick open and his pale green gaze is like fire, razor sharp and intense and unwavering, and his lids go hooded, his thrusts become mad and wild, and then he pounds deep, once, hard, and then again, and our gazes are locked, something intangible but potent exchanging between us in that moment. I can’t hear, can barely see, can only register the shredding pulsation of my climax and the way his cock throbs inside me and heat fills me and his sweat coats my skin and his mouth crashes against mine, because it’s impossible to not kiss in this moment.

It’s not just a kiss.
 

I absorb this truth with the saliva on his tongue and with the power of his lips and the dig of his fingers in my hip and the nova-hot rupture of our mutual orgasm. It’s something else, something deeper.
 

Spent, his lips move on mine, wet and desperate, and I kiss him back with all that I have, knowing something momentous just occurred between us.

He falls to his side, bringing me with him, falling out of me, and a breath whooshes from him. “Holy shit, Des. Holy motherfucking shit.”

I can’t even form words yet. “Y-yeah.”

His eyes cut sideways to mine. “That was…incredible,” he says, and then slips off the bed and goes into the bathroom.
 

I watch as he uses a long strip of toilet paper to peel off the condom, wrapping it up and then discarding it. Surreptitiously, I lift up to check the sheet where I was laying, but the sheet is clean and white. If I bled, it wasn’t enough to stain the bed, apparently, and thank god for that.
 

He returns to the bed, slides in beside me, and reaches for me. I settle in with him, my hand resting on his shoulder, my breast draped across his side, my thigh on his.
 

I’ve never been more content in my life. Drowsy, I let myself drift.

Chapter 7

This…is not what I expected.
She
isn’t what I expected. Sweet, responsive, eager. She’s a tough girl, independent, closed off.
 
But once she gave in to wanting this with me, she transformed. Just utterly….changed. Morphed into a voracious, insatiable, erotic woman.
 

I want more of her; it’s dangerous.

Questions boil inside me, and I know if I ask even one, she’ll freak out and bolt.
 

So I hold her and keep my questions to myself. My hand skims in circles on her back, and her breathing goes even, her body nestled against mine goes limp. Her hand is on my chest, the fingers curled slightly. I examine her hand. It’s a delicate, feminine hand, but her nails are cut short and filed into perfect curves. Well kept, but not long, and not painted.

My fingertips stutter across her back, between her shoulder blades where I know the tattoo to be. There are bumps where I know the ink is, long raised welts. Scar tissue. I crane my neck and peer at her back. Trace the letters of the text inked onto her skin, and find the scars beneath. The tattoo covers something. The text is large, each letter at least half an inch tall. The scars are significant. I can’t quite figure out what kind of scars they are, though.
 

And then I notice another tattoo. On her ribs, high on her left side. Even wearing a tank top or strapless dress, the tattoo would go largely unnoticed unless you were looking for it:
 

…The safe place…

My fingertips skim the inked letters running on a slight diagonal from just beneath her armpit toward her back. And yes, beneath this tattoo as well is more scar tissue. The same as on her back, raised welts, rough, ridged lines of an old scar of some kind.

Jesus. What has this girl endured?

She makes a sound low in her throat, a sleepy murmur, and rolls away from me. And as she does so, I see two more tattoos done in the same neat but simple script. One is on the opposite side of her body as the one under her armpit, on her right side low by her hip, again running on a diagonal from just above the hip upward and toward her back:

…Where we can go as we are…

And yes, beneath that as well is more scar tissue.

My throat seizes, my heart clenches. I need to know.
 

The last tattoo is on her left leg, on the outer side of her thigh, high up, almost tucked under the swell of her buttock. The scar tissue here is thicker, harder. The text yet again runs on an angle, from the outside of her thigh to the inside, slanted high to low:

…And not be questioned.

Des rolls again, and I see a fifth tattoo on her right leg, on the front of her upper thigh where it’d be hidden by all but the shortest skirt or shorts. It’s the smallest, and it wraps from the front of her thigh around to the side, and this one is straight, not angled like the others:

~ Maya Angelou

I snag my phone off the side table and bring up a Google search bar, type in the beginning of the quote, and it auto-fills the rest. I click the first link and read the quote in its entirety:
“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”
—Maya Angelou.

The ache for home.
 

The scars are all on her back and legs, angled in such a way as to suggest that whatever was striking her to create the scars was coming from above, and she was turtled to protect herself from it.
 

I can’t help tracing the text on her thigh, the ridged tissue beneath the ink, and she stirs, blinks, sees where my fingers touch, and I feel her tense.
 

Her eyes go wide, the rest of her expression carefully blank. “Adam, I—the tattoos are—”

I touch her lips with a finger, stopping her. “Des, I told you I wouldn’t ask. I’m not asking. All I’m going to say is, I would be honored to know more about you. If you feel like sharing, I will listen and I promise you I won’t judge.”
 

She blinks hard. “Fuck. Adam, it’s not that simple. I can’t just…
share
. It’s nothing like that. It’s too much to…even know where to start.” She sits up, holds the sheet against her chest, and I feel her withdrawing emotionally. “And besides, you’re leaving…what, tomorrow? Monday?”

I sigh. “Tomorrow.”

She glances at the clock, which reads 12:15 a.m. “And guess what? It’s tomorrow. So there’s no point in getting into it.”

I nod, although something in me rebels against the idea of just letting this go so easily. “I get it.”

“And it’s not like you’ve told me much about yourself either. That’s not what this was, Adam. It’s not what it’s ever going to be. I know that. I’m fine with that.” She scoots toward the edge of the bed. “I should go.”

I grab her wrist, stop her. “Don’t leave. Just stay here for tonight.”

She neither pulls away nor returns. “Why?”

I release her wrist and slide my palm up her forearm, crawling across the bed toward her, and then bring my hand from her bicep to her shoulder to the back of her neck. “Because I’m not done with you.”

She leans toward me, by accident maybe, automatically. “You’re not?”

I kiss the base of her neck, bury my fingers in her thick black hair and tug her head back to bare her throat, kissing her there. “Nope. I haven’t had my fill of you yet.”
 

What I don’t say is that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get my fill. I trail a line of small feathery kisses up her throat until I reach her chin, and then her mouth, and then I’ve got her tongue between my teeth and my palm on her inner thigh, reaching in and around. She gasps into my mouth as I find her wetness and heat with my fingers. Another gasp, and then her hand skates across my stomach and finds my cock.
 

Her eyes flick open, and I see her gaze flit around the room, seeing the extra condom I tossed onto the bedside table. She pushes me down to the mattress, slides astride me and reaches for the square packet. She rips it open with her fingers, pulls free the circle, tosses the empty packet aside. Sitting on my thighs, she toys with the condom, rolling it one way and then the other until she determines which way it opens. Taking my cock in one hand, she fits the circle around the tip and rolls it down one-handed, then uses her other hand to push it down the rest of the way.
 

I rest my hands on her hips, deciding to let her do what she wants, for now. She leans forward, and her tits slide across my chest, soft and warm against my skin, and her weight presses me down against the mattress. Her lips touch my shoulder, my chin, my jaw, the corner of my mouth, and then we’re kissing and my breath is gone. Her kiss is sweet, slow and deep. One hand supports her weight, a palm in the mattress beside my ribs, another smoothing over my chest as we kiss. She inches forward a bit more, and her free hand sneaks between our bodies. She doesn’t break the kiss as she guides my cock to her entrance, no, she deepens it, opening her mouth to mine and demanding my tongue. I feel her labia part and accept the head of my cock, and then she pauses. Breaks the kiss, sighing quietly, and then her forehead touches my chest and she’s watching our bodies join as she flexes her hips downward, taking me deeper oh so slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and with each increment she takes short shallow breaths in and out, and she’s watching, watching my cock enter her.
 

“I don’t know how you fit, but you do,” she whispers.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. Well, yeah, a little, but it’s good. Oh god, yeah, it’s good.” She’s fully impaled on me now, her ass nestled against my hips.
 

Both of her hands go to my chest, supporting her weight on me, and I use my own hands to caress her lush tan skin everywhere I can reach, hips, thighs, ass, back, and then I cup her heavy tits as they sway above me, and she gasps when my fingers find her nipples and pinch and roll and twist. She rolls her hips, keeping me deep. Slow, driving, grinding sweeps of her hips, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide and fraught on mine, her hair a thick black curtain over one shoulder.