Fueled

God, she’s fucking gorgeous. I can’t help but reach out and pull a curl off of her cheek. The feeling—that fucking foreign feeling that’s not so foreign any more—courses through me, grabs me by the balls and then hands them back to me on a platter.

Makes fear shiver at the base of my spine in a constant state of reverberation.

My fingers linger on her shoulder, touching her to make sure she’s real. There’s no possible way that she can be. She scares the fuck out of me. That not so foreign feeling scares the fuck out of me. But I can’t force myself to walk away. From that very first encounter I haven’t been able to. Shit, at first it was definitely the challenge. That smart mouth, those violet eyes, and the sway of that ass—what red-blooded male would have?

Christ. Tell me I can’t have something, I’m sure as fuck going to go after it until I get it. Game on. I’m in it until the motherfucking checkered flag.

But then, that first time I showed up at The House—that look in her eyes that told me to get the fuck out and to not mess with her Zander or she’d take me down herself—everything changed. Shifted. Became real. The challenge ceased to exist. All I saw in that moment was myself as a kid. Myself now. Knew that she loved the broken in us. Was okay with the darkness because she was so full of fucking light. Knew she’d understand so much more than I’d ever be able to say.

That selfless soul of hers and come-fuck-me body just pulled at me, twisted through parts inside of me that I thought had died and would never regenerate. Made me feel when I’ve been so content to live in the blur around me. I mean who really does the shit she does? Takes fucked up kids—lots of fucked up kids—and treats them as her own. Defends them. Loves them. Fights for them. Is willing to make a deal with the devil such as myself for their benefit.

That day in the conference room when I trapped her into my little deal, I could see the trepidation and the knowledge that I’d hurt her in those fucking bedroom eyes, and as much as she knew it, she agreed for the sake of the boys, regardless of the damage it’d cause to her personally. And of course I’m a fucking bastard for wondering the whole time how sweet her pussy would taste. I mean if her kiss was that fucking addictive, then I couldn’t even imagine how the rest of her body would drug me. She’s sacrificing herself for her boys, and there I was thinking of my end game.

And that in itself fucked me up, forced me to keep my guard up. I knew she was going to let me have her, but had no fucking clue that first time together—when she looked at me with such a definitive clarity afterward—that she’d be able to look right into my goddamn soul. It freaked me the fuck out, stirred things within me I never wanted churned up again. Things I had accepted living a lifetime without. No one knows the things I did—the things I allowed to be done to me. The poison living inside. How I loved and hated and did unimaginable things for reasons I didn’t understand at the time and still don’t understand now.

And I fear every minute of every fucking day that she’ll figure it out, learn about the truths inside of me and then leave me so much worse off than she found me. She’s unlocked things in me I’d never intended to allow to see the light of day again. She pushes the concept of vulnerability to a whole new level.

But I can’t push her away. I can’t stop wanting to for her sake. But every time I try—every time I crack and she sees a glimpse of my demons—I’m scared shitless. God, I try to make her leave—even if it’s only in my fucked up head—but I’m never successful. And I’m just not sure if it’s because she’s stubborn or because it’s a half-assed attempt on my part just so I can tell myself I actually tried.

I know what’s best for her is not me. Shit, last night…last night was…fuck. I handed myself to her. Told her I’d try when every part of me screamed in protest from the fear of being ripped to shreds by allowing myself to feel. I’ve always used pleasure to bury the pain. Not emotions. Not commitment. Pleasure. How else can I prove to myself that I’m not that kid I was forced to be? It’s the only way I know. The only way I can cope. Fuck the therapists who had no clue what happened to me. My parents wasted so much fucking money on people telling me how to overcome the issues they thought I had. That I could use hypnosis to regress and overcome. Fuck that. Give me a tight, wet, willing pussy to bury myself in momentarily and that’s all the proof I need.

Pleasure to bury the pain. So what do I do now? How do I cope with the one person that I fear can give me both? And she does, yet I still hurt her last night. I have a feeling I always will in some way or another. At some point she’s just going to stop forgiving or coming back. Then what, Donavan? What the fuck are you going to do then? If I’m broken now, I’ll be fucking shattered then.

I stare at her sleeping, so innocent and mine and fuck all why I can’t stay away from her. I’m scared shitless and she fucking did this to me. She fucking grabbed ahold, forced me to listen to the silent words she spoke, and really hear them. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?

My God the way she looked at me last night with eyes filled with naivety and jaw set with obstinance, asking me if she was enough for me. First of all—fucking Tawny—and then secondly, enough? I’m the one that’s not enough. Not hardly. I’m fucking drowning in her, and I’m not even sure I want to come up for air. Enough? I shake my head at the irony. She stays despite, if not because of the darkness deep in my soul. A saint I’m not worthy of, shouldn’t taint.

She makes a soft noise in her throat and rolls onto her back. The sheet slips down off of her chest exposing her perfect fucking tits. Fuck me. My dick starts stirring to life at the sight. It’s been what, like three hours since the last time I was buried in her, and I’m already fucking ready to have her again. Addictive voodoo pussy. I swear to God.

She whimpers again and rocks her head back and forth on the pillow. I hear Baxter’s tail thump at the sound and the possibility that someone might be up already. My eyes trail over her lips and back to her tits. I groan at the sight of her pink nipples pebbling from the morning chill. I really should cover her back up, but fuck me, the view’s pretty fucking fantastic, and I don’t want to ruin it just yet.

Her shriek scares the shit out of me. It’s a piercing keening that causes my chest to tighten. She cries out again and it’s a tortured sound followed by her throwing her arms up to block her face. I sit up and try to gather her against me, but she bucks back.

“Rylee. Wake up!” I say, shaking her shoulders a couple of times. She finally wakes with a start and struggles out of my grip to bolt up in the bed. The sound of her gasping for breath makes me want to fold her into my arms and take the fear and pain that’s rolling off of her in waves away from her. I do the only thing I can think of and run my hand up and down the bare skin of her back—the only comfort I can offer. “You okay?”

She just nods her head and looks over at me. And in that one glance I’m paralyzed. Fucking paralyzed. As a guy you’re supposed to have that instinct to protect and care for. You always hear about how that’s your job. It’s ingrained. What-the-fuck-ever. Besides the few times when Q had some bullies at school fuck with her, I’ve never remotely felt that way. Never.

Until right now. Rylee looks at me and those violet eyes are pooling with tears and filled with such absolute pain and fear. I do the only thing I want to even though I know it’s not enough for her, it’ll assuage my needs. I reach out pulling her toward me and onto my lap before leaning back against the headboard. When I wrap my arms around her, she lays her cheek over my chest. Over my heart. And despite the calm that the feel of her bare skin on mine brings me, I can’t help but keep feeling the single connection of her face over my heart.

The one place I never expected to feel again just quickened at such a simple, natural gesture. I swear that her pulse and breathing are evening out and mine are accelerating. I run my fingers through her curls, needing to do something to combat the panic I feel setting in.

First I feel like I need to protect her, take care of her, covet her. And then the simple notion of her getting comfort from my heartbeat freaks me the fuck out. Can you say pussy, Donavan? More like pussy whipped. What. The. Fuck? This shit is not supposed to happen to me. Telling her I’ll try is one thing. But this fucking feeling taking hold of me like a vice grip in my chest? No fucking thanks.

I hear my mom’s voice. It seeps into my head and my hand stills in Rylee’s hair. I swear I stop breathing. “Colty. I know how much you love me. How much you need me. That you understand that love means doing whatever the other person tells you to. So I’m telling you that because you love me, you’ll go lay down on my bed for me and wait like the good little boy that you are. You want food right? It’s been days. You’ve got to be hungry. If you’re a good little boy—if you love me—you won’t fight this time. Won’t be the naughty boy you were last time. If you’re bruised up, the police might take us away from each other. And then you won’t get anything to eat. And then I won’t love you anymore.”

Rylee’s hand tracing absent circles on my tattoos jolts me back to the here and now. The irony in that—her touching the tattoos that represent so much—is enough in itself. I force myself to breathe calmly, try and clear the revulsion in my stomach. Quiet the tremor in my hand so she doesn’t notice. Fuck. Now I know the feeling earlier really was a fluke. How can I want to protect and take care of Rylee when I can’t even do that for myself? Breathe, Donavan. Fucking breathe.

“I wonder if we’re drawn to each other because we’re both fucked up emotionally somehow,” she murmurs aloud, breaking the silence. I can’t help the breath that hitches in my chest. I swallow slowly, digesting her words—realizing they’re just a coincidence—but how true they ring for me.

“Well gee thanks,” I say, forcing a chuckle, hoping to calm both of us with some humor. “Us and everyone else in Hollywood.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, snuggling deeper into me. The feeling is so fucking soothing to me I wish I could pull her inside of me to ease the pain there as well.

“I told you, a seven forty seven baby.” I leave it at that. I can’t force any more words out without her catching on that something’s amiss with me.

She moves her hand from my tattoo to tickle through the slight smattering of hair on my chest. “I could lie here forever,” she sighs out in that throaty morning voice of hers. I pray for my dick to stir at the sound. Need it to. Need to prove to myself that the unexpected reminder of my mother and my past can’t affect me anymore. That they aren’t who I am.

My thoughts flicker to what I’d normally do. Go call up my current flavor and use her. Fuck her into oblivion without a second thought of her needs. Use the fleeting pleasure to bury the endless goddamn motherfucking pain.

But I can’t do that. I can’t just walk away from the one person that I want and fear and desire and have fucking grown to need. Balls in a fucking vice.

And before I even think, the words are out of my mouth. “Then stay here with me this weekend.” I think I’m as shocked as Ry is at my comment. She stills at the same time I do. The first time my lips have ever uttered those fucking words. Words I never wanted to say before, but know without a doubt I mean right now.

“On one condition,” she says.

One condition? I just handed her my balls on a platter in exchange for the whip to her pussy and she’s going to add a condition? Fucking women.

“Tell me what a voodoo pussy is.”

For the first time this morning I feel like laughing. And I do. I can’t contain it. She just looks up at me, with those eyes that do wild things to me, like I’m crazy. “Fuck, I needed that,” I tell her, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Well?” she asks in that no-nonsense tone she has that usually turns me on. And I breathe a slight sigh as I start to harden at the thought of her wet heat I plan on taking advantage of in mere moments.

“Voodoo pussy?” I choke on the words.

“Yeah. You said it last night in the garden.”

“I did?” I ask, unable to hide the amusement in my tone, and she just nods her head subtly with her eyebrows arched waiting for an answer. Oh yeah. Definitely hard and raring to go now. Thank Christ. “Well…it’s that pussy that just takes hold of your dick and doesn’t let go. It’s so fucking good—feels, tastes, everything good—that it’s magical.” I feel so fucking stupid explaining it. I don’t think I ever have. I just say it and Becks knows exactly what I mean.

Rylee laughs out loud and the sound is so beautiful. Beautiful? Fuck. I am pussy whipped. “So you’re telling me that I have a magical pussy?” she asks as her finger trails a circle around my nipple before looking up at me and licking her lips. I can’t manage a word at the moment because all of the blood needed to supply a coherent thought in my brain has just traveled south, so I just nod my head. “Well maybe I should show you—”

The cell phone on the dresser rings—it’s a different ring than her normal one—and something about it has her scrambling off of the bed in a flash. She’s breathless when she answers. And fucking breathtaking. She stands at the wall of windows looking out to the beach down below, her phone to her ear, and the sun bathing her naked body in its light.

The concern in her voice pulls me from my perverse thoughts of all of the ways I can take her. Position her. Corrupt her.

“Calm down, Scooter,” she soothes. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m okay. I’m right here. Shhh-shhh-shhh. Nothing’s happened to me. I’m actually sitting on the beach right now, looking out at the water. I promise, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.” The concern in her voice has me shifting in the bed. She notices my movement and looks over and smiles apologetically at me. As if I’d be mad that she left me to talk to one of the boys. Never. “You okay now? Yes. I know. Don’t be sorry. You know that if I’m not there, you can always call me. Always. Mmm-hmm. I’ll see you on Monday, okay? Call me if you need me before then.” Rylee walks back toward the dresser as she wraps up her call. “Hey, Scoot? I Spiderman you. Bye.”

I Spiderman you? Rylee hangs up her phone and tosses it on the dresser before walking back to the bed. My eyes roam over the line of her curves, thinking how lucky I am to have her naked and walking toward me with an extremely durable bed beneath me.

“Sorry,” she says. “Scooter had a really bad dream and was afraid that I’d been hurt. That I was going to be taken away like his mom was. He just needed to make sure that I was okay. Sorry,” she says again, and I swear that my fucking heart twists in my chest at her apologies for being selfless. Is she for fucking real?

“Don’t be,” I tell her as she climbs into the bed beside me and sits on her knees. I tell myself to ask now before I become distracted at the sight of her sitting there looking so damn obedient. “I Spiderman you?”

She laughs with this adorable look on her face. “Yeah.” She shrugs. “Some of the boys have trouble with affection when they come to us. Either they feel like they’re betraying their parents, regardless of how fucked up their situation, by having feelings for their counselors, or feelings in general had a negative connotation from whatever situation they came from… It all started with Shane really, but it kind of caught on and now most of the boys do it. We take the one thing that they love more than anything and use that as the emotion instead. Scooter loves Spiderman so that’s what he uses.”

I look at her with bemusement, a little unnerved that she has these kids pegged so well—me so well—if I allowed her to look close enough. She’s just unknowingly fucked with my mind so much that my eyes haven’t roamed south of her face to take in her gloriously naked body below as they normally would.

She mistakes the look I give her to be that I don’t understand so she tries to clarify. She shifts off of her knees and situates herself closer to me. “Okay, for instance pretend you are one of my boys—tell me one thing that you love more than anything.”

“That’s easy.” I smirk at her. “Sex with you.”

The smile spreads on her lips and her cheeks flush. So sexy. “Well that’s an answer I’ve never gotten from one of my boys before,” she jokes, laughing at me. “No seriously, Colton, give me the one thing.”

I shrug, saying my first and only love. “I love to race.”

“Perfect,” she says. “If you were one of my boys and you wanted to tell me you loved me, or vice versa, you’d say ‘I race you, Rylee.’”

My heart stutters again at hearing her say those words, and I think she realizes what she’s said the minute the words are out of her mouth. She stills and her eyes dart to me and then down to her hands twisting in her lap. “I mean...” she backpedals and I’m glad this conversation is making her as nervous as I am right now “...if you were one of the boys that is.”

“Of course.” I swallow, desperately needing a distraction. I reach out to trace a finger down the midline of her chest—from her neck, down between the center of her breasts, and stopping at her bellybutton.

I race you, Rylee fleets through my mind. Just to hear what it sounds like for no other reason than to see how one of the boys would feel saying it. The tightening of my chest forces me to focus on the one thing that always allows me to forget. There will be no racing between Rylee and I. None. I look up from where my finger rests on her stomach to meet her eyes. “Now, I think you were just about to show me just how magical that pussy of yours was before we were interrupted.”