Trashed / Page 31

Page 31


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.

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