A Brutal Tenderness (12 page)

Now Jewell stands before me, a match made by my dead cousin,
Jewell none the wiser that I’m Faith’s cousin.
Destiny has a sense of humor.
I shake off the disquieting memories as I straighten
and move toward Jewell, neither of us talking. It’s like this
moment’s been set since time began and we’re moving toward
the inevitable. The pull of her is a real thing to me, physical. I
don’t fight it, I don’t need to.
She’s agreed. Jewell’s permission has released my desire to
dominate her, own her.
I hold out my hand and Jewell moves into my arms as I fold
them around her, just holding her against me, the perfect key to
my lock. I clasp both her dainty wrists in the palm of one hand,
putting them at the small of her back. Jewell’s unbalanced,
necessitating moving backward, which exposes her throat, and
I watch that pulse beat erratically with what I’m doing. Jewell’s
my opposite, my complement. I want to consume her and she
wishes to be consumed, though she may not realize it yet.
“I shouldn’t do this . . .” she whispers as I hold her wrists.
Jewell’s head tips back and I eat at that hot little pulse in the
hollow of her throat, never releasing my hold. I keep her bound
with one hand and bury the other in the back of her hair.
“Then why are you?” I ask softly against her neck.
The plaits twine with my fingers perfectly as I tighten my
hold, the warmth of my breath the prelude to my kisses on
her collarbone, begging for attention. I work from the farthest
corner of her shoulder until I make my way to the center as she
gives a small whimper of pleasure.
“I need to . . . I have to . . .” Jewell tries to answer in a voice
gone rough with her desire.
My breathing changes at her words, Jewell’s blatant
passion causes my body to harden against her as her breathing
quickens. It doesn’t matter that we’re in the parking lot, that
there could be witnesses. Our heat for each other bleeds out
everywhere, for all to see. I rein it in with a supreme effort.
“We’re going, or we’ll give people a show,” I say against
her flushed skin, a case of raging blue balls settling in for the
duration. I finally raise my head to her face, gripping her hair a
little tighter, and watch the breath catch in her throat.
The moment hangs suspended, too short . . . and going on
forever.
Jewell likes it, that finely held control; fear and excitement
war with each other in her eyes. Then I say what I swore to
myself I wouldn’t, changing the dynamic between us. I can’t
help it, it’s compulsive. I know what it means for me, for us,
but I don’t analyze it or I’ll quit this thing between us before it
starts. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”
She looks at me and finally realizes what I’m asking. I never
want someone to hit Jewell again. It’d be more than losing my
job, it’d mean jail time.
I’ll kill him.
My mind supplies the image of Jewell, her handbag spilled
on the wet pavement, purged of its contents. Her supple
dancer’s feet encased in fragile little heels, the tense male body
between her and me—the moment when I know he’ll hit her.
I shut my eyes, then open them, nailing her with a level
stare.
“I won’t have you in harm’s way,” I add, kissing the tip of
her nose, the skin of her face warm from the grip I have on her
hair, the kisses I place everywhere there’s exposed skin. “I can’t
protect you if you’re walking in front of the truck, Jess.”
I hold my breath as my heart lies open in her hands, beating
and ready for massacre.
“I don’t know why you have to.” Her eyes move through
mine like smoke, and there’s no barrier there to keep her out.
But Jewell doesn’t crush my fragile attempt at truth, at real
emotions. The things that happen to others.
That are now happening to me.
I see it before she knows she’s given it.
Her trust.
It shines out of her eyes, her body . . . all of Jewell is held in
that look she gives me, and I suddenly know why Faith thought
we’d be perfect.
“I just do,” I reply and hold her tight against me, our
heartbeats working in tandem, like they’re reluctant to part.
Jewell is that missing piece of me I’ve been looking for and
didn’t know it.
Faith was intuitive enough to see it in us both.
Jewell’s missing something too, and I’m the fix for that.
We’re the fix for each other.
No more broken . . . but whole again.

I feel Jewell’s heat pressed against my back as we ride toward
my apartment, my heart speeding with anticipation. Her arms
encircle my body from behind, feeling as right as the bike
beneath me. A recipe for perfection.

My apartment’s located very close to the campus by design,
and it’s in a turn-of-the-last-century group of cloistered rooms
that were later broken down to even smaller-size units for
troops during World War II. But what they lack in space, they
make up for in tall ceilings, wood floors, and windows that
allow light to pour through, bathing the dim corners of my
temporary dwelling. A critical component in a place that rains
more often than not.

I pull into my parking slot, tapping the kickstand down.
My eyes scan my surroundings as they always do, taking in the
solid brick structure that rises into the grayness of the sky like
a salute of stone, the arches in the windows accented by central
keystones like eyebrows. Their placement feels like gaze of glass
that watches us.

I don’t turn around but grab Jewell’s hand and haul her
behind me, my heart thumping in a loud and fast rhythm
inside my chest—tight with excitement, tight with fear.

I’m falling without end, like in a dream where you fall
endlessly without landing. I keep the hope that I can catch
myself.

A small and secret part of me knows I won’t. Jewell’s not the
only one without self-preservation instincts; mine have gone
AWOL.

We walk hand in hand into the dark hall that leads to the
stairs. Our feet take the treads of exposed aggregate pebbles,
a nod to the ’70s when stairs were added to stuff even more
humans in a sardine can of brick. We climb the single flight to
my apartment door with purpose.

I jam the key in the lock and swing the door open as I
release Jewell. She walks through, missing the varied floor
height in a stumble that’s the first klutzy thing I’ve ever seen
her do. I snag her, swinging her around. It’s as good an excuse
as any to lay my hands on her. I kick the door shut behind me
and walk us to my bedroom, her feet on mine, my forehead
pressed to hers. I shove my bedroom door open with my palm,
knowing the weight of the solid fir door needs the momentum
or it’ll just fight back. It opens with a smooth groan and I toss
Jewell on my bed. She bounces, wide-eyed and flushed, from
the ride or our closeness or my actions, I don’t know.

Sexy and engaging me.
Seeing Jewell in my bed, where I’ve wanted her since I saw
her dance in that audition, does something to me. Suddenly, I
can’t stand not being against her . . . in her. Jewell sees it on my
face as hers grows serious in response. Whatever my expression
says prompts anxiety, and Jewell moves away from me until her
back presses against the headboard.
Not the response I’m looking for.
However, I have a remedy.
“No second thoughts, Jess,” I say in soft reminder.
I pounce, half launching myself across the bed. That’s the
problem with being big, you don’t think of yourself in those
terms. I’ve been this size for years, it’s what I am. But to Jewell,
I’m monster-size as I land beside her, smoothly rolling her
against and partly beneath me.
It feels so right it hurts.
Jewell gives me wide eyes, putting her palms against my
chest, holding me . . . holding me off, and I lift my brows.
“It’s been awhile,” she says in explanation with a nervous
laugh.
Oh. I search her face, asking slowly, “How long’s awhile?”
A blush storms her delicate features and feel my dick soften.
I know she’s not a blushing virgin, our intel told us that. But . . .
maybe close. Too close to keep that level of excitement. I
hesitate, she suddenly feels even more fragile than before.
I wait and she watches my strained patience.
“Two years,” she admits softly.
I can’t be the cause of any pain for Jewell, I think. It’s not
the role I want. I know those pleasure and pain centers are
actually near each other and have played that tune before so
closely you could slice it with a knife. But I say none of this.
Instead, I ask for confirmation, though she doesn’t know
this. “How many lovers?”
She scowls, and I squeeze her to me with a soft chuckle, my
hand lightly palming her nipple and closing my fingers in a
pincer grasp that is at once a smooth roll and tweak that causes
her to moan, and I smile and repeat softly, “How many?”
God, how I want her.
“It doesn’t matter  .  .  .” She gasps as my ministrations
continue, distracting her from the terse answer she wants to
deliver. “I’m not asking you for a list of your lovers,” she says
with indignation, that husky quality to her voice a flat purr of
irritation moving toward anger.
I tell Jewell the truth; we’ve gone too far for lies. “It’s not a
tally, I just want . . . I want to know how far we can go. I don’t
want to scare you off.”
I see the look on her face and laugh from my gut. The
humor bleeds out of my eyes as I see she’s not a little sub to toy
with; she really is a completely inexperienced woman. “You’re a
vanilla girl, aren’t you, Jess?”
Jewell’s face scrunches indecisively for a moment, then
seems to get the contextual meaning of my words. “I guess
so,” she says uncertainly, then boldly meets my eyes. “But
I’m ready . . . for this,” she insists softly, pushing through her
shyness.
Me too. “We’ll change that,” I promise her, and myself.
Then add, “but not today.” My voice lowers as my lust sweeps
in again, the eye of the storm vanishing. “Today, I want to
be inside you  .  .  . here,” I say, as I press the bottom of my
palm against the hottest part of her, the place I’ve wanted to
touch . . . far longer than I like to admit. Jewell’s breath releases
in a hiss of pleasure, eyes on mine, her hand covering mine on
her sex.
I’m in charge of this event and not afraid to let her know.
It’s how it has to be for me. I need to be the aggressor; it’s as
much a part of me as brown eyes and height. I won’t apologize
for it, and we’ll see if she’s what I think she is.
Jewell will submit, and deep down, I know she wants to.
“I’m going to take your clothes off now.” I shuck the rest of
my shit and chuck it in the corner. I enjoy undressing a woman,
unveiling her like a finely held gift that I want to unwrap but
wait for impatiently. In the case of Jewell, my patience is at an
end. I know my position on the case is in jeopardy because I’m
not playing a role anymore. This is me. And not all of me is
pretty. But I’m real . . . and that’s what Jewell needs. And at the
moment, she’s all I need too. Fuck the case; all I want is Jewell.
Jewell’s breathing is already staggered as I slowly unbutton
the long sweater she wears, the pale lavender the perfect lick of
color against her fair skin. I unbutton one button, then meet
her eyes as I press a hot kiss against the piece of flesh that is
revealed by my slow undoing of the soft material.
Her eyes meet mine and beg for something. “Cas . . .” she
moans at the barest touch of my foreplay. Jewell moves those
elegant fingers into the stubble of my head, and I move into her
hands like a cat seeking cream as my lips lick that spot of skin.
I hope that I give Jewell what she needs. What I know I
need.
I reach her belly button and thrust my tongue into it,
licking around the outer rim and doing it again, and she moves
her hips into my mouth as I push the wetness of my tongue
into the little divot. When her hips move, I trap her with my
forearm, licking. “My eager little ballerina,” I murmur as my
tongue dances at her flinching and quivering hips and lower
body.
I sit up and Jewell lies before me, every inch of her skin
bright pink, her camouflaged eyes half lidded from her desire.
A soft hush of lust and heat cloaks my bedroom, suffocating
in its unrequited weight. I pull the undone sweater from
underneath her and throw it on top of the pile of my own
tossed clothing. I lie down against her, low. She strokes my
head, and the unaccustomed gesture of affection undoes me
more than if she’d laid her hand on my cock. Without realizing
it, Jewell speaks to the only tender part of me that exists.
No one ever reaches it. Somehow, in minutes, Jewell does.
I roll my eyes up to meet hers, the side of my face against
the flatness of her stomach, her fast heartbeat pulsing against
my cheek as I begin massaging her small ass cheeks, the
breadth of them filling my palms and spilling around the edges
just enough for me to enjoy the feel of her curves against my
grip. I do it hard enough for her to squirm. Just as Jewell opens
her mouth, maybe to ask me to be gentler, I say, “I’m going to
enjoy fucking you, Jess.”
That seems to awaken her from her drowsy, lust-filled
contentment, and Jewell puts a staying hand on my belly as I
crawl over her and whisper, “over and over.”
In her face I see the myriad of emotions, changing  .  .  .
evolving . . . and finally accepting.
I’m not off base; Jewell likes my crude terms, my dominance.
“Yes,” she whispers, affirming me.
Jewell doesn’t like that she likes it, but after two years of
hiding and self-imposed control, Jewell wants someone else to
have it.
If Jewell thinks I’ve waited this long to just attack the
obvious, she’s misread me. Her panties and bra match, a soft
lilac that would look hot as hell with her real hair and eye color
but looks eatable with her fake coloring as well. I take my own
advice as I bend my head to her nipple, standing at pebbled
attention for my mouth.
I don’t bother to take her bra off, that’s too assumed, too
easy. I suck her nipple right through the fragile lace edging,
and Jewell arches her back into the embrace of my hot mouth,
my lips working over the sensitive nub through the scattered
material. I finish the job of undressing her, the V of the
matching panty peeking out from her jeans that with the first
button popped.
I slowly unzip her pants and smoothly roll them off her
legs, batting them away with one hand, my eyes flicking back to
hers. I mound her tit up, taking more of the flesh of her breast
into my mouth and speak around it. “Spread your legs, Jess,” I
command, sucking harder, drawing her breast almost painfully
hard into my mouth, and she resists me with a small shake of
her head and I smile around her nipple. Jewell is exquisite, like
a fine instrument to appreciate.
I want to play her often. In fact, I haven’t enjoyed the deep
heat of her body, yet I know, even now, I’ll never want to leave
it.
Jewell disobeys me and I up the pressure, my other hand
going between her legs, over that sheer layer of material that
covers her clit, and I begin working it lightly with the pad
of my thumb, flicking it back and forth as she pants against
the pillow, her face thrown to the side, one hand pressing me
against her nipple, the other fisted in the linen by her face. I
respond to her unconscious cue, sucking even harder, and I can
hear by the hitch and gasp of her breathing she’s getting close.
But I’m still in control and it’s one of the biggest challenges
of my life. I want to sink my meat into her in the most
unbearable way I can imagine. But keeping myself on that
tight line of control, while I wait for release, will make her
submission to me all the sweeter.
Jewell gives a soft grunt of frustration, releasing the
bunched-up sheet, her eyes seeking mine. I say again in
singular articulation, “Spread. Your. Legs, Jess.” My own breath
pants along with hers, my hands tremble with my own urgency.
Please release me, Jewell
, I think.
Release us.
I close my eyes against the erotic sight of Jewell, her
warm skin underneath my hands, and I speed my tempo. The
slickness of her clit so engorged beneath my finger that it begs
for skin-to-skin contact.
Jewell silently moves her legs apart, her feet sliding to the
edges of the bed, and I breathe my relief against her nipple.
“Thank you,” I say with a sincerity that borders on a plea. I lift
my face from her nipple and leave her clit, roughly shoving
aside the strip of material that bisects the perfection of her
succulent ass and sex, pushing my finger deeply inside her.
We both groan in exhaustive sync as her tightness reflexively
clenches against me and Jewell’s back pops off the bed in a
perfect arch, her hips bucking as she cries out in a hoarse shout,
“Ah!” Her orgasm is a half scream of pleasure, an invitation to
do what I’ve been wanting to since I’d first seen her body move
in supplication to music.
It will move for me.
“Now . . . I fuck you,” I promise in a voice gone so low with
need it comes out like a whisper.