Falling Into You (21 page)

“Fuck. You’re crazy, baby.” His voice is a feral snarl, spoken through clenched teeth.
 

I don’t even see him move. One second he’s over there, the next he’s slamming into me, lips crushing mine, and true to his word, he takes my lower lip into his mouth and sucks on it, tongues it. I’m jarred and shocked by the sudden violence of his kiss, and then I melt as he sucks on my lip. And then I’m pure liquid beneath him, because he’s abruptly gentle, taking my face in his hands, gazing at me with our lips barely touching, and then he kisses me slowly and so thoroughly, so deeply, I’m just…lost. His mouth moves on mine, claims me, steals my heart with his lips, takes my body with his mouth.
 

We’d kissed before, and it was—every time—the best kiss I’d ever had. My heart clenches when I realize this includes, by a landslide, every kiss Kyle ever gave me. There’s just no comparison. That hurts, that does. It hurts so sweet, so deep, so strange, I just don’t know what to do with it.

This kiss…I’m gone. Gone. I know, in that moment, that I belong to him. It’s what he said: I’m his. How it happened, I don’t know. I
really
wish I did.
 

 
“Last chance, Nelly-baby.” His voice is in my ear, not even a whisper, just breathed subvocalization that I feel on my ear. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

I push him up and I see the hurt in his eyes before I can correct him. He starts to get off, but I catch his bicep and still him in place. I curl my fingers under the hem of my shirt and peel it off. Colton’s eyes go wide and he licks his lips.
 

“I want this.” I say it as loud as I can, which is a breathless gasp, at most. “I need this.”

His eyes change, then. They go feral.
 

Oh boy, here we go.

“Take off your thong and spread your legs.”

“Say please.” I find strength in the game. My terror, my vulnerability abates, and I’m thankful.

He just stares at me. I don’t move to comply. He shakes his head and half-blinks in disbelief. And then he tugs on my thong and it comes apart. He didn’t jerk it, he didn’t expend any effort. He just put two fingers around the string at my hip, two fingers of the other hand inside the triangle over my core, and tugged.
Rip
. Gone. I’m naked. That easy.
 

“I liked that thong,” I protested.

“Should’ve listened then.” He slides his fingers down my belly, which clenches, and across my pudendum and down my tight-clamped thighs. “Now, spread your legs and feel free to scream. No one can hear.”

“Wha—
oh.
” I don’t even have time to process my confusion before his tongue is doing something wicked to my clit.
 

I spread my legs. Wide. I tuck my heels against my buttocks and let my knees fall apart. I’m shameless.
 

“Yeah, Nelly. Just like that,” he breathes onto my folds. “God…
damn.
Sweet as sugar.”

I blush at his words, and then I’ve got no headspace for anything but the screams ripping from my throat. Because
god
…I’ve never felt anything like this. Not ever. I writhe on the bed, arch up, buck in time to his tongue’s lapping. And then…oh yeah, it gets better. He slides a finger inside me and curls it, and I just…lose it. I combust. I scream so loud it hurts my own ears, upon which I clamp my teeth together and past gritting jaws.
 

“Trust me?” His voice is a surprise, and I’m so lost in sensation I don’t even understand his words.

“Wha—what?”

“Do. You. Trust me.” His fingers haven’t stopped their curling and swirling and exploring.
 

“Your fingers are inside me, so yes.”

“You might want to bite a pillow.”

“Why…?” I start the question, but I never finish it. “Oh…
shit!”

He laughs, but it’s a pleased laugh. He’s got two fingers in my folds now, and a third is…oh hell. I don’t even believe it, can’t even fathom or understand it, but it’s
down there
. Dirty and dark.
 

I bite a pillow. My entire existence is a vortex of raging ecstasy. I simply cannot contain it. I’m coming apart at the seams, and I’m not even coming yet. Or maybe I am.
 
Maybe this is what lies beyond the edge, and this is the first time I’ve ever really been here. I don’t know. I can’t keep it in. I scream into the pillow, and I sob, and I arch, and I buck. I find my fingers tangled in his hair and crushing him wontonly against me, even as I’m begging him.
 

Begging him to what, I don’t know.
 

“Colton…Colton…please…oh god, ohgod,
ohmigod
…”
 

See? Am I asking him to stop? To never ever stop, not even to breathe? I don’t know.
 

It’s just a tiny intrusion, really, the very tip of his finger wiggling inside me in my forbidden place. But it’s earth-shattering.
 

“What…what are you doing to me?” I ask.

“Making you come. Fingering your tight, virgin asshole.” He returns his mouth to my folds and sucks my turgid nub into his mouth, and I scream, arch into him. “I’m getting you ready.”

“Ready for what?” I want to know. God, do I want to know. There’s more?

“Come, and I’ll show you.”

“I thought I was coming?”
 

He chuckles. “Oh no.” He reaches up with his free hand, and suddenly he’s everywhere. Pinching my nipple and rolling it, and fingering me, curling and thrusting, licking, sucking… “Come. Now.”

It’s a command, and I have no choice but to obey. I explode into pieces, liquid and fire and screams and sobs. Actual sobs. Like, with tears.
 

And then…then he crawls up my body like the predator he is. The stubble around his mouth is wet. From me. I blush, hard.
 

Holy god, ohmigod, oh shit. He’s so huge. All muscle and broad lines and hard edges, so big above me. His presence blocks out the world. All I see is tattoos and skin and sapphire eyes and sable hair. And then I glance down, and see his…his
him
. His cock.
 

I like that word. I never use it. I started swearing openly after Kyle died. I just didn’t care anymore. But sex? Gone. No part of my life, after that. I swore, I cursed,
 
I drank, but I couldn’t fathom sex. I buried myself in classes at a community college and worked for Daddy in his office and saw no one, did nothing, was no one. I worked. I studied. I played music. I was the living dead, a guilt-ravaged shell.

Now…I’m alive. So alive. And I like dirty words.

I’m shameless. And I like it. Partially because the guilt of what we’re doing is a new kind of pain, and pain centers me.

Back to his cock. It’s…glorious. I just…oh god. I felt it, before. But seeing it all, every thick inch coming for me…I forget to breathe and bite my lip.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” His voice is so, so tender.

He thought I was afraid, I think. And suddenly, with that realization, I am. I’m terrified. Scared shitless. Another realization washes over me, and it brings wave after wave of pain, guilt, shame, and tears.
 

“Nell? What is it? Why are you crying?” He falls to the side of me and nuzzles my face with his nose. “Shit. Shit. I did this. Too much. God…
damn
it.” He presses his palm to his forehead.

“No…” I choke the word out past gut-racking sobs. “No. Not you…”

“Then what?”

“Well, yeah.” I breathe deep and claw my nails down my forearm. The pain does its job and calms me. “It’s you, but not…not what you’re thinking.”

“Make sense, damn it,” he growls.

“Sorry. Sorry.” I gulp air and tug at my hair, pulling until it hurts. “You’re just so much. So
much
. So much more than…anyone. So much more than—than Kyle.” And with that last word I’m sobbing again.

“Fuck.” He’s over me, on an elbow and gazing down at me, but I can barely see him through the blurry burn of salt in my eyes. “Nell, I’m just me. I know I said last chance, but…it’s done. Okay? Don’t…don’t be afraid. Don’t…god. I’m such a fucking dick. Look, this is about you, okay? I’m sorry I pushed you into this.”

I laugh past sobs. “You’re such an idiot,” I manage.

At which he tenses, frozen stiff.
 

“What? What did you call me?” His voice is deadly cold.

I twist to look at him, and I see that he’s livid, jaw hard and tensed, neck muscles corded. “Colton, I—I just meant that I wasn’t afraid, not of you. And I said you’re an idiot because you’re acting like you pushed me into this. You didn’t. I pushed
you
into this.” He’s shaking, he’s so mad, and I’m confused and terrified. “I’m sorry—I’m—I didn’t mean it…please…I—”

“Shut up for a second and let me calm down, ‘kay?” I nod and hold absolutely still. After a few minutes, he speaks in a much calmer voice. “I have an issue with that word. With being called an idiot, or stupid. Or anything like that. Retard, dumbass, shit like that…it’s a button for me. Don’t say it. Not ever, not even in joke. Got it?”

I nod. “Yeah. I got it. I’m sorry. You’re not an idiot. You’re amazing. You’re…so much. That’s my point. It’s—”

“No need to go overboard trying to make up for it,” Colton interrupts.
 

I can’t help snapping my gaze to his, searching him, wondering what happened to him to make that such an issue for him. Obviously, someone used to insult his intelligence regularly. For it to be such a huge problem for Colton, there’s only really one probable source. I just can’t see Mr. and Mrs. Calloway doing that. They were always so supportive of Kyle, so loving, so kind. Strict, at times, especially as it came to making sure any publicity was positive, but that’s understandable.

“I wasn’t,” I say quietly. “I was explaining why I suddenly started bawling like girl.”

“You are a girl,” he points out.

“Yeah,” I say. “But until you badgered me into talking about things, I hadn’t cried at all. I mean…at
all
.”

Colton shifts on the bed to look at me. “You never cried about what happened to Kyle?”

“No.”

“You never grieved?” He sounds almost incredulous.

“Grieved?” The idea seems foreign. He says it like it’s expected.

He lifts up his head to stare at me. “Yeah. Grieved. Went through the stages.” He flops back, rubbing between his eyes with his fingers. “Of course you didn’t. Probably why you’re so fucked up about it.”

I throw an arm over my face to hide my irritation and hurt and the onset of stinging eyes. “He died. I dealt with it.”

Colton snorts. “No. You didn’t deal with shit. You’re a
cutter
, Nell.”

“I haven’t done that in weeks.” I’m aware that I’m rubbing the scars with my thumb, but I can’t help it.

He takes my hands and forces them apart, traces the pattern of white lines with a finger tip. It’s a tender gesture that sears my heart, makes my jaw tremble. His eyes are mournful.
 

“Good,” he says. His eyes meet mine, and they turn firm, hard. “If you ever cut yourself again, I’ll be mad. Like, really
really
pissed. You don’t want to see that.”
 

No, I sure as hell don’t. I don’t answer him though. I can’t promise that. I’ve managed to not cut in a while, simply because I’ve had Colton on the brain, and that’s enough confusion to take my mind off the urge to bleed myself numb.

Colton isn’t fooled. He takes my chin in two strong fingers and turns my head to face him. “Promise me, Nell.” His eyes are cerulean intensity. “Fucking promise me. No more cutting. You feel the urge, you call me. You get me, we deal together, okay?”

I wish I could make that promise. I can’t. He doesn’t understand how deep the need is. I hate it, I really do. I always feel even more guilty after I’ve cut, which makes the problem even worse. It’s like this habit I can’t shake, but it’s not just a habit, like an addiction I’m ashamed of, smoking or pill popping or whatever. I know he gets the need to cut, but he doesn’t realize how embedded in me the urge is.
 

I haven’t answered. I’m staring at the ceiling, shaking. I want to promise him. I want to be healed, to never want to score lines of pain into my wrists, my forearms again.

Colton sits up, and he’s still naked, not hard anymore and I’m fascinated by his not-erect cock. It’s a distraction, and only momentary. Colton grabs me, lifts me, and I’m on his lap, in his arms, forced to meet his angry glare.

“Fucking promise, Nell.”

“No!” I wrench myself free, scramble away, off the bed, away from his hot skin and hard muscles and angry, piercing eyes. “No! You can’t say that to me, you can’t demand that of me. You don’t understand! You can’t just appear in my life and try to change it like this.”

“Yes I can.” His voice is calm but intense.
 

He’s still on the bed, watching me. I’m hunting the pile of clothes on the floor for mine, but I can’t find my shirt or my panties, so I settle for a T-shirt of Colton’s. It hangs to mid-thigh, and it’s soft and it smells like him, which is confusing and comforting and incredible.

“No. You can’t. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I went through. You don’t know how I feel.”

“You’re right. But I’m trying to.”

“Why?”

“Because you should never have been left alone to deal. You should never have been allowed to bury it all and let it fester. Kyle’s death is an open wound inside you. It’s never healed, never scabbed over. It’s all fucking nasty and gangrenous, Nell. It’s rotting. You need to let someone in. You need to let me in.”

“I can’t…I can’t…” I’m running, now. Out of his room, into the kitchen.
 

It’s drink or cut. He’s bringing it all up, forcing all the shit I’ve buried to the surface. He knows it and he’s doing it on purpose.
 

I’ve kept it all down for so long, and whenever it threatened to come up, come out, I’d drink until it settled back down, or I’d cut and bleed it out rather than feel it, rather than cry or scream or be angry.
 

I know he has whiskey somewhere, but I can’t find it. It’s not in the fridge, and I can’t reach high enough to look in the cupboard above the fridge where I know it must be. I climb on the counter, reach for it, and lose my balance. I fall, slamming hard into the floor, and the breath is knocked out of me.