Make Me: A Broke and Beautiful Novel (5 page)

When the orgasm crested over her, Abby’s heels dug into the mattress to push herself back into the welcoming strength of his body, bearing down on his pleasure-giving hand at the same time. And God, even with the wicked climax turning her inside out, she wanted to feel his erection against her backside. Wanted to tempt him to do something about relieving the hunger she sensed in him. Already, his movements were growing uneven, staggered, his breathing ragged at the back of her neck.

“
Yes,
” he grated. “That’s how I make you come. Hard as fuck when you’re in my bed. That’s the way I do it.”

Still shaken, Abby found herself nodding, because holy crap, he was right. She’d never come that hard in her life. But this wasn’t
his
bed, like he’d said. It was hers. Russell still wasn’t fully awake, and she’d already let this situation go on too long.

“Russell,” she breathed, biting her lip when he started to strum her clitoris with his thumb and her muscles tightened with anticipation once again. “Russell, we can’t—”

“I know, angel.
I know
.” He sounded miserable, giving her immediate pause. When had Russell ever sounded like that? “Can’t get what I need in real life. Fuck, I won’t even let myself take it when I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not dr—”

Russell rolled Abby onto her belly with one, whip-tight action. Then he . . . climbed on top of her, wedged an arm beneath her hips, and yanked them up into the cradle of his lap.
Ohhh.
Her insides were clamoring with the new, sudden position. It was bad. And incredible. She hadn’t managed to get leverage with her arms, leaving her cheek pressed down into the pillow where her harsh breaths were absorbed. What was he going to do? She should stop him now, but if he did, she would always wonder what came next. Twenty-four years old and a virgin. This had been so long in coming, and she’d dreamed of it so many times. The flesh between her legs craved the feeling of fullness, didn’t care if it hurt. God, at this point, she’d welcome the promised flash of pain just to feel
something
.

Russell took hold of her skirt’s hem and lifted, leaving the material gathered around her waist. The arm beneath her hips flexed and tightened as his hips started to move, his denim-clad arousal using the damp friction to pump between her thighs, making love to Abby through the barrier of her panties. Light winked behind her eyes as a new, kinkier kind of desire burrowed itself under her skin, raising goose bumps as it went.

“
More, Russell,
” she cried out, shuddering as he drove against her faster. “Please.”

“Can’t have that pussy. Can’t have it. Stop trying to give it to me.” She felt his forehead press into the crook of her neck and turn, his mouth finding her ear. “This is my dream, isn’t it, angel? Always a fucking dream.” His hand worked between their bodies, his big fingers hooking into the top of her underwear and dragging it down, exposing her. “Maybe I’ll work myself into your tight ass tonight.”

Then he slapped her bottom.
Hard.

“
Russell,
” Abby shouted, staggered by what she’d just heard. Felt. The unexpectedness of it, by the usually overprotective Russell making her flesh sting. Mostly her mind reeled over the fact that she
still
didn’t want him to stop. One of the primary reasons she’d been attracted to Russell’s personality was his irreverence. The way he treated her like she wouldn’t break under a little disapproval . . . and his palm snapping against her backside took those feelings and turned them up full blast.

Abby’s thoughts had distracted her from Russell’s sudden stillness, but she noticed it now. Noticed his panting breaths echoing in the dim bedroom. His hardness was still nestled in the valley of her bottom, but he didn’t move. With every ounce of her will, she silently begged him to continue but knew deep down, he wouldn’t. She’d shouted his name for that very reason. Or maybe her conscience had forced it out of her. The situation had gotten beyond her. She’d already let it go too far, and any further would be catastrophic. Maybe it already was.

“
What the hell, Abby?
”

Chapter 5

R
USSELL HAD BEEN
having the best dream. When you’re hard up for a virgin, dreams were really all you had, so he dreamed
a lot
. Fantasized more than was probably healthy. In bed, in the shower, while operating heavy machinery. It was
never
anyone but Abby. Christ, the pathetic truth was, he couldn’t even get his cock up for anyone else. There had been opportunities in bars with flirtatious girls, chances for a possible hookup, and every time—
every single time—
he had walked away, gone home, and dreamed about making Abby come. With his hands and mouth, almost every time. Another sad detail of his fucked-up condition. His dreams were about making her come, all the while leaving her virginity intact. Fantasies that were more satisfying than some random one-nighter with a stranger.

Sometimes, though, he lost the ability to do right by Abby in his imagination. Once, after spending an entire day in her company, he hadn’t even made it home before pulling over his truck and beating off to a picture of her on his phone. He’d taken it that day, trying to capture her smile as she flopped back on the grass in Washington Square Park. But her dress had inched up at the last minute, and he’d gotten a flash of the pink-lace thong between her thighs, immortalizing the image on his phone. It had felt so wrong touching himself to the picture, but the wrong felt so
good
, and he’d kept going. And going. Until he’d been mentally on top of her in the grass, feeding inches into her, taking her roughly for everyone to see. So damn wrong. He’d made it three weeks before breaking down on fantasizing about going that far with her again.

This? This was no fantasy. He should have damn well known, too, because it blasted anything his imagination had ever conjured right out of the water. Lust had him by the throat, and maintaining his focus on
not fucking Abby
was all he could manage. At some point, he needed to remove his aching dick from between her perfect little ass cheeks and pull her goddamn skirt back down. How had this happened? How had it gotten this far?

Everything came back to him in a rush. Abby’s falling asleep, her hand eventually coming to rest on his belly, giving him wood for days. His reaching for the bottle of tequila, hoping it would alleviate his condition and take away the residual fear left over from today’s near disaster, but the liquor’s only succeeding in knocking him out. Then he’d woken up with Abby on her knees, him dry-humping her gorgeous, off-limits ass. No, there was more. More.
More, Russell. Please.
He hadn’t imagined her moaning those words. Hadn’t imagined her coming in his hand. Had he?

Fuck. The memory caused the oxygen to vacate his lungs—his cock to surge harder against his fly—and he fell forward onto her back. It had been real this time. He’d touched her pussy. Her clit. Might have gone further if he hadn’t . . . if he hadn’t . . .

Russell’s eyes flew open, and he lunged off the bed, away from Abby. The sight of her kneeling with her ass up in the air was too much, so he spun around and faced the wall. But not before the image branded itself onto his brain for the rest of his lifetime. He’d never recover.
Never.
Especially not from the angry, red handprint on her unblemished skin.

“Jesus, Abby. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He raked both hands down his face, picturing her traumatized expression. Unbelievable. He’d spanked a virgin and suggested an act she had zero familiarity with. Great job, asshole. If she never spoke to him again, he’d be lucky. Every time she looked at him now, there would be irrevocable knowledge. He’d never anticipated Abby’s knowing he preferred sex to be hard. Aggressive. Why would she need to know? He’d never planned to touch her. “I thought I was dreaming. I can’t believe . . . I laid hands on you like that. Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.” He heard what sounded like Abby fixing her clothing, shifting on the bed. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I-I . . .”

Russell turned around to find Abby sitting cross-legged, hands in her lap. His masculine pride rejected her confession until he remembered the way she’d encouraged him.
More, Russell. Please.
He hadn’t imagined her ass writhing around on his lap, either. That had been real. “Did you ask me to stop at any point, Abby? At
any
point. Tell me the truth.” He held his breath, aware that if she said yes, he’d want to die but needing to know nonetheless. When she shook her head, pink rushing over her neck and cheeks, he fell back against the wall.

“I knew you were dreaming, and I let it happen,” she whispered.

He swallowed the growl trying to burst from his throat. She’d just confirmed her active participation, and his unsatisfied body demanded he approach the bed, flip her back over, and resume what they’d started.
Fight it, man. This is Abby.
Still, he couldn’t let his curiosity go unchecked. “Why did you let it happen?”

A slight hesitation. “It felt good. Really good.” She wet her lips, as if her honest confession wasn’t temptation enough to withstand. He’d made her feel good.
Fuck yes.
If needed, he could live off that knowledge for the rest of his life. “I know that’s not an excuse, though. I took advantage of you.”

His pride took a nosedive. “All right,” he scoffed. “Let’s not get crazy.”

Her nod was firm. “It’s true.”

“Abby, could you try not to completely crush my ego, here? I’m twice your size.” He cracked his neck. “Not to mention, I—you
know
what I did.”

“You called me angel. You’ve never called me that before.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.” His throat hurt in a way he couldn’t explain. He’d slapped her ass—left a goddamn mark—and she was fixated on his calling her a nickname. A secret nickname he never used out loud but one that fit her perfectly. It felt as if he’d been holding back something important from her. Just that one word.

The direction his thoughts were taking was dangerous. This was how mountains eroded. One tiny crack in the foundation, and the whole thing flattened in an epic dust cloud, obscuring what had been there in the first place.
You can’t have this girl.
He’d known that since he’d laid eyes on her, since she’d opened her mouth, and beautiful innocence had floated out, so at odds with the freak show in his mind. The foggy yet brutal memories of his past, coupled with the surge of sexual dominance she brought to the surface. That had been before he’d found out about her endless supply of money, which had sealed the deal. He couldn’t provide for Abby, and, therefore, he couldn’t try.

Failure to make her happy would, quite simply, be the death of him. He’d failed once before. Watched a loved one fade while being incapable of stopping it. Unable to repair that person’s discontent. He couldn’t do it again.

Right now, this moment, when she was being so open with him, being so
Abby
, when most girls would be playing games or guilt-tripping him for that handprint on her backside and what he’d said—something he would fully deserve—Russell knew if he went to her, she’d open her arms. He could kiss her with every iota of feeling inside him, feeling he had only for her. But if he did that, there would be no coming up for air. He’d steal her virginity on her lily-white bedspread, and if that happened . . . God help them all. How could he let her go after that? She’d be unequivocally his—and before long, history would repeat itself, only this time, Abby could be the victim.

Russell couldn’t do it. Couldn’t steal her chance at the future that had been mapped out for a girl like Abby. A future that sure as shit wouldn’t involve a blue-collar roughneck who didn’t even attend college. He could see it now. His dirt-smudged contractor’s license hanging next to her degree from Yale. Not happening. So this was where he stepped up for them both, chalked tonight up to a mistake brought on by too much tequila and forced them back into normalcy.

She would thank him someday.

“I’ve never called you angel before? Pretty sure I call everyone that.”

The expression that transformed her face after his pronouncement reminded him of someone’s walking outside into freezing weather. Her eyes went glassy, and she sucked in a breath, her body withdrawing into itself as though trying to conserve warmth. If Russell hadn’t been paralyzed by that reaction, he would have dropped to his knees and buried the nearest sharp object between his ribs. One moment of hurt was better than a lifetime of unhappiness, he reminded himself. Living paycheck to paycheck, clipping coupons. Why didn’t he feel reassured?

“Oh. I guess I never noticed.” She glanced down at the bed. “So you could have been sleeping next to anyone, and the same thing would have happened, I guess.”

“Probably.” The word was a sword being drawn from his throat. “I’m a guy, Abby. I woke up with you pressed against me, and I reacted. I’m sorry if you thought—”

“No. I didn’t think.” She came off the bed and disappeared into her closet, her limp slightly less pronounced than earlier. When she came back out, she had a robe wrapped around her. Like a shield. Against him. God, he wanted to die. Especially when she smiled that Abby smile at him because that was who she was. The girl who smiled when she should be screaming. “Honey should be home soon.”

“Right.” In other words, if her roommate came home and found them in Abby’s bedroom, questions would be asked, and Abby wasn’t even a half-decent liar. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Feels better already,” she said in a rush. “Lesson learned.”

Russell knew she wasn’t talking about wearing high heels while running down stairs, but he couldn’t comment on it. Had to just swallow it and leave.

“Bye, Abby.”

She didn’t say anything, merely nodded. Her bedroom door closed before he’d even left the apartment. It sounded like an explosion inside his head.

R
USSELL COL
LAPSED INTO
a booth at the Longshoreman across from Ben and Louis. At the moment, collapsing basically maxed out his capabilities. He felt like fire ants were making a permanent home inside his esophagus. He was either the noblest man on the planet or the biggest, dumbest clown ever born. A few blocks from here, a girl who lived to please people was feeling the opposite of special.
Unremarkable
, even. And it was on his fucking head. How? How did this happen when he’d only ever wanted the exact opposite?

I’ve never called you angel before? Pretty sure I call everyone that.

He slammed his forehead into the table, hard enough to leave a mark. If he didn’t think insane behavior would get him hauled out of the bar and strapped to a bed for his own good, he would have kept going. Slamming and slamming until he passed out into blessed unconsciousness. Anything not to see Abby looking like she’d walked into an unexpected snowstorm.

“Hey, Russell,” Ben said. “We’re only a couple months into the regular season. I have every faith the Yankees are going to pull it together.”

Since he was incapable of responding to jokes—probably forever—he reached into his pocket, pulled out a dollar bill, and slid it across the table toward Louis.

Louis held up both hands. “Whoa. What’s going on here, man?”

“I’m hiring you.”

“Why?”

“Attorney-client privilege.”

“Ah, shit. What did you do?”

“Oh no.” Ben finally broke in, taking a pull from his beer bottle. “As an English professor, I have no such privilege. If this is going to get me into trouble, tell me right now so I can opt out.”

Russell crossed his arms and leaned back, waiting. One of them would crack eventually. Usually, Louis caved first, and Ben got dragged in by virtue of proximity.

As expected, Louis plowed a hand through his hair. “You’re really not going to tell us unless I take this fucking dollar, is that right?”

Russell stayed quiet. It was easier than usual to hold his tongue since the last time he’d opened his mouth, he’d hurt the one person he’d sworn never to hurt. Did dentists wire mouths shut even if the patient wasn’t injured? Something to look into.

“Don’t cave,” Ben warned Louis. “Think about it. If he’s swearing us to secrecy, it has to do with one of the girls. He doesn’t want us passing on this apparently monumental revelation to Honey and Roxy. And they’ll find out. Girls always find out.”

“Yeah,” Louis murmured, clearly still on the fence. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with Roxy because I’ve been keeping her well and truly occupied for the last forty-eight hours. And Honey has been in school, right? That leaves Abby.”

That’s when Ben joined Louis on the fence. Russell could tell from the way he adjusted his glasses and scrutinized him like he would one of his students. “Whatever it is, he’s not happy about it.”

“Exactly.” Louis tapped a coaster on the table. “Knowledge is power, man. If he did something stupid that will piss off the girls, we need to know—”

“—so we can circumvent the fallout,” Ben finished.

“Are you guys done?” Russell asked. “You’re giving me a rash over here.”

Louis snatched the dollar off the table. “Fine. It stays between us.”

Ben groaned. “You’re his attorney. What’s going to be my reason for staying silent when this inevitably bites us in the ass?”

“The bro code,” Louis and Russell answered at the same time.

“That’s not a real thing.” Ben split a look between them. “Stop pretending that’s a real thing.”

“I friend-zoned Abby,” Russell forced past dry lips. “She almost got blown up today, for fuck sake. Her ankle was hurt, so I stayed and . . .
things
took place. Things of an adult nature. Tequila was involved.”

“Finally.”

“Took you long enough.”

Russell glowered at his friends. “You know how I feel about this. Nothing was ever supposed to happen with her. That’s why I took care of it.”

“Oh yeah?” Dread was written all over Louis’s face. “How’d you do that?”

“Doesn’t matter how.” Pain sprung up at the back of Russell’s skull, and he welcomed it. Hoped it spread and grew worse. “The result is Abby in the friend zone.”