“You make me feel like I’m in high school again.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
His thumb lifts my chin. “Tell me you aren’t in high school.”
“I’m not in high school,” I recite.
“Seriously, Ashleigh. I’m going to lose my shit.”
“I’m not. Really. God.” Of course I’m not in high school because I dropped out six months ago. Hard to go to school when you don’t have a place to sleep. Or running water. I don’t bother telling him that. Let him think I’m a couple years older if it helps him sleep at night. It doesn’t matter whether I’m seventeen or twenty-seven when the lights are off.
Some men are gentle. Some are rough. All of them want the same thing—my mouth wrapped around their dick. Sutton? I don’t think he’s different. Not when he stiffens. A groan fills the warm vehicle. My mind’s already going to that faraway place where nothing and no one can touch me. I reach for the hard, throbbing heft of him in his slacks, and he grunts. “What the fuck, Ashleigh?”
I don’t bother stopping, because he can catch up. He must know what I’m going to do. A kiss. No one pays two hundred dollars so they can lick my lips. He wants this kind of kiss. I feel his desire hot and thick in the air. My fingers find his zipper and tug, tug, tug.
He grasps my wrist, forcing me to stop. “I said, what the fuck?”
My gaze meets his. “I’m doing what you want.”
“A blowjob in my driveway? No, sweet thing. Not even close.”
He doesn’t want a blowjob? Well, he’s the first one. Panic beats against my rib cage. He’ll want something I don’t know how to give. Empty, brainless sex. That’s what I’ve been taught. He wants that strange kissing and feeling and aching deep in my core.
Home was a beige house in suburbia. Ours had white crown molding and granite countertops. Those are the things that made it a nice house. An expensive house. Those things are nothing like this. Columns of stone and wood stand like sentries around the front door. Windows with little hand-welded arches march across the entrance hall. Thick plants of wood are knotted and gouged and scraped in an agreeable texture. This is not a nice house. It’s a ranch-style mansion, every piece strong and rough and beautiful. Like the man who closes the door behind us. A wide-open floor plan reveals multiple seating areas, a ten-foot dining table, a kitchen with bright red appliances. My attention is drawn by a bank of tall, wide windows at the back of the house. A view of rolling hills in the moonlight takes my breath away. And is that—“Do you have horses?”
Chapter Seven
Sutton
Knotted wood and worn-smooth leather. This place is my sanctuary.
The shiny fake satin of her mini skirt looks out of place. Her heels wobble in the thick pile of the carpet. Part of me expects her to sit on the couch, as if I’m going to interview her before fucking her silly. Or maybe she’ll drape herself across the kitchen countertops—a sexual offering. She does neither. Instead she crosses to the metal sculpture mounted across the back wall. A wild horse gallops, its hooves flying, its mane proud in the wind. She runs her hand along the curve of its breast. “It’s beautiful.”
Christ. Horses. With her lithe body and world-weary eyes, she looks all grown up. Then she gets excited about horses, and she could be twelve years old again. It’s a strange dichotomy, one I shouldn’t find alluring. Even as my brain works out the ethical implications, my blood beats with a low, primal beat. Mine. She’s mine. And nothing, not even my own personal morality, will keep her from me.
“Where did you get this?”
I don’t have to answer. An art gallery. Walmart. It doesn’t matter where I got it. She’s a prostitute. Get on your knees. That’s what I should tell her. “I made it.”
Her eyes widen. “You did?”
“It’s nothing. A blowtorch and some scrap metal.”
“What are you talking about? It’s beautiful. I can feel the wind.” She traces the curve of his breast with her fingertip. I can almost feel the caress across my pecs.
Her hand keeps moving, onto the mane.
“They look like flames,” she says.
“Some say the world will end in fire.” It’s a foolish, maudlin thing to say, made even more ridiculous by the fact that she won’t understand. She’ll think I’m a crazy prepper or something, counting down until doomsday.
She glances back at me without missing a beat. “Some say in ice.”
Surprise roots me to the ground. “From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire.”
“But if it had to perish twice,” she says, reciting the poem in a melodic voice. It’s a siren song. “I think I know enough of hate, to say that for destruction ice, is also great, and would suffice.”
“You like Robert Frost.”
“I like poetry.” She touches the tip of the mane.
I open my mouth, because the edges are rough there. They’re not polished smooth, not made to be touched. Her breath sucks in. It’s a quiet sound, but I feel it in my bones, that prick of pain. She pulls her hand back. I’m across the room in a few seconds, turning her palm in mine. A small drop of blood forms on her forefinger.
“Hell.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” she whispers.
I should run her hand under water. Probably get Neosporin and a Band-Aid. And then drive her back to the street corner, because what the fuck am I doing here? Instead I dip my head and suck her finger into my mouth, licking away the salt-metal drop. Her eyes are dark pools that reflect the metal horse. When I let go of her, I expect her to back away. To cower in the corner, like I’m some kind of vampire. That’s what I am, in a way. Drinking down her youth and life force. She drops to her knees, slow and graceful, keeping her gaze on mine.
This isn’t the place for it. I should take her into the bedroom, at least. Dark windows watch from every angle, miles of ranchland a witness to what I’m about to do. My cock feels hard as iron in my slacks. She’s probably not even wet beneath that cheap black fabric. I want her too bad to care. I could reach down and finger her until she came, slick and swollen. I could whisper a few dirty words to make her damp.
Instead I put my hand on her head, stroking gently, feeling the shape of her, the impenetrable strength of her. I sift her hair through my hands. It’s a pale straw color, but it doesn’t feel like straw. It feels soft and pliant. Like her.
“You gonna take me in your mouth, sweet thing?” My accent comes out thicker when I’m aroused. It’s thick as goddamn molasses right now.
She nods slowly. “If that’s what you like.”
“There’s no man alive who wouldn’t want that pretty mouth.”
A blush darkens her cheeks. “Should I—?”
She doesn’t finish the question. Her hands go to my belt. She fumbles with the hammered gold clasp and the soft leather. Next she works on the button. The zipper, which curves over the bulge of my erection. She goes slower there, as if careful she might hurt me. I’m hard enough to pound steel. Her gentle hands won’t do a bit of harm. Except those featherlight touches make me grit my teeth. When she tugs at the elastic, so soft, I almost come in my pants. With a grunt of impatience, I push down my briefs. My cock falls heavy against her hand. The back of her fingers feels cool against the iron brand of me. She whimpers in surprise. Or maybe fear.