His broad hands touch my thighs, spreading them wide and then he dives between them like a starving man. How he can do this again when he’s already done it so many times, I don’t know. I release a groan as his tongue circles my clit. My fingers tangle in his hair, scratching against the back of his skull. I press down, urging him to go faster, to make me come. He obliges and not long after, I'm gasping out yet another fast release as he arches up over me, cock hard, and mouth wet with my essence.
I don't turn away from him when he kisses me. Instead, I open my mouth to it. He moans against me, sucking my tongue in and tangling it with his own. It's dirty and raw, the sex between us. Not exactly what I expected—but in a good way. I'm happy to know that all of his swagger and confidence isn't unearned. At least, not in the bedroom.
My fingers touch his side, stroking over the dark inked lines of the tattoo of thorny roses etched into his skin. There's more on his back. The whole of his spine is nearly covered from his shoulder blades to the top of his ass, but I haven't gotten more than a few glimpses here and there. Nothing concrete to say for sure if it's just a bunch of little pieces or an entire masterpiece put together on the canvas of his flesh.
He groans and pulls his mouth from mine, resting his forehead between my breasts as he collapses. "I'm going to die from sex," he complains as I sift my fingers through his hair.
I chuckle. It's probably the most childlike he's ever sounded in front of me. Complaining about sex. "What a way to go, though," I reply absently.
He mumbles something, turning his cheek and nuzzling one of my breasts. Weirdo. We end up lying there for so long, I almost lose track of time. But it’s long enough that the sunset fades into night and darkness creeps into the room, leaving the two of us in shadows. I used to hate the darkness. A lot of bad things happen in the darkness. It was Micki that changed that for me. She taught me that everyone forgets that a lot of good things happen in the darkness too.
Darkness breeds intimacy.
In the early morning hours, there are more booty calls and deaths than any other time. Why? Because those are the prime hours of the dark. When vulnerability is at its peak. When—if death doesn’t come knocking—you crave the feeling of another body alongside your own.
Right here. Right now. I feel vulnerable. It's not something I'm used to and unlike what I expected, it doesn't make me uncomfortable. Because I don't feel alone in my vulnerability. Whether he'll admit it or not, Dean showed me a side of himself that I doubt many others get to see. The jealousy. The possessiveness. The sharp desire and will to control another human. They're all a part of him, making up who he is as a person and there's a reason behind it all. Just like I know there's a reason behind my need for adrenaline. I'm not an idiot. I know it's not natural, not normal. I know that the things my mind comes up with and the sick need for that rush of life right before I do something dangerous isn't exactly a healthy coping mechanism. I just don't fucking care.
"Tell me about your mom." My fingers still as Dean speaks, making that request in a voice that sounds half asleep. His lower body is heavy, trapping mine to the bed, and when I don't immediately respond, his hands come up and stroke my sides. "Please."
"Dean Carter..." I say, forcing a light chuckle into my tone, "are you actually using manners for once?"
"I know how to get what I want," he replies.
My response is a hum in my throat.
"Avalon." He lifts his head, soil-rich eyes the color of a burning sun meeting mine. "I'm serious."
My lips part, and I resume combing my hands through his hair, needing the movement to stay sane as I recall things about my life and Patricia that I'd honestly rather not.
"My mom's a stripper," I admit. "Has been since before I can remember.” The words are halting as they scrape out of my throat. I hate talking about Patricia. Hate the fact that just the sound of her name on my lips makes my body tense and makes me remember things that are better left in the dark. "From what I understand, she used to be really pretty," I admit.
Dean's head lifts, but I don't look down. "She's not anymore?"
I shake my head. "Not really, her skin sags and she’s got these pockmarks in her face. Years of alcohol and drug abuse eventually take their toll. She doesn’t look anything like me, now that I think about it.” Where I have dark hair, she has fair. Where I have pale skin, hers is tanned. Where I’m short, she’s tall and willowy.
“Hmmmm.” His hand clenches on my side, the rough coarseness of his palm against my smooth skin makes a shiver skate down my spine. “Maybe you get your looks from your dad,” he suggests.
“Dunno,” I say. “Never met the guy.”
“Then you’re probably lucky,” he mutters. Before I can ask why, he blows out a breath, arches up and turns over, dragging my body until I'm plopped on top of him as his head rests back against the pillows. He grunts, flinging an arm over his head, covering the upper part of his face. I prop my chin on his chest, between his pecs. How can I still want him? I wonder. I should be all sexed out and ready for a long nap, but just staring at his face, tracing his tattoos, it makes me want to jump his bones for the millionth time in a row.
He lifts his arm and looks down at me, a grin flicking across his face. “Penny for your thoughts?” Before I can say more, however, a loud banging noise sounds from the hallway.
"Hey! Dean! Get your ass out here!" Abel shouts, his words slurring, and then something slams into my bedroom door. "He's not in here," Abel says, sounding like he's talking to someone else. "Where the fuck did they go?"
Dean groans and I roll off of him, popping off the bed and reaching for a swath of fabric laying across the floor—his shirt I realize when I yank it over my head to cover myself and it falls down to mid thigh. "Fuck." Whipping around at the rough curse from him, I stop and laugh when I see Dean's eyes eating up the expanse of leg still visible beneath the hem. "You look so fucking good in my clothes, baby."
I roll my eyes, and just as I predicted, a split second later, the door to my room comes slamming open. "Ava!" Abel stumbles into the room. "Oh shit." He stops as Dean grabs a handful of covers and yanks it up over his junk.
"Should've locked the door," I say smugly before turning to Abel as Braxton follows him through into the room. Unlike Abel—who is so obviously and clearly smashed—Braxton doesn't show his drunkenness until he moves to take a seat on the edge of the bed, misses the mattress completely, and hits the floor. I choke back a laugh when Abel launches himself onto the mattress and rolls against a naked Dean without preamble or reserve.
"I'm going to take a shower," I announce, "and when I get out, I expect all guys out of my damn room."
"Have y'all been in here all day and night?" Abel asks, his head popping up and eyes widening when he sees what I'm wearing. "Go you. Finally!" He throws his arms back, smacking Dean in the face and making his friend growl and shove him over the side of the bed.
"Get off me, motherfucker," Dean says, but he doesn't have a single ounce of anger in his tone. When he looks back to me, his eyes fasten right back on my legs. "And you," he says, "hurry it up. We're throwing another party tonight and you're going."