“Is it because…” Knuckles going white around the steering wheel, his low, rough voice grinds through the silence. “Did someone hurt you?”
You did once, I want to say.
But it’s not the same. Taking a hit, leaning into the blow, that’s something I’m good at. Hiding the bruises. Tending the wounds. Working through the aches. No, it’s the hate behind it that gets me. That’s the hurt that festers, the wound that scabs but never quite heals. As much as it pains me to admit it, I know the difference between that and what happened with Sebastian. I know he didn’t mean it. I know he feels bad about it. I know, in a way, that he wouldn’t do it again. What happened that night at the docks made this wild, scared storm inside of me so much worse, but it’s not his to claim.
It never really was.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing around a tongue that feels swollen and parched.
He bobs his head in reply, the motion loose and unsurprised. “I hope one day you’ll tell me who.” When he finally turns to look at me, I feel my lungs constrict at the raging fire in his eyes. “So I can fucking kill him.”
His voice, harsh and firm, sends a shiver down my spine, and I don’t doubt for one second that he means it. It should scare me. It should grab onto this particle of anxiety sitting dormant in my chest and pull it out, bring it forward. This is worse than anger. This is purpose and promise, a threat of a vengeance that isn’t even his to give. It should be terrifying.
Instead, it makes my belly spark with a different kind of nerves.
I wish I didn’t have to lie. I wish I didn’t have to trade one fight for another. Leaning into blows is something I’m good at, but I wish I weren’t. I’d rather feel the things currently going on in my chest—these fucking fantastic, blood-blazing things—and be good at leaning into them instead. I’d rather see that hard, certain look roaring in Sebastian’s eyes and just… fucking do something about it.
Because god, he’s right.
I’m so, so fucking tired of fighting.
It takes a fraction of a second for Sebastian’s face to change when I lean in. When it does, slacking into a shocked expression, I don’t give him time to put voice to it. I clear the space between us and press our mouths together.
This should be stilted and halting. I haven’t initiated a kiss with a guy in a long time, and Sebastian is clearly caught off guard, lips parting on a surprised inhale. But there’s nothing halting about it at all. Our lips slide together like puzzle pieces. He tilts his face to surge into it so smoothly that my stomach dips.
I hear him shift, and I can feel his hand lifting to my face in that way I can always anticipate a touch. He stops before it makes contact—before I can ever flinch away. It must land on the steering wheel instead, because I can hear the creak of the leather when he grips it.
I try to focus on his mouth and not the panic that threatens to bubble over. On the warmth and how into it he is. On the way his tongue licks against the seam of my lips and slowly enters my mouth. This isn’t the erratic, impulsive boy I’ve watched fight and race his way through life. His movements are strong and sure, full of careful intent. The fight might rage on inside my chest, but it’s so easy to sink into him, lost in the rush of sensations; heat, smell, taste, the sound of the Mustang’s old seats creaking beneath us.
I pull back to catch my breath and see the blue of his eyes glazed over.
“Sugar,” he says, my name a low whisper, reverent. “Please don’t run from me. Not this time.”
I don’t want to. I want to hold on to the good feelings. The warmth underneath the anxiety. The crazy zings happening between my legs. The impulse to sink deeper and deeper. I push a breath from my lungs in a long, tremulous exhale. The fear and self-doubt and worry are there, but there’s something else, too.
Defeat.
“Oh, fuck it.” I climb over the gear shift and clamber into his lap. I capture his lips with mine before he can do more than inhale. My kiss is aggressive and vaguely hostile, punishment clear in the way I crush myself into him.
He instantly surges back into the kiss, all defiant tongue and soft lips, meeting my fight with one of his own. The hard length of his cock presses between my legs when I settle against him, and I grind down, thighs trembling. He groans hot and rough into my mouth, and I can feel his hands lifting to grab my hips.
I rear back, panting, “Rule number one,” and wait for the inevitable. An argument. A confused expression. A look that says I’m crazy.
But he sits there beneath me, chest heaving, and just nods. “Hands to yourself, yeah, yeah, got it, just—” He lurches forward to capture my lips, and I let him, licking back into his mouth.
The rules here aren’t even, though. I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself and get lost in running them down his chest, feeling the expanse of his defined muscles. He breaks away just to drop to my neck, pressing hard, wet, open-mouthed kisses up to my ear. With my eyes closed, I grind down on him again, chest hitching when his hips buck upward in response.
“Jesus, Sugar,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?”
You’re a fat, ugly bitch.
Lazy, ungrateful freak.
Stupid little cunt.
The slurs I’m used to echo past Sebastian’s question. My skin prickles, waiting for the blow, the kick, the stinging whip of a belt against my back.
But he kisses my mouth, and his lips are warm and soft. There’s no pain following the words, and I rub against him, seeking the good feelings, the temporary rush of euphoria that I can normally only give myself. Sebastian’s hand reaches out, but not for me. He grabs the back of the passenger seat, fingers curling tight around the top as he lifts his hips into my rocking grinds.
He mutters things between kisses. Idle, mindless, impossible things. “Knew you wanted this.” He licks deep into my mouth. “Been hard for you for weeks.” A kiss to my throat. “Christ, I wanna fuck you.” A long, sucking lip lock. “Come on, let me fuck you.”
I fist my hand in his shirt, grunting, “Shut. Up.”
Incredibly, he does.
He lets me ride him like this, rocking against the hard cock I can feel beneath his jeans, and it’s sweltering. I can feel a bead of sweat running down the small of my back. Sebastian’s skin is like fire. His mouth works greedily over my neck and lips, taking and taking, like he’s afraid it might get snatched away, so he’s grabbing whatever he can.
I press my palm against the foggy window when a whimper slips past my defenses, sliding into his kiss. He makes a sound back, something guttural and unrestrained, and the throb between my legs grows into an urgent pang. He feels so hard between my legs, he has to be getting chafed or crushed, but he keeps thrusting into it, breaths coming in ragged spurts.
When I take a chance to open my eyes and finally look at him—at his red cheeks and swollen lips and glazed, heavy-lidded sex-eyes—it’s almost enough to send me right over the edge. But that’s not what triggers the coil to spring.
It’s the way he’s watching me so closely. There’s a sweet sort of agony in his face, like the way we’re rocking against each other hurts, but there’s also a flash in his eyes. A sharp delight. Like someone who’s being given something they really wanted. Like he’s enthralled by it. Like maybe all those sweet, dirty words before weren’t just about getting into my pants. Like maybe he actually does think I’m beautiful. Someone worth having.