K. Bromberg - Fueled

My God the way she looked at me last night with eyes filled with naivety and jaw set with obstinance, asking me if she was enough for me. First of all—fucking Tawny—and then secondly, enough? I’m the one that’s not enough. Not hardly. I’m fucking drowning in her, and I’m not even sure I want to come up for air. Enough? I shake my head at the irony. She stays despite, if not because of the darkness deep in my soul. A saint I’m not worthy of, shouldn’t taint.

She makes a soft noise in her throat and rolls onto her back. The sheet slips down off of her chest exposing her perfect fucking tits. Fuck me. My dick starts stirring to life at the sight. It’s been what, like three hours since the last time I was buried in her, and I’m already fucking ready to have her again. Addictive voodoo pussy. I swear to God.

She whimpers again and rocks her head back and forth on the pillow. I hear Baxter’s tail thump at the sound and the possibility that someone might be up already. My eyes trail over her lips and back to her tits. I groan at the sight of her pink nipples pebbling from the morning chill. I really should cover her back up, but fuck me, the view’s pretty fucking fantastic, and I don’t want to ruin it just yet.

Her shriek scares the shit out of me. It’s a piercing keening that causes my chest to tighten. She cries out again and it’s a tortured sound followed by her throwing her arms up to block her face. I sit up and try to gather her against me, but she bucks back.

“Rylee. Wake up!” I say, shaking her shoulders a couple of times. She finally wakes with a start and struggles out of my grip to bolt up in the bed. The sound of her gasping for breath makes me want to fold her into my arms and take the fear and pain that’s rolling off of her in waves away from her. I do the only thing I can think of and run my hand up and down the bare skin of her back—the only comfort I can offer. “You okay?”

She just nods her head and looks over at me. And in that one glance I’m paralyzed. Fucking paralyzed . As a guy you’re supposed to have that instinct to protect and care for. You always hear about how that’s your job. It’s ingrained. What-the-fuck-ever. Besides the few times when Q had some bullies at school fuck with her, I’ve never remotely felt that way. Never.

Until right now. Rylee looks at me and those violet eyes are pooling with tears and filled with such absolute pain and fear. I do the only thing I want to even though I know it’s not enough for her, it’ll assuage my needs. I reach out pulling her toward me and onto my lap before leaning back against the headboard. When I wrap my arms around her, she lays her cheek over my chest. Over my heart. And despite the calm that the feel of her bare skin on mine brings me, I can’t help but keep feeling the single connection of her face over my heart.

The one place I never expected to feel again just quickened at such a simple, natural gesture. I swear that her pulse and breathing are evening out and mine are accelerating. I run my fingers through her curls, needing to do something to combat the panic I feel setting in.

First I feel like I need to protect her, take care of her, covet her. And then the simple notion of her getting comfort from my heartbeat freaks me the fuck out. Can you say pussy, Donavan? More like pussy whipped. What. The. Fuck ? This shit is not supposed to happen to me. Telling her I’ll try is one thing. But this fucking feeling taking hold of me like a vice grip in my chest? No fucking thanks.

I hear my mom’s voice. It seeps into my head and my hand stills in Rylee’s hair. I swear I stop breathing. “Colty. I know how much you love me. How much you need me. That you understand that love means doing whatever the other person tells you to. So I’m telling you that because you love me, you’ll go lay down on my bed for me and wait like the good little boy that you are. You want food right? It’s been days. You’ve got to be hungry. If you’re a good little boy—if you love me—you won’t fight this time. Won’t be the naughty boy you were last time. If you’re bruised up, the police might take us away from each other. And then you won’t get anything to eat. And then I won’t love you anymore.”

Rylee’s hand tracing absent circles on my tattoos jolts me back to the here and now. The irony in that—her touching the tattoos that represent so much—is enough in itself. I force myself to breathe calmly, try and clear the revulsion in my stomach. Quiet the tremor in my hand so she doesn’t notice. Fuck. Now I know the feeling earlier really was a fluke. How can I want to protect and take care of Rylee when I can’t even do that for myself? Breathe, Donavan. Fucking breathe.

“I wonder if we’re drawn to each other because we’re both fucked up emotionally somehow,” she murmurs aloud, breaking the silence. I can’t help the breath that hitches in my chest. I swallow slowly, digesting her words—realizing they’re just a coincidence—but how true they ring for me.

“Well gee thanks,” I say, forcing a chuckle, hoping to calm both of us with some humor. “Us and everyone else in Hollywood.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, snuggling deeper into me. The feeling is so fucking soothing to me I wish I could pull her inside of me to ease the pain there as well.

“I told you, a seven forty seven baby.” I leave it at that. I can’t force any more words out without her catching on that something’s amiss with me.

She moves her hand from my tattoo to tickle through the slight smattering of hair on my chest. “I could lie here forever,” she sighs out in that throaty morning voice of hers. I pray for my dick to stir at the sound. Need it to. Need to prove to myself that the unexpected reminder of my mother and my past can’t affect me anymore. That they aren’t who I am.

My thoughts flicker to what I’d normally do. Go call up my current flavor and use her. Fuck her into oblivion without a second thought of her needs. Use the fleeting pleasure to bury the endless goddamn motherfucking pain.

But I can’t do that. I can’t just walk away from the one person that I want and fear and desire and have fucking grown to need. Balls in a fucking vice.

And before I even think, the words are out of my mouth. “Then stay here with me this weekend.” I think I’m as shocked as Ry is at my comment. She stills at the same time I do. The first time my lips have ever uttered those fucking words. Words I never wanted to say before, but know without a doubt I mean right now.

“On one condition,” she says.

One condition? I just handed her my balls on a platter in exchange for the whip to her pussy and she’s going to add a condition? Fucking women.

“Tell me what a voodoo pussy is.”

For the first time this morning I feel like laughing. And I do. I can’t contain it. She just looks up at me, with those eyes that do wild things to me, like I’m crazy. “Fuck, I needed that,” I tell her, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Well?” she asks in that no-nonsense tone she has that usually turns me on. And I breathe a slight sigh as I start to harden at the thought of her wet heat I plan on taking advantage of in mere moments.

“Voodoo pussy?” I choke on the words.

“Yeah. You said it last night in the garden.”

“I did?” I ask, unable to hide the amusement in my tone, and she just nods her head subtly with her eyebrows arched waiting for an answer. Oh yeah. Definitely hard and raring to go now. Thank Christ. “Well…it’s that pussy that just takes hold of your dick and doesn’t let go. It’s so fucking good—feels, tastes, everything good—that it’s magical.” I feel so fucking stupid explaining it. I don’t think I ever have. I just say it and Becks knows exactly what I mean.