Where There's a Will (Lost Boys, #1)

by Jessie Walker

He studies me with a soft smile on his face. “Maybe I like being sad.” His eyes drift to some point beyond me. “When you’re sad, nothing else really matters anymore.”

“When you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to fear.”

“Can we go back to drinking and laughing and pretending like”—he waves a hand around—“nothing exists beyond these four walls?” I study him. “There are more than four walls.” He groans, slapping his face with his inked hands.

“Pretty sure there are seven if you include that little alcove over there, and that doesn’t include the bathrooms⁠—” He slaps a hand over my mouth. My eyes flare with surprise, my mouth still pursed mid-word, and he freezes. He grumbles something under his breath as he tears his hand away, but not before it drags over my lower lip. His skin is hot and salty against...

“What are you doing?” he asks. My finger’s on his cheek. How the hell did that get there? “You put it there,” he says, laughter rocking through his voice. “Can you read my mind?” “No, dumbass,” he says. “You said that out loud.”

“I’m not sorry,” I tell him, “for going after the person I thought was hurting you back then. It’s a promise I should have never made in the first place.” He flinches. His mouth tightens. “But I am sorry it cost me you.”

A silent understanding passes between us—one forged in pain and loss and rage. So, so much rage. At life, for letting us down. For not meeting those expectations promised to us in fairytales and movies. For crushing our dreams between its ironclad fist before they even had a chance to breathe.

“Remember what I told you that morning on the bridge?” he whispers. “You just need to find a way to make it through the night. It won’t be dark forever.”

“I think you broke my hip.” “I think I broke my ass.” “Pity.” I freeze. Waylon freezes.

I don’t even realize I’m grinning like a fucking loon till he elbows me in the side. “Stop it.” “Make me.” He stiffens, and I swear he mutters under his breath, “Don’t tempt me,” but that can’t be right.

I roll my head toward Waylon. A foot twitches against mine, and I know I should pry myself away—work on standing up. But my limbs are heavy and the world is spinny and my brain is honed on to that single point of contact like a compass in a sandstorm. And he’s not moving away. Why isn’t he moving away?

His eyes are squeezed shut. His jaw stiff. His arm lies straight against his side, palm upturned, fingers flexing. Seeking. Does he even realize? Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slowly reach out. Time seems to hang suspended all around us as I bridge the space between Waylon and me, brushing my fingertips over the inside of his wrist.

Reassure him that he’s not alone; I’m here, I’ve got him, and he’s safe. You’re safe. I’ll never let him touch you again. I swear⁠—

“She told me, the key to making peace with the dark, was to make peace with myself. She said, as long as I remain honest with myself, I’ll be a lot less scared of the truths the dark may reveal.”

“Because in the end, the only thing we have to fear in the dark are the things we run from in the light of day.”

At first, I assume it’s an accident. The tease of heat brushing across my skin. But when the pressure of a nail scrapes over the meat of my thumb, the compass that was only moments ago pointing toward our ankles, then my fingers on his wrist, jerks along with my heart, alerting me to the sharp change in direction.

My mouth dries, and I beg. I beg whoever may be listening, with tears stinging my eyes, that this isn’t a trick. A joke. I...fuck, I need him to hold my hand—to touch me more than I think I’ve ever needed anything in my fucking life. And it’s ridiculous, it’s absurd, how fast and swift my overwhelming want for this miserable, gorgeous asshole bowls over me. I want him. I fucking want him. And then he’s there. Teasing my open palm with rough fingertips that are so unlike the gentle softness of a child’s.

Just as certain as I am that the storm will end like all things end, I know he will regret this come morning. Resent me. It will be the bridge all over again, but worse, because this time I want him. Wholly and completely and fucking desperately.

I want this Waylon, but I’ll only ever have the memory of the boy I knew. Never the man he’s becoming. Because this Waylon will never want me back, and it’s time I fucking get that through my thick, stubborn skull. But then a sound—a single, monosyllabic word—unleashes itself upon the world, ripping through the silence like a gunshot. Changing...everything. “No.” And then the hand in mine is no longer a ghost of a touch of fine bones but a solid strength of flesh that molds with my own. No longer a farewell, but an Oh! Hello again! I’ve missed you, as long fingers part through mine, curling and weaving until I’m nothing more than a prisoner of his flesh.

:)

A shadow—a scuffle of movement⁠— and then he’s kissing me. Full and sticky-sweet from whiskey, his lips dig into me with a ferocity that borders on punishing. Rather than letting go of me to get leverage, he drags our clasped hands up and next to my head, slamming them into the wooden floor so hard I feel the blood swell, the skin bruise. He uses his other hand to slam down next to my head. Framing me in. Sharp teeth find my lower lip, dragging the supple flesh out. My back arches and I use my other hand to grab the back of his head. Ripping my lip from his teeth, I swoop in and part his lips with my tongue. Wrap it around his until I feel that little silver piercing roll through my own mouth. My own teeth.

ohmygod

My fingers thread through the thick hair falling over his forehead pulling him back enough so that I can take his lower lip into my own. Suck it hard into submission. “Will,” he moans against my lips and I crash back into him just as his body drops fully on mine. It feels like there’s not one part of our bodies not touching, and yet, I still arch into him. And he presses into me, rutting against my body as if we can meld into one if we just try hard enough. His free hand finds my neck, my face. He cups my stubbled cheek in his palm, fingers digging into the soft spot of scalp behind my ears.

My hand drops from his head and I curve my arm around his lower back. His shirt bunches up, and I welcome the feel of his hot skin on mine as I spread my legs, pulling him in deeper.

Through my sweats, I feel the button of his jeans rub against the head of my rock-hard cock, and...

I want him to give in. Just this once. Even if this is the biggest mistake I ever make, I want him to want me tonight.

Slowly, I lift my hands, welcoming the brush-burn stinging my knuckles from where Waylon all but shoved them into the hard floor. I let them hover just above Waylon’s lower thighs, approaching him as I would a cornered animal. “Tell me to stop,” I say quietly.

I don’t take my eyes off the silhouette of Waylon’s face as I slide my hands up, up, up, until they’re firmly circling his waist. My thumbs brush the soft skin just above his waistline where the shirt has ridden up, and I hate that I can barely see his reaction.

In one quick maneuver, I curl up into a sitting position bringing us together at about chin level, giving him no choice but to slide his hands up to my shoulders. With my nose a breath away from his lips now, I tilt my head back, baring my neck to him so I can meet the black, sparkling orbs glaring down at me. His hold on me tightens, becoming almost painful. “Stop me, Waylon.”

I slide my arm around him, fist the back of his shirt, and arch up into him so we’re chest to chest.

“Stop me,” I tell him gravelly, bitterly, desperately, “because I fucking can’t.”

His fingers grab onto the back of my head, yanking me back by the hair. Through his teeth, right against my parted, panting mouth, he snarls, “I hate you.” I smile a sad, breathy smile against his bared teeth. “Show me.” Another growl scrapes out of him at the same time his lips come crashing down on mine.

Hearts are not known for their patience after all—they only ever just want what they want, when they want it, with no regard for the consequences. And if the heart doesn’t get what it wants? It becomes violent.

“I hate you.” If this is hate, baby, I think, licking across his teeth, I don’t know if I’d survive your love.

Gripping him by the neck, I shove him away from my mouth, not letting go until he’s arched back for me.

gahhh

The hand I don’t have wrapped around his throat finds its way around his rib cage. I tighten my hold on his neck, and he whines softly, piercingly, into the dark, just as I wrap my mouth around his nipple.

Fingers scramble for purchase over my head, my shoulders, my arms as I suck his pebbled skin into my mouth. He arches into me, hissing through his teeth, and I bite down. Hard. The metal piercing snagging on my teeth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck⁠—” I cut him off with my mouth, lifting up to crush him with a fierce kiss that has his lips pushing back over his teeth. I grind my cock against his, letting him feel how fucking much I want him. How much I crave him.

His hands find my lower back, sliding down until my ass is gripped firmly in his hands. He squeezes, arching into me with a moan humming around my tongue.

Hesitation is the enemy tonight, and I don’t want to give either of us a goddamn second to think about what we’re doing.

“I showed you mine,” I whisper in a husky voice, watching the way his eyes widen and flash nervously up to mine. I force a rueful smile, baiting him. “You gonna show me yours or what?” That does it. His lip curls back on a sneer and he reaches down, yanking at his fly until it’s loose.

YUHHHH *cheers*

His boxers go next—thrown somewhere behind him as he turns to face me. He reaches for me at the same time I grab for him. I roughly slide his cheek back with my palm, opening his mouth for me as I spear him with my tongue. Catching his groan of pleasure as I dig my nails into his scalp, holding him to me. He falls on his back once more as I take the upper hand, shoving him down and leaning over him. I let go of his head and grab his wrist, lifting it up next to his ear. Slamming the knuckles of his hand into the wood, just as he did to me before. Maybe we’ll have matching bruises.

He rocks up into me, his cock bumping along my hip. Hot and damp at the head, pre-cum smearing stickily along my skin. A growl from deep within my chest rumbles over his lips as I grip his hip, holding him steady.

whew

Humming with deep satisfaction as I scoot back onto my haunches, I find one of his knees, pushing it back. Spreading him for me.

:O

He’s a goddamn wet dream.

A smile pulls at my face as I let my fingers ghost over the swollen head, watching the way the wetness beaded at the top clings to the tips of my fingers when it jerks up at my touch. He wants me. Waylon makes a frustrated noise, somewhere in between a growl and a groan.

I watch the way his balls draw up tight, and I wish I could take each one in my mouth. Roll them under my tongue until he’s shooting from that alone, leaving sticky trails up his torso.

omg this smut gonna go so crazy

I give my head a little shake just as I reach out and fist his cock. Keeping him in my firm grasp, I climb back over him, seeking his mouth as I groan, “So fucking perfect.”

I open my fingers, seeking out my own rigid length to join with his. Using our pre-cum as lube, I squeeze and stroke us together as we bump and grind and hiss like rabid, rutting beasts.

He bleeds. I bleed. We bleed for each other, and it feels so fucking good to be on the same side for once. Even if that side is dedicated to tearing the other apart.

At some point, our cocks have gone soft, even though neither of us came.

WHAT

“Please don’t hate me,” I murmur against his lips. The last thing I recall. And then, against mine, just as sleep drags me under, I feel, “I’m sorry.”

i cant believe yall fell asleep on the floor

I’m on my back with Will sprawled out half on top of me. His head’s tucked under my chin, and his arm is thrown over my chest.