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Because you’re a sadistic fuck who gets off on cutting up your kid for some perceived mistake that somehow brings shame to our name?
His tone is sharper than it was a minute ago. Lookie there, a bit more back bone. My dick almost takes notice.
I take a step back and force my hands into my pockets. Something about him has my fingers itching to touch, but I can’t.
I hate my skin. The scars that mar my body. Proof of my fuck-ups and the twisted mind of my father. There’s never a time I can just pull my shirt off. I’m always aware of the way my shirts fit, preferring to tuck them in most of the time to keep my body covered.
You’re a freak for enjoying it. He didn’t want you to touch him but you did it anyway. Monster.
The picture of Jeremy getting face fucked by Brendon flitters through my head. Jealousy at the easy way they touch rears its ugly head. My jaw tightens, my hands clench. I hate how Brendon touches Jeremy. I hate it even more that I want to be the one touching him.
Part of me craves human contact, but in reality, I can’t stand for anyone to touch my body. Arms and hands are okay, and sometimes a leg brush, but my torso is absolutely off limits.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You like it rough. You get off on the fight.” My gaze drops to his lips as I lick my bottom lip. “If you want to fuck, all you have to do is say something.”
I fucking hate him and his kissable fucking mouth.
“Brendon doesn’t touch you again.” His words are hard in my ear, a clear statement, not a question.
This is what I’ve always craved but couldn’t ever ask for. He’s going to break my heart.
He lowers his face to mine and speaks through clenched teeth. “I. Don’t. Share.”
Jeremy calling me, trying to stop me from leaving, almost broke me. He shouldn’t care about me. I’ve given him no reason to. But I need it.
Every morning I wish his skin had my marks. I wish I could fuck him out of my system but, like a parasite, he’s burrowed under my skin.
Once I’m awake, his touch is too much. It makes me weak to need him. His warmth, his scent, his touch keeps the nightmares at bay. At this point, my fucking bed smells more like him than me.
Albrooke has the puck and is racing up the middle to get past Johnson. He spins in an attempt to get around him when Johnson shoves Jeremy and takes the puck, shooting toward the other end of the ice. It has me seeing red. No one touches Jeremy but me.
I wasn’t going to play anyway, I earned myself a one game suspension for attacking that player, but it was worth it. He purposefully hooked Jeremy with his stick, tripped him, and now he has stitches. Fuck that guy. Jeremy is mine. I am the only one who gets to leave marks on him.
He shakes his head in disagreement but doesn’t voice it, just holds my face. His gaze flicks between the wound and my lips, like he wants to kiss me but is afraid I won’t let him.
He kisses me gently, like he’s afraid I’ll break. Or maybe he’s afraid he will break. It’s a different side of him, one that throws me off way more than the aggression. This morning, we both need to know we’re okay. That I’ve got him and he’s got me.
“I don’t know how to touch without fucking.” His confession breaks my heart. Has no one just held him because he needed it? Offered a hug? I wrap my arms around his neck and bring him into me. “It’s okay, I do.”
“Don’t.” Preston barks the word and crowds me against my dresser when I turn to find socks. “You are mine and I don’t share.” His hands grip my hips. “No one touches you but me.”
“Keep looking at me with ‘fuck me’ eyes and I’ll do exactly that. I’m not above using you to make myself feel better and wearing you out until you can’t stand.” He crowds my space, the air between us charged with sexual tension. “If I have to rest, so do you.” I watch his mouth as I bite on my lower lip. “Stop. Looking. At. Me. Like. That.” He grinds out. “My control is shit right now.”
Am I riling him up on purpose? Yes. Am I risking bodily harm in doing so? Yes. Do I regret it? Not a fucking chance. I love that possessive streak he gets when it comes to me.
“No, it’s fine. Trust me, they all want to meet you and you will probably be the new favorite.” I smile at him, hoping that doesn’t freak him out too much. His eyebrows pinch together in confusion. “I’m no one’s favorite anything.”
He lifts one side of his mouth in a small smile but drops it quickly. “I’m sorry I’m a fucking mess.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m not. I love you the way you are.”
The urge to cry is stronger than it should be. Men don’t cry. They are stoic and calm and suck it up with only anger to get shit done. Suck it up and get it done. But I’m tired. I want to be weak. Why can’t I be weak for just a minute?
He pulls my forehead down to rest on his, my chest tight with emotions I don’t want to express. It hurts to be loved. So much more than I thought possible.
I take his lips in a watery, tear-filled kiss. I do need him, but I don’t know how to need him. My throat burns and my soul screams at me to hold on to him with both hands while my head tells me to run so it doesn’t hurt more later.
