I arch off the table, struggling to swallow a moan and failing. He feels so good. His hands are back on mine, trapping them on either side of my head, and he starts to move, long, steady strokes that make my senses spin.
Wrapping my legs around his slim hips, I lift myself, and the angle changes, catapulting me into such pleasure I want to weep. My body is moving of its own volition, lifting and grinding against him.
So much pleasure. I need… need to hold on to him, kiss him. I struggle to free my hands, but he doesn’t let go. He seems to sense my need, though, and bends his head, finding my lips.
“It’s me,” he whispers, before he plunges his tongue into my mouth. It occurs to me then that we aren’t doing it his way, not really. We’re face-to-face, and he’s kissing the hell out of me. Yet he’s holding me down. He’s in charge. It’s a compromise, I realize, and I bet he knows it, too.
It makes me want to smile, but then he moves again, thrusting deep inside me, bringing on a new onslaught of pleasure that makes my toes curl.
Oh God, dammit. I can’t… can’t remember what I was thinking.
He licks at my lips, thrusts faster, fastens his mouth back on mine and does something with his hips that sends me tumbling head over heels into a world-shattering orgasm. He stops my cries with his mouth as my body bows off the table. I come again, seizing around his length, my whole body going off like a firework.
Holy crap, Batman. Holy shit. This is unreal, this… I’ve read about girls having orgasms like this, where your mind goes boom, and your body shakes, and it’s like a rollercoaster going off the rails, but I always figured it was just fiction. Aftershocks rush through me, and I writhe as he plunges into me again. He bites on my lower lip, and I feel my eyes roll up in my head.
He releases my lips and bows his head, his arms trembling. A great shudder runs through his frame, and his eyes scrunch shut as he drives into me hard and deep and stills for a long moment.
“Fuck,” he hisses, then, “Dakota, I’m…” His mouth falls open, and he comes hard, his cock jerking inside me, triggering more aftershocks.
Hot damn.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning as he thrusts again, once, twice, his face twisting with pleasure. He buries his face in my neck, breathing heavily, his hips still moving. He sinks his teeth lightly in the juncture between my neck and shoulder, and damn if I don’t I clench around him again so that we both groan.
“Goddamn.” He’s still sprawled over me, still pulsing inside me, his hands still on mine, his lips pressed to my neck. “Holy fucking shit.”
I feel him grin on my skin. The world is perfect right now. His hold on me relaxes, and I lift my arms, lacing them around his neck.
Oh shit, I have the time to think right before he jerks back, pulling out of me, and takes a stumbling step away. His eyes are wide.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck.”
I want to beat myself upside the head for my carelessness. I promised him. No touching his back during sex. I promised I wouldn’t, and I just did.
“Zane…”
He shakes his head, pulls up his shorts and strides out of the kitchen.
What have I done?
Part Three
Zane
I can live with most of my memories. Some are okay, and some are real fucking bad, and I have learned to accept them.
Not this one. I can’t deal with this one.
I’ve tried. I’ve jacked off while touching the scars on my back, telling myself I’ll get used to it. I’ve taught myself to connect pain and pleasure by pulling on the piercings in my nipples and in my dick as I come.
Doesn’t work. It’s different when I do it. I trust myself. I don’t trust others. Not when the memories tell me to never let anyone touch me ever again.
That house. That foster house with the creaking boards. ‘Play with me, little boy…’
Pain and fear. Fear that makes my heart jolt in my chest like an animal trying to break free of its cage. Fear that turns my knees to water and muddles my thoughts.
Oh God, I just want to forget.
Chapter Eleven
Zane
Goddammit all to hell.
I lean against the living room wall and try to get my shit together. Hard to do when I think I feel rough hands on my back, when I think I smell burnt flesh, when all I want to do is curl up and howl.
Fuck this shit. I’m not a kid anymore. Have to get over this. Working on it. Hell, I’ve done things with Dakota I never tried before, things I was sure would send me into la-la-land or rocking in a corner, but I’m okay. I was okay, until she touched my back.
Jesus fucking Christ. I wipe a hand over my mouth and suck in a deep breath. What am I doing? Having her here, having her stay. Am I out of my damn mind?
I hear soft footsteps, and I straighten, put on my poker face. My chest constricts as she walks out of the kitchen, barefoot, her hair messy, her eyes a bit wide. I scared her again. And I will keep on scaring her if she insists on sticking around.
Maybe after a few days with me she’ll change her mind and go. And I have no right to feel that sting inside when I think about it. She should go, find a sane person to be with.
“Zane?” She’s staring at me, her small hands clutching the hem of her blouse.
Guilt presses on my chest like a stone. Against my better judgment, I reach for her, draw her close. “Sorry.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” she whispers, placing her hands on my chest, and her lashes seem wet.
Shit. “You shouldn’t be. I’m the one who’s not normal.”
“I like you as you are,” she says, and some of the pressure lifts from my chest.
I nod, but can’t speak, my throat closing up. Why isn’t she running for the hills? How come she’s not scared of me?
“Let me show you your bedroom,” I say.
“My bedroom?” A flash of disappointment goes through her gaze.
We can’t sleep together. If she’s not scared now, she will be then.
I pull her along and open the door. “Here.”
It’s clean and empty, just the narrow bed, the closet and the shelves nailed to the wall. Just as Erin left it, and I feel a pang, remembering how good it was to have someone nearby who didn’t judge me and wasn’t scared of me.
Then again, I rarely saw Erin when she lived here, and besides, I shouldn’t be thinking of this. Dakota will be gone in a few days. She’ll find a roommate, and move out again, and I’ll have to decide what to do. Maybe I should move, too, find a studio to live in on my own.
The thought is like a kick in the guts. I lean on the doorjamb, watching without really seeing Dakota walk around the bedroom. I know I’m not easy to be around. But I don’t want to be alone forever. I’ve wished to be alone so many times in the past, when people only gave me pain, but I’m afraid that if I’m left alone, I won’t make it out of the tunnel sane.
Or even alive.