Ocean (Damage Control Book 5) (13 page)

A hippie. That would have been fun, maybe. But in fact, the name was the least of our problems as we grew up in the trailer park—and that wasn’t my point. My point was…

Fuck.
Don’t know what my point was, or why I thought I could talk about my parents to her, not unless I’m prepared to tell her the whole sordid story, and I’m not.

Can’t explain it to her without telling her more, and the longer I stick around her, the more trouble my big mouth will get me in.

So I turn around and walk out of the kitchen. Go to bed, she told me. That’s what I’m gonna do. After a few winks, things will be clearer. Have to be. And my mouth and body will be back under control.

I like her. Really like her, and how she makes me feel. That she came here to help me, take care of me.

Problem is, I like her too much. I want to let her in, let her come close, and that will never happen. She doesn’t know about my past, about what I’ve done and what I need to do.

I can’t afford to like anyone as much as I’m starting to like Kayla.

This is dangerous stuff.

Unbuckling my boots, I fall into my bed. My head barely hits the pillow before I’m tumbling into dreams and shifting darkness. Drowning in memories, real and imagined, in horrors that happened or may happen still.

Fucking nightmares and deep dark lakes of stillness where you hover while waiting for the end. The judgment. The accident that will take everything away again. The failure to save those you swore to save—the money hidden under the mattress stolen, the getaway car broken down, my old man blocking the door, a deck of cards floating around him, burning.

The black water closes over my head. It’s cold, and I’m shivering, and trying to breathe, but I can’t, a howl lodged in my chest like a stone.

Until a voice seeps through the fear, calling my name. Gasping, I surface. It happens by degrees, one rasping breath at a time.

There’s a slight weight on my chest, like that of a small bird. I remember holding one as a child, a sparrow Raine and I had found outside the trailer.

But when I open my eyes and look down, I find her hand, and her body curled up beside me. She’s gazing at me, somber and quiet, her mouth like a flower bud.

I lift my hand to her face, to her satiny skin, stroke an errand stand of red hair off her face, and it’s so soft my whole body turns toward her, burning.

Need her. Need her like she’s my next breath of air. She’s burrowing under my skin. Warming me to my bones. Making my blood hum.

She starts to pull away, and I panic. Not ready for her to go. I just need a distraction from the dreams and the worry, I tell myself, and I know I’m lying.

It’s more than that, this need for her, so much more, but if I sit back and think about it any harder, the panic I’ve been barely staving off is sure to pull me under.

“Kay,” I whisper her name, and she stills. When I lean closer, she shivers. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Her lips part, and I can’t help but kiss her, falling into her, losing myself in her.

So sweet, toffee and strawberry and cream. A groan rises in my throat. Need her. Need more. I shouldn’t be kissing her, wanting her, I really fucking shouldn’t, but there’s no way in hell I can stop now.

Kayla

He’s kissing me, his mouth hot and demanding, his hand sliding up my face, slipping into my hair.

Missed his mouth on mine, I realize, and God, he tastes good, like licorice and dark, salty caramel.

No guy has the right to taste and smell so good after waking up from a bad dream, drenched in sweat. A dream I came in to wake him up from. He’d been shouting in his sleep, twisting on the bed, his hands curled into tight fists on top of the covers.

And now his lips are over mine, rough and soft like raw silk.

Like him.

I lift my hand to his face without conscious thought. His stubble is rough under my palm. He runs his tongue over my teeth, over the roof of my mouth, and fire spreads down my body.

My brain fizzles out. I’d be lying if I said I don’t want this. Kissing him again has been on my mind since that first time in his kitchenette. But a tiny part of my sluggish brain whispers that this isn’t such a good idea.

Because running my hands over some serious man-candy like Ocean is cool. Kissing him once and bragging to my friends is okay—though I just realized I didn’t brag about it. Weird.

Anyway, copping a feel could be filed under “man-candy reconnaissance,” but a repeat? That’s like stepping into a minefield. I’m here as a friend, right? Are we friends? Are we something more?

Something less?

Then he swipes his tongue over mine, sending electric sparks over my skin, and the thought fizzles out. He shifts so that he pins me down on the bed and presses his body to mine.

Oh God, yes.
So good, better than I imagined. Can’t think when it’s Ocean kissing me, touching me, the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met. I can’t hold back anymore. All my doubts and questions and fears fade in the onslaught of desire. I’ve wanted into his pants for months now.

Heck, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve wanted him from the moment I met him—but he never seemed to care, so I’d convinced myself I didn’t care, either.

I reach up, tangle my fingers in his blue hair, soft like feather down, and arch up against him. He gasps against my lips and breaks the kiss.

Before I can protest, just as I start tugging lightly on his soft hair, he lays his body right on top of mine, long and strong and hard, propping his elbows on either side of my head, hedging me in.

Looking down at me, his blue eyes wide, his face soft with wonder, like I’m a hallucination. Or like he’s still asleep. Still dreaming.

“Fuck, Kay, you’re…” But he never tells me what I am because he dives for my mouth, invading my senses, and his body moves over mine, a heavy, hot wave.

He licks, bites and sucks on my lips until I’m writhing underneath him, my hands holding on to his lean waist, his rocking hips. He pulls back only to bow his head to my neck. He sucks on my skin, and it sends bolts of need down to my core.

“Need you,” he breathes against my wet skin, sending shivers skittering over my skin. His silky hair brushes my cheek. “Need to feel you.”

Oh God, yes.

He lifts a hand off the mattress and pushes my sweater up, his rough palm slipping under my blouse and brushing over my skin, finding my boob and cupping it. His thumb finds my hardened nipple and flicks over it, wrenching keening sounds from my throat.

His breath catches. He knees my legs apart, pressing between them, his hardness against my softness, and pushes my sweater and blouse all the way up, pulling them off me.

My hair spills around me, and he lifts a strand to his face, inhaling. “Fuck, so damn sweet.” He releases it and leans over me, his hand deftly burrowing between us, lifting my skirt, finding my panties.

My heart is pounding. My pulse is throbbing between my legs. I could stop him now, before anything else happens. Say I changed my mind.

But his hand only rests over my panties, over my seam, a warm weight. His eyes have darkened to a midnight blue. A flame plays in their centers.

I want him to do dirty things to me.
Dirtier
things. And I want to undress him and touch every inch of that muscular body, run my hands over his broad shoulders, down his lean hips. I want him, dammit.

Yes, I know I shouldn’t. We’ve already established this means nothing to him—and should mean nothing to me—but thinking about it is one thing, and having him pressed to me is something different entirely.

His lips ghost over my shoulder, trail down my chest. “I’m gonna put my mouth on you,” he says, his words puffs of warm air tickling me. “Taste you. Lick you until you come so hard you lose control.”

His fingers quest under my skirt, inside my panties, parting my seam, stroking my clit. Fire spills inside me.

“Please,” I whisper, lost, “please.”

He growls in reply, a deep and low sound that I feel everywhere, a vibration that flows through his body into mine. I arch helplessly against him as he licks one nipple, then the other, over the flimsy material of my bra, then lower, down my belly. Every stroke of his rough tongue ignites small fiery bursts deep inside me.

He tugs my panties down and lifts a brow, a grin pulling at his wide mouth. It transfixes me. So open and bright, it makes all the grins and smiles of the past seem like pale imitations, fake masks.

Then he buries his face between my legs and the world explodes, sparkling away. His tongue does wicked things to me, licking along my seam, flicking over my aching clit, stabbing into me until my hips are coming off the mattress and my hands are clutching handfuls of his quilt. He has me moaning and panting, his hands holding my hips down as he takes his time torturing me, teasing me, making me lose my mind.

God.
Feels so good. Never had a guy do this to me before. Never, and this is Ocean, holy crap, it’s him, his broad shoulders towering over my legs, his crazy blue hair shining. The boy I’ve been fantasizing about, the boy I thought didn’t want me, the hottest tattoo artist of Damage Control.

Hottest boy ever.
And I…
My breath hitches. The pleasure is burning me from the inside out, pulsing in my core. I won’t last, I can feel the pressure coiling tighter in my belly, a ball of painful need.

His tongue circles my clit, an eddy of mounting urgency. His stubble scratches the insides of my thighs, a dark counterpoint, and my pussy clenches so hard I cry out.

The wave breaks, and the tide rolls through me, taking me under. Pleasure bursts inside my core and spreads, filling me up.

Oh God…
My head flops back on the bed as I pant, my lungs too small, my pulse fluttering, trapped in my throat. My body’s limp and warm and pliant, all tension gone.

He lifts his tousled head, eyes gleaming, and licks his lips. “Fucking sweet.” He watches me through heavy-lidded eyes. “Think I got a sugar rush.”

I snicker, a glow of a different kind of pleasure spreading through me. “Bullcrap.”

“Wanna taste yourself?”

I’m not sure I do—never have—but he crawls up over me and leans in, and we kiss. My hands slide up his strong shoulders to tangle in his hair. I taste myself on his tongue and lips—salty, sweet, musky.

Weird. But not off-putting, and he obviously liked it.

His cock is thick against my thigh, long and heavy like an iron bar. I lift my hips a little as our tongues twine, pressing up against his hard-on, and he groans, a sound of pure need.

I want him naked, bared to me. In every way. I cup his hard jaw and pull back, his mouth releasing mine reluctantly with a soft pop.

He’s breathless. His eyes are super dark with desire, the blue swallowed by the pupil. He starts to sit up, and I follow him until we’re face-to-face again.

His T-shirt is stretched deliciously across that ripped chest, across his abs, showing off every ridge and hollow. His gaze dips from my face to my boobs, and I look down, too, belatedly remembering I’m naked from the waist up.

Oops.

“Pretty,” he says, and as if in reply, my nipples perk up again.

Come on, nipples. Never had a cute guy chat you up before?

Guess not.

“Now yours,” I say, my voice gone husky and low. How didn’t I see this one coming in the cards?

“Mine what?”

His eyes finally lift back to my face, a bewildered expression in them that makes me want to laugh hysterically. “Your man-boobs. I want to see them, too.”

“My man-boobs.” His voice cracks into a snort. “Seriously?”

“Never been more serious in my life. You’ve seen me naked. My turn.”

He nods solemnly, grabs the hem of his T-shirt. “Since I’ve already seen your muffins, I guess it’s only fair to let you see my man-boobs, and my mighty snake.”

Mighty snake.
I swallow a laugh laced with excitement. “Wait. Did you just compare my boobs to muffins?”

“They’re sweet.” He smirks. “Don’t pout, Sweet Muffins. I love your tits. They’re perfect.”

“Sweet Muffins?” I glare at him, not sure I like the pet name, but then he starts pulling his T-shirt off, and I forget what I was going to say.

Damn…

Hot. The guy’s hot, not pretty. Hot and hard and muscular and inked, and oh my fucking God…

“You, uh.” I gesture at the upper torso of a Greek god, only with two huge, bad-ass tattoos covering parts of it—a snake and a skull. His abs ripple as he throws the T-shirt down on the bed. “Are, uh.”

There are no words.

“Are what?” He rubs a hand over his ribs, and I notice splotches of color there and across his chest—yellowish and green, some dark purple.

Bruises, and now I remember why. The car accident.

No idea why, but my throat goes tight, just like it did when I first saw them. Thinking he was in any sort of danger, any sort of pain, hits me straight to the heart.

Because we’re friends.
Right?
That’s the only explanation.

I clear my throat to hide the inexplicable emotion welling inside of me. “You’re only half-naked. You still have pants on. And socks. And underwear. And ink.”

One dark brow goes up. “You want me to take off my ink?”

A snicker escapes me. “Good God, no.”

His ink is hot—but it’s like secrets wrapped over his golden skin. I want to know what they’re hiding.

I lean in to stare at the snake trying to bite his right nipple and the skull on his left pec and get distracted. The reason I’m poking his pec with my finger is just to make sure it’s a real tattoo there and not some fake crap.

That’s right. I swear.

“What do they mean to you?” I whisper.

He draws a sharp breath. “The snake is the mark of Damage Control. Zane gave it to me when he picked me up from the street and made me his apprentice.”

“You were on the street? Why?”

He shrugs, sending more luscious muscles shifting and rippling. “My old man hates me. He kicked me out. That’s what the other tat is for.”

Kicked him out.

God…

And there it is. That gleam of darkness. That crack in his pretty boy façade that draws me like poisonous honey. Draws me in and makes my heart ache.