Page 48 of Heavy

I barely need to apply any pressure to push between my soaked slit, and the moment I touch my clit, I slide down and fall onto my sensitive ass. It shoots me with such a horrid pain that when I roll my two fingers against my throbbing bud, I’m immediately at the precipice of my climax.

My toes curl as I hike my knees up, my head hitting the door behind me. With the pain and pleasure searing through my body, I bite my lip to muffle the moan as I come so hard my own touch begins to sting nearly instantly.

I tear my shaking fingers away from my pussy, but keep my legs spread. My breathing is erratic, my skin on fire and flushed. Everything around me spins, and I’ve never felt so completely out of control—yet so alive—as I do right now.

My cum drips down my ass and to the floor as I sit here, trying to get myself together. Shutting my eyes, I release a shaky breath. He might be the death of me, but I’d embrace the grave willingly if it means feeling like this until my heart finally stops.

Two weeks have passed, and he hasn’t said a single word to me. No “good morning”, no “hello”—absolutely nothing. I don’t even know why he’s ignoring me in the first place. And as for me? I can’t bring myself to say anything because I’m so mortified that if he brushed me off, I might just throw up from the embarrassment.

I’m a strong, independent woman. I make good money and know how to take care of myself. But ever since Ronan walked into my life, I’ve found myself wanting to let my guard down. I want to be cared for, fought for, and to feel all those warm, fuzzy things Gene always talks about.

I’ve never really had that, not even with past boyfriends. Sure, they could wine and dine me, but they never fought for me. If a guy hit on me, I was the one snapping back and telling them to fuck off. They also never knew what I needed, and most of the time my hard days came with them questioning when my period was going to start.

Suppose I’m basically saying I need aman, not a boy.

I want to stop fighting my own battles with the demons of my past. And deep down, I know that if I trusted Ronan, he’d take on that fight for me, just like he did at the bar. Maybe he’d do it more to indulge in his own thirst for violence than for my sake, but I wouldn’t care—as long as I could finally be free from the weight of my pain.

It’s so selfish of me, for more reasons than one. I really should stop hoping for anything more than being his roommate. We’ve been in that cabin for nearly a month and a half, and not once have we reached that heated point, that moment when we both finally stop resisting whatever this is between us.

Even if he would just let me touch him, I think I could die a happy woman.

I’m not entirely sure what it is about a guy that doesn’t want to be touched that makes mewantto touch him more.

I’m so fucking delusional to want someone like him and think that he’d even consider somebody like me. I’m literally his step-niece. I really need to get over this, focus on the renovations, get my insurance money, disappear before my past comes knocking, and completely forget about hot-as-fuck Ronan.

Ugh.

I lean forward and bang my head against the steering wheel. Once, twice, three times, before I slump against it, letting out a long, frustrated groan.

Thunder cracks, and I jump. Summertime storms here are brutal, and I can’t stand them. Right now, I wish I were home, wrapped in the quiet comfort of Ronan’s presence. He wouldn’t even need to touch me. Just knowing he’s there, sitting in the garage, would make me feel safe—as if no storm, no past, nothing could reach me.

A prickling sensation rises around my cheeks, a pressure building behind my eyes, but there’s no release. It’s like I’m sinking deeper and deeper, with the weight of everything pressing down on me. I want so badly to cry. I’ve talked to my therapist about it, but she says I’m subconsciously holding myself back. It isn’t true. I know something is wrong with me—mentally and physically—and I’m tired of people implying it’s somehow my fault.

Another thunderclap slams across the sky and I jerk back, letting out a scream that echoes through the small car. I punch the horn, holding it down as the blaring sound fills the office parking lot.

Breathing slowly, I force air into my lungs, then let it out, releasing the last of the scream. The people leaving their workplaces stare at me, and I almost flip them off out of pure rage. Fuck them. I’m sure they scream out in frustration too, but they’re choosing to do it behind closed doors, in the comfort of their own solitude. Not me. I’m doing it out here, exposed to the world.

I pop the car into drive and head out of the city. My mother asked me to stop by the next time I’m in town, but I can’t. I don’t have the mental capacity to face her right now. Part of me wants to spill everything and the urge is so close to the surface, I feel like I might just let it slip.

I hit the highway when I hear something strange under my car—a rattling sound. But I don’t slow down. I glance behind me. There are several cars trailing me, and when I look ahead, a dozen or so more scattered along the road. I intentionally left later to avoid traffic while also hoping to avoid the thunderstorm that’s clearly overhead.

I change lanes, moving into the furthest right, and slow down. Something black in my rearview mirror catches my attention. A sedan is right behind me, too close for comfort.

My heart starts to race. The rattling under the car gets louder, sharper, almost as if it’s matching the pounding in my chest.

I test the waters, swerving back into the second lane from the right. To my utter fucking dismay, the sedan follows me.

No…

My bottom lip trembles as I look at the screen on my dash. I tap it a few times, pulling up the phone app and pressing ‘R’. Ronan’s name lights up in front of me, the only contact I want to call right now.

My hand shakes as I press his name and hear the phone ring.

Why would he answer your fucking call, Cal?

It rings once, then his voice cuts through the silence. “What’s wrong?” His tone is laced with worry, and I can't fathom why. Maybe it's because I've never called him before, or maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever the reason, the butterflies in my stomach fight for dominance, adding to the nausea already swirling inside me.

“Cal?”

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