Page 23 of Ruin

My teeth sink into his neck, muscles and tendons corded beneath my locking jaws. His leg kicks back, boot to my shin, but I hold tight, unflinching.

“Fuck you,” he rasps, his voice going straight to my brain like a shot, my dick kicking with a new burst of adrenaline.

I release my teeth, eyeing the bloody crescents before lifting my gaze back to his, drawing my head back just a little to see him clearer.

“That’s what you want,” I say lowly, eyes flicking between bright green. “To fuck.”

He snarls, the sound rattling in the back of his throat, a warning.

“Well, let’s go!” I sing brightly, his eyes narrowing.

My hand drags down the wall beside his head, his own hands unmoving. I grab the back of his neck, razor cut hair soft beneath my calloused palm as I tighten my hold. My fingers pinch sharply, the fragile bones in his nape flexing beneath my grip, I lift my body from his and drag him away from the wall.

Without protest, he bows forward, my hold on him like the scruff of a hound being hauled outside. I guide him down the hallway, my steps strong and unhurried, his, clumsy and uncoordinated. I slam my palm against the bathroom door when we reach it, knocking it back into the wall as it violently swings open.

Unceremoniously, I throw Charlie to the ground. His knees crashing into the tiles, arms thrusting forward to save himself from face planting the floor. My chest is heaving as I stare at him on all fours, his eyes down, facing away from me, his back rising and falling sharply with ragged breaths. I swallow hard, staring at his back, dark ink swirling over his pale white skin, covering markings and scars, but so much of it isher. Kyla-fucking-Rose.

Anger floods up through me like my stomach is trying to claw its way up my throat. I fucking did this shit.

“Turn around,” I order, my words simmering with violence, my hackles rise, his skin prickling with goosebumps. “Stay down.”

He moves on his hands and knees, head still bowed as he finally turns in my direction.

It’s heady. The way he follows my instruction so blindly. I feel like I’m falling, drowning, dying, him obeying my orders, doing what I say. He is volatile. Violent. Angry at the world. Yeah, well, so the fuck am I.

But then there’s this. when we’re together. Like this. He seeks me out. I just, I fall into him, into us and I remember, for just a moment, why we bought that fucking house. Two delusional young men. Both trying to deal with their trauma. Thinking that what they had between them was love. It makes me want to laugh. Emotion claws at my insides, anger, bitter and thick, pounds through my veins.

My mouth dry, I swallow, “Crawl to me,” it is low, my voice, rough, desperate.

We can play these games and sate the hunger, but it will never be more than what it is.

Stolen moments of terror.

That’s all we can ever be.

Terrifying, dangerous passion.

He stops before me, palms planted on either side of my feet. He doesn’t look up. His spine curved, muscles solid in his back, twitching beneath his skin. His hair falls forward, over his face, head dropped forward, my cock weeps and I draw in a steadying breath.

“Kiss my feet,” my voice holds strong, unwavering.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and I am desperate to hear him fight back. Have that sinister growl bite into my eardrums. Instead, after a moment, his elbows bend slowly, lowering him down, not stopping until his shoulders are level with the backs of his hands. He drops his head forward, his nose brushing the tied laces of my right shoe, I feel his breath ghost over my ankle and then his mouth on the leather.

Every logical thought drops out of my brain. The unlocked door, cameras, guards, the fucking claw marks in his face. I’m hot. My thin cotton shirt too much. My belt too tight. Socks and shoes and trousers. My skin itches, on fire beneath the too many layers. My head falls back, eyes closing, my legs trembling and he’s not even touching me.

But as his parted lips work up and down the length of my shoe, mouth moving from the right and onto the left. I force my eyes open, look down at him, and those fucking eyes spear me. Catching my gaze, holding me captive, he runs his tongue up the front of my shoe, a trail of saliva glinting under the harsh clinical bulb. I am breathing fast, air huffing hard through my nostrils.

I am enthralled, watching him, worship me.

“Take my cock out,” I hiss through my teeth, venomous and cruel.

Without removing his mouth, still attached to my foot, he reaches up, balancing on his left hand, his right fingers work to free my buckle, button, zipper. And then the heat of my cock is being cradled in his cold, clammy hand. Fingers and thumb circling my thick length in a punishing grip. His hand slides up and down, tugging hard, it feels like he’s trying to tear it off and a groan creaks its way free of my throat. I don’t take my eyes off him, his back heaving, eyes flicked up on mine, then to my cock, and back again.

It’s not enough, even like this, even having him here, at my feet, at my mercy.

I will never get enough of Charlie Swallow.

“Up on your knees,” I spit, disgust in my tone, real and torturous.

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