Page 50 of The Sharpest Edges

He doesn’t pull his pants back up, only steps out of them when she tugs him from the sofa and to her room. She steals glances backward every few seconds, trying to hold in a smile that’s both sweet and incredulous, like she can’t quite believe this is happening and he knows the feeling because he can’t either.

Everything is about to change.

20

Chapter 20

When John died in that car crash, Ava assumed she’d never have sex again.

That she would live her life alone and there was a sense of relief in that, not the sadness some might expect, because for her it only meant freedom. It was a promise that she’d never be in this position again. On her back, with someone bigger and stronger looming above her while everything in her head screamed to fight and run.

No, she never mourned the loss of sex, if what John did to her could be called that. Even before it was bad, it was never really good either, so what was there to miss? All the fuss everyone went on about was something she couldn’t quite grasp and so she settled into her sexless life. Too afraid, too broken, too fucked up to be anything but alone.

Only here she is now, in that position again. On her back with a man above her, his weight pressing into the open vee of her legs and his breath puffing against her collarbone. She should feel trapped. Intimidated. Humiliated. All emotions she’d gotten far too used to. She doesn’t feel any of thosethings now and the reality of that is so foreign she’s not quite sure what the hell to do with it.

There is some wariness though, it’s been so long, after all, but one thing she knows for certain is that she won’t leave this room with bruises or a split lip. Won’t stain the sheets with blood or have to mute her screams with the back of her hand.

Trust doesn’t come easy for her, but she feels it for Dean, so much so that she’s allowing him this close, trusting him with more than her heart but with a body that’s been broken and betrayed so many times before. She was ready to try the previous day, but hesitation still ran so deep in her bones that she faltered. It wasn’t until she realized that he only wanted to feel her come against his mouth that she was able to relax and enjoy it.

She isn’t used to someone offering her pleasure and wanting nothing in return, and her desire to be with Dean only tripled after that. This time will be different, she tells herself. She is sober and her body is willing. She can only hope her mind doesn’t screw her over.

His tongue dips into the crevice of her collarbone, tracing the hallow there in a slow lick that has her squirming. They’d stalled at first. Spilling into this room eager and aroused after waiting so long, but then reality washed over them like a cold shower. Neither sure of how to proceed.

And then he laughed, soft and brief, but it prompted her to laugh too because really, they were being ridiculous. They’re adults, they know how this goes. Still, it feels a lot like she’s doing this for the very first time all over again and that brings a cluster of butterflies on the heels of anticipation.

She’d been grateful for his sudden burst of humor, especially for someone who often keeps his laughter in check becausedamn if she didn’t need a little levity right then. It was easier after that to let him pull her flush against him and sneak a kiss onto her lips. Easier to guide him to the bed in short back-walking steps until they were both dipping the mattress with their weight, peeling any remaining clothes off each other between stolen kisses, like unwrapping gifts.

When she reached for the edge of his shirt and lifted it off his shoulders, she found the battered, torn skin on his back and chest, tracing a familiar story.

She knew before that someone hurt him. She saw it clear as day in the infirmary, and in this bed the other night, but her heart breaks for him all over again. She has her own scars to feel wary of, after all. More than the long, sharp knife wound that stretches from her neck to her breast. She is less self-conscious now that he’s seen them, but she’d still prefer to pretend those cigarette burns aren’t there, and those belt lashes never happened. Maybe he wants the same.

Waiting for Dean to recover from round one has its perks. Having anyone touch her like this again could easily turn overwhelming if she’s not careful. He is soft but consistent between her legs, though they remain unconnected. He thrusts against her every few seconds while they touch each other in ways she’s been starved for her whole life. It’s not lost on her how big he is and she worries at how they’ll fit together, if it’ll burn like she expects it might, or if her body will welcome him in.

She makes decent use of her vibrator, but usually on the outside and even two of his fingers prompted an ache. His touch runs from her hip to her knee and back down again, lips wrapping around the stiff peak of her nipple and giving it a light suck that draws a gasp from her lungs.

When her fingers find another cluster of scars at his hip, a large grouping that filters over to his lower back, round and raised and the same size as the ones she guards on her own skin, he freezes above her. She isn’t looking for these things, not trying to seek them out in exploration, but his body is covered in so many long-hidden marks that it’s nearly impossible to avoid them.

She knows what they are. Cigarette burns, so many more than she wears herself. She can’t help but hug him to her, wrapping both arms around his shoulders and cradling him with her thighs. Words feel inadequate now more than ever, especially when her body can show him how she feels in other ways. The mood has dropped to heavy in the span of a few seconds, memories of her own mingling with a wild imagination of what he might have endured.

They’ve come so far and have worked so hard to get here that she isn’t about to let another opportunity slip past them.

He may have been wound tight a moment ago, but it’s not long before she feels that soft, easy thrust between her legs again, pushing against the arousal gathering at her entrance, soaking the length of his shaft. His tongue snakes inside her mouth for a swirling, sweeping kiss that has her forgetting all thoughts of injuries and scars, focusing instead on the feel of him surrounding her.

They haven’t ventured further south yet, but she can feel him get firmer, every move he makes purposeful instead of absent and lazy. That’s when his hand curves to her inner thigh and presses her leg open.

She comes an inch off the bed when he traces the seam of her with a fingertip, and then two fingers press into her at once and she’s convinced she might come as quickly as he didon the sofa. Just implode right here and now from how right it is to have some part of him connected to her this way, pushing and pulling, trying to coax her pleasure from deep within.

There isn’t much of a rhythm, but he feels so damn good anyway that she can’t find it in her to care. Her eyes shut and her head presses back into the pillow, wanton and restless, one hand clutching at his shoulder and the other finding purchase on his hip.

She wants all of him, but she is snug around his fingers and he spends time working her open until her muscles relax around both digits. Then he’s gone, leaving her empty and desperate, her eyes snapping open to find him looking down at her, teeth snagging on his lower lip, traces of anxiety in his eyes.

“You’re sure?” he asks. It’s the first thing he’s said to her this whole time, but only fitting that the words come right as the tip of him rests against her opening.

“I’m sure. Slow, okay?”

“I promise.”

He waits another few seconds, a consistent pressure between her legs that goes nowhere, but when he does move, nudging into her a fraction, she can’t help the hiss that leaves her lips. She felt him in her hand, but she underestimated the burn of the stretch even before he’s gotten completely inside of her.

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