Page 21 of Roan

“You taste like I remember,” I say, bringing my mouth to hers again, aligning our bodies. I’m still wearing my shorts, and I’m waiting to see what she’ll do next. This part is up to her.

Her small hands move over my inked shoulders to my chest, and she pushes.

I prop myself up on my hands, raising my chest from hers. I gaze down at her.

Before I know what’s happening, she has her hand inside my shorts, palming my dick and whispering, “Do you have a condom?”

I nod, reach over to the nightstand, and hand her one. Like I said, she’s in control here. Not me. She doesn’t want me to take control because if I do, she’s ruined. I can barely pry my eyes away from hers when she holds the condom out to me. “Are you going to fuck him out of me?” The words are delivered in a teasing manner. They are. I don’t think she’s trying to be bitter about it, but I take them completely out of context.

Anger shoots through my chest. It’s immediate and so fucking consuming I almost tell her to get out of my goddamn room. But I don’t, because I remind myself she’s young. I can feel the hot blood rushing through me. I close my eyes, a war raging through me.

Without thinking, I rip the condom from her hand and yank down my shorts. I don’t remove them completely. My heart is pumping so hard, my breathing just the same, and it’s taking everything in me not to pass out.

I thought this moment would be completely different than now. I thought… well, maybe I don’t know what I thought it’d be because I certainly never thought she’d fuck my brother.

Propped up by shaking arms, I position myself at her entrance. I can tell you all sorts of details I notice about the moment just before I enter her for the first time. Stupid shit like that goddamn lava lamp beside my bed and the red hues it casts on her olive skin. Or the way it makes her eyes look violet. Or the way that even if I try, I can’t form words. And the worst? I don’t know what’s stronger the second I do enter her. Hate, or love. Maybe they’re one and the same.

Her hands grip my shoulders, a gentle sigh leaving her lips when I’m fully inside her. I give her my weight next. I pause, slowly pull out, and then fill her again. She’s tight, but if I had to guess, she’s been with more than Tiller. Hollowness roots inside me, takes my words, my thoughts, damn near my movements, but it’s sex, so it’s kind of obvious to say I’m fucking enjoying it.

I pound into her, driving my cock in relentlessly. She says nothing. Neither do I. I can’t even look at her, let alone form words. My head buries in her neck, my mouth nipping and biting at her skin, desperate to leave my mark on her. My pumps come quicker, deeper, messier. There’s no sense of control or rhythm. This girl, her words, they’ve taken up residence in my head and fucked me up. Look at me. I’m fucking trembling.

I fuck her. Like it will be the only time. And it just might be. I’m close, so fucking close, but I hold back. Her hips roll, meeting mine urgently. I hold onto her tightly, swirling my tongue around the shell of her ear.

Lifting my head from the pillow, I fist her hair in my hands, and while she yelps at the tug, she doesn’t not want it. Her eyes light up. The first real indication of sadness hits her when she looks at me. I’m merciless, grunting with every thrust. Cheeks red with exertion, beautiful, breathtaking, she fucks like she loves it. She’s absolutely stunning.

Reaching down, I lift her thigh up higher, angling myself deeper inside her. “Oh my God,” she breathes, her eyes closing as I fill her over and over again. She kisses me, her teeth sinking into my lips, her nails scraping down my back.

I say nothing. I give her more, slamming inside her and then before I want, the familiar stirring in my stomach begins, the tightening of my balls. I fight off the urge twice, but then it becomes too much.

My thrusts slow, and eventually halt. Our breathing fills the space between us as I slide off her. I’m angry, vengeful, and definitely not in the mood to think about that part of it. Pulling up my shorts, I stare at the black ceiling, and though there’s relief, it’s ephemeral. The “what now?” thoughts return, and I’m left with the awareness that this isn’t going anywhere past tonight.

What we have is far from innocent and pure—it never was—but I knew the moment I was inside her anything moral we had would be nonexistent. I guess maybe that’s why I held off for so long. I knew once I went there, there’d be no return.

My stubborn heart kicks in my chest. Can we have more? Is that even possible for us?

I wake up to a sliver of sunlight sparking against the lava light next to his black Villa Valencia king poster canopy bed. I peek one eye open, a heavy arm draped across my chest. I look over at the one sharing my space.

He’s beautiful, isn’t he? Everyone who has ever met Roan Maverick Sawyer is drawn in by his smile and the unintentional way he captivates you with it. When he’s asleep, that’s when I find him addictive. Gone are his unforgiving words and instead, there’s a childlike virtue you never thought someone with his clout could possess.

As I gaze at him, the light hits his hair. It’s blonder than before, a product of him being in the constant sun. His skin is darker, a warm glow about him. I slide my eyes lower to his lips, so full, tender, warm. Everything about last night sends a shudder through my body. Everything I thought I’d let go of in New York came rushing back, heady and familiar, yet new and exciting. I knew our first time together would be amazing, but I had no idea it’d be like that. He’d replaced every touch by another and made me realize his is the only one that matters.

The question keeps rattling around in my head: What will he do if he finds out?

I have to tell him about Agustin. I can’t fall back into whatever this is we have without telling him the truth.

And then I think about last night, the smile instinctive. I don’t want to ruin it.

Deep down I think I knew what it’d mean for us, but I had no idea what it’d be like. It was… everything, but I think I knew it would be with him. He’d saved me for so long, only for him to destroy myself by sleeping with someone else. And then I did what I thought I could to make him hurt like I was hurting. We were the perfect example of an Eminem song. You know the one I’m talking about, right? Monster under the bed?

He’s the monster under my bed and as soon as I step foot on the ground, he grabs me by the ankles and drags me under the bed and his influence.

Within minutes of me staring at him, he wakes up. His eyes flutter, his focus on the windows and the dark curtains restricting the sunlight. Eventually, he looks at me, and it takes a lot of willpower to meet his eyes and not look away. I’m just about to open my mouth and say something, what I don’t know, when he moves to sit up, running his hands over his face.

I stare at his back, the puffy skin of what looks to be newly removed stitches healing. Along with the impressive, photographic ink spilling across his shoulders and back are scratches, deep bruises and marks that I recognize as my nails. A reminder last night happened.

“You hungry?” he asks, his voice gruff.

I shake my head. “No, but I could use some coffee.”

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