Page 84 of Make Me Pretty
I flip the flowy end of his skirt up to reveal tiny spanks that barely cover his ass. My palm connects on a hard slap, but thesound is dulled through the fabric. “Fuck, I hate these things,” I grate as Abel shimmies, working them off as I yank them down.
Two, thick black straps cup the curve of Abel’s ass, giving it more volume than usual, with another across the top, just above his ass crack. I tuck a finger under the right strap and pull up, letting it snap back.
“Ow,shit,” he hisses, wriggling against the sting. I grasp his hip, keeping him still as I watch his ass bounce.
“The fuck you wearing a jock for?”
“Because I can.” This time, the connection of my palm against his bare ass reverberates. I think I die a little watching it jiggle. Abel’s back curls inward, the tied ends of his hair skimming his sharp, extended shoulder blades. His skin is stretched so taut, the bone could tear right through, bathing us both in blood as it pours from gaping wounds.
I do it again. And again. And again. Until Abel’s vibrating and whimpering. All because I want to—and I can.
When his flesh burns to touch, I pull back, skimming the backs of my knuckles over him. Abel sighs, head rolling onto his shoulder as his hands slip, slick with the perspiration rolling off his body. My own isn’t far behind, rejoined from the efforts of the game, only this time, there’s more at stake.
I’m warring with a reality I don’t want but can’t seem to refuse, and the more Abel pulls away, the more I want him, against my better judgment—or literally any at all.
All it takes is one look at the little runt to know he’s the very definition of bad news. I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on him, shining gray orbs breaking through the shadows.
Abel doesn’t carry an ounce of good in him. Except when he’s attentive toward my mom and her overprotective, nurturing tendencies. Or when he’s standing up for himself. Or when he’s doing it for someone else.
For me.
Because he knows, and he’s the one person I don’t have to lie to.And we’ve already gone this far drowning in malice and hatred, bruises and blood.
Why change what works? What we know and what we crave.
Maybe this way, it’ll all make some sense in the end. Because it will end.
My fingers slip between Abel’s crack as I bend over his back, tonguing every drop of sweat I can reach. The second I graze his hole, I press my index finger inside with nothing but his sweat coating my finger.
“Ugh,shit,” he whimpers, back contorting away from the onslaught. I inhale sharply, nose pressed against his heated skin. All I feel is heat and flesh and perspiration.
“Peris,” Abel moans. I push my finger in a little more, fighting against the clench of his muscles. They lock even tighter, fighting me. So, I fight back, pushing until my knuckles graze the supple skin of his ass.
My other hand drags over his bunched skirt, down to his shaved legs—so smooth I can feel the slight ridges of some of his scars. “Yeah, baby,” I utter into him, eyes closed at all theheat and burning and this.
“Hurts.”
“Fuck, that’s good,” I mumble, kissing along his spine as I try to add another finger.
“You’re gonna make me bleed.” I can taste his plea like acrid gasoline. My finger is out of his body and wrapped around his hip before I’m able to take another breath. We share a few in silence before he shatters it.
“There’s lube.” He heaves a small breath. “In my bag.”
Every muscle locks as I push away. “Gotta be prepared to be fucked, huh, runt?” I sneer before I can stop myself. “Planning on spreading your legs for someone at the party?Lance,maybe?”
At that, Abel pushes himself up. The sight of his trembling legs unfurls something low in my belly. It oozes out like pus from an infected wound.
“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” he snarks back, fixing his skirt. I bat his hands away. “And I didn’t even know about the party until Gabe brought it up, asshole.”
“You’re not.”
His darkened eyebrows furrow, eyes squinting under the pressure as those fat lips of his twist to the side. “Why?”
“Because!” I snap, refusing to ruminate on it. On this hot, twisted desire to keep him close. “Don’t fucking move.” I turn my back on him as I duck out from our heated enclave. My steps are heavy as I beeline for the bag. Fabric faded, straps frayed and held together with safety pins. Stained and dirty—just like him.
Like me.
Gripping it tightly, I scan the empty room as I stride back, gut coiled like a snake ready to strike. My feet stumble to a stop when I find Abel exactly how I left him, only this time, one ankle is crossed over the other, and there’s something about those dirty shoes falling apart at the seams that eradicates everything around us.
