His mouth fell open as I pressed my lips to his, sucking in his soul, his desire, every emotion that clogged my brain whenever he was near.
My entire body shuddered, pleasure rippling in a core that suddenly knew exactly how to get relief.
Arthur groaned as I straddled his hips, rocking and pressing my night shorts against his rock-hard erection. I didn’t care the dusky pink of my pajamas was drenched from being around him. I didn’t care that I could smell myself—smell how much I needed this boy.
Puberty had hit and Arthur had been teasing me ever since he first kissed me in the park. It was time for him to stop teasing and deliver.
“Cleo—wait,” he hissed in the darkness.
His head arched back as I pressed viciously hard, driving myself to the point of pain as I rode him.
“Shit.” He snapped.
His hands came up, capturing my face, kissing me savagely.
A moan ripped from my lungs as he thrust up, hitting the perfect spot and making me melt and freeze all at the same time.
We kissed as if the world would end. We fed, we dined—we ate every inch as our mouths attacked hungrily. When his hands fell to my hips, pressing me harder onto him, the seam of my shorts rubbed in just the right way.
I cried out, flopping onto his chest.
Instantly he stopped, his heart drumming so hard against mine. “We can’t. Cleo, go. Leave before—”
“Before you fuck me?” I rocked my hips.
Temper darkened the red hot heat between us. “Don’t say such crass things. It’s not ladylike.”
Ladylike? I wasn’t a girl or a biker president princess, or even a woman in that moment.
I was his. I wanted to be used, abused, taken. I wanted dirt and filth and raw primitive fucking.
“Fuck me, Arthur Killian. I’m begging you to fuck me.”
He threw me off him, tearing off the bed and moving to his wardrobe. Yanking on jeans, he dragged both hands through his hair. “Shut up. They’ll hear you.”
I sat panting on his bed, running my finger over my new mood ring, which now glowed a horrible black. Looking for the box, I found the placard that stated what each color meant.
Black: Sadness, depression, rejection.
Yep.
Art came closer, ducking to his haunches before me. His hands landed on my knees, tracing circles that only amplified the tangled feelings inside. His eyes fell to the damp patch between my legs; his jaw clenched.
“You told me once the traits of a Libran. I did some of my own research on you. Want to know what I found?”
I shook my head, hiding myself behind a curtain of fiery red hair. I didn’t want to look at him—not after he’d turned me away, like all the other times.
Brushing the thick crimson strands behind my ear, he murmured, “You’re bright and inquisitive, energetic and enthusiastic, adventurous and honest.” His voice slowly leveled out from desire-filled raggedness. “You’re passionate to a fault and fearless.” He smiled. “I can attest to that. You go after things you want with no thought to the consequences and suffer from incorrigible optimism.”
I laughed softly. “I have to have optimism—especially where you’re concerned. Otherwise how could I spend so much time with you, begging for you to notice me—with the amount of times you push me away?”
He sighed, ignoring that. “Even the negative traits I found adorable.”
“Negative?” I tensed for the worst.
“You’re restless, impatient, tactless, and overconfident.”
“Ouch.”
Art moved to sit back on the bed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “But it’s those traits that make you my Buttercup. Never give up on me. Never stop being impatient or overconfident in my love for you. I’ll give in one day, Cleo. Sooner than you think.”
The flashback ended as Arthur placed the mood ring back on my middle finger. “How do you have it? Wasn’t it on me the night I disappeared?”
Arthur gritted his jaw, anger deep in his green eyes. “I found it in the wreckage of the house. I had just enough time to put it somewhere safe before the police arrested me the following morning.”
Questions lined up in chaotic fashion. I wanted to hear his story—to figure out why they arrested him and the trial he must’ve been subjected to.
But the flashback had drained me. I had no more tenacious drive other than to show this man what he meant to me.
I moved forward into his embrace. His arms wrapped immediately around me, squeezing hard.
A minute passed and we just hugged, drawing and giving much-needed serenity.
Finally, Art pulled back. “Let’s go to bed.”
I nodded.
“Just let me lock up.” Moving away, he gathered the photographs and placed them back in the safe. Locking it, he turned to face me, but my eyes landed on a glossy image hidden partly by the couch.
Without a word, I ducked down and retrieved it.
My heart swooped with gossamer wings then hurtled me into hell.
Me and him.
Young, slightly sunburned, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, surrounded by a swarm of family. My mom and dad. His mom, dad, and older brother. We were the perfect postcard of togetherness.
My eyes fell on his father.
Hatred coiled in my gut, hissing and twisting, wanting to strike him down for what he did.
Tears bruised my eyes to see my parents again. A flash of a memory appeared. My mother had been called Petal—Sandra “Petal” Price. She’d been too pure and precious to die.
A single tear rolled down my cheek as I drank in the love on their doting faces, the happiness we’d had as a family. Knowing I would never see them again ripped out my heart and left it bleeding on the floor.
It hurt.
So, so much.
“Shit.” Arthur plucked the image from my fingertips, taking away my home, leaving me alone once again.
In a flash, he picked me up from the tiles and carried me toward the door. “I can’t stand to see you in pain.”
I didn’t protest as he carted me from the room.
Over his shoulder, I noticed another photograph peeking up from the floor.
A picture of me laughing in Scott “Rubix” Killian’s arms. I’d loved him. I’d trusted him.
He’d been an uncle to me but destroyed my family all for greed.
Tiredness stole everything from me; I burrowed my face into the crook of Arthur’s neck. No words were spoken as he carried me back to bed.
Placing me gently on the mattress, I cupped his cheek. “I’ve always wondered why your mom called you Arthur. Do you know?”
His face turned soft. “Yes, I know.” Throwing back the covers, he climbed in beside me, pulling me into his powerful body. “She named me after Arthur Cayley. A famous mathematician who wrote a number of papers on rules we use abundantly today.”
I smiled in the dark, holding his arm around my breasts. “So she’s the reason why you’re fascinated with numbers.”
He laughed quietly. “You could say that. I suppose she jinxed me in a way.”
“Or gave you a better life path than the one your father envisioned.”
Somehow I remembered Arthur’s childhood wasn’t as happy as mine. His family home had always been fraught with danger and nervousness. I’d never come out and asked, but I had a feeling his father did more than just raise his fists to his son. I had a feeling his older brother hurt him, too.
His voice turned to a whisper. “Perhaps.”
“How did she die?” I murmured, hating to think his mother had been murdered like mine. There had been too much death. Too much unnecessary waste.
Arthur flinched behind me, taking his time to reply. “Breast cancer.”
I hugged his arm closer. “I’m so sorry, Art.”
Holding me tight, he growled, “No more talking, go to sleep.”
I wanted to offer condolences. I wanted to turn in his arms and kiss him senseless and force him to forget the pain of being locked in prison while his mother died of cancer.
Instead, I allowed him to keep me pinned and welcomed sleep to steal me.
I made a pact as silence fell thick and soothing around us that the moment we woke tomorrow, I would show Arthur how much I adored him. How precious his undying devotion was to my memory and heart.
I would wrap my lips around his cock and adore him until I drank everything he gave me.
I would show him how much I worshiped, not just his soul and mind, but his body, too.
Sleep stole its fuzzy tentacles through my mind. The only sounds were the gentle thud of our heartbeats, once again syncing into rhythm.
I let the gentle intimacy lull me closer to dreamland, but in the last moment before succumbing, I whispered, “Don’t fear the truth around me, Art. Please don’t be afraid.”
I never expected a reply.
I never expected him hear me.
I only wanted the vow to trickle into his subconscious and hopefully ease some of the affliction inside.
Time ticked past, sleep came for me again.
In the final second before I fell into clouds, a tortured whisper breathed in my ear, “I’m more than afraid, Buttercup. I’m absolutely fucking terrified.”
The truth of his confession trickled into my mind, numbing my heart with horror. I curled tighter in his embrace. “Why?” I murmured.
He took forever to answer and when he finally did, I wished I weren’t awake to hear it.