Quickly, faster than he’d meant to, he shoved back in, the smell of sex and latex coming at him in a sultry whoosh and dragging him back, against his will, to another place, another time—a world he wanted more than anything to forget.
Fuck no, he was here with this woman now, and he wouldn’t let his mind take him back to that hell.
She must have felt something, because her arms were around him, comforting and tender, tight and firm, her thighs encircling his hips, and he wanted this—not just the sex, but the rest of what she had to offer—in a way he’d wanted little else in his life.
But first, he wanted to come. He thrust into her a few times. Not deep enough, not as far as he wanted to go. One hand beneath her ass, he dragged her up, pushed one of her legs to her chest with his other hand, and there…there, he pounded, as hard as he could, forgetting who she was, the delicate sweetness. He didn’t think he’d ever fucked so hard, so wild, so out of control. He heard her scream—a strange sound, soft and muted—and when he pulled back into his brain, truly focused, he saw his ugly, scarred hands pressing tightly into her perfect, white throat.
“Fuck,” he grunted, pulling out and shooting up off the bed, breath gone wild, head buzzing, eyes impossible to clear. “I hurt you.”
“I’m fine,” she said, the hand at her throat proving the lie.
“I don’t hurt women.”
“I’m not a victim, Andrew. I want to be here. I want to be with you.”
“Even if I hurt you?” he said, hating the reedy sound of his voice.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be, damn it. Look at me, for God’s sake!”
“I…I liked the spanking,” she said, head turning away. “Are you planning on hurting me more than that?”
“Who the hell knows! I mean, your throat…” He stalked to the closed door and rammed his fist into the hard wood with a quiet, “Fuck!” And oh, the pain was good. Letting go was good, so good. “I go into my head sometimes, and then I…I can’t control it, the shit I do. You’ve seen me. I could hurt you, and I wouldn’t even know it till it’s too late. Too fucking late, George!”
His mind slipped back to Kathy with a K, against the clubhouse wall. He pictured fucking her there, above and beyond the call of duty, but so very in character for Indian Greer. He remembered pulling out, loosening the fist he’d had wrapped tightly in her hair, stroking her face and then her shoulder in an odd, platonic, placating gesture, and then waiting a half second before muttering a quiet, “Sorry,” and walking away.
Those memories were fine, though, compared to the image of Kathy’s dead, blank eyes staring at him from beside him at the bottom of the well only a couple of weeks later. She’d just been more collateral damage, killed because of her link to the club. The murder of Kathy with a K had been the last straw, and even that had been rife with shame. He could have saved her.
He’d torn himself up about Kathy—for not getting her out in time, for using her—but the worst part, the very worst thing of all, the thing that ate him up inside, made him worthless, soulless, and ready for hell, was that even in death, she hadn’t meant enough to mark him. Because the face he’d seen attached to her body, bruised and battered and thrown down there like unwanted trash, hadn’t even been hers. It had been Carly’s. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what Kathy with a K looked like.
* * *
Andrew stood rigid at the foot of her bed, doing a strange heavy breathing that scared her as nothing else would. He could have yelled and screamed and threatened her physically, and she wouldn’t have felt half as helpless as she did right then.
Because she wanted to love him, she realized, with a tragic dose of reality. Tragic because you couldn’t love a man like this and not get hurt. She shouldn’t love him at all—not after so little time, not after all the strife. But she wanted to; she wanted to give him that. Maybe even give it to herself.
Across the room, the moon highlighted wet streaks on his face. Crying. He was crying, and George wanted to fix it—fix everything. She’d do whatever it took to take him in, to protect him, to make him better.
And not just his skin, but every beautiful, scarred inch of his psyche.
She stood up and walked to him, put a hand out, let it rest on his chest, and when he opened his arms just a little, she moved in, settled against him.
“It’s okay, Andrew,” she whispered into his neck. “I’m here. I’m here.”
After a while, he let out a shuddering breath and pushed gently away from her to walk out into the hall and then the bathroom. She heard the water run and wondered if this was it. This man wouldn’t stick around to discuss it, whatever it was. He couldn’t. He had too much pride. He couldn’t let her take care of him and still keep his man card or whatever the hell they carried around besides their big cars and penises.
With a sigh, she followed him to the bathroom, hesitating outside the closed door.
“Andrew?”
Nothing except the turning of the faucet and the water stopping.
“Please stay.”
She could hear him sigh, even through the door, and could only picture how heartfelt it was.
“You don’t want my brand of crazy, George. I’ll only drag you down.”
