Bad Wolf(87)

He breaks the kiss, panting softly, gazing at me with a bemused and slightly wide-eyed expression on his face.

Did I just come twice from his fingers inside me? Jesus and crap on a cracker. My body is still shaking, trying to come to terms with what happened. Could it be because I want him so much, because of the pressure building inside me day after day?

Rationalizing isn't helping, especially when he slowly withdraws his fingers, brings them up, and smells them. It's my turn to stare at him, at the dark ripple of need in his gaze. His hard-on is pressing against me, urgent and hot, and that sexy, lazy grin curls up one corner of his mouth.

"Did'ya like that, kitten?" he rumbles. "I wonder what else you might like … "

"Kitten?" My voice comes out kinda squeaky, and I wince. Very sexy.

"You make these soft mewling noises." He wipes a finger over his lower lip, licks it. "Sweet."

Oh God, he didn't just …  He did.

Jesus, I'm getting hot and aroused all over again, and I have no clue what to say. I've never been with a guy who seems to know exactly what he's doing to me, how much I enjoy it, and yeah …  and who seems to enjoy it, too.

"Tell me," he says, although the wicked gleam in his eyes informs me he doesn't need such enlightenment. "Tell me what you'd like."

Problem is, I don't know. What he did was awesome, mind-blowing, but my experience is restricted to frantic fumbling in the dark, struggling with condoms, and quick, unpleasurable penetrations. I always thought that's how it was supposed to be. That my own hand is the only way to come off.

So I say the only thing that has been on my mind since he started kissing and touching me.

"Take your T-shirt off."

He pulls back, his grin frozen, his gaze hardening. "Why?"

"I want to look at you." I run my hand over his hard pec, over the thin cotton, and feel the contour of his nipple piercing. It makes my throat a tiny bit drier. Christ, the Sonoran Desert has to be tropical by comparison. "Touch you."                       
       
           



       

Something shifts in his gaze, and his eyes soften. Makes me wonder what he thought I was after, but conscious thought ceases when he lifts himself up just enough to rip off his T-shirt and let it drop to the floor.

Holy shit, Batman. Looking at this boy's chest never gets old. I reverently brush my fingertips over those pierced nipples, tugging lightly on a silver hoop, and he hisses, powerful abs tightening and contracting in his washboard stomach.

The winged demon inked on his right pec draws me, not as perfect as the rest of his colorful tats. It's kinda fuzzy in spots, as if the ink ran under the skin.

I press the tips of my fingers into it, feeling languid, my body relaxed and warm, pleasantly buzzed and tightening inside again at the thought of him touching me …  thrusting into me.

God.

"What does this ink mean to you?" I ask.

"Why do you think it means something?"

"You don't strike me as the sort to ink random things on you."

"Don't I?"

"Besides," I ignore his reply, "it's the only thing inked on your chest. It has to mean something."

"Or maybe I ran out of space on my arm."

He's teasing me. I can see the corners of his eyes crinkling even as he's keeping a straight face. "Or maybe not. Because this one's technique is different. It looks …  older. And I've seen you rub it sometimes, as if it hurts. Like a scar, but I don't see any scar tissue."

Didn't Kayla say something about a tattoo that got infected?

"You think too much," he says abruptly and pushes himself up on one hand, muscles flexing and bulging in his corded arm. His face is in shadow.

"Who is Helen?"

He stills so suddenly and so utterly, it's like he's turned into stone. Only his lips move when he whispers, "What?"

"Helen. She gave you the leather bracelet you can't do without, so she's important to you. Who is she?"

He flinches, although he tries to hide it. It makes me all the more curious to know.

Okay, I'm socially inept, and even I realize I've gone too far and broken the moment. In fact, broken is too small a word for it-I've shattered it to billion tiny pieces with no hope of resurrecting it-but it's too late to take back my words and my questions, and let's face it: I'm interested in all that makes Jesse who he is.

He sits up and leans over to grab his T-shirt from the floor, his broad back rippling. A long, thin scar marks his lower back, white and old. His every side, his every facet is a puzzle I want to solve.

Though he doesn't seem so thrilled about the prospect at the moment. It puts a lump of fear in my throat. Not fear of him, but fear of losing him.

As if I ever had him.

"The hell." He bunches up the T-shirt in his hands and his jaw clenches. "Is this your second question, seriously? If I knew this was what you'd be asking me … "

Shit. "I didn't mean to hurt you, JJ."

"You didn't fucking hurt me. Nothing can hurt me." He's spitting mad at me, I realize, his eyes flashing and his teeth gritting, his movements jerky as he pulls on the T-shirt, covering himself, and leaving me aware I'm still topless, sprawled on his bed, where he left me.

My face flaming, I cast around for my top and find it lying on the floor, a few feet away. "Is that so? You're, what, superhuman? Nothing touches you?" I cover my breasts with my hands instead as I sit up.

"No." He sneers, and it cuts through me like a knife. "More like subhuman. Didn't you pay any attention back when I replied to your first question?"

"First question?" My brain's still fuzzy from the best orgasm I've ever had, so sue me for not getting it immediately. "What do you mean?"

"I was a hooker, Embers. I sold my body for money on the streets. I had my regular customers, women who wanted to have some fun, and I also picked up any woman who seemed interested when times got rough. And they did get rough, more than once. My old ways-that's what I meant. I've been whoring myself for a long, long time, and Helen … "

I watch, breathless as he battles some strong emotion. It wells up in his gaze, but it never spills out.

I'd prod him, prompt him to say more, but I'm afraid that if I speak, he'll remember I'm there and stop. I don't think he's seeing me right now. Don't think he's seeing anything, and although I'm still reeling a bit from what he said-I'd guessed it, but guessing and knowing are two different things when truth's staring at you in the face-I'm worried about him.                       
       
           



       

A common state for me when I'm around him. Worried, or curious, or aroused …  Always intrigued.

"Helen was there," he says, tugging on the leather band circling his strong wrist, that faraway look still on his face. "Helen McRoy. When I was thirteen or so. She was fucking there with me, on the streets, and we had each other's back. She was older than me, said she was nineteen. Think she was lying, she was fucking younger than that. But she knew the ropes and taught me about protection. Condoms and stuff, and what to be leery of."

I shiver as the words sink in and the grim picture of his childhood emerges. If he was thirteen when he met Helen, when did he start living on the street? In how much danger was he? And if she was the one who told him about condoms … ?

"Wait. You want me to believe that there are people who'd have sex with a kid? And that before meeting this Helen, you used no protection?"

"God, you're naïve. Believe what you want." The sneer is back, sharp and ugly. There's a shimmer to his eyes that turns them into chips of hard, clear glass. "And don't worry. I've been tested many times since. I'm clean as a whistle, so you won't catch anything from kissing me, I promise."

Holy crap. "Jesse … "

"I'm done with the stupid Q&A games," he snaps. No pet names, no teasing gleam in his eyes as he gets to his feet and retrieves my top. He throws it on the bed, and I recoil as if he's slapped me. "Go back to your pretty world and leave me in mine."

"I didn't mean … " My words catch on a strangled sob, and jeez, am I about to make an even bigger fool of myself with a boy who couldn't care less about me and who thinks asking him about his past is an attack on his pride? "Fine."

I grab my blouse and pull it on so fast I don't even check whether or not I'm wearing it backward, hop off the bed and hunt for my purse. Through eyes blinded by tears which I refuse to let fall I find it by the foot of the bed and grab it.

Not another word passes my lips as I let myself out of his room, the last thing I hear before I run out of the apartment the slam of his door, so loud it makes my ears ring.

Running down the steps, with the voice of one of Jesse's roommates chasing after me, asking me what happened, I put as much distance between us as possible.

I knew from the start this boy would make me cry-hey, I'm shy, not stupid-but I never thought it was going to be so soon, or that it would hurt so much.