Beneath The Skin(174)

But all I see is strength in her. Those tears, she won’t even allow them the courtesy of falling. She isn’t trying to earn my sympathy; she’s owning all of this. If she’d ask me, she’s owning too much of it.

She didn’t ask for Kellen Douchebag Wright.

She didn’t ask to get all intimate with me and put herself between me and my dreams. She just fucking met me a couple weeks ago. She owes me nothing.

And here I am, standing in front of this strong, incredible woman who has so much passion in her that she’s bursting at every carefully-stitched seam, singing on stages and earning artistic respect from all these beer-guzzling morons. That’s respect her father did not buy for her, respect she got all on her own.

And here I am with this incessant raging hard-on in my pants that’s been distracting me for the past hour, and I don’t deserve a single fucking tear of hers.

The truth is, her being here saved me.

“Your dad can give you a school,” I tell her, pushing through the vacuum in my ears as my teeth and throat and chest vibrate with my speech, “your dad can give you a whole play,” and I see her trying to protest, so I speak even louder, praying my words are reaching her, “but your dad can’t give you what you did on that little stage an hour ago. Did you see their eyes? Did you see all those people in that room, the way they listened to you when you … when you sang?”

Her eyes shift, the tears threatening to spill as she speaks to me through her clenched teeth. “The one person … who I want … to hear that song,” she mouths, her whole body trembling, “can’t … hear … anything.”

“I hear you.”

Her eyes flash at those words. Her brows flinch as she stares at me uncertainly, the emotion frozen on her pained, broken face.

“I hear you,” I repeat to Dessie, every nerve in my body pulling tight. “You aren’t the only one who’s had parents try to ruin you. You aren’t the only one who’s fought the destiny that everyone keeps trying to push down onto you. I hear you.” I even feel my voice cracking. Today might set a new record for how many words I’ve let myself speak out loud. It’s all Dessie; she’s pulling me out of myself. “You aren’t alone in this battle to find your voice. To find where you belong. To break free.”

The emotion hanging between her eyes and mine is practically tangible. I worry there’s even tears in my own eyes now, tears I also refuse to spill for that stupid fucking world out there.

“I’m sick of people thinking they know who I am,” I whisper, feeling the breath thrust its way out with each word. I take her face, a hand on either cheek, then pour into her eyes. “People trying to tell me what kind of man I am.”

“What kind of woman I am,” she echoes back.

“Telling me I’m just Texas trash.”

“Telling me I’m just a New York snob.”

“Dessie, I hear you.”

The anger has drained from her face, replaced with something else entirely.

“Clayton …” she mouths.

“I hear you.”

Our lips collide. Dessie’s breath washes over my face in uneven torrents as our hands clasp to each other’s bodies.

Her hands grab the base of my shirt. A tremor of anticipation lances up my side as her fingers move.

There goes my shirt.

I pin her to the wall, our mouths still locked as we mutually try to consume the other’s face. The warmth between us is a fire I’m helpless to try putting out.

My hands brush up her sexy hips.

She bucks against my body, our lips unlocking so I can free her from that sexy red top she’s wearing.

To the floor it goes.

She finds her lips a new meal at my earlobe. Then her teeth are invited to the party.

I moan against her, needles of pleasure racing up my neck and exploding where her teeth dig into me. Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? I could claw the wall until there’s nine doorways into my room with the way she’s making work of my ear.

I can’t hold back any longer. Goddamn, Dessie …

I pick her up under her knees, her arms throwing themselves around me as I push us into my bedroom. The mattress gives as we land on it with a bounce, and she’s slammed onto her back. Her eyes flash up at me with alarm.

I hope she can handle me.

I play rough.

Like the beast I am, I crawl over her, then launch at her lips with mine. She reciprocates, just as hungry. We don’t let each other utter another pointless word; our fingers and locked lips do all the talking.

I thrust my hands under Dessie, startling her as I aggressively work the back of her bra. I unhook it with blind finesse.