Hell.
26
Max
“I think you may have killed me,” Tess murmurs sleepily, curling into me. I untied her and cleaned her up all while she was lying still on the bed. I don’t think her body had the energy to do much more. Hell, I’ve not had the workout her body did, and I’m almost as tired. I place a kiss on the top of her head, holding her and staring up at the ceiling. I’m trying to process what the fuck just happened. This is sex, right? I’ve had sex since I was eleven. In all that damned time, it’s not been… Fuck, it’s never been like this. What does that mean? Tess is working her way inside of me, and I don’t know what the hell do with it all.
A smart man might think about getting his shit together here, so he can claim her right. Marcum’s words replay in my head. I close them out. Tess may believe in fairytales, but I sure as fuck know better. It’s sex. That’s it. Just sex.
“Tell me about Rory,” I command, desperate to find something that will put distance between her and the feelings she’s gradually pulling from me.
“Why?” she asks, kissing my shoulder.
“I want to know.”
Her fingers glide along my bicep, and I think she may be ignoring the question. Then her voice breaks the silence.
“Rory and I met when we were thirteen. We were both thrown into this hellhole of a foster home. You know the kind where the responsible adults take in kid after kid for the check and don’t bother to take care of them?”
I grunt. Yeah, I know the kind.
“There was an older kid there. Mean. The kind that had been on the streets a while. He liked me, and I mean that in an every young girl’s worse nightmare, kind of way,” she whispers, and I hold her tighter.
“What did he do?”
“At first? Nothing. Just leering looks and lewd suggestions. Eventually, he began trying to get me alone. Touch me, because he could. That kind of thing.”
“And Rory?”
“Rory was a sweet boy, who loved me, and I loved him, but he was no match for Daniel. Daniel was three years older and a good hundred pounds heavier. Rory was small and built like me,” she says on a sad sigh.
“I doubt that, Kitten,” I tell her. Trying to joke and ignore the way it unsettles me that she cared so deeply for this other man. Just sex. That’s all.
She stops and then I feel her lips spread in a smile against my skin. “I didn’t mean that, Mad Max. Rory was sick. He’d had cancer from the time he was ten.”
“Hell.”
“Yeah. He was in remission when I met him, but the chemo had already played havoc on his young body.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, for a couple of years, like I said. Daniel was a scary figure always over my shoulder. There was some touching and harassing, but Rory always managed to help and keep me away from him. I thought it would be okay when Daniel had to move out because of his age. You know? That should have been the end of it.”
“It wasn’t?” I ask.
“I think my Ms. Rhodes used Daniel for more than a check, because even after he moved out, she would let him come back. I admit I was young and naïve, but even I caught on to what they were doing upstairs while her husband was at work.” I let my fingers wrap in her hair and continued listening. “One night, the foster-fucks had put Daniel in charge of us while they attended some party. I was upstairs doing homework and didn’t realize what was going on. Daniel locked everyone out of the house and came to find me.” My body coils at her words and I wish I could go back in time and protect her. Tess should have had someone to keep her safe. “I was fourteen, almost fifteen. Except for a few kisses with Rory, I was pretty naive. Daniel scared me, but I tried to act like I knew what he was talking about. Like I knew the score and just didn’t want him. I had this mistaken impression that if I appeared to be the hardened, street kid, people wouldn’t fuck with me.”
“And?”
“In hindsight that might not have been the brightest approach. I don’t know if you know this about me yet or not Max, but I tend to make dicey choices, when under pressure.”
“I don’t know; I think I like some of your choices,” I tell her, capturing her hand in mine and letting my fingers massage the pulse points, for some reason needing this contact with her.
“Pig,” she laughs, but it’s a laugh that’s almost as tight as her body at the moment. She doesn’t want to finish the story. I should change the subject and let her off the hook. I can’t bring myself to do that. I need to know.
“Finish it, Kitten,” I prompt and she grows completely still and then sits up in bed, staring at the wall. My eyes follow the way the sheet clings to her body and drapes around her soft curves, hiding a body I’ve come to know better than my own.