Page 143 of Heart So Hollow

His last words send a tremor deep through my stomach all the way down to my knees. My muscles go rigid and I can feel the liquid heat at the top of my thighs as he pushes me off his lap. He starts scooting back across the black bedspread until his back hits the headboard, then he curls his index finger, beckoning to me. I do what he says, crawling over the edge of the bed and slinking toward him until I’m kneeling on all fours between his bent knees.

Colson tilts his head with a wicked smile, “Take your hair down,” he commands.

I reach behind my head and slowly pull my hair tie from my knotted bun. His smile fades with each curl that falls over my shoulder and I recognize the same far-off look in his eyes that he had at the library, except now his gaze feels like hot embers on my skin.

The corner of my mouth curls and I tip my chin up, “What’s the matter, Colson?” I taunt him.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, eyeing me intently, and then reaches up and brushes his index finger back and forth under my chin, “Waiting for you to take off my belt,” he glances down at his waist.

I run my hand over his thigh and up the front of his pants, moving at an agonizing pace over the stiff outline of his cock. When I hear a faint groan escape his throat, I pop the clasp on his belt for the second time and pull it through the loops with a zip. He holds out his hand to take it from me, and that’s when something on his hip draws my attention.

Peeking out from the waist of his pants are an array of scars. They’re all straight, horizontal slashes in varying stages of healing. Some are longer than others, from a couple of inches to a few that are so long that they curve around his side. Newer ones are pink and get progressively lighter, while older ones have long coalesced into one another like shiny white feathers embedded in his skin.

Gently, I pull the waist of his pants down to expose more of them, “What happened to you?” I murmur, brushing my fingertips over his chaotic marks.

Colson watches me inspect his hip as he feeds the end of his belt back through the clasp, “Unsustainable coping strategies,” he states with nonchalance.

I look up at him, “You did this?”

He answers with a nod.

As many scars as there are, I notice there aren’t any fresh ones, “What made you stop?”

After I say it, I realize that I don’t know whether Colson has stopped. I don’t know how often he feels the need to slice into his own body. I want to ask him why he does it, but before I can, I feel something brush against my shoulder and the sharp pinch of the belt as he cinches it taut around my throat.

He twists the slack around one hand and drags his gaze up and down my body, “I found a different vice.”

It feels like a slight. I don’t like the idea of being a vice. Vices are flippant, symptoms of bigger problems that change when they’re of no more use and no longer satisfy a need. They’re placeholders for the real things you can’t have.

My jaw tightens, “Another unsustainable coping strategy?”

Colson tightens the belt, pulling me forward until I’m back on all fours between his knees, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he growls, “You’d love to say I’m just some asshole who used you and put you out tomorrow morning with the trash.”

I also don’t like him assuming what I’m thinking.

“Did Dana and Leah ask about your scars, too?” I jab through my constricted windpipe, “What’d you tell them?”

“Jealous girl…” Colson grins, “don’t worry, all that was before I ever laid eyes on you. Since then, I’ve been all yours. But they knew not to ask. They weren’t brats like you.”

I brace myself against his chest, ignoring the dangerous reality that Colson’s belt is wrapped around my throat and I’m sitting here bickering with him like a jealous idiot about whether other girls are aware of his pattern of self-harm.

“But that’s why you’re here,” his tone softens, “you’re not an accident, Brett. You’re more than enough to sustain me. You try to act so hateful, but it never works because while you’re busy talking shit, your pussy’s so wet for me it hurts.” He tightens the belt again, making my breaths go shallow, “I love the fight you give me, but it’ll always end the same—with you begging for my dick. All of it.” He sweeps his nose back and forth against mine, groaning his last words, “Because you’re my best girl, aren’t you?”

What an arrogant asshole.

A beautiful one, but arrogant, nonetheless.

“You’re so full of shit, Colson,” I hiss with my last gasp of air.

This time, when I feel the strap tighten, all I can hear is my pulse in my ears as my face starts to throb. Colson smiles when he sees the spark of panic in my eyes, but doesn’t let up. I hold his eyes, like we’re engaged in a macabre staring contest. I dig my nails into his chest as hot tears pool in the creases of my eyes, which only seems to turn him on more. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, not even a cough of choked air. Finally, when the throbbing begins to sound like a drumbeat in my ear, I frantically tap his chest with the palm of my hand.

To my utter relief, Colson releases his grip and I fall with a gasp between his knees, my forehead pressed against his chest as I whimper through each breath.

He gently cups my face and lifts my chin, brushing my hair away from my eyes, “Baby, I’ll fight you all night, and I’ll always win. Just tell me when you’ve had enough so I can put your pieces back together to make you whole again.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and tense my muscles beneath his touch. He’s right, I’m so wet for him right now and it does hurt. Now, I just want to feel him squeeze his belt around my throat again and decide when I’m allowed to breathe and when I’m not. It’s both horrifying and exhilarating.

“Do it again,” my shaky whisper pleads with him.

---