Page 67 of Burn With Me

If my mother were to find out that I fucked her stepson, she’d be wrecked. She’d do what she’s always done, only this time, it wouldn’t be through silent looks and long extended periods of absence. She’s always blamed me for the loss of her last marriage, but this time it really will be my fault.

Maybe that’s for the best, though,a snide little voice in my head says. It’s clear, after all, that Damien Icari is only using her. Isaac had all but said so the night we crossed the line. Damien is involved in something insidious and corrupt. Maybe this is exactly what I need to use to ruin their relationship—if only to protect her.

“Stop.” I jump as Isaac’s voice hits my ears and his hands reach up, clasping my face. He leans in and presses another kiss to my lips. “Stop thinking.” He breathes the words against my mouth, practically pleading as he takes my bottom lip between his teeth and suckles on it, swiping his tongue across the sensitive flesh there.

I whimper, my legs weakening as I lean into him. I should say no. I should push him away. Deny him. But I can’t. It doesn’t matter if I know right from wrong. What I want overpowers everything else. My greed is a monstrous little thing, consuming me. Making me lift my arms and wrap them around his neck as his mouth takes mine.

His hands grip my waist, pulling me against his front until I can feel the evidence of his arousal against the small of my stomach. I want him again. His cock. His mouth. His hands all over me. I want him to eradicate all of the reasons we shouldn’t do this and remind me of how good it feels to have a man worship my body.

This time, when he pulls away from me, I’m panting and gasping for breath. My panties are soaked and my hands grasp at him, needy and clingy. Isaac gently pushes me away.

“Friday night,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “Don’t fucking run from me, Aurora. I’ll come after you. Be ready.”

With that, he turns, leaving me shivering and trembling on the front step of my own dorm. It hurts knowing what Isaac wantsisme, but I can’t see how it’s possible. I might be an obsession to him right now, but it’ll pass. It’s bound to. Ithasto.

31

ISAAC

Bart Pollack. That’s the fucker’s name. I watch the bitch ass motherfucker as he stumbles out of another bar late Wednesday night. A folder with his life history sits in the passenger seat of the cheap thirty-year-old sedan I paid cash for earlier in the day. I won’t need the car after tonight, but I will need a damn good drink after I deal with this fucker.

An alcoholic with a history of harassment both in his professional and private life, Pollack is the quintessential gutter rat with a rap sheet several pages long and a string of broken relationships and battered women that had the unfortunate luck to end up with him. Perhaps if I were a more level-headed guy, I’d be able to go on my way knowing his life is as pathetic as the man that lives it.

Unfortunately for good ol’ Bart, I’ve got the blood of the Devil in me, more money than God, and an obsession with the pretty blonde he thought he could fuck with Monday night. He’s going to learn today that keeping his hands off things that don’t belong to him is more than important—it’ll probably save his fucking life.

My target weaves back and forth across the parking lot as he makes it to his beat-up old Ford truck that has the back bumper practically rusting off. He manages to pull himself into the driver’s seat and start it up. White headlights flash over the front of the bar as he backs out in sharp jerking movements—slamming on the brakes before he can hit one of the other vehicles parked in the lot.

I watch all of this with an eagle eye and when he’s far enough ahead, I turn on my own lights and crank the engine, following after him. The digital clock on the dashboard blinks back, showing that the time is edging past one in the morning. I’m honestly shocked he didn’t stay until the bar’s closing time, but maybe it’s my luck. Luck that doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime tonight.

Bart’s truck gets farther and farther from the city, until the lights grow few and far between. The shop buildings disappear, giving way to trailer parks and dilapidated apartment complexes. I wait until there’s a long stretch of road with no lights, no buildings at all. Nothing but him and me.

I speed up, pressing down on the gas, and swerve into the opposite lane to pass him. When I assume he catches my headlights and sees the darkened car moving up on his side—curving up the wrong side of the highway, he lays on his horn. A man with an ego like him can’t stand feeling any sort of inadequacy even if it’s the thought that someone thinks he’s driving too slow.

The second the back of my vehicle makes it past the front of his, I swerve back into the lane and slam on the brakes. Tires shriek against pavement and I relax my muscles, preparing for the crash. Just as I planned, Pollack’s truck slams into my car and his horn blares again. Metal groans. The twin beams of light that pierce through the back windshield of my car waver and then go out as the glass and bulbs shatter against my bumper. Both cars come to a halt and I yank the emergency break up before slapping the vehicle into park.

Reaching into the console, I withdraw the pair of black gloves I put there earlier and tug them on along with the black ski mask I stashed with them. Cursing reaches my ears as I pop the driver’s side door. It’s dark behind me, the only light on this long road comes from my own headlights. Pollack’s truck shudders as he clambers out of the vehicle and slams his door shut, rattling the tin can on wheels.

“What the fuck is wrong with ya, numbnuts?” Pollack slurs as he stumbles towards me. I appear out of the car and crack my knuckles. He doesn’t even seem to notice the mask or gloves as he veers towards the front of his truck and curses again. “Do ya even know how much this’ll cost?”

With calm, unhurried footsteps, I move slowly, precisely as I approach. When I get close, his head lifts and his bloodshot eyes widen when he realizes that I’m not just a dumbass driver. I’m his worst fucking nightmare.

“Hey!—” He doesn’t get anything else out as I grab the side of his head and slam it down into his truck hood. Pollack’s skull cracks against the metal, denting the old material and he sags onto the ground like a sack of potatoes, groaning.

I crack my knuckles again and move over him. I straddle the man and slam my glove-covered fist into his face, smashing my knuckles into his jaw again and again until he starts to fight back.

“Fucking—bitch—” A fist comes my way too late. I dodge it and grab his wrist, twisting him until I can slap his face into the pavement. Then I press down, grinding his already bloodied nose and cheek into the hard ground. He curses some more, squirming beneath me as he tries to get free, but that’s not fucking happening.

Beneath the mask, I grin with malicious excitement as I grip the back of his head, clenching my fingers in the greasy mop of hair on the back of his head, and using that hold, I lift him up and smash him back down. Blood pours out beneath his face, but I do it again just because I liked it so much the first time.

His hands scramble against the pavement as he pushes up and back. “Motherfucker!” Pollack spits out a wad of blood and then bucks against me. I lift him and step back, giving him the opportunity to get on his feet. He comes up swinging wildly and I get a chance to see the damage I’ve done to his face.

With the alcohol still in his system, he’s running on pure adrenaline and while I can’t say I’m not affected, I know I’m a damn sight more composed. I’m calculated and as such, I’m a far more challenging target. He throws a fast right hook and I step aside, watching him go flying after his own arm and stumble right into the back of my car.

I don’t think, I attack him while his back is turned. Grasping at the back of his head again, I slam his face against the back window and when I pull him back, my free hand goes for the door’s handle. I rip it open as he’s cursing and bowing against me again—sputtering out blood-filled words. As if he thinks I’m about to kidnap him, he grabs onto the door frame, fighting back against me—that’s fine in any case. It works out perfectly.

With Pollack’s fat, sausage fingers wrapped around the door frame, I slam it shut and he howls in pain as his fingers crunch into the door. I open it again and this time, he pulls his arm back. That won’t do. I grab his hand—the same one I just crushed and shove it back into the door frame, slamming the door hard enough for it to bounce off of his now-broken fingers.

More howls, cursing, and this time, sobbing echo across the dark empty expanse of road. I’m not done though. Even as Pollack’s legs collapse out from under him and he cradles his broken hand against his chest, I grab his other hand and perform the same vicious action, shoving it into the door and slamming it until more bones crack and more howling ensues.

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