Page 41 of Hothead

He went quiet, his mind trying to think of the last person he told his story to. But he came up blank. Luke didn’t share. Not until now.

Clearing his throat, he decided to begin with the basics. The easy stuff that even a google search could drudge up.

“I guess Marco mentioned that I was in care, right?” He didn’t wait for her to reply, he already knew Marco had. Besides, it was better to get this out fast. Rip the Band-Aid off and stick it back on quick before too much pus seeps out. “I went in just after my mom died—I must have just turned five. There wasn’t anyone else to take me ...”

Like my dickwad dad.

“They say you don’t remember shit at that age, but I do, I remember it all.”

He stopped. Squeezing his eyes shut as he concentrated on the feel of Bella’s fingers stroking his jaw.

“What do you remember?” she whispered.

His gut clenched. “I remember finding my mom passed out in the bathroom.” He blew out a long breath. “I remember the needle in her arm.” Another breath, this time his head dropped. “And I remember balling my fucking eyes out when I realized she wasn’t coming back.”

He was trying hard to push back the emotion threatening to spill out. This conversation was transactional, that was all. An exchange of information in return for a good time.

Yes, because a sob story is such a turn-on.

Apparently, it was for Bella. That was made clear when his eyes opened to the sight of dainty hands going to the hem of her vest and lifting. A darkening gaze pinning him in place as she shucked the material over her head and tossed it to the floor.

His hands automatically went to her waist. His thumbs brushing over bare skin. She was so goddamn beautiful. Beautiful enough to slowly unravel the newly formed knot that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.

“What happened after that ... after you were taken?” Her head dipped this time, her hair falling forward and enveloping them.

He was back to focusing on the feel of Bella’s smooth skin, quickening his caress of creamy flesh as he allowed himself to go back there. Back to the oppressive gray walls. The dingy, overcrowded bedroom. And the corner bunk where he’d curl up into a ball and count down the days until he was free.

“I was never adopted.” Breaking eye contact, he instead let his eyes drag over her stomach. Then her waist, until finally they settled on where his hands still held her in place. “There were a few foster families, but things never worked out.”

Because no one really wants to take in damaged goods. Not permanently anyway.

“When you hit a certain age, that’s it. No one’s interested in you anymore. So I spent most of my childhood in the group homes, and when I turned eighteen, I got the hell out of there.”

Bella’s hands cupped his face, drawing his stare back up until he was looking into silver again. But his eyes were betraying him. He could feel it. They were giving too much away. So he did the only thing he could do. He closed them. Squeezed them tight and pushed down the familiar ache that was already starting to clog his throat.

Man the fuck up, you’ve got an audience.

She gave him time. Placing two soft kisses on his closed eyelids. When he was finally ready to open his eyes again, misty pools were staring back at him. Into him. Seeing much more than he wanted. Enough to make him gulp. He didn’t know what he expected to see. Pity maybe. Sympathy perhaps. Not the strange kind of silent acceptance she was offering him though, that was for sure. He hadn’t even known that he wanted that either, not until she’d given it to him.

The seconds blurred together as they stared into each other. He needed that too. Time to come back to himself. Time to soak her in.

It was Bella who moved first. Pushing off his lap and standing before him like a heavenly offering. He watched in awe as chipped red nail polish unbuttoned denim and slid down the zipper to her shorts. She studied his reaction, straight white teeth digging into her lower lip. This time he wasn’t bothering to hide how he was feeling. The same way he didn’t prevent the groan from ripping through him as the flimsy material was pushed down her long, tanned legs.

His vision was filled with lacy blue panties, panties that matched her lacy blue bra. He was well aware that the desperation he was feeling right now didn’t make sense. He’d seen her naked plenty. Touched her. Held her. Made her scream. But this heavy feeling in his chest was getting stronger, and his fingers were only getting itchier.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he croaked, not even recognizing his own voice.

A small smile tipped her lips as she dropped back down onto him. When she leaned into him this time, he was rewarded with a kiss. Slow and wet. Just how he liked it.

What has she done to you?

He’d worry about that later. Right now, he was opening for her, letting her take what she wanted and getting drunk on lusty whimpers.

Before long, his hands wanted in on the action too. Instinctively, they went to her ass and squeezed. Tonight was the night. He wanted her. Needed her. He was done learning. Done teasing. He needed to feel her from the inside.

When she drew back, he wanted to protest. He was only just getting started. And the sight of her didn’t help. Add in the way she was looking at him—breathless, with pouted wet lips and heaving breasts spilling from lace. He deserved a medal for not tearing what little fabric was left on her and laying her out for his taking.

But when their gazes collided again, reality came crashing back down. They weren’t done. She wanted more. And he’d already promised to give it to her.

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