Page 8 of Broken Pieces
In every breath I drag into my lungs.
Her sarcasm burns hotter than wildfire, and her stare only pours gasoline over it.
And I’m the fucking idiot holding the match, knowing I should put it out but wanting to see how far the flames can spread.
I’ve seen plenty of girls try to act tough.
They raise their voices, roll their eyes, push back hard enough to seem untouchable.
Skylar is different. She doesn’t pretend. She doesn’t need to. The armor she wears isn’t for show; it clings to her as if she was born in it, forged out of the same sharp edges she throws at the world.
And still, she pulls at me in ways I can’t shake.
A smirk that cuts too deep. An insult that lands harder than a fist. Even the way she spits the word "prick" at me, her voice dripping heat and venom, leaves a mark I can’t ignore.
She’s under my skin, buried in my blood, and it pisses me off more than anything.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her, not when I know better.
Every time I close my eyes, I picture her mouth falling open, her body trembling while I fuck her, her eyes still throwing sparks even when she’s breathless as she comes undone. She isn’t the kind of girl you hold onto. She doesn’t follow rules–not mine, not anyone’s, not even her own.
But fuck, here I am, hard up over a girl who could burn me alive and make me thank her for it.
I sink to the ground behind the shed, dropping my ass onto the cracked concrete still holding the last of the sun’s heat. Nobody comes here. This space is mine. My hideout. My escape.
I lean back, shoulders pressed hard against the warped boards, knees bent, boots scuffing loose gravel beneath me. Out here, the silence is mine. So is the distance from the eyes that never stop judging.
I slide the joint between my lips and flick the lighter, shielding the flame with my hand until it catches. The tip glows hot, a deep red pulse in the fading light, and the first drag hits hard.
Smoke sears down my throat, sharp and familiar, burying itself in my lungs until the pressure turns to pain. I hold it there, let it sting, let it burn through the hollow space inside me.
I exhale slowly, watching the smoke rise in twisting ribbons before the wind steals it.
I close my eyes and sink into the quiet.
For one stolen moment, everything fades.
The weight pressing on my ribs eases.
The voices lose their edge. The ache in my head slips to the background.
But peace never stays long.
When I open my eyes, she’s there.
Skylar.
She moves across the street with her phone clutched to her ear, jaw tight and shoulders squared like she’s ready to go to war.
There’s something in the way she walks that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go. Every step is a warning. Every glance, a fucking challenge. She doesn’t try to be seen. She doesn’t care who’s looking.
But I see her.
And fuck, do I want her.
Those jeans cling to her hips, shredded at the knees, teasing enough skin to short-circuit the part of my brain that usually keeps me in check.
My cock stirs, hard and aching, as if it already knows the shape of her mouth and how she’d taste moaning under me. One glance, and I’m gone. Again. I don’t just think about her… I fucking obsess.
