Page 50 of Vicious Hearts

Roxy puts her hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes as she sinks onto my cock. My mouth falls open as I feel her inner walls give way to me, her warm curves enveloping me. I keep my eyes locked on hers.

“If you’re gonna ride me, baby, you’d better go hard,” I say. “I can’t fucking deal with how sexy you are. Make yourself come, but do it fast.”

Roxy kisses me quickly, then sits back, gripping my shoulder hard with one hand. She reaches below her dress, and I feel her fingertips brush my cock as she touches her clit. Her breath catches as she rises up, using her quad muscles to lift her off my throbbing cock before plunging down again.

Sweet Jesus. If I die now, it’s all good.

The beautiful woman on top of me is speeding up her movements, the car steaming up as she moans her pleasure in my ear. I want to grab her ass, but somehow I’m enjoying being used in this way. Suddenly I remember what she told me—that she fucked her pussy with her dildo and thought about me while she did it.

That image fucks me up totally, and I’m now hurtling toward the point of no return. Roxy’s big ass slaps against my thighs as she fucks me, her pussy clenching rhythmically as her climax builds.

To my utter shock, she grabs my wrists with both hands and pins them to the headrest, slamming her pussy down hard on my cock. She throws her head back and cries out, soaking me with her wetness as her pleasure peaks. Her tight little cunt squeezing me is too much, and I forget myself completely, leaning forward to bite her neck as I flood her pussy with my come.

* * *

Roxy

“Alcohol is technically a poison. You know that, right?”

Ben shrugs as he tips vodka into a tumbler. We haven’t been back in his apartment for five minutes, and already he’s drinking.

“My shoulder is sore, but I don’t want to take painkillers,” he says. “I like them too much, like everything else.” He sees my frown. “Don’t worry. My liver is pretty hardy—it must be after what I’ve put it through.”

I want to know about his life. There’s something passionate and intense about him that he tries desperately to suppress, but he has a vicious streak, and I want to understand where it comes from. I see it in his eyes when he talks about things that anger him, and I feel it in his hands when he touches me.

He’sdeviant, somehow, and he knows it.

“You said you were in a psych hospital. Why?”

“I did some bad shit when I was a kid. Then I got the blame for something I didn’t do. It couldn’t be proved, but everyone believed I’d done it. Why not? Like I said—justice is a cute idea, but once you get past a certain age, you learn it’s bullshit.”

“It’s a basic tenet of civilized society,” I say. “You make it sound like Santa Claus.”

He smiles, but his shoulders sag a little, his eyes fixed on the distant rooftops as he stands at the balcony door. I’m reminded of how he looked when I left his beach house in the pouring rain.

“Anyway,” he says, turning around, “that’s all behind me now. I wanna know about your parents.”

I pull my hands into the sleeves of my sweater and wrap my arms around myself.

Even Ali doesn’t know the whole story. I don’t know why I’m willing to tell Ben, except he wants to know. I feel his attention warming me as though I’m sitting near a fire.

“My father was so, so crazy. I know it’s not a kind word to use, but I can’t think of him any other way.”

Ben sits beside me on the couch. He watches my face intently as I speak.

“The worst thing is that I can remember us being normal. Mom and Dad were fine. Had a house in suburbia, a station wagon, tire swing. My mom baked sugar cookies for me to take to school.” I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to fend off the memory. It’s tougher to think of the good times than the bad. “But then my father started to lose it. He would swing from deep depression to insane highs. When he was down, he wouldn’t get out of bed, but when he was up, he’d want us to leave, travel around the world, and spend all our money. He’d rage at Mom when she wouldn’t go along with it.”

I look at Ben. Although he’s listening, his expression is one of detached interest. He cocks his head at me.

“Go on, Rox.”

“By the time we found out he was bipolar, it was too late—he’d lost his job over his frequent absences, and we had no insurance. My mom got a shitty job as a night clerk at a gas station, and then there were no more sugar cookies. Dad was supposed to be there to look after me in the evenings, but he usually wasn’t. He refused to take lithium because it was expensive and fell in with others in a similar situation. They got him into meth, and that was that. The man who lived in my house wasn’t my father anymore.”

“Where’s your mom now?”

I wipe my nose with my sleeve, my vision blurring as tears spring to my eyes. “She wasn’t working at the gas station, but she still went out every night. Then she was justgone. Strangled and dumped like trash. Only then did I find out my father was pimping my mom out to pay for his drugs, and she’d been too afraid to refuse.” The tears spill over. “Dad said my mom got killed because ofme. The welfare money would have been enough ifIhadn't needed things.”

“No, that’s not true, Rox.” Ben pulls me into his lap, and I sob into his chest, soaking his t-shirt. “You were only a kid. It’s all on your dad. He twisted your mom’s love into something ugly. There’s nothing you could have done to save her.”

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