Crawford’s thrusts are punishing, meant to make a statement and leave a lasting impression. I’m sure that’s his intention. At this rate, it’s a guarantee that I’ll be feeling him for days after. There’s no question this jerk is highly skilled and extremely well-equipped.
Each punch of his hips borders on the right side of hurting. I’m tender and sensitive, but the burn keeps me connected to reality. His motions are a mix of wild frenzy and rough corners, never settling into a smooth rhythm. This is very much how I experienced him yesterday. He’s making good on my judgment, poor taste or not, and I’ll ride this wave until we crash. A rush of endorphins has me crossing my eyes. This is too much, yet I need more.
He grabs the collar of my tee, twisting the material in his fist. The cotton doesn’t stand a chance against his brute strength. With a single yank, the shirt shreds and rips down the middle.
The sound I make is pure outrage. “You ruined—”
“My shirt,” he finishes for me.
I gape down at the ruined garment to discover he’s right. Dammit. “Guess you’re driving home without a shirt.”
His teeth clamp onto the cap of my shoulder. “You’ll be more bothered by that than me.”
A scoff parts my lips. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Just the facts, Kee.”
I don’t get the opportunity to lash out because he strikes that secret spot buried deep. With a wail, I drag my nails down his arms. We sure as hell can be equal in this barbaric act.
“Stubborn woman. Just admit you love this.” He punctuates his meaning with a harsh grind into me.
I suffocate the moan attempting to crawl out of me. “Never again.”
“Should I stop?” He glides into me with a harsh upward jab. There’s no trapping my whimper. “No?”
My body is currently ruling above all else and refuses to let a slew of lies loose. I settle for, “Just finish the job.”
And he does.
Crawford doubles his efforts, hammering into me with abandon. Static fizzles in my ears as everything except him fades away. The grand finale arrives with an roar I can’t contain. My orgasm is fast and ruthless, shutting down all normal functioning. A wave of heat washes over me, bathing me in flames. I don’t bother silencing a scream as my skin prickles. A booming blast of fireworks explodes in my vision. With my next labored breath, a sea of black whisks me away.
When the tremors ease and I regain sensation in my limbs, reality crashes down. I wiggle my hips in a silent signal for him to put me down. Immediately.
Crawford drops me to my feet and backs away, zipping up as he goes. “You’re welcome.”
His mood is foul. Too bad mine is beyond rotten. “I can’t imagine what for.”
“The farewell fuck.”
I’m about to burst a capillary from glaring so hard. “Yeah? Well, fuck you right back.”
“Too late. You already did.” His voice is devoid of emotion. I do my best not to shiver.
“I’ll consider myself lucky if we never see each other again.”
He pauses his hasty retreat to throw me another wink. “I couldn’t agree more, wildcat. But, unfortunately for you, luck has never been on my side.”
Healing Hug #12: To stop the cracks from splintering.
I pull up along the curb in front of a modest rambler. Getting the fuck out of Silo Springs, at every opportunity, has been necessary for what little sanity I have left. Once I kill the engine, the silence is so complete it feels like a cocoon. For a brief moment, nothing is chasing me. The infinite loop of provocative images, and the corresponding catastrophe of errors, aren’t pounding into my skull. But the reprieve smashes apart with a pair of furious green eyes, luscious curves on full display, and tangles of blonde hair wrapping around my fist. A breeze picks up, delivering hints of coconut and fresh flowers. There’s no doubt the scent of tropical paradise is in my imagination, for an added dose of torture.
The mess with Keegan has been plaguing me this entire week. The only upside is I naturally avoid town, so the risk of running into her is slim. The war between my mind and body gains momentum with each passing second. There are several undeniable traits about her that create this internal feud. I find myself wanting another altercation with the snarky wildcat. A shaky vision alone is enough to spike my need, shooting too much heat below the belt. I shift in the seat as denim strains over my persistent arousal. The clinging desperation is ripping me in half. I haven’t been that hard since discovering porn during puberty. Maybe that makes me fucked up. I’ve never claimed to be normal, though.
These are the moments I almost regret not having any true friends. One-sided conversations with Patch aren’t productive, or very comforting. Nothing screams reclusive loser quite like talking to a dog about a woman. Being blackout wasted with a drinking buddy would come in handy right about now. I’m sure Decker or Grady would have some decent advice to pass along, especially over a bottle of Johnny Walker.
The feeling is fleeting, sweeping off with the wind after I consider the repercussions. I’m not built to have meaningful relationships, of any sort. The bloody massacre with Keegan is proof of that—a sure thing that ended in complete failure. I managed to fuck up the greatest one-night stand in the history of fantasies and wet dreams combined. Only I’m capable of such a colossal waste.
Was my behavior justified? Perhaps, but not to that extent. Now that my blood has cooled, I can admit my temper spun out of control. But she pushed my damn buttons too hard. Getting angry and playing the asshole card is my default. Squashing any possibility for more, regardless of the bullshit Keegan limits slapped down, needed to happen. This way, there is zero potential of us hooking up again. She hates me,
