Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (19 page)

And even knowing she was toying with me, even knowing she thought it was all a battle, a game of war, none of that calmed my reaction to her.
 
None of it quelled my undying desperation for her.
 
It never had.
 

Just the opposite.
 

Panting, I answered, "I can't concentrate on anything when you do that."
 

She bit her lip, her brows drawing together in a fake coy expression that I fucking ate up with a spoon.
 
Slowly, teasingly, she inched out of her skirt.
 
"Is this better for your concentration?
 
What did you come here for,
lover
?
 
What was your question?"

She continued to strip, so slow and languid that I could hardly stand it.
 

But of course that was the point.
 
She knew what she was doing to me.
 
She always had, at least in this.
 

I tugged at my collar, outright sweating now.
 
"Jesus, you're merciless."
 

Her expression did something at that, something vulnerable and twisted, her smile deepening and hardening, turning both more brittle and more real.
 
"You have no fucking idea.
 
Now ask your question."

She was naked now, wearing nothing but her fuck me heels.
 
Jesus
, this woman and her shoe-porn would be the end of me.
 

I tried to ask it.
 
I really did, but before I could get a word out, she was straddling me, every inch of her perfect, bare skin suddenly within reach of my eager hands.

Lust charged through me like a ram.
 
I felt the sharp, sweet ache of it deep in my loins, desire so thick and acute it'd turned painful.
 

I'm sure she thought I would touch her breasts, her hips, her ass, her cunt, some part of her outrageously beautiful body that she'd so generously draped over mine.

I did not.
 
Both of my trembling hands went up to cup her perfect, oh so beloved face.
 
My voice was somehow steadier than my hands as I asked her my question.
 
"Do you love me at least as much as you hate me?"
 

That was all I needed, just that small aching bit for me.
 

Had I kept even some tiny piece of her love?

It made me wretched to ask and worry at her answer.
 
Even so, I
had
to know.

But there was no mercy in her, not today.
 

She smiled, a gentle smile that made me tense up more than any of her venomous ones had.
 

I knew her.
 
Knew the hatred she carried around inside of her.
 
I was familiar with it.
 
I'd studied every angle of it.
 
Every harsh plane, every bitter hollow, every rough edge.
 
Like everything about her, that hatred was only at home with extremes.
 

I knew where it began, what made it thrive, and why it had decided to focus so squarely on me.
 

I owned my part of it, my share of the blame, but that didn't make it easy, or even okay.
 
It was simply a fact of life that I'd had to accept along with many others.

While I bided my time.
 

But the smile she gave me then, that one
particularly
, one almost as gentle as it was condemning,
Jesus
, I knew in an
instant
that it meant something had changed.

And I was terrified.
 

"I'll answer that," she said in a voice so throaty and resonant it could choke your soul.
 
"I will.
 
But not yet.
 
First, I have a question of my own."

I was shaking my head before she'd even finished.
 

No.
 
No.
 
No
.
 

There was something too meaningful in her eyes as they raked over my face, like a switch had been flipped, one that should not,
could not,
be turned on.

But she knew me too well, knew how to weaken me, what strategy to use to gut me the fastest.
 

Her mouth was my undoing, her lips my own personal heaven and hell.
 
They were a weapon she used seldom but unrepentantly, and they were all the more potent for it.
 

I was a slave to those lips, a willing lamb to slaughter, and when she pressed them to mine, I was already past the point of all resistance.
   

I forgot my question, forgot hers, forgot everything but the simple joy of reveling in
her
—my weakness and my strength, my purpose and my distraction, my redemption and my undoing.
 

I couldn't even believe I was here with her, that she hadn't had me kicked out the second she found my drunken ass in her trailer.
 
Instead she was straddling me naked, leaning over me as she kissed and kissed me, unbuttoning my shirt, pushing it aside to rub her naked breasts against my bare chest how she knew I loved.

She completely ignored the chain around my neck and the small objects that hung from it.
 

I was only relieved by that.
 
She usually took exception to it.
 

But I would never take it off.
     

I returned her kiss with fierce abandon, not even trying to hold back.
   

When she spoke, it took a while for me to register her words, even as sharp as they were.
 

"What have you done to us, Dante?" she breathed into my mouth.
 
"What have you
done
?"

I froze.

No.
 
No.
 
No
.
 
This could not happen.
 

Could not.
 

I was tense, ready for the next blow, the next unanswerable question, but it didn't come.

As though she thought she'd said enough, she didn't ask it.

Instead she kissed me again, her hands as busy as her tongue.
 
She kneaded at my abs, working her wicked hands lower, undoing my slacks, freeing me.
   

She kept moving, poising herself over me, rubbing her wet sex against my cock in a way that she knew made me lose half my brain cells.
 

At least half.
   

She gave my lip one last drugging bite and pulled back to glance down at our bodies.

My head fell back, and I couldn't keep in an involuntary shudder.

I was half convinced she was just teasing me, that she'd leave me like this, high and dry (she'd done it before), but that was not what she did.
 

With excruciating slowness and utmost care, she impaled herself on me.

We didn't speak for a time, well, nothing coherent was said, at least, just a lot of calling out names and speaking to God.
 

And begging.
 
There was definitely some begging going on.
 

I'll let you guess which one of us that was.
   

I lay back on my elbows, fists clenched, and watched through heavy lids as she rode me, languidly and thoroughly, all the while wondering if this was just some wonderful, torturous dream.
 

I didn't touch her, didn't trust myself to put my hands on her and not just come instantly.
 
I didn't want this to be quick.
 

I wanted it to last.
 
It was a fact that there was nothing else I'd rather be doing, for as long as I could possibly get away with doing it.

My head fell back again, eyes closing as pleasure washed over me in acutely heavy waves.
 
I was
so close
, but trying my damnedest not to embarrass myself.

I wasn't succeeding, about a thrust away from losing the battle, when her voice broke through to me.
 

"What have you done, Dante?"
 
Her voice was as silky as it was deadly.
 
"What lies have you told?
 
Where do they even begin?"
   

Every muscle in my body tensed.
 

She leaned forward and kissed me.
 
Her mouth and her movements had almost made me forget her questions, or at least had me back to ignoring them, when she spoke again.
 
"What have you been keeping from me?" came out between kisses.
 

I froze and almost pushed her off me, almost fled.
 
But there was no running from this, or her.
 
Not anymore.
 

Also, she started moving again, in earnest now, working herself on my length with quick, jerky motions that were guaranteed to get me off and fast.
 

I groaned out a protest.
 
She was distracting me from her words on purpose, using a very sound method to switch my attention, and at first, I fought it.
 

But not for long.
 
Not for more than a few seconds, if I were honest.
 

She knew what she was doing.
 

I jackknifed up, bear-hugging her to me as I started to come, pistoning my hips against her, face buried in her neck, as I let myself go.
 

I was still jerking inside of her, mid ejaculation, when she whispered against my ear, her voice filled with gentle malice, "What secrets are you holding trapped in that manipulative brain of yours?"

It was a sobering enough question that it probably should have stopped me in my tracks, if it were possible.
 

It probably wasn't.
 
I kept her crushed against me as I rubbed out every last twitch.
 

Even with a heavy dose of trepidation mixed in, it was glorious.

She had to wriggle against me for a time before I'd let her loose.
 
When I finally did, she shoved her hands against my shoulders, pushing away from me, drawing me out of her with one long, decisive pull.

I couldn't help it, I tilted my head down to watch.
 

I shuddered as I noticed the evidence of our passion on her thighs.
       

It was a sight to behold, if you're animal enough to like that sort of thing.

I certainly am.
 

She moved away from me without another word, striding naked into the bathroom.
 

I collapsed back on the couch, feeling exhaustion creep over me.
 
I didn't even have the wherewithal to be worried just then.
 
I was nothing but spent.
 

It seemed I blinked and she was out of the bathroom and dressed again, looking like she hadn't just rocked my world on her lunch break.
 

I rallied myself enough to speak up when I realized she was just going to leave.
 
"Wait," I said weakly, barely keeping my eyes open.
 
"You didn't answer my question.

She paused, eyeing me with spectacular detachment.
 
"Did you answer any of mine?
 
Goodbye, Dante.
 
Don't be here when I come back."

"Can you wake me up at the soonest possible moment?" I murmured at the empty trailer about a second before I passed out.
   

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love."

~William Shakespeare

PAST

SCARLETT

Weeks went by and there was no progress in the police investigation.
 
No arrests were made.
 

I was too creeped out by Harris to pursue it, in fact, I actively avoided dealing with him, but with every day that passed, Dante became increasingly disturbed, and I became progressively more paranoid.
 

I dropped out of drama exactly three days after the attack.
 
Gram's house was just too inviting for me.
 
And of course, there was Gram herself, always there to greet me when I arrived.
 
For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a home I was welcomed in, and I spent as much time there as I possibly could.
 
I'd have dropped out of school without a qualm if I hadn't known it would've disappointed her.
   

Dante didn't like it.
 
He threatened more than once to quit football in response to my change in schedule, but perversely I was the one that talked him out of it.
 
We were co-dependent enough without inventing new reasons not to leave each other's sight.
 

A few weeks later, I was willing to rethink my position on the matter.
 
He was fighting again, I could tell.
 
More than he ever had before, in fact, coming home with more bruises than he could hide or football practice could account for.
 

I didn't have to ask.
 
The guys must have been talking about me again, and I knew just the types of things they'd be saying.
 
When girls with my reputation were attacked, it was a no-brainer, to my mind at least, that I'd be blamed for whatever the rumor mill was saying had happened.
 
It'd likely been blown out of proportion, and I figured I was either being called a liar or a slut.
 

I didn't hear any of the rumors directly myself, but every new bruise on Dante's body told me the story as clear as though I were reading it on paper.