Fourteen
Dear Calla, My parents think there’s something wrong with me because I like attention from guys. I tell them I’m sixteen, not dead, yet sometimes I think they wish I were ☹~Signed Human
Holy shit, fuck, shit, crap full of crapola.
In spite of the waterfall showerhead and the perfect temperature of the water, my muscles are having a hard time relaxing, especially the muscles between my legs. I just agreed to get fucked. It’s a terrible word to use in a church, but I’m pretty sure I already booked my one-way ticket to hell because of the bitch demon I unleashed on the drive down to North Carolina.
I hate to admit it, but I was terrified in that crawl space. I had spent so much energy trying to keep Simba quiet and calm that I had to ignore the way my limbs shook and the echoed sounds of my ragged breath. When my front door had opened and the strangers walked right in, I had to push down how violated I felt—how the assholes desecrated a sanctity that I had finally found. Anger mixed with fear as I heard them walk through my grandmother’s cottage with heavy feet and loud voices as if they didn’t care if they were caught. They didn’t care if I was hiding in a closet or the pantry. They wanted me to know they were there. They wanted me to know they were coming for me.
They sung my name like they did the night at my townhouse, making their voices sound like we were playing an innocent game of hide and seek. They opened and closed cabinets and drawers, making sure they touched every single thing that ever held value.
When they found my laptop and started tapping at the keys, I almost swung open the door and let Simba have his fill of them. I played through the scene, imagining me in a black leather jumpsuit, beating all of their asses with a roundhouse kick and a well-placed upper cut. I knew I probably wouldn’t do any real damage, but I needed to do something to fight the demons in both my mind and home.
As soon as I made the decision, the men left. One second, they’re laughing, talking about the latest video with Ash, and the next they walk to the door and let it slam behind them. Minutes later, Ash and Cole show up to try to save the day, even though there was nothing left to save. My mind had fractured in that small, little space underneath my house. I didn’t trust anything, not my thoughts or my decisions, so I relinquished control to Ash, trusting him more than I trusted myself.
And I hated him for that. I hated that he wore pristine tennis shoes and had a silver spoon life. I hated that he gripped the steering wheel too hard—looking like he was up a creek without a paddle and didn’t have a clue how the hell to get to shore. In my moment of weakness, I needed strength and assurance while he just looked faint and afraid.
But then he opened his mouth and everything changed.
He wasn’t going to leave me. He wasn’t going to turn me out. He wasn’t going to ask for an apology, and he damn well didn’t think one was needed. And in that moment, I focused my eyes and saw a confidence I wasn’t expecting inside a pretty shell I could no longer ignore. During the past few hours, I’ve studied his body so intimately that I’m pretty sure I’m not in for any surprises when this nakedness starts. In fact, I already have a mental treasure map of all the “hot spots” I want to explore first, like he’s Disney World, and I’m a five-year-old hopped up on sugar.
I was rescued by a fucking prince.
And now I’m going to be fucked by one.
Putting my hands up on the black shower tiles in front of me, I tuck my chin to my chest and let my head drop. The warm water runs down my rounded spine while I try like hell to let the images of my past go.
“Calla?”
My head pops up with a fake smile already in place. Unfortunately, this puts my face in the direct spray of the water. Sputtering and spitting out the hot water, I wipe down my face. “Yeah?”
“Thinking of putting some food together. Hungry?”
Conceding defeat, I close my eyes and let my tone fall an octave. “Starved.”
“I don’t have anything Kosher, but could throw together some Italiano or Shongwen.”
I shake my head, smiling. “I’m not Jewish, and what the heck is Jongwen? Are you saying John Wayne?”
“Shongwen, Calla.”
I can almost picture his smirk as he tries to get a rise out of me.
He claps his hands. “Come on. Italiano or Shongwen?”
I grab the face cloth folded on the shower shelf and run my finger along the Egyptian cotton. He probably went to Egypt to buy the damn thing. “Tell me you didn’t name the thing between your legs Shongwen.”
He’s silent for a moment and I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for his response. “First off, he’s not a thing. Second, he’s not Chinese. Just like me, he’s Italian, Spanish, Irish, and a bit of German, but he gets along with every nationality he comes in contact with. Don’t worry if you’re Russian or something. He’s got a niche for making all foreigners feel welcome and orgasmic. The U.N. could learn a thing or two from him.”
In almost every conversation with Ash, I toe the line between laughing out loud and rolling my eyes. Unfortunately, I’ve noticed that my eye rolls are usually an indication that he’s hit a nerve—specifically the nerve bundles between my legs.
Squeezing my thighs together I force out a fake laugh and place the facecloth against my face, breathing in the warmth of the water.
Lowering my hand, I stare down at the steam now filling the shower and sigh. “Italian, please.” Although my voice is laced with a bit too much emotion, I’ll say anything to get him out the bathroom.
“On it. Take your time.”
I don’t know how he does it. Whether it’s the hypnotist in him or his years of practice, Ash’s voice has a strange effect on me. It’s like every syllable loosens my constraints, making me think there’s more to Ash than what meets the eye. While I’d like to think I’d find layers of complexity, there’s only one layer I’m interested in exploring, and it’s the layer I’ve been staring at for hours. I’ve been forced to accept the truth scurrying through my body and acknowledged its power over me.
I feel need. I need to feel connected to something. I need to feel like a woman again, not some digital image people jack-off to. I need to feel skin against skin, the physical pull of an orgasm building under the deft fingers of a competent man. I just need to feel something other than nothing and what better partner than Ash? He’s already pulled me out of hiding; maybe he can pull a few orgasms out at the same time.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I wipe down the glass and stare at my distorted image. My hair no longer looks like I put it inside a blender and my wind-burnt cheeks no longer look like I’m wearing face paint. But I definitely look splotchy and have more bags under my eyes than a Saint Bernard.
Searching through my backpack, I pull out the clothes Ash quickly threw into my luggage and frown at my options.
Closing my eyes, I drop the bag onto the floor. “He packed my dirty laundry.”
While I was busy arguing with Ash, refusing to leave my home, he threw some stuff in my luggage and said we’d send for the rest of the items once things calmed down. I’d been so pissed off when he practically dragged me into his car that I never even questioned the contents of my luggage.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the mirror and consider my options. Ash has willingly offered up his body as treatment for this lust thing I have going on. Since clothes are usually hindrances to naked time, maybe I should be grateful I have nothing to wear. I could walk out and offer to get the sex over and done with, have a nice meal, head to bed, and figure out the rest in the morning.
I’m so deluded that I actually decide this is a brilliant idea. Running my fingers through my hair one more time, I secure the towel around my chest and open the door. Walking down the narrow hall, I peek into the rooms that I pass and try to imagine which door might lead to the catacombs and which door might lead to Ash’s bedroom.
I’m just about to peek behind door number one when someone’s shadow falls across the wall in front of me. I jump, feeling the heavy weight of my breasts as they seem to absorb some of the shock of seeing Cole standing at the end of the hall. His arms are out-stretched like he’s asking for a hug but his face is hidden by shadow when he says, “Calla! Long time no see!”
All of a sudden, Ash appears just over Cole’s shoulder and yanks his brother away from the doorframe by the back of his sweatshirt.
“Dude!” Cole yells, massaging his neck. “I have that thyroid thing. You can’t be manhandling the thyroid.”
Ash steps into the hallway, his dark eyes sweeping up and down my body. While I can’t see his face as clearly as I would like, by the way his lips part on a quiet hiss, I get the impression he likes my choice in attire.
“You can’t be manhandling my girl,” Ash says in a whispered tone low enough for only me to hear.
I should correct his possessive term. Instead I let his gaze warm every inch of my body as his eyes continue their search.
“Wasn’t sure if I picked out the right clothes, so I left some stuff out on your bed. Nothing fancy, just some things one of Cole’s girls left behind the last time she was here. Take your pick.” He pauses and brings his hand up, running the tip of his finger down the slit of the towel. “Or don’t.”