Ruckus

Dean finished the remainder of his beer before taking mine and chugging it, too, letting out an intentional burp before he continued. “I’m a closet astronomy geek. I label people by what part of the solar system they might be. For instance, Trent is Jupiter because he is so fucking big. Vicious is Arcturus. Red and angry all the time. I can go on, but I have a feeling I’m going to regret it.” He scanned my face, waiting for me to laugh. When I didn’t, he cautiously continued.

“Easier to box people into something concrete, ya know?”

The airhead. The stoner. The party-loving manslut. Ruckus.

Yeah, I had an idea.

“What kind of star am I?” My voice came out thick. I was drunk. I was lusty. I was out of my freaking mind.

Our arms were glued together and our sweat started to mix, but neither one of us made a move to break the touch.

Not even a second passed before he answered, which made me believe he had thought about it before. “You’re Sirius.”

“Sirius?”

“Yeah.” He shifted on the bench, scrubbing at the non-existent stubble along his square jaw. I tried to ignore the fact that he was looking at me with something more than naked desire, but it was becoming too hard with every passing second.

“Contrary to general belief, stars don’t twinkle. There is only one star that sparkles that scientists can agree on. It twinkles so bright, sometimes people mistake it for a UFO. It’s not big, but it stands out. That’s Sirius, and it’s also you. You shine, Baby LeBlanc. So fucking bright sometimes you’re the only thing I see.”

I didn’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps I wasn’t thinking at all. But at that moment, I felt brave. So brave, honesty took hold of my mouth before logic stopped it.

“I want you to make me forget, Dean. Just for one, freaking night,” I mumbled. Staring into space. “Forget about this goddamn town and my judgey parents and…” I let out a giant sigh. And dying.

He tilted his whole body toward me and cupped one of my cheeks, groaning like touching me only frustrated him even more. “Hey. Look at me.”

Not worthy.

Not enough.

Not as good as Millie.

“You’re my sister’s ex-boyfriend,” I mumbled, not protested, trying to reason with myself. Hoping to scrape together some logic and back out.

“We were together for one second,” he snapped.

“You took her V-card.”

“She took off,” he enunciated, crushing the last word between his teeth. “She took off without even sparing me a courtesy phone call. She was never mine. And, for that reason among others, I was never hers.”

“She told me you once asked her to never leave you.” I swallowed, my hands tucked under my sweaty butt as I stared at my flip-flops.

“No offense to Millie, but I don’t want anyone to leave me.”

Silence, and then.

“I don’t want to make you forget. I want to make you remember. And I’m about to, Rosie.” He breathed hard against my skin. “I’m about to rewrite the pages of our fucking history, baby.”

His mouth came crashing down on mine, and his fingers found my hair. I clutched his collar in my balled fists and dragged him down with me, lying on the bench and spreading my legs for him. His lips were hot, wet, perfect, and they didn’t hesitate or ask for permission. They took. They hungrily demanded. My whole body buzzed with heat and ecstasy. He fisted my hair with one hand and dragged his free one between us, cupping one of my breasts and squeezing hard.

His tongue invaded my mouth, conquering me, melting every rejection I had on the tip of my tongue into warm butter. Was I really that drunk, or was he really that good? His hand moved farther south. He flipped my denim skirt and brought his hand to my underwear, rubbing the fabric, creating friction that made me moan into his mouth and lose the remainder of control I clung onto.

Hot. Everything was hot.

My face.

My nerves.

God, it felt like my heart was on fire.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he said, pinching my clit through my panties. I scraped at his shirt and arched my back, begging.

“Fuck me,” I groaned into our filthy kiss. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever experienced. Our tongues were at war—his winning—our hands desperate and we were grinding against each other like we were trying to start a fire.

Soon, I knew, we would succeed. Dangerous chemistry. Our bodies were attuned in a way souls are. Faultlessly. His skin on mine was like being kissed everywhere down to the most isolated corner in my body.

Ironically, my request made him unglue his mouth from mine and frown.

“How drunk are you?” He scanned my face, stone cold sober. He only had a beer, and by his standards, that was like drinking herbal tea.

“Not too drunk not to know what I’m doing,” I answered.

“Sounds like something a drunk person would say,” he countered. I reached between us and grabbed his thick ridge through his jeans, rubbing up and down. Rock hard. “Please.”

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against mine while he took a deep breath. He was trying to fight it. Trying to find composure. That was what I should have done. But I was greedy that night.

“If I take you, it’s because you want it, not because some bullshit family revenge.”

“I do.” I nodded. “I want it.”

He got up, offered me his hand, and guided me to the red truck no girl had ever been screwed in before.

Longest journey I ever made, but one that was worth taking.

In the cab, Dean flattened the driver’s seat and lay against it, tapping his muscular chest.

“C’mere,” he ordered. He didn’t sound playful. He didn’t sound alluring. He sounded serious and grave. The most tantalizing landlord I had ever come across. I complied, straddling him, then scooting up to his face. I still had my panties on, and my eyelids felt ten pounds each, but I knew what I was doing.

Dean nudged my underwear away, grabbed me by the waist, and pushed me down on his face, his tongue plunging into me, penetrating me in one sudden movement. I cried out in both pleasure and surprise, grabbing his hair and arching my back.

“Fuck my tongue, Baby LeBlanc. Fuck it hard.”

My hips rocked as I did just that, feeling his warm mouth all over me, his thumb rubbing lazy yet firm circles on my clit while his free hand squeezed my ass, dictating how fast and hard I landed on his face. He made the kind of happy noises I had only dreamed of hearing from Darren. Like this was his idea of heaven. Like what we did was right.

After a few short minutes, I clenched around his tongue, my thighs vibrating, every muscle in my body shaking with a rippling orgasm that moved through me like an earthquake. I threw my head back and screamed his name, my eyes squeezed shut.

Then, before I had the chance to open them, he flipped me so I was lying underneath him and he was on top, his knee between my opened legs. Dean unbuckled his belt, his shirt riding up and revealing those perfect abs I tried not to ogle the other day. Jesus, he was a masterpiece. I actually resented him for that.

“I’m going to make you sing my fucking name,” he hissed, his eyes hard on mine, “with your pussy.”

I spread my legs wider as he dug his knees deeper into my sex.

He reached for his back pocket and plucked a condom out of his wallet. Ripping the wrapper with his teeth, he sheathed himself while grabbing my shirt in his hand. He pulled the fabric until it dug into my skin and ripped it from my body.

Ouch.

And also, what the hell?

Leaning down, he flung one of my legs over his shoulder and slid into me without warning. His jaw was granite, his eyes blazing with carnal need. I clung onto his bulging triceps, groaning with pleasure I couldn’t fully contain in my small body, and let him pound me like an animal as he hit my G-spot again and again, riding me like his mission in life was to split me in two.

“Oh, Dean.” I couldn’t help shouting, and even though it was hot outside, the condensation on the windows around us proved that it was much, much hotter inside.

Dean fisted my hair again, this time harder than he did on the bench, and turned my head to the space between our bodies so I could watch.

“What am I doing to you?” He sounded menacing. Almost evil. I watched as his cock—hey, is that a purple condom?—slid in and out of me, the way his hips smashed into mine furiously every time he drove in. The ridges of his six-pack were perfectly visible from that angle, too. There was darkness there. In what we did. All-American, fresh-faced, lovely Dean had a very dangerous side, and he allowed me a sneak peek into it.

“You’re…” I stuttered. He tugged at my hair harder for the answer. It was painful, but at the same time, extremely hot.

“Say it, Baby LeBlanc.”

“You’re fucking me.”

“Hell, yeah, I’m fucking you. Feels good?”

“Y—yes.”

“Am I too deep?”

“N—no.”

“Am I too rough?”

“N—no.”

“Good. ’Cause I’m about to be.”

His hand snaked behind my back and spun me in place, and for one second, his cock was no longer buried inside me. He propped me on my knees but I fell flat on my stomach when he drove into me again, this time from behind. He lifted one of my hips with his arm—his muscles tight and sweaty against my thigh—to create the perfect angle for him to tear me apart with his thick, long ridge.

“So deep.” I squeezed my eyes again, feeling another orgasm trickling from my skull down to the tip of my spine. Dean ‘Ruckus’ Cole was a sex god. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but he was right. What we shared wasn’t normal. It was crazy.

Crazy good.

“Don’t come just yet.” He plunged into me once again, and my teeth dug into the vinyl of his seat, clinging to the yellow sponge underneath as I tried to stifle another scream.

“I can’t hold it,” I panted, breathlessly digging my fingernails into the worn cab. He was going at it like he was trying to kill me. And in a way, he did. He killed every single chance I had to enjoy sex with anyone else.