Unafraid

I can’t believe I just did that.

It comes rushing back to me in hot, guilty flashes: memories of me spread, na**d, bound beneath him; the dark look of possession in his eyes; the desperate sound of my voice, begging him for more. It’s like it happened to someone else, some kind of out-of-body experience, because nothing I’ve ever done before has even come close to being so hot, so dirty.

So f**king good.

I feel my cheeks burn, and sneak a glance over at Hunter, shadowed in the headlights’ beam. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other draped out the open window; his eyes fixed to the dark road as if nothing’s happened.

I feel a twist of insecurity. How am I supposed to act with him now that he knows my deepest weakness? How can I even look him in the eyes again when he’s seen me, so desperate and undone? Did he like it, or—shit—was it some kind of test? My heart drops, as the realization takes shape in my mind. Maybe he never thought I’d go so far. Maybe he was just curious to see if my reputation was true.

Well you sure showed him. You’re just the trashy slut everyone in this town promised him you’d be.

By the time Hunter pulls into my driveway, the giddy afterglow of my orgasm is long gone, replaced with a bitter sting of disappointment and self-loathing.

Way to go, Brit. Screwing things up like you always do.

Hunter shuts off the engine. There’s silence.

“Thanks for the ride,” I clench my jaw and try to pull it together. “I’ll see you around, I guess.”

I open the door and scramble down before he has a chance to reply. I slam it behind me and stride towards the porch, biting back the sting of tears I’m shocked to feel welling in the back of my throat.

Why am I so stupid? I dig my nails into my palms in frustration. This was what I wanted, isn’t it? I was just pretending to buy into that whole ‘perfect date’ bullshit back at the fairground, after all. I always knew this was how it would end, with me back right where I started. Alone. Hell, at least this way I got a mind-blowing orgasm out of it, which is more than I usually walk away with.

I hurry up the steps and scramble for my keys, but I can’t find them in my purse. I hunt again, growing more self-conscious and nervy the longer I’m waiting here on the porch. I force myself not to turn around. I haven’t heard Hunter’s truck leave, and—

“Looking for these?” His voice comes from behind me, too close.

I startle, whirling around. Hunter is at the bottom of the steps, dangling my keys from his index finger. “They fell out of your pocket, back at the stables. But, you were kind of distracted…” His lips curl in a smile.

“Thanks.” I snatch for them, avoiding his eyes.

Hunter pulls them back, out of reach. “Not so fast,” he says. “Look at me, Brit.”

I keep my gaze fixed on the dusty floorboards. I should sweep, I tell myself. I should stop being such a slob, and try harder, and be better.

“Hey, Brit.” Hunter’s voice is soft. “Where’d you go?” He closes the distance between us and reaches to gently tilt my chin up, but I keep my eyes averted, looking everywhere but him. “What’s wrong?” Hunter asks.

“Nothing.” I try to pull away.

“Don’t lie to me.” Hunter cups my cheek, a touch so gentle, it sends a pang right through me. “Are you OK? Listen, about what happened tonight…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I can feel the emotions whirling, but I’d rather die than let him see I’m affected.

“Tough.” Hunter insists. “I’m not letting you run away again.”

“I’m not—”

“You practically bolted from a moving truck,” Hunter cuts me off.

“I’m tired.” I fold my arms. “Can I just have my keys?”

“Not until you look at me, Brit. I mean it, look at me.”

I do.

Hunter’s hair shines gold in the porch light, blue eyes clouded with concern. It’s almost more than I can take, to have him looking so gorgeous and perfect right now. I’m feeling scattered and undone, like what happened tonight shattered some hard, brittle part of me, and now everything’s just messy and raw and impossible to control.

“Hunter, please...” My voice twists, and I’m dangerously close to losing it now.

“Please what?” he replies, not moving. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” I clench my jaw.

Hunter shakes his head. “Don’t push me away,” he says softly. “I thought we were past that.”

“Why?” I answer darkly. “Because I spread my legs and let you do whatever, like some cheap slut?”

Shock flashed across his face. “Why would you say that?”

I give a bitter laugh. “It’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? It’s what they all think. And I don’t exactly prove them wrong.”

Hunter takes my face in both his hands, looking at me straight on. Direct. “There’s nothing wrong with what you did tonight—what we did, together.” he tells me fiercely. “You blew my f**king mind, you were so hot. Unless…” his hands drop, uncertainty creeping into his expression. “Do you regret it? Did I push too far, is that what this is about?” he asks quickly. “Because Brit, I never meant to. I thought you were right there with me—”

“I was!” I exclaim. I can’t have him thinking even for a minute that he forced me somehow. “I wanted it too.”

Relief floods his expression, then a confused frown. “So what’s the problem?” he asks.

“There is none.” I shut down again. “We had a great time, it’s done, so you can go now.”

He pauses. “Is that what you want?”

No!

I swallow. “Yes.”

Hunter stares at me a moment, his expression unreadable. The sad ache in me twists, sharp and painful. This is it, I tell myself. His cue to leave. I brace myself, willing him just to go, and leave me. For this to be over.

Then he kisses me.

I freeze in his arms, confused. The kiss is soft, slow and tender, and heartbreakingly sweet, but before I can react, he draws back, and gently brushes hair from my eyes.

“You’re not a slut,” he tells me, his voice low but even. “You’re not twisted, or trashy, or used up, or broken. I don’t know why you think it, and I could kill anyone who’s ever made you feel this way.”

My mouth drops open in shock, but Hunter’s not done. He tilts his head, resting his forehead against mine, so I can feel every word, the soft whisper of breath and the sweetness of his promises. “You’re perfect, Brit. Special, and rare. And maybe you can’t believe that, but I swear, I won’t stop until you see what I do. The most incredible girl I’ve ever met.”

Hunter kisses my forehead and then reaches past me, unlocking the door.

“You’re working tomorrow?” he asks.

I nod, wordless in disbelief.

“I’ll come by the bar and pick you up,” he says. “Sweet dreams.”

I watch in a daze as Hunter heads back to the truck. He starts the engine, then slowly reverses out of the drive, driving away until his headlights are swallowed up by the dark night.

My legs give way. I sink to the porch step.

You’re perfect.

He can’t mean it. I don’t know what kind of game he thinks he’s playing; or maybe it’s not a game, and he’s fooled himself into thinking I’m something I’m not. Either way, he’s wrong. I know it, deep inside, the way I’ve known it all my life.

There’s nothing perfect about me, nothing precious or rare.

He’s wrong. He has to be.

But as I sit, clutching the porch railing for dear life, something flickers inside me, just a spark of hope. I feel it, warming me, slipping into my bloodstream and chasing away the dark shadows of doubt and insecurity.

You’re perfect.

His words whisper in my ear, long after he’s gone, more seductive than any flirtation or dirty words. Nobody’s ever said that to me before. Not even close. Sure, I know that Emerson loves me, and would do anything for me, but it’s not the same. Nobody’s ever looked at me the way Hunter just did, as if I’m something bright and good. As if I’m worth something.

He sees it in me, what I sometimes can’t even see in myself. That man, who could have anything and anyone, wants me. For some crazy reason, he wants me, and he doesn’t show any signs of quitting yet.

And for the first time, I realize: maybe I don’t want him to.

After I take Brit home, I’m wound so tight I spend half an hour standing under the freezing cold shower jets, waiting for my hard-on to subside. It doesn’t help.

Jesus Christ.

It took everything I had not to ravage her right there in the stables, to just part her soft, pale thighs and plunge deep inside of her, over and over, until we both were gasping and lost to the world...

But I can’t. Not yet. No matter how much I want her, or how far she pushes me to the edge. I can’t let myself get carried away and ruin everything in one reckless night.

I owe her that much. I owe her everything.

The ranch is too quiet, dangerously still, so I head back down to the stables and set to work cleaning out stalls for the new horses I have arriving this week. It’s tiresome, back-breaking work, the kind of thing one of my stable hands should be doing, but tonight, I welcome the distraction. I lift, and shovel, and sweat, until the darkest part of the night is over, and my body finally aches with something other than wanting her. Only then do I let myself even think of earlier tonight, and the way Brit looked, so goddamn sexy and effortlessly beautiful...

She tasted like temptation. She felt like an angel. She was my darkest fantasy brought to life: wet and writhing and crying out for me to take her. And God, I wanted her. I thought I’d die, going a single second longer not inside of her.

So what the hell are you waiting for?

I catch my breath, sweating hard now from the work. Maybe it’s crazy. I don’t even understand it fully myself. But I know, deep down, that Brit isn’t ready for more.

Sure, she says she is. Hell, just a few hours ago, she was begging me: her pale skin flushed with desire, so wet against my mouth I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I could have taken her, hard and fast and strong, and she would have loved every damn minute of it.

But it would have been wrong.

She wants me, but she doesn’t want to let me in. I can give her pleasure, but I can’t give her trust. No, that I’ve got to earn, day by day, until she’s ready to let me into her bed—and her heart.

She thinks you’re a good man.

I close my eyes, waiting for the memories, but it’s not Brit’s na**d body that fills my mind. It’s her face: heartbreakingly beautiful, her dark eyes gazing into mine.

Damn. It’s more powerful than a hundred cold showers, the way she looks at me. Even when we touch, and my desire goes from zero to five thousand in the space of a single heartbeat, it’s enough to keep me hanging on. That look in her eyes, like I’m good, and true, and perfect.

I want to be that man for her, live up to her dream of me.

What would she say if she knew the truth?

No. I can’t think like that.

I stare out at the dark fields, and feel a deep sense of rightness seep through me, as surprising as it is a blessed relief.

This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Coming here to Beachwood Bay gave me a direction, but knowing Brit the way I do now has given me something more than that: it’s given me a purpose.

Because she makes me want to be a better man.

From the moment I wake up in the morning to the second that sleep claims me at night, she’s always there, in the back of my mind. Reminding me that good things exist in this world, reassuring me that I can feel some hope again. I want so badly to live up to her illusions, be that man she sees in me, even if I can’t see it in myself just yet.

I want to give her everything, all the things other girls take for granted: every romantic gesture, every sweet word. Right now she doesn’t believe she’s worth a man’s affection, but I’m going to show her she’s wrong.

She deserves everything. And I’m going to be the one to give it to her.

Because something’s telling me, if I can do that—put the past behind me once and for all and do my best to be the man she deserves—I won’t just be changing her mind, I’ll be changing mine too.

It might be the only way I can find through this darkness.

I finally toss the shovel down and head back to the house, stopping by the kitchen for a beer. But looking at the neon glare of the refrigerator––empty save a couple of six-packs and some leftover takeout––I pause.

How many of these have I drunk over the last three years? How many nights have I wound up in a wasted haze, just to quiet the guilty whispers in my mind so I could fall into a dreamless sleep?

Too many times.

We all found our ways of coping. Mom’s got her society functions, scheduling every last minute in the day with charities and lunches. Dad’s working himself into an early grave at the office, driving Covington Investments to its high as one of the most profitable hedge funds in the country. And me? It was all I could do just the keep it together, numbing myself with beer and partying, stumbling through my time in college on the track they wanted for me, but hating myself every minute all the same.

I meant what I told them, I’m done with their life. Not just the parties and prestige, but the denial too: downing my guilt and pain in the bottom of another drink instead of facing the shadows head-on. I grab the six-packs, and pop the tabs: pouring them down the sink, one by one, until there’s nothing left. No crutch to dull my pain, no easy way out of this. Done. I slowly climb the stairs up to the loft bedroom and strip off my jeans and shirt, falling back onto the bed. I’m wide awake, too damn alert, and without the beer haze lulling me under, the memories come flooding back. Of Jace, and that summer, and Brit. Always Brit…