Page 36 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

“Although,” he says, leaning forward an inch while still holding the phone and keeping his grip on my neck, “I will admit that it never stopped me before.”

I suck in my belly. “You have… You’ve recorded me before.”

“Yeah.”

“Like, when I…” I have to just breathe for a second before I can go on. “D-danced for you?”

“Yes.”

“But you… How? I never saw anything. I never?—”

He motions to the table with his head. “I hid it, and you aren’t very observant. When you get going for me, you don’t care about anything else.”

He’s right about that. When I get going for him, I don’t see anything else but him. I don’t feel anything else but his rough hands on my body. I don’t breathe anything else, either, except his scent of strawberries, sweet and thick.

“But that’s…” I rake my nails up and down his thighs. “You never said anything. You never… That’s wrong. That’s?—”

“A fucking asshole thing to do, I know. A felony, I know that too,” he tells me.

Then, squeezing my neck again, “And if you want, I can take you to the cops after this, but it was all I had. Of you . You dancing for me on the screen. You going to pieces for me in my lap. Your voice, your moans. Your gorgeous fucking face, all drugged up and flushed. This is all I had of you blooming for me like a fucking rose. I had you in my arms every night and still I went home empty-handed. Still, I went home trying to remember what you felt like. Smelled like. Trying to remember how soft you were, how soft your skin was. How small your body was, against mine. How easy it would be to crush you if I wanted to, to cherish you. How easy it would be to get inside you and how difficult it would be to make myself fit and not hurt you. So yeah, I admit to breaking a few laws while I waited for you.”

“For me,” I breathe out.

“To say yes,” he finishes.

“You watched my videos every day?” I ask then, disbelief clear in my voice.

“On repeat.”

“You—"

“Helped me focus before practice.”

My heart skips a beat again. “It d-did?”

“Yeah. I still suck though. Just a little less.”

“You don’t suck,” I defend.

A puff of a breath escapes him. Then, “And then I watched them at night.”

“But you were in my room every night.”

“So you do the math.”

“You…” I swallow, or try to, but all my emotions are jammed up in my throat. “You watched those videos while you were in my room? But I… I was right there.”

“And you were right here ,” he bites out.

“In my lap, and I still didn’t have you.

So yeah, I watched you on my screen while you slept only a few feet away.

Because you were right there but still you were a million miles away.

And I fucked my fist too because you wouldn’t let me get close to you. You wouldn’t let me have you.”

“You’re…” My breath snags in my throat and comes out as a hiccup. “You’re crazy. You’re obsessed.”

His chest shudders. “Told you I could teach you things about obsession.” Then, “Still feel safe with me?”

Yeah, he did say he could teach me things.

I didn’t believe him then, but I do now.

I also didn’t believe that I could be as crazy as this, as him but apparently I am because I don’t hate this.

In fact I think I might like it. I might love it.

Just as much as leaving my window open for him to sneak into my room in the middle of the night. Just as much as doing this for him.

How can anything or anyone bad touch me when he’s obsessed with me the way he is? When only a few feet of distance between us seem like a thousand miles to him.

But more than that I love that I help him. That watching me helps him focus. I was worried about that, wasn’t I. So maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I can take his pain away. Maybe he was right all along and I don’t want to wait any longer. Not even a single second.

Gripping his thighs, I say, urgently, “I want it. Right now.”

He watches me a beat, probably trying to ascertain what I mean.

But I don’t have to tell him because he reads it on my face.

And his own face goes hard for a second before he swallows, as if dislodging too many emotions from his throat like I had to do just now.

Then, “You wanna put on a show for me, baby?”

“Yes,” I admit, feeling both shame and pride prickle my skin.

He studies my face before saying, “Because you want this as much as me, don’t you?”

I nod, blushing as a quickening starts up in my belly. “Yes.”

I go to stand up then, get on his lap, dance for him like he always wanted me to.

Bridge this gap between us so we can finally, finally touch.

Kiss, even. But he doesn’t let me. His grip is still as tight, and if anything he inches back a bit.

Then keeping our gazes locked, he fiddles with his phone.

I watch his thumb press and swipe before he says, “You’re going to stay on your knees tonight. ”

As disappointing as that is, I still have to squeeze my thighs at his commanding tone. Not to mention, at the fact that he’s still holding his phone up. “Is it… Is it going?”

“Yeah,” he says.

The burn that I feel in my belly at that, on my whole body is something I’ve never felt before.

It’s like there’s a spotlight on me, a big halogen light, displaying every single nerve ending and every single speck of my soul.

But instead of hiding, it only makes me want to display myself more.

It only makes me want to throw my shoulders back, arch my spine, show him everything that is his to see.

“Which means you tell it to the camera,” he goes on.

I swallow, trembling. “T-tell what?”

His eyes flash. “How wet you are for me.”

My breath hitches and I glance to the phone once again. “To the… camera?”

“Uh-huh. You wanna put on a show for me, don’t you?

” I nod with absolute certainty, and he goes on.

“You want to give me something to watch, to remember. Well, this is how you do it. You look into the camera, and you tell me all your secrets. Every single one of them. So when you’re gone, I can watch it over and over and remember how it was. ”

Maybe I should take a stock of his words, be worried about them.

Because somehow, they feel so final. They feel like bad news.

Secrets. I have so many of them and no matter what, I can never ever tell him.

But that’s not what’s happening here. This is something else.

This is about him and me. Our connection, this crazy cosmic thing that we feel for each other.

That made me watch him through his window that first time and that made him watch me in my green t-shirt and purple barrette years later.

I won’t let anything else come between us tonight. No parents, not even the girl he loves and the reason why we’re doing this. It’s just us.

So I do what I want to do, preen and show him more of my body, all the little dips and curves. And as my heart takes flight in my chest, I glance over to the camera. “I-I’m wet.” His fingers flex on my throat but I keep going. “I’m so, so wet right now.”

There’s a spasm in my lower belly at this, and my pussy pulses. My entire body blushes and burns with both shame and arousal. And how natural this feels. Like I’ve done this before. Like I’ve posed in front of a camera a million times before this moment, and I know exactly what to do.

I know exactly how to bite my lip, how to blink and stare at the lens and whisper all my secrets. “I’m so wet, I’m dripping,” I continue and I feel him stiffen in my periphery. “I can feel it too.”

“Feel what?” I hear him say.

I lick my lips and answer to the camera, “My p-pussy pulsing.”

“Yeah?”

I nod, digging my nails into his thighs. “And when you… put pressure on my throat and don’t let me b-breathe, I think I,”—I lick my lips again—“come a little bit.”

He does it then, flexing his grip on my throat, making it hard for me to breathe and I jerk. My thighs shake and my channel contracts so hard all I can do is flutter my eyes closed and moan.

“Like this?” he asks then.

Panting, I open my eyes and look at the camera. “Yeah.”

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“So good.”

He hums. “Yeah, you look so good too. Gasping for breath, choking under my fingers. Like I could do anything to you and you’d let me.”

“Yes, anything. You could do anything to me, whatever you want.”

He exhales sharply and squeezes my throat again. I gasp, moaning, my hands flying away from his thighs and coming to grip his wrist, his forearm. I feel his coarse hair under my palms. I feel the veins pulsing and I think about how I must look right now.

How I must look all flushed and stoned, turned on out of my mind.

My eyes all wide and my mouth parted. And how my neck is arched and clutched by brutal fingers of a man, off camera.

How his fingers pulse every few seconds and how every time that happens, my belly quivers and my juices ooze out of my channel.

As if he’s literally squeezing the juice out of me. Out of my strawberry pussy.

And then that man rasps, a crack in his voice because it’s not as if he’s unaffected by all this, “Tell me why.”

“Why?”

He moves closer then, leans over me a little bit, tightening his grip on my throat and making me arch my back even more. “Tell me why you like this so much. You know, don’t you?”

I nod, as if hypnotized by him, his voice, his touch. “Because I’m… I’m a whore.”

He digs his thumb in my pulse so hard I cry out in pain. I cry out in pleasure. Then, “That’s not the answer we’re looking for, are we?”

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t?—”

“Try again,” he commands. “Think really hard and tell me why you love me choking you out. Why you love my fingers around your throat. Why does your pussy juice up when I don’t let you breathe?”

And it comes to me, the answer. “Because I’m… I’m your whore.”

His chest moves with a satisfied breath and I can breathe too. As in, to the extent he allows me and my heart settles in my chest at pleasing him.

“Yeah, mine. Not a whore, my whore.”

“Yes.”