Page 42 of The Cruelest Chaos

“Right.” I roll my eyes.

“Forget it. Maybe you’re too young for this.” He stands to his feet, tosses the remote on the couch across from the bed. I can’t keep my eyes off of his body. The way his anger hardens everything about him.Everything.

He catches me looking and laughs, adjusting himself through his sweats. “Oh, are you worried I’ll get someone else to handle this for me if you don’t?” His voice sounds hoarse, and he doesn’t take his hand off of his erection. “Because I will.” It’s an honest statement, even if he’s trying to bait me.

My chest tightens. I squeeze my eyes closed. “No.” Why did I ask such a stupid question? About whatthis is?

“Or do you just want my hands on you right now? My mouth?”

I open my eyes. Find he’s standing right in front of me. I hold my breath as I tilt my head up to look at him, into those light blue eyes that make me feel dizzy.

His hands go to my upper arms, easily circling around them. His gaze dips down, and I know he sees my nipples chaffing against his shirt.

I like how he looks at me. I didn’t always. Not from other boys.

My body changed before most girls in my classes did. I grew breasts before anyone else was wearing a bra. For a while, they never stopped growing. For a while, my mother made me hide behind baggy sweatshirts and loose tees. Then she saw her boyfriends looking and thought it might make them stick around a while longer. The clothes she bought me from the thrift shop got tighter.

She regretted that after Shane, I’m sure.

Maverick runs his hands up and down my arms, goosebumps in the wake of his touch, bringing me back to the present. “You’re very pretty,” he tells me, his eyes locking on mine.

I wet my lips, a heaviness in my stomach.

Maverick’s hands go up to my shoulders, to my neck. He doesn’t squeeze, just rests his palms on the side of my throat. His touch is cold, sending a chill down my spine. I shiver, involuntarily, and he smiles.

“Do you want to go home?” he asks.

I press my thighs together in his baggy sweats, desperate for some friction, despite all the sex we’ve had this week already. I shake my head. I don’t want to go home.

This is comfortable. This is…like a movie.This is just like my mother.

“It’s okay,” he whispers as if he can read my mind, his hands sliding down my back, pressing me against his hard body. I can feel his cock on my stomach. He bends his head down, so he’s whispering in my ear, his hands massaging up and down my back. “It’s okay to want it, Ella. The things you want. It’s okay for you to stay here with me.”

I close my eyes, inhale his scent. My breasts brush against his chest. I want to wrap my arms around him, but I don’t. It’s easier when it hurts. When it’s gentle, it’s…

I can’t get attached. I can’t do that again.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he continues, telling me what I need to hear. “You’re not sick, or twisted or wrong, Ella.”

But I am.

He pulls me closer, wraps his arms around me and holds me against him. “You’re allowed to like it.”

My arms still hang by my sides. I hear his words, but I don’t believe them. At the same time…I want this. I want his affection. His anger.

I want more of it.

I’m sick. I’m twisted. I’m wrong.

I don’t care.

Slowly, I lift my arms. Gently, I wrap them around his back, aware of the wounds he won’t speak of there. He seems to stiffen at my touch, as if he’s expecting me to scratch him again. Draw blood.

But after a few seconds, he relaxes.

“How do you want it?” he asks me quietly, his mouth still at my ear.

I keep my eyes closed, just feeling him. Breathing him in. I’ve only ever had it one way, really. I don’t want to change that. I say the same words I said to him in the forest beneath that beautiful moon. “Make it hurt.”