Page 14 of The Destruction You Desire

I make quick work of getting us up to my room. Thankfully, it's a Saturday night and the house is deserted, so in only minutes, I'm pulling my sheets back and laying her down on my bed.

Her pink hair fans out over my dark gray sheets and her dress rests high up on her thighs. I stumble back until my legs collide with my chair. Sitting down, I don't take my eyes away from her. Her chest heaves with her deep breaths and a little whimper rumbles up her throat.

She looks beautiful. Perfect. Everything I've fucking dreamed of for the last five years.

I lean forward, placing my elbows to rest on my knees and just watch her.

I can't count the number of times I imagined what it would be like to have her in my bed once again. Although I know for a fact that I never imagined it to be quite like this.

Every part of me wanted to believe that she wouldn't lie to me. After all our years together, I wanted to believe that I knew her inside and out, and that she'd never do that to me. But equally, I refused to believe that my dad could have done that.

I always knew he was a lot of things. But a… a pedophile? No. Never.

Okay so she was only a few weeks from turning eighteen, but he was what… forty?

My stomach turns over at the thought of him chasing after Libby. She was a kid. What was he even thinking? He had to know how much that would have hurt all of us. He also couldn't have been stupid enough to think we'd never find out. She was my best friend's sister, for fuck's sake.

My hands ball into fists as I try to figure out what his game plan was. My stomach knots with the knowledge of what he did, my anger once again threatening to get the better of me.

But as if she knows I need a distraction, Peyton pushes up onto her elbow. She looks directly at me, but I know she's not really seeing me because her eyes are glazed over.

"Luc, I—" She doesn't get to say anymore because she pukes all over herself and my bed.

"Fucking hell, P," I groan, jumping up and racing over to help her.

Scooping her into my arms once more, I carry her through to the bathroom and lower her feet into the shower.

"I knew I shouldn't have gone to that goddamn party," I mutter as I somehow manage to hold her up with one arm and undo the zipper at the back of her dress with the other, without us both ending up in a pile on the floor.

Turning the shower on, I let us both get blasted with hot water, it soaks my clothes as it washes away the puke covering Peyton.

She just about holds herself up with her arms wrapped around my waist and her head resting on my shoulder. And just for tonight, I tell myself that everything is okay. That we're just the old Luca and Peyton. I forget that anything else exists and let the alcohol still in my system wash away our reality so that I can just look after her for tonight. So that I can pretend for tonight.

I dry her off, my eyes lingering on her curves, my cock throbbing for her to wake up enough for me to take her, but I know she won't. She's out of it. And after pulling one of my jerseys over her head, I place her on the small couch in my room and strip the bed, something I had zero intention of doing tonight.

By the time I crawl in beside her in a clean and dry pair of boxers, she's curled up in a ball and snoring quietly.

I lay facing her, studying her just like I did last weekend as she slept. And just like last weekend, I see the worry lines on her brow that never used to be there, the dark shadows under her eyes. And for the first time since she confessed what she'd heard to me, I try to put myself in her shoes.

A huge part of me feels for her. Walking away from her ripped me apart, but I was the one who made the decision. I was the one who chose not to believe her. I chose my loyalty to my father instead of her. I was the one who made a huge mistake.

But despite being in the wrong.

I'm not the one who's kept a massive secret for the past five years.

A secret I'm not so sure I'm ever going to be able to forgive her for.

5

Peyton

Anger burns through me like a wildfire, but the second his hand closes around my throat it turns into an inferno.

His hard, cold green eyes stare down into mine and the only thing I can think about is the explosion that's about to happen when he takes what he so clearly craves.

His chest heaves, his hot breath fanning my face, the scent of alcohol on it filling my nose, which makes my mouth water for a taste.

We might not be able to talk like sensible adults like we should, but it seems that since we reconnected, we're able to vent our anger in much more carnal ways.