Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 36
I look away as a sinking feeling creeps into my stomach. I can’t describe it with any other word except…shame? But why should I feel ashamed? I haven’t done anything wrong—at least to Colson. I should feel a lot of shame for what’s just happened.
What have I done?
After a minute of excruciating silence, I hang my head and wish I could crawl under my desk and disappear. But Colson’s not going to let me off that easy. He reaches up and rakes his fingers up my scalp. When he clenches his fist, my eyes fly open with a gasp and my cheeks feel hot.
He leans closer, “What. Was. It.”
I bite the bottom lip. I can still keep fighting him, but to what end? I know what I did, and I know what I said.
“You’re—” I cringe and my voice cracks until it’s only a whisper, “you’re my only.”
Colson slowly nods and releases my hair as I struggle through each word, “I kept my promise to you. I came back to you, but you—”
My jaw drops and outrage flashes across my face, “No, you—” I cut him off, but before I can continue, I hear another smack and feel another sting across my ass that renders me silent.
“Shh,” Colson hisses.
I press my mouth together with a long, seething blink. I comply, but avert my eyes when he speaks.
“But you,” he cocks his head and scrutinizes my face, “you’ve been a bad, bad girl, Honeybee.”
My heart is still pounding, but I finally find the nerve to look up into his eyes again. He’s still, but the muscles around his eyes twitch like he’s searching my face, waiting for me to give something away.
“Is that why you’re following me again?” I finally croak, asking what I’ve been wanting to for so long, “Is that why you broke into my house?”
“Well,” Colson smiles like he half expected my accusation, “I can’t blame any man who is,” he grins, “you probably have a few admirers, don’t you?”
“A stalker, you mean?”
“Addict might be more appropriate,” he shrugs, “or paramour…” I feel something on my hand, and when I look down, he’s spinning my sapphire engagement ring around my finger with his thumb, “I also can’t blame this one for trying to lock you down.”
“Yeah, well,” I rip my fingers out of his hand, readjusting my ring, “this happened before I—” I bite back the rest of the words before they can leave my throat, but I’m too late.
Colson tips his chin, peering down at me with a smirk, “Before you what?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, but he knows. He knows what stupid, idiotic, thoughtless words almost spilled out onto the dull grey carpet between us.
“Before you knew I still wanted you?” he guesses.
“You’re such a liar, Colson,” I growl, “as if you haven’t slept with another girl in three years.”
If he hasn’t, then there really is something wrong with him…
“Jealous girl,” he gives me a once-over, “not since I came back to you. So, one might say you’re the liar,” I swear, he looks like the devil right now as he leans into my ear, “sleeping in another man’s bed.”
I suck a breath through my teeth. I don’t like his tone. I don’t like his arrogance and self-importance implying I’ve wronged him somehow. Everything that happened—that is happening—is his fucking fault. All he does is make me doubt myself, and I hate it.
“I’m not usually a forgiving person,” Colson continues, adjusting his belt on his hips, “but we do a lot of things for the ones we love, don’t we?”
“Are you done?” I scowl, dead set on ignoring anything else that comes out of his mouth.
“You tell me.” His voice returns to its normal, even tone, “You’re the one who can’t decide on lunch without having an existential crisis.”
“Anything else?”
He hesitates with a smile that looks anything but sweet, “I have been curious about something. Do you still think about how my belt feels around your neck?” I shouldn’t have asked… “Or how my knife feels on your skin?” he leans closer, murmuring into my ear, “Because I can’t stop thinking about the panic and the pain in your eyes, or how good your blood tastes on my tongue.”
He’s sadistic.
“You know,” I glance up at him with a scowl, “I thought you were telling the truth when you said you wanted to start over—be friends, and all.”
Colson smiles with amusement, “Oh, Honeybee,” his words drip with condescension, “I’m going to be a lot of things to you, but a friend isn’t one of them.”
I feel a tug at my waist and look down in time to see him hook his fingers over my belt buckle and pull the waist of my pants out far enough to fit his hand inside. With one twist of his wrist, his hand disappears and he pulls me close to him so I can’t move. I grab his forearm against my stomach, but his fingers are already between my legs.
“Goddamn,” Colson groans as he slides his fingers inside me, slick and aching for release, “you act just as hateful as you did back then, but you’re still so weak for me, and I love it.” He opens his mouth wide with each word, his teeth clicking against mine as he shoves each syllable down my throat.
“Colson,” I creak out, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Yes, baby?” he starts rubbing gentle circles around my clit, making me squirm against him, “Do you want me to stop? Before you come all over my fingers and can’t come up with an acceptable explanation why?”
There’s a sharp knock at the door. Startled, I push away from him and he releases me. I quickly adjust my pants and smooth my hair, my eyes darting between Colson and the door. Thankfully, my hair usually looks like a curly mess anyway…
He takes one long step away from me, “Or maybe you just prefer that we see each other…” he pauses with a glint in his eye, “not here.”
“Come in!” I call.
A flash of platinum blonde pops through the doorway and Abby’s bright blue eyes search the room for me.
Jesus, Abby.
I can’t decide whether I’m annoyed or relieved that she’s here.
“Hey, sorry,” she apologizes in an exaggerated whisper, “do you have a minute to come to my office and go over these templates?”
Colson glances over his shoulder at her, “I’m done, she’s all yours.” He starts backing away from me, “So, yeah, just let me know.”
He winks at me before stepping past her. And as soon as he does, he reaches up and pushes his index and middle fingers into his mouth as far back as they’ll go. Then he slowly slides them back out, sucking his fingers clean before he disappears into the hallway.
As soon as I return to my office an agonizing 15 minutes later, I grab my phone with shaking hands, my fingers spastically searching for my text thread with Barrett. It’s a short text, but it takes me three tries to type out.
ME (2:05PM): I need you.
I’m supposed to see her, anyway. It’s Thursday dinner, after all. But I feel the need to warn her about the disaster she’s about to encounter. I also need a strong drink, the sooner the better. This is only reenforced when another text comes through a few seconds later. I grab my phone, thinking it’s Barrett, but it’s Hildy, and she’s asking me more questions about dresses and wedding cakes. All I can do is slam my phone down and bury my face in my hands, trying not to dissolve into a blubbering mess.
Sipping my whiskey on the rocks while recounting the afternoon to Barrett serves two purposes; halfway through the glass, my hands stop shaking, and all the talking makes me drink at a slower pace so I’m not blitzed by the time I finish. Barrett sits across from me in complete silence, a constant look of tranquility on her face punctuated by brief eye and cheek movements. She doesn’t give knee-jerk reactions full of wide eyes, slack jaws, and horrified gasps. She might have, years ago, but not now, not when she hears stories with equal or greater shock value every day.
When I’ve finished, Barrett takes a deep breath and stares off into the distance, a sure sign her brain is in analytical overload. And she has thoughts.
“OK, two things. First of all, whoa,” she says before taking a heavy sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. “That was my best friend response. And, second, do you feel unsafe around Colson because of what happened today?”
“I don’t know,” because I don’t, “I felt better he told me more about what happened in college. But after the Rickhouse, the smoothies, and what happened today…” I shake my head, unsure of what to say next.
“Did he admit to doing those other things?”
“No,” I give a laugh and then scrunch up my face in a scowl, “I even got up the nerve to ask him, point blank, but he never actually answered the question.”
“Perfect,” Barrett purses her lips with an eyeroll, “so, do you think that he’s trying to intimidate you with his behavior?”
“I know he is. But it’s more than that,” I jiggle my empty glass back and forth, making the condensation drip through the table slats onto the concrete, “the whole time, it was like he was rubbing my face in it.”
“You mean because he can do what he wants without consequence?”
“That, and…” I trail off, having no idea how to say what I’m about to say, “honestly, it’s like when a douchebag guy doesn’t like something you do, but he won’t just leave, so he acts like a dick to get back at you for it.”
“So, what’s Colson getting back at you for? You haven’t had a relationship with him in three years—of any kind. And the one you did have was pretty superficial and lasted for about five seconds.”
I stare down at the table, chewing the inside of my cheek and debating whether to open Pandora’s box. If I do, I’ll have to tell Barrett the rest of the story—the whole story—that no one else knows. Barrett thinks Colson was a crush, a run-of-the-mill hookup, a fuckboy who’s acting like a creep now. Yes, I’d told her what happened at the end of that night, when I woke up with him on top of me and a gun to my head. But I didn’t tell her what happened before.
I didn’t tell her why it was so hard to let go of Colson Lutz, and why my logical brain is locked in mortal combat with my reptilian brain—and the lizard is winning. I didn’t tell her about the things he told me, things I wander back to in the dead of night when I can’t sleep, things I visit in the deep recesses of my mind and then judge myself for afterward. And when I found some of those things in Bowen, I clung to them—clung to him—because they remind me of what I lost. And for that, I have overwhelming guilt.
“There’s a reason all of this sounds so insane to you,” I say while tearing at the edges of a napkin.
Barrett leans back in her chair and drapes her hands over the wrought iron arms, “Look, unless you’re going to say Colson’s been walking around with someone’s head in a box and gifted it to you, I don’t think you need to worry about how anything sounds to me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Brett
College
Colson drives like he should be on a racetrack rather than the interstate surrounded by cornfields. He’s silent from the moment he started the engine and doesn’t speak until the skyline is a distant glow behind us. But I can’t read him yet and I don’t know whether he’s angry or just comfortable with silence. Granted, I don’t care if he’s angry. If I don’t want to kiss him, then I don’t want to kiss him.
Once there’s nothing but a desolate highway in front of us, I finally clear my throat and break the silence, “Where do you live?”
“The West side, on the river,” he replies, reaching over and resting his hand on my thigh.
He must not be too bothered by my rebuff back at the riverfront. At least I didn’t think he was until he grabbed my hair and gave me a yank like I was a puppy wandering too far off the sidewalk. It should’ve been enough for me to demand he take me home immediately, even if it meant an awkward two hours in the car with him, but it had the exact opposite effect. And I think he saw it—the twitch in the corners of my mouth that I couldn’t hide fast enough. Which is why, by the time Colson’s pinky brushes against the top of my inseam, I’m sure he feels me seeping out of my spandex.
At least they’re black. Thank God I didn’t choose grey…
“You alright over there?” he glances over at me, feeling my leg tense, “You’re pretty quiet.”
“Yeah, spacing out, I guess. Where are we going now?”
“I’m taking you home.”
I guess I was wrong. Apparently, he is that offended. My disappointment is palpable, so much so that I shift my gaze out my window and decide to stay there for the rest of the ride instead of looking at him. I should’ve just gone out with Barrett, Katie, and Emma tonight. What a waste.
Colson’s voice cuts the silence, “To my home,” he clarifies, “but I’ll take you back to campus to get your car first.”
“OK,” I draw in a shaky breath while his hand slides up and down between my thighs, “you should take King Avenue instead of Cannon because it’s blocked at night for construction.”
Colson cracks a smile, “You know what I like about you, Brett?” he asks as his hand brushes over the most sensitive part of me, “This laser focus you have. I don’t know where you get it. My hand is between your legs right now and you’re over here telling me about road closures.”
He’s not wrong. I can’t help it, it’s just how I am.
“Meantime,” Colson continues, “all I can think about is how you would look bent over my hood while I fuck that tight little pussy of yours.”
My eyes fly open and I clench my jaw in surprise.
Colson doesn’t take his eyes off the road, “I don’t know how tight your pussy is,” he shrugs, “I’m just making an educated guess. But it’s distracting.”
He slowly drags his fingers over my leggings, feeling every one of my contours. Soon, his movements follow the rise and fall of my breathing, which becomes more labored by the second.
“I didn’t think I’d get another chance after I was such a dick to you at Cade and Anderson’s,” he casts me a sideways glance, “I thought it’d be fun—string you along for a couple hours, really get you going, it would’ve been so fucking hot.”
I do a double-take.
Is he telling me how he was trying to manipulate me?
Yes, he definitely is. And he’s doing it with his hand between my legs.
“What?” I hiss, “Why would you do that?” But my attempt at confrontation sounds more like the whining of a petulant child than anything else.
“Yeah, you got really mad, really quick,” he snickers.
Is he seriously trying to have a whole conversation about this right now, confessing his transgressions toward me?
Yes, he is. And maybe you even like it.
“But then I realized that you have self-respect and aren’t going to take any of my selfish bullshit, which told me something else.”
“Like what?” I mumble between breaths.
“You have confidence,” he says as the corner of his mouth curls, “so, I bet you fuck like a filthy slut.”
My chest caves and his words render me utterly speechless.
He’s still doing it. He’s trying to manipulate you now.
“Am I wrong?” Colson asks with a hint of amusement.
“What?” Now I’ve lost my train of thought.
Is he wrong? Maybe he should ask Trey Schneider, who wanted to know how many times I came after aimlessly pounding me for five minutes in his bedroom at the Sig house right before winter break. After that, I decided to be more selective—and make sure my birth control prescription was up to date.
So, do I fuck like a filthy slut? Maybe, just not with Trey Schneider.
Colson’s hand wanders under the hem of my t-shirt, running back and forth at the edge of my leggings. He’s slow and deliberate, until finally he dips his fingers beneath my waistband and pushes them beneath my black thong. My muscles go rigid and my lungs fill with air at the sensation of his hand on my skin. He reaches further, sliding his fingers over my pussy and coating them in the thick heat already pooling there.
“Oh,” Colson breathes, “Brett’s been keeping secrets.”
He teases my entrance as his fingers glide back up to my clit, rubbing slow, hard circles around it with his newly acquired lubrication. I’m too slow to stifle the split-second moan that escapes my throat.
At that, Colson glances at his hand buried in my leggings and then gives a nod to my lap, “Does she want some attention, too?” I sink into the seat with a gasp as he feels for the wettest part and slips one finger inside me, and then another.
He gapes while he explores, his mouth curling into a ravenous grin, “Shit,” he mutters, “you’re tighter than I thought.” He tries to slide a third finger inside me, eliciting a high-pitched moan, “Fuck, baby,” he smiles, “my dick might split you in two.”
I cock one eyebrow, “You fucking wish.” As hard as I try to sound scornful at his arrogance, it only comes out as desperate.
“Brett Sorensen,” Colson grins at the highway, “sweet as honey but stings like a bee…don’t worry, you’ll be good and ready by the time we get back.” He slides his fingers out and focuses on my clit, moving in rapid circles that nearly make me fold in on myself, “Do you like games, Brett?”
“What games?” I stammer as my hips grind against his hand, wishing he would just finish me.
“I ask you a question, you answer it, but if you don’t,” he stills his hand and lets the pleasure dissipate, “I stop.”
“What about you?” my voice cracks with indignance, “Why do you get to ask all the questions?”
“You can play, too. Ask anything you want.” Colson gazes at the dark highway before us, “So, tell me, Honeybee,” I nearly melt into the floorboards when he utters this new nickname, “who was the last man to make you come?”
I notice he doesn’t ask who was the last man I had sex with…
“What man?” I breathe, staring straight ahead.
He straightens up, “Woman?” he chirps with intrigue.
I’m instantly reminded that Colson is still a 21-year-old guy.
“No,” I say flatly.
“No one?” he turns to me, taken aback, “Ever?”
