Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 49
I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, “Just do it.”
The corner of his mouth curls, “Do what?” he asks, mocking my evasiveness.
My other hand fidgets uncontrollably and I start running it up and down my torso, as though it’s him who’s touching me, “Just…” My fingertips brush the underside of my breast and when I take a deep breath, the words tumble out in a pained whisper, “just fuck me with your knife.”
I am absolutely certifiable. Game over.
“Thought you’d never ask,” Colson shifts his stance and slides the handle down, notching it in my entrance, “you know I’ll do anything to make my girl happy.”
He gently slides the hard rubber handle halfway inside me and I draw in a long breath, digging my nails into his arm.
“Breathe, baby. Eyes on me,” he murmurs, his gemstone eyes boring into mine, “you’re going to take all of it.”
I’m so entranced, so ensnared by him that I barely realize I’m nodding my head. He slides the handle further in, making my eyes roll and my breath seize, until I feel the warmth of his fist against my skin. He presses his knuckles against me, moving the knife back and forth against the front of my wall. A moment later, I feel his thumb slide up over my clit, sending a rush of warmth through my entire body.
“You’re such a good fucking girl,” he drawls, “you look incredible, taking my knife just as good as my dick.”
I could melt into the goddamn veneer right now.
My eyes flutter and I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, “Your dick’s bigger…” Now I’m just saying nonsense—pure, unrestrained, self-indulgent nonsense.
“You would know,” he looks down at me with a salacious grin. “Do you still want me to leave? You still want me locked up?”
“No,” I shake my head, whimpering through airy moans as he pumps the handle against my wall, “I don’t…”
Colson stills his hand and, keeping his eyes on the knife, slowly lowers my leg back onto the edge of the desk.
He plants his palm on the desk at my chest, “You’re gripping my knife pretty tight. You’re either really scared or you really love it.” He starts circling his thumb over my clit, making me tremble. “You have to give it back eventually, but I promise I’ll let you play with it again.”
I run my hand up his forearm, squeezing my eyes shut, “Why do I let you do this?” I mumble.
“Brett, stop torturing yourself, that’s my job.” He shoots me a dismissive look, “The only person who can ever break through your iron goddamn will is me. And that fact makes me so. Fucking. Hard.” He thrusts the handle into my pussy with each word, so deep I feel his knuckle dip inside me.
Iron will or unmitigated denial—what’s the difference?
Colson gives a nod, “Hands above your head.” When I hesitate, he tightens his jaw, “Now.”
With shaky arms, I comply, silently admonishing myself for the fuzzy feeling I get in the pit of my stomach whenever Colson’s eyes go dark and his voice sounds like the ominous rumble of thunder before the sky opens up.
You need Jesus, Sorensen. Scratch that—a therapist and Jesus.
I lay my hands across the pile of curls tied at the crown of my head. Colson moves over my body like a leopard about to devour its prey, slowly reaching over my head and wrapping his fingers around my wrists, pinning them to the desk.
He tilts his head, gazing down at me like he’s about to eat me alive, “For the next 60 seconds, you need to step outside whatever bullshit you have going on in your head and give in to what you’ve been wishing for since the first moment you saw me downstairs,” he twitches the knife in my pussy, making me flinch, “because this is your new normal, Brett Ashley, with curves like the hull of a racing yacht. It’s me, every day, making your life a paradise or a living hell. But it ends the same way,” his hand starts moving again, and with it, the knife slides deeper inside me, “with you coming all over whatever I decide to fuck you with that particular day.”
The severity of his voice sends a rush through my chest and, I swear, he feels me gush all over his goddamn knife. I draw in a deep breath and gaze back at him, my hips itching to move with his hand if it weren’t for the razor-sharp blade suspended between my legs. I hold my breath, calming my muscles before finally giving a quick nod. And with it, I exhale my apprehension and descend into Colson’s world, if only for a minute.
Pressing my wrists into the wood, he sweeps his tongue over mine in a deep kiss that makes me fight his grip even more. I let my hips open wider as he pumps the knife harder and faster, making my eyes roll as he works my clit.
“This is why you’re still my best girl…” he wrecks me all over again every time he opens his mouth, “my filthy slut, my one and only drug of choice, my obsession who lets her nightmare fuck her however he wants...”
I shudder against his excruciating touch, going out of my mind, “I wish you never left...” I whisper.
I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s insane. And I don’t want to acknowledge any shred of truth behind it.
“Then when are you going to let me take you home to my bed, where you belong? Or maybe you just want me to drag you there, kicking and screaming, so no one has to know how much of a sick little slut you are for me.”
His words push me over the edge. My muscles seize and my jaw drops as I suck in breaths like I’m drowning. He pulses the knife handle quicker and deeper as he vibrates his thumb over my clit. My fingers claw the air for his hand, clamped tight around my wrists, as the orgasm tears through me. I snap my mouth shut, a dull, squeaky hum escaping my throat. My heels press into the back of his knees as I arch my back, trying in vain to keep my lower body still while my breaths turn to chaotic staccato gasps.
When it’s over, Colson leans down and parts my lips with his tongue, still holding the knife handle inside me while I contract around it.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “it’ll be my dick deep inside you while I fuck you within an inch of your life. And when you tell me I’m you’re only, this time you’ll fucking mean it.”
Colson pulls the handle out so fast that I wince with a yelp. Straightening up, he releases my wrists and gazes down at my trembling body, punctuated with convulsions every few seconds. He looks down at the handle, slick with opaque streaks, and lifts it to his mouth. Dragging his tongue from the hilt to the pommel, he sucks it clean and then reaches behind his back to replace the knife in his belt.
My eyes round when I notice the ribbons of blood trickling down his finger and dripping onto the carpet. He glances down at his hand and flips it over to reveal a series of nicks and cuts along his pinky and ring fingers. Once he pulls me upright, I reach for his wrist to survey the blood seeping from his marred skin. I glance up at him and pause for a moment, initiating another silent conversation spoken with lingering stares and glimmers of the eye.
He watches in silence as I bring his hand to my mouth and lick the garnet trails up his hand to their wounds, each pass across his palm leaving a sweet metallic tinge on my palate.
“Taste good?” he murmurs, not breaking eye contact.
I only offer a smile as I open the desk drawer to retrieve a white plastic box. Colson presses his mouth together with a smile and watches intently as I start ripping open Band-Aids from the first aid kit. When I’m done, I let go of his hand to return the box to the drawer. But before I can, I feel his hands on my neck.
He turns my head and presses my lips to his. I drop the box, melting into him until I’m forced to climb out of the nicely wrapped box in my head. When Colson pulls away, his eyes have gone dark again, but not in the same way they do when he speaks to me. Somehow, they look even more sinister, which I didn’t think was possible.
“Listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once,” his tone is even and measured, but no less threatening, “if he leaves one more mark on you, I’m not waiting, I’m coming for him.”
I stare back at Colson, my mouth ajar, speechless. His eyes remain locked with mine as he steps away, and they don’t leave mine until he turns to leave my office.
Leave it to Colson to end every single interaction on an ominous note.
Even after he’s gone, I remain on the edge of the desk, staring at the spot of blood on the carpet. I don’t know how long I stay like that, motionless, my mind blank but simultaneously bursting at the seams.
It feels like I’ve woken up from a coma, and I’m about to step into a hurricane.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Brett
One Year Ago
It’s Euphoria night with Barrett, and I should be totally engrossed in Jacob Elordi on my TV and his high stakes high school drama filled with drugs and debauchery, but I’m hardly paying attention.
All I can focus on is Bowen. He’s been sitting outside on the deck in one of the Adirondak chairs for over an hour. And for that entire hour, he’s had a cigarette hanging from his lips or pinched between his fingers. Every few seconds, he blows a puff of smoke into the air, gazing off into the horizon above the treetops. I’ve never seen him smoke anything until now, and all I can think about is when I was standing on the porch of the country club with Hildy after the wedding last fall and she told me about how Bowen used to smoke like a chimney.
“Now, if he has a problem, he just chain smokes for an hour, figures it out, and then he’s fine.”
I glance at Barrett, nestled in the corner of the sofa, alternating between watching in shock as Maddy runs on stage during the school play to scratch Cassie’s eyes out and staring at her phone. I don’t think she notices Bowen out on the deck, burning his way through a pack of Marlboro Lights that I’ve never seen until tonight. He seemed fine when he came home with Thai for all of us, didn’t he? Now I can’t remember because I was so distracted with a million thoughts running through my head.
God, I don’t even know what I did for the last couple hours of work…
I adjust my position on the sofa, tucking my leg under me. And when I lean back, the dull ache of the bruises on my hip reminds me of what Colson said before he sauntered out of my office. I silently groan to myself, cringing that I even let him see them at all.
The look on his face…
I glance out the sliding glass door again. Now Bowen’s standing at the railing, leaning on his elbows, blowing smoke into the air. Waylon lays sprawled out on the slats, getting up once to take a drink from the metal bowl by the door before returning to his spot, but not before stopping next to Bowen for an ear scratch. His cigarette is almost spent, he’ll need a new one soon.
Need a new one...
I don’t know what that’s like because I think cigarettes are disgusting. But maybe I shouldn’t talk, because I have a different addiction I don’t want to acknowledge.
The welts on my hip and shoulder are gone, but I can still hear and feel the sickening, wet pops against my skin. My muscles tense and I begin to tremble at the memory all over again. Then I hear the earsplitting crack of Bowen’s gun when he shot it into the woods while I was tied to his truck, unable to move. And later, even more shots when he emptied the clip into the trees while I tumbled off the back of his truck into the dirt.
Great, more adrenaline-fueled flashbacks to deal with.
This memory is starting to take the place of more distant ones, because even though Colson shoved his gun halfway down my throat three years ago, he never pulled the trigger. Is that how I judge people now, whether or not they pull the trigger? As if anyone else in my life has ever had a gun drawn on them. Twice. By their romantic partners.
That is so wrong. I shouldn’t look out the window and get the same feeling from Bowen that I did after Colson’s brain freaked out in the middle of a PTSD episode. Why did Bowen do something so idiotic, especially when he’s the first person to whom I disclosed what happened with Colson?
And now I have Colson’s voice stuck in my head, along with the look on his face when I told him where the bruises came from. But that could also just be Colson getting into my head and trying to freak me out again.
Because he’s a manipulative prick.
Now I’m more on edge than ever, like I’m just waiting for something terrible to happen.
“Come on!” Barrett’s groans are a welcome distraction from across the sofa.
I can’t concentrate on this show anyway. When I look over, she’s swiping her screen furiously, jamming her thumb into the glass.
“You can’t have more phone problems than I do,” I declare, reaching for my water bottle.
She groans in frustration, “I finally got a Ring cam yesterday, but it’s not connecting to the app, so I can’t even see my front porch!” She shoots me an irritated scowl, “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”
The glass door slides open and Bowen walks inside, Waylon trailing behind. He looks like he always does, laid back but constantly moving. He can’t stand to sit still. But he looks much calmer than I’d anticipate after spending the last hour chain smoking outside. Then again, maybe that’s why he looks so calm. He makes his way to the kitchen and starts refilling a water glass at the fridge.
I twist around, resting my elbow on the back of the couch, “Bo?” I gently call to him.
He doesn’t look up from the water dispenser, but a smile slowly creeps across his face, “Yeah, baby girl?” I’ve started doing it to mess with him, because it seems like I’m the only one who doesn’t call him by that name.
“Barrett needs your help.” I turn back to her, “Ask him about it, he’s had one for a while.”
Bowen finishes filling his glass and takes a few gulps, waiting for Barrett to speak. She catapults herself up from the sofa and marches into the kitchen.
Leaning on the granite countertop next to Bowen, she holds her phone out so he can see, “I’ve tried resetting everything, but it still looks like it’s not even connected.”
Bowen stares at Barrett’s screen and then shoots her a sideways glance.
“What?” she exclaims.
Bowen presses his mouth together and motions for her to come closer. When she does, he drapes his arm around her shoulders and leans into her ear, “Are the robots beating you?”
“Shut up!” Barrett shrieks, whipping around and smacking him in the arm. Bowen flinches, snickering as she groans in exasperation, “Can you help me or not?”
Bowen motions for her to hand over the phone. She immediately drops it in his hand with a huff and then shoots him her own suspicious glance, “When did you start smoking, Bowen?” she asks in an accusatory tone.
Bowen glances up with a smirk, “I like to smoke a whole pack once a year to celebrate quitting,” he winks at her and lowers his eyes again.
“As long as you’re not starting again,” she shoots him a warning look as she turns to head back to the living room, “if you die from lung cancer, who’s going to fix my technology issues?”
Bowen leans back against the range and starts tapping away at Barrett’s screen, “In that case, I promise I won’t.”
“Oh!” she cries, drawing Bowen’s attention again, “speaking of issues, do you know anything about wall outlets?”
“Like what?”
“Like I plugged in my coffee maker, a flame shot out of it, and now it doesn’t work,” Barrett stares at Bowen expectantly.
After a few moments he shakes his head disapprovingly, “The robots are winning, Barrett.”
“I know, OK? It’s like everything’s happening at once. If my fridge stops working tomorrow, I’m just going to bed for the rest of the summer.”
Bowen lets out a chuckle, “You probably just need a new outlet. When will you be home?”
“I get up at 6:30, leave for work by 7:30,” Barrett runs through her schedule, “I don’t get home ‘til around five…” then she shakes her head dismissively, “I can just tell you where my key is if you’re free before I get home.”
“Here,” Bowen hands her the phone, “text me your address.”
Barrett takes her phone and shoots off a quick text before handing it back to him to finish trouble-shooting her doorbell camera. I’m still not paying attention to the show, I keep staring out the window at the sky, the pink clouds set on fire by the sunset. And clearly Barrett isn’t either, because as soon as she sits down, she begins telling me the story of her outlet sparking and scaring the hell out of her.
And I’m glad she does, because it’s a welcome distraction and she’s so tuned up about it that she doesn’t notice what a basket case I’m being. I can’t imagine what she’d say if she knew what was really on my mind.
A few minutes later, Bowen walks behind the sofa and drops Barrett’s phone into her lap, “It works now. You didn’t turn on your location permissions, so your geofencing wasn’t working. It thought you were still home.”
“Yesss…” Barrett hisses with relief, “Great, now if you come by tomorrow, I can have coffee and security,” she flashes a smile, “Thanks, Bowen.”
“Anytime,” he chuckles as she busies herself with checking her app again.
He continues around the back of the sofa, stopping to lean over my shoulder. He reaches around and curls his hand over the front of my throat, tilting my head back to look at him, “Can I kiss you,” he murmurs, hovering over my face, “or do I have to shower and brush my teeth first?”
I grab the back of Bowen’s head and press his lips into mine. He eagerly opens his mouth the second that he feels my tongue slide between his lips. And I love kissing him so much, I don’t even mind the bitter, acidic taste on his tongue. It’ll be gone soon, anyway.
Bowen moves his head to the side and leans into my ear, “I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight, baby girl,” he whispers with a grin, “I told Jay what you’re like. Now he wants to see it.”
My jaw drops and my eyes dart over my shoulder to Bowen. Before I can say anything, he stands up and saunters backward toward the hallway. Then he waggles his eyebrows before turning around and disappearing into the darkness. I turn back to the TV with an eyeroll. For once, I hope Bowen’s messing with me. Because, if that’s true, I can never look Jay in the eyes again. I cringe and laugh to myself. That can’t be real—for so many reasons.
