Beautiful Broken (11 page)

He has me on my back in seconds, his eyes sharp with desire. I shudder—Dane, pinning me down and looking at me like that is every fantasy I've ever had.

Dane

She got off in my bed.
Thinking about me
. That knowledge circles like sharks, chasing logic and reason away—nothing else matters but her, and making her mine.

And I've been waiting so damn long. I lean over her, a hand slipping up her shirt to palm her breast. She moans, arching into my caress, her nipple tight against my hand. I want to strip her of that sweater and lick those nipples until she can't see straight—to tease her until we're both a bundle of want.

Later.

I sit up and reach for her skirt. She goes tense and still for an agonizing moment, and then she tilts her hips, silent permission. It's not enough. I sit back and stare at her. "Are you sure, Scout? You can still walk away."

She nibbles her lip and nods. "No sex?"

I can work with that. I smile, dark and promising, and reach for her skirt again. Slip my thumb into the waistband.

I felt her, a few days ago, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. The soft, smooth curve of her, perfectly bare. I peel her skirt down, leaving the scrap of silk she calls panties. Smirk up at her as I trail a light finger over her core. "You’re wet, Scout," I say softly. Her eyes are on mine, watching me—almost challenging. I lean down. She gasps as I kiss her over the thin silk barrier, her hips lifting to meet me. I slip her panties down, leaving them dangling off one ankle, and stare at her.

She has the prettiest pussy I've seen in years. And I've seen more than my fair share. "Stop staring," she whispers, tensing.

I look up, grinning, "I told you I was a perv."

"I knew that," she says lightly, then her hand grips my shoulders as I lick her slit, her volume shooting up. "Shit, Dane!" I smirk and slowly drag my tongue over her again. One thumb settles on her clit, softly rubbing as I lick at her, slow, even swipes of my tongue that have her thrusting against me, looking for that tiny bit of penetration. When I move my hand away, she almost weeps. When I shove two fingers deep into her hot pussy, she does scream, a long loud shriek as she tightens on my fingers. I lick at her, suck her clit in my mouth and thrust in and out. I wish, desperately it was my cock instead of my fingers, but she set her limit, and I have her taste all over my mouth, all over my hand, and that's enough. I suck softly on her clit and thrust harder. She sobs, moaning as she comes again, a long, slow pulsing that has me aching.

It's too much. I shift her off me and shove my jeans down. She's watching, her eyes hot and hungry even in the midst of her afterglow, taking in my cock as I wrap a hand around it.

"See something you like, Scout?" I ask, silkily. She licks her lips, and holy shit, I almost come. I pump hard and fast, and she's breathing hard, watching. Almost wary. "What?" I ask breathlessly. "What is it?"

"I want to touch you," she whispers, like a confession. I groan and nod. She slides down next to me, half naked. She reaches out, batting my hand aside as her tiny fingers wrap around me. She feels so damn good that my cock kicks in her grip, and I let my head drop back.

This isn’t happening. Or maybe it doesn't count, because it's happening here. Atticus would kill me, if he knew. But none of that matters, not right now, as she grips me and strokes me, her other hand cupping my balls, her lips parted as she watches me. When she twists her grip a little, I wrap an arm around her, trying to make it last—I'm not ready for this to end.

But she does it again, and whispers my name, like a prayer, and it's over. I groan, clutching her to me as I come, hot and spurting all over my abs and her hand. She doesn't let me go, but keeps stroking me through it as fireworks explode behind my eyes, and the orgasm goes on and on.

It's amazing. It's better than any girl I've ever had.

Scout

Watching Dane come apart in my hand—it’s intense. Addicting. All of his masks and defenses are stripped away, and there is just this. Just us, and the scent of sex and him.

I’ve done things like this before. Make out sessions that ended in dirty hand jobs on the floor or closet or the backseat of someone’s car. I was always desperate to get away, after, desperate to clear my mind of
him
and the dirty feeling that plagued me.

But this is different.

This is Dane. I reach for my discarded panties and clean him up, snuggle into his side. He's still breathing hard, but he manages to laugh, hugging me.

For a long time neither of us speak—I'm afraid it will break the perfect spell of this fragile, unbelievable day. My breathing slowly settles into a rhythm that matches his, and I try to think about something other than his confessions. I don't know how to handle them, and I'm still scared I will screw this up.

Between the two of us, we aren't terribly good at relationships.

"What now?" he asks, startling me out of my thoughts.

I sit up and reach for my skirt. "Lunch? I'm starving."

Dane's eyes narrow as I let the long flowing fabric fall, hiding me from his gaze. He stands, tucking his dick away and arranging his clothes. It should be awkward—it should make me want to bolt. But it doesn't. I want nothing more than to throw him down on the bed and strip him of those damn jeans. I want to see him naked—the half caught glimpses of him strolling from the shower growing up are no longer enough. I
need
more.

"Scout." he says, his voice commanding. I go still, and he comes up behind me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders to hold me against his chest. My ass nestles against his crotch and I can feel him, already half erect.

"What now?" he asks again, his words a breath punctuating the kiss on the nape of my neck.

I shiver and shrug. "I don't know, Dane. I don't want to screw this up—I need you as a friend far more than I want you in my bed. And that's a helluva a lot."

He inhales sharply, and I wonder if he's picturing that—us, together. Of course he is. Perv. A smile ticks my lips up, and I crane my head back. "I can't sleep with you if it's gonna screw us up. You’re my best friend."

And there it is, the simple truth. He is my best friend—he has been for years. He's also the only one who knows
everything
. Sometimes, I think if he hadn't been the one to find me, a shaking weeping mess in his dorm room, I still would have told him about the attack. Because I tell Dane everything.

"What do we tell Atticus?" I ask.

His phone trills into song from his coat pocket. He frowns at me. "For now? Nothing to tell. This is no one's business but ours."

He turns away before I have a chance to react to that. I'm surprised that it hurts as much as it does—surprised it hurts at all. What do I really expect from him, after all?

"Mel. I'm sorry. I got caught up in dealing with Scout and completely forgot we were supposed to meet today. I can be at your office in ten minutes."

Dealing with Scout
. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back, forcing myself to feel nothing. This means
nothing
. Apparently, to both of us.

There is something very wrong with having the taste of woman on your lips while talking to another about why you missed a date. I can feel Scout withdrawing, and I hate myself for saying that—she is so much more than I'm saying, but what
can
I say? It's Mel, for Christ's sake. She doesn't want to hear that I blew off lunch because I was going down on my best friend's sister.

Especially after I assured her that there was nothing going on between us.

"Look, I'm sorry," I say, cutting Mel off mid-tirade. I get why she's angry, but I'm not cool with listening to anyone bitch incessantly. "Do you want me to come over or not?"

Mel hesitates for all of two seconds. She's so disgustingly predictable—one of the things I used to be attracted too, and now it just makes me want to bang my head against the nearest wall.

"Yeah. Come on over. I've got about thirty minutes before my next meeting."

I hang up and look at Scout. "I have to deal with this, Scout."

"You don't owe me explanations, Dane," she says, her tone chilly and remote. I want to tell her she's wrong—that after the past hour, I owe her a lot more than an explanation. I want to tell her that she doesn't have to be scared. But I can't. Because I do need to deal with Mel, and because I want whatever this is between me and Scout—I want it to be done right. Not in the deserted basement of her childhood home, with the specter of my girlfriend hanging between us.

I drop Scout off at the house and head for Mel. She's furious with me—they both are. I'm okay with that. I know what to do with angry women. I have a lot of experience with them.

It doesn't make what I'm about to do any easier.

Mel's office is in a small rental home that she's converted for her use. She runs a successful temp agency, placing people in positions as far as Baton Rouge. She's good at her job, and I like that she has one—she wouldn't have been an idle housewife.

Her assistant, Lane, grins at me when I step in, pointing toward the back room. "Boss lady is waiting for you."

I like Lane—and it's rare for me to like women I don't sleep with. But she's a good girl and completely loyal to Mel. Even if I had wanted to sleep with her, I don't think she would have done it.

I walk through the hall, past a little room with a pair of girls filling out the paperwork Mel will use to get them a job, and into the large room Mel uses as her personal office.

She's chewing on a pen top as she types into her computer, two notebooks in front of her and three cups of coffee on the desk. The girl really needs to lay off the coffee and pen caps. I clear my throat, and she blinks, flushing when she sees me. Drops the pen cap like a bad habit and smoothes a hand over her skirt as she stands up. "Don't," I say. "Keep working. It looked important."

"It'll wait. What's going on with Scout?" She asks, her eyes clear and friendly—like she's not asking about the girl I just had oral sex with.

Of course, she doesn't know I did.

"Why do you put up with my shit?" I ask, and she blinks. I watch the mask fall over her face, a bright, fake smile.

"What are you talking about?" she asks.

"Don't," I tell her, exhausted. "Don't act like you don't know."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about."

My temper slips. "I'm talking about the girls—the ones at Victorie and Speakeasy—the ones I fuck in the bathroom and in my bed. The twins from two weeks ago, and the girl who sucked my dick the week before that—the ones you know damn well are there, but you never say anything about. Why do you put up with it, Mel?"

Her expression is strained. "A lady doesn't talk about that, Dane."

"A lady doesn't let her boyfriend get away with the shit I put you through. I mean, do you really think you deserve it?"

"They don't mean anything," she says, looking down finally. "If they did, it would matter. But I’m the one you’re with—so why should a gaggle of whores bother me?"

I laugh, a sharp noise that fills the space. My head is pounding. I want to shake her—shake sense into her. "Because I'm
with
you. Don't you think I'd be pissed if you were to have a one night stand?"

"I'm a lady," she snaps. "I'd never do that to you."

That stings. It's true—despite my vast amount of shitty behavior, Mel would never do to me what I've been doing to her for almost a year.

"Maybe you should have," I say, tiredly. "Maybe it would have woken me up."

"If you know what you’re doing is hurtful, why do it?" she asks.

"It's who I am," I say. It's an easy, cop-out answer—the truth is too complex and it doesn't matter. Not anymore.

"I can't do this anymore," I say softly. Mel's gaze snaps up and narrows on me. "We can't. It's not healthy—not for me or you, Mel. You have to see that."

"Why? What's changed? This has been fine for both of us for a long time—why is suddenly not enough?"

I hesitate. The truth will piss her off, but anything less than the truth won't be enough. "You deserve a guy who can give you more than I can—someone who can be faithful and who wants to meet your parents and go to the damn country club. I don’t want that life. I never really did. And I deserve to be with someone who accepts me—all of me, all my faults—for what they are. Someone who understands why I am the way I am."

"Someone like Scout," she says, without inflection.

"Yeah. Someone like Scout."

Her eyes close, and a spasm of pain crosses her face. I look away—I can't help it. It's such an intimate look, so very private, that I feel like a voyeur watching her that exposed.

"Have you slept with her?" she asks, her voice tight. I can hear tears in her voice, and I want to make it right—except there isn't a way to make it right without hurting her.

I'm seriously messed up.

"No," I say, happy I can answer this honestly.