Dark Savior: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (6 page)

I freeze mid-motion as I take in the beautiful sight of her lying there, on my mother's couch, hugging the same blanket that she and I have used for comfort so many times. This is the first time that blanket is protecting an alluring girl like her.

I carefully close the door, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake her up, and I quietly place the big paper bags with food and groceries I bought on the kitchen counter.

My eyes never leave her for one second. It's not like I haven't seen tits before, quite the contrary, as I've probably seen and touched more than most men my age, but hers are extraordinarily tempting. They're firm and bigger than expected, but not overly so. With the way she's lying right now, they're squeezed in between her arms, which probably makes them appear a little larger than they really are. One of her slim legs is peeking out from beneath the blanket, half hanging over the edge of the sofa, as is one of her arms. Her hair is damp and long enough to hug her entire upper body in a sea of ash blond strands. There's something angelic about her, lying there in that pose, her appearance, everything.

So fucking innocent.

I approach her and get down on my knees next to the couch, withstanding the urge to touch her skin. My cock twitches at the thought of burying myself deeply between her legs.

Fuck. I should have done something about this, instead of returning to her with blue balls.

The moment I touch the blanket with the intention of covering her up, she flinches and opens her eyes.

I freeze, my hands hovering above her, as she sleepily turns her head up to me and looks straight into my eyes. Her mouth is partly opened and her eyes are fogged with confusion.

"Cover yourself," I say, my hands retreating.

She blinks twice, still processing where she is and what's happening.

"Huh?"

"The blanket," I explain. "There's hardly anything protecting your sweet little body from me."

She blushes at my words, but doesn't move.

"You better fix that," I add. "Or so help me God..."

She looks at me with that same drowsy disorientation as before. Instead of wrapping the blanket around herself, she struggles to sit up, not minding the fact that both the towel and the blanket come loose and her upper body is now completely exposed, except for the wild hair that is falling down her shoulders and partly covering her.

"Or so God help you... what?" she asks, fixating on my eyes with a sudden clarity.

She raises her chin defiantly.

"You don't want to find out," I say, narrowing my eyes.

She reciprocates my gaze for a few moments, her chest heaving with deep breaths. Her cheeks are still flushed, and the way she looks at me almost suggests the same craving that’s torturing me. Usually, I'm pretty good at reading a woman's face. I wasn't lying when I told her that they come to me. I know I can have most of them. I still work my ass off every damn day to maintain the kind of body that gets you laid, and I can see that this is not lost on her.

But she's not in a place that doesn't allow for such thoughts. She grasps the blanket and covers herself up then, lowering her eyes in defeat.

"I have no clothes," she whispers without looking at me. "And I'm hungry."

"I brought food," I announce, gesturing over to the kitchen counter.

She lazily turns her head toward the kitchen, following my gesture.

"Help yourself," I say, getting back up on my feet. "I'll see what I can do about finding something that shields you from my prying eyes."

She casts me a quick look that could mean anything from worry to anger. "Thank you."

I turn around and head for my room. I'm sure as hell not giving her anything from the dresser in the other bedroom. Things are weird enough already.

I turn around to check the living room, before I produce the small key from my pocket to unlock the door. She's not following me, and that is all I needed to know.

My room hasn't changed one bit since I moved out seven years ago. Returning to it always feels like a bit of travel back in time. Even the smell hasn't changed. Although I haven’t lived here for quite a while, the room still serves a purpose for me, a secret purpose that no one – her especially – can know of.

I don't dwell on these thoughts and head straight for the closet and rummage through the belongings of my teenage self. A black hoodie shirt, some basketball shorts and socks will have to do for now. I'm sure she's not going to complain. A twisted part of me can't wait to see her dressed in my clothes.

When I return to the living room, I see her standing in the kitchen area, assessing the groceries I brought. I'm not much of a cook myself, so I just bought the ingredients for the only things I make for myself on regular basis.

"Sandwiches," she concludes, scanning the food she's laid out in front of her.

"Not good enough for the little missus?" I ask, throwing the clothes I brought for her onto one of the bar stools at the counter.

She hastily shakes her head. “It’s all good, thank you.”

She hugs the towel around her body and walks over to the clothes to assess them. The look on her face speaks volumes.

“Yours?” she asks.

I nod. “I didn’t steal them from some random street kid.”

She shakes her head again. “No, of course, I wasn’t—”

“Go change,” I bark at her.

She clutches the clothes against her chest and looks up at me through wide eyes. “Here?”

For God’s sake. She’s been alone in here for hours, she knows that there’s another room that’s unlocked. Or the bathroom. Why is she asking me this like a little girl?

“If you want to,” I tell her, walking past her to the kitchen counter. “I certainly won’t mind laying my eyes on that body of yours again.”

Of course, she blushes. I know she’s not immune to my obvious attraction. She might be troubled and messed up, but she’s still a woman. She doesn’t cast me another glance when she scurries toward the hallway, disappearing inside the bathroom.

When she returns dressed, we eat in awkward silence. She's sitting across from me on one of the barstools and inhales the sandwich I made for her in a desperate hurry, as if she hasn't eaten in days. Maybe she hasn't.

I am leaning up against the counter, preparing another sandwich for her before I finish my own. I have never cared for anyone like this before, and it gives me an odd sense of satisfaction to see her face light up when I place another sandwich on the plate in front of her.

"Thank you," she says, casting me a shy smile, before she grabs it with both hands and takes a shameless first bite like a starving child.

She slows down after the second bite, washing it down with some lemonade I brought along, while I watch her with a different kind of hunger growing inside of me. I never knew a hoodies sweater could look this sexy on anybody. Her tiny wrists appear even smaller now that they're peeking out from the way too long sleeves as she brings the drink up to her mouth. As I finish the last bite of my sandwich, I can't help but imagine myself lifting her up, knowing that her bare skin is rubbing against the fabric of my clothes, as she wraps her legs around my waist and presses herself against my upper body. My cock swells at the thought of it, and I'm glad that she's not able to see its steely hardness bulging from the front of my pants from where she's sitting.

"Better?" I ask, after she sets down the drink and visibly tries to suppress a burp.

She nods. "Yes, thank you. I was quite hungry."

"I noticed," I say. "When was the last time you ate?"

She tilts her head to the side, placing her elbows on top of the counter as she rests her head in her hands.

"I don't know," she says. "A proper meal? That must've been a while. Eating wasn't really a top priority lately."

I walk around the counter and stand next to her, slowly pushing her plate to the side, so I can place my elbow on the counter top, towering above her as I fixate her with my eyes.

She looks up at me with the same kind of fear I've seen in so many eyes before, but she's not backing away. Her slim and naked legs are dangling from the bar chair in a childlike manner, but they freeze the moment I put my eyes on them. She's tense, radiating an equal combination of anticipation and fear.

"What was a priority?" I want to know.

She shrugs, without losing eye contact with me.

"Getting things done," she says. "Wrapping up my life, you could say."

"Was getting laid one last time among those things you had to wrap up?" I ask.

She furrows her eyebrows. "Is that all you can think about?"

"No," I say. "But it's the most pleasant thing I can think about."

She looks up at me, question and wonder written all over her pretty face.

I know it's wrong, but I can't help the desire that continues building inside of me. I want to be inside of her, to claim her, to possess her — and a sick part of me even thinks that this could actually help her, that me fucking her could help to get rid of the evil inside her head that caused her to go up to that remote bridge in the first place to end her life.

"You’re fucked up," she says, the words dragging from her mouth as if she’s scared to say them.

"So are you," I retort, raising my hand to sweep aside a long strand of hair covering the side of her face. “What else would bring a girl like you to consider such a stupid thing?”

She flinches at my touch, but sighs audibly once she gets accustomed to it, and before I know it, she's lifting her own hand to touch mine, resting her cheek against the palm of my hand and closing her eyes.

“A girl like me,” she whispers. “You don’t know me at all, Kade.”

My pulse skips a beat when I hear her say my name.

“I don’t,” I agree. “But I know a troubled person when I see one.”

She nods, and pain is written all over her face as she leans against my palm, her eyes still closed.

“Please,” she whispers. “Take it away.”

Her voice is so soft and so full of longing. I almost feel bad about all the things I want to do to her. Almost.

But if she's seeking the soft and gentle comfort of a boyfriend, she's misjudged my readiness to help.

CHAPTER SIX

Meadow

I'm confused. The drowsy disorientation I feel after just waking up from a nap is nothing new to me. I've had terrible nightmares for weeks and barely gotten any sleep, so my body involuntarily shuts down in the middle of the day, forcing my eyes to fall closed and me to drift off unexpectedly. Every time, I woke up not knowing where I was, or even what day and time it was. I’ve come to appreciate those blissful moments of ignorance, the dreamy and peaceful calm that washes over me before my mind clears and I remember the details of my current situation.

But, until now, I have never woken up with anyone by my side.

A heavy arm is flopped across my naked torso, embracing me in a lazy but possessive hug. We're on the sofa, intertwined like long-term lovers, and breathing in the same rhythm.

One by one, the memories come flooding back to me. His name is Kade. He literally grabbed me from the bridge, drawing me back to safety and life with vigor instead of empathy.

His words still ring in my head.

"One last good fuck. Is there a better way to die?"

That's what he said. Then, after I denied him, he went and added something that made him the ultimate creep,
"I guess I'll just have to wait until your body washes ashore."

Was this what it was between us? The last fuck he wanted to get out of me before I die?

I don't even know how I feel about that. I should be scared, freaked out, appalled. But I feel none of these emotions.

He still seems to be fast asleep, or at least acting as if he is. His face is right next to mine, turned away from me, so I can only see the outline of his profile, his ear, the hairline framing it and the back of his head. His hair is disheveled and I'm dying to see what it looks like from the front.

I lay still, my body mostly on top of his. I’m wrapped in his one arm, while his other one is hanging over the edge of the sofa, his big hand resting on the carpet with his palm opened upward.

My cheeks blush as I remember what happened. He fucked me. Hard. He made me come before he even started, and he left me in an apathetic daze after the fourth orgasm. My pussy is sore, I can feel it even without moving. It's been so long since I've had sex — and I've never had sex like this. Raw. Violent. Impassioned. Relentless. With a man who cared about my pleasure at least as much as his own.

With every orgasm, he commanded me to look at him. His handsome face, ripped chest and the wild tattoo — those were the things I saw each time I climaxed.

Even after all of this, my body is starved for more. A hungry throbbing starts pounding inside me, and for a moment, I wonder if I should wake him up with a blow job. Because damn it, I need this. I need
him
. I need more.

It's still dark outside and the only light in the room comes from a small light shining in the kitchen area. I've no idea how long we fucked or how much time has passed since we fell asleep on the sofa, but I know that he kept his promise. He made me forget. He made me scream, beg and squirm. He made me feel alive and yearning for more. More life, more of him.

I carefully lift myself up to look at his sleeping face and remember the deal we made. Just this. Just today. It might be the only taste he was willing to give me. One last fuck....

I accidentally push him in the side with my elbow, which causes him to let out an annoyed groan. He opens his eyes and looks up at me with the same disoriented confusion that hit me.

I freeze, unsure what to do or say. We stare at one another as if we're seeing each other for the very first time. His hair is ruffled in all directions and his eyes narrow as he fixates his gaze on me. The hand he has on my back strokes along my spine once, twice, before he stops, as if it was a mistake.

We've just had sex. Crazy good sex, the best I've ever had and the most intimate, too. Why is neither one of us speaking?