Page 83 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
With shaking hands, I unzip his hoodie and splay my fingers on his chest, teasing his scars and then rubbing my thumbs over his nipples. He groans for me again, clasping his hands over mine and encouraging me to touch all of him, to trace every scar, to understand every imperfection.
Even this, what we’re doing together, it feels like a dance. Callum works his body for me, rubbing against me, making his muscles ripple as he thrusts and rubs me in all the right places with the hardness beneath his sweats.
“Touch all of me, Bernie. All of me. It’s yours. You can have it.” He drops his mouth to my neck, kissing all the sore places that Vic and Aaron left. My fingers can’t seem to stop touching the pretty gold strands of his hair, massaging his scalp, finding the scars on his throat. It’s why he has this voice, this darkly beautiful twist of menace that matches the creeping in his spirit.
Cal rolls us over, so that I’m on top, sliding his palms up my waist. I take the sports bra off for him because, let’s be honest, it’s like wrestling two boulders to get these tits free. One of the disadvantages of having large breasts. Frankly though, I feel like the benefits are more than worth it, especially when Callum’s eyes light up and he cups the pair of them in his hands.
“I want to see you move for me,” he tells me, and my stomach muscles clench in anticipation. I can feel him hard beneath me, his cock straining for what’s just tantalizingly out of reach. Reaching my hands up and into my hair, I start to ride him, rocking my hips in time with the music while he looks up at me. This time, I’m the one doing the performing, a show meant only for this man. “Look at you,” he whispers, voice strained. “You didn’t need lessons at all, did you? You move like you were made to do this.”
I grind harder, move faster, dropping my palms down to his chest, digging my nails into those silver scars. He better not ever tell me the names of the boys who did this to him because I will kill them. He says he took enough from them to be satisfied, but I’m not. I want to turn them into dust beneath my feet.
“Oh, Bernie,” Callum groans, and the sound is the most perfect of all nightmares. Whenever I close my eyes, I’ll be able to hear it. It’s etched into my brain. Harder, faster, more. I move my hips until Cal’s crying out beneath me, his hands locking on my hips as he comes in his sweatpants, his pelvis thrusting up to meet mine.
Panting, I look down at him as he grins up at me.
“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, but there’s no sorry at all. It was hot as shit. Anytime I can get a boy to ruin his pants for me, it’s a win. Just … so long as he isn’t finished …Callum ParkI am not done with Bernadette Blackbird, just because I come.
Instead, I roll us over so that I’m on top. She reaches up to cup my cheek, and I press my face into her skin.
“I am your monster,” I tell her, and I mean that with every syllable. “Command me as you choose.” I drop my mouth to hers, tasting her pain and loving it. I meant it when I told her that pain is pretty to those who have too much of it. It must be; it has to be. It’s a defense mechanism for the soul. Bernadette Blackbird is swimming in pain; it’s that grief and melancholy that makes the ties that bind us.
“Fuck me,” she groans, and she’s damn lucky because we’re young and I’m desperate for her, and I haven’t had sex in almost six months. I’m ready for this. My body seems to move of its own accord, like it often does, like it knows better than I do what’s to come next. Works the same way with dance or violence; I just go. My muscles and my blood and my bones, they know better than my brain it seems.
“Yes, mistress,” I murmur, my body coming alive at her command. As quickly as I can, I strip off my pants and my hoodie, yanking her own leggings off and chucking them aside like they’ve pissed me off. My hands worship her soft flesh, my lips her lush mouth, my cock her sweet pussy. She caresses me with her body, legs wrapped around me, hands in my hair. After this, I know for certain that no other woman will ever be allowed to touch me.
Bernadette has just inserted herself into the eyes of a monster, and there’s no escaping after this. If she were to run from me, I would follow at a distance and watch over her. It’s the only way I know how to behave anymore, the only thing I understand. I’m confident that I was born a little bit broken, and then twisted into what I am now by the world.
