Page 95 of Mayhem At Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 3)
I slip my top off next, putting the black Harley tank top aside. Another gift from Victor. All I've got on now is the very first black lace bra that he got me. Oscar seems to recognize it, but says nothing, makes no move to touch me. I reach back and unhook my bra, letting it fall down my arms and drop to the floor.
“Bernadette, you have huge fucking tits. You must be kidding me? You were intended to read between the lines.”
I know he likes my breasts, maybe more so than any of the other guys. Yet, he makes no move to touch them. My skin prickles with need, but I'm not about to throw myself at him like a cat in heat. This is a careful dance between two hard-as-nails personalities; it was never going to be easy.
But nothing worth having ever is, am I right?
Sitting down on the edge of Oscar's bed, I get a strange feeling in my belly and do my best not to smile. Sure, my life hasn't been what it might've or should've been, but that doesn't mean being in the bedroom of a boy I've been crushing on for a decade doesn't affect me.
When Oscar isn't at Aaron's, he lays his head here. Since he was thirteen years old, he's been laying his head here. His energy is stamped all over this room; I feel like I'm drowning in it. I hear when you first go under, it's a struggle, then the water rushes your lungs and it's nothing but pain. After that … quiet bliss and an easy slip into the next world.
Yep.
Oscar Montauk is like drowning.
I take my boots and socks off, not bothering to hurry. There is no rushing this. My eyes lift up to find Oscar's, but he hasn't moved; his expression hasn't changed. He's stoic and quiet and dark as the night sky without stars.
Unbuttoning my leather pants (a different pair since Vic ruined my favorite), I slip them down my hips and reveal the fact that I was never wearing panties at all. Underwear lines and all that.
Now that I'm nude, I feel completely vulnerable in front of this man, the same way I did on Aaron's couch that night. The way Oscar's staring at me doesn't change, but I get the impression that he's close to breaking and revealing something important to me.
I climb onto the bed and turn around, perching on my knees.
“Hands behind your back,” he tells me, his words stitched with darkness and lust and endless, rolling desire. “Wrists together.”
Holy shit.
As much as I know I can trust the boys, this is a whole new level. Sex has been leveled at me as a weapon my entire life. My sister died because of sex. Sometimes it's hard to separate the hatred I have for my perpetrators and my feelings about the act itself. Letting Oscar tie me up puts this on a whole new level; it leaves me nearly helpless and trapped in his bedroom.
With a long exhale, I do as he's asked.
Oscar's long fingers tickle my skin in a pleasant way as he applies the rope, twisting and weaving it around my arms with just enough pressure that I find it comforting, like he's holding me in his arms. My body begins to shake as he puts his mouth up against my ear.
“Do you know what shibari is?” he asks me, nipping the shell of my ear and making me gasp in surprise.
“Tying someone up with ropes …” I hazard, which I'm sure isn't the correct answer at all. Just had to get a bit of snippiness in there before things take a carnal turn.
“Wrong.” Oscar yanks on the ropes holding my arms together, and I cry out. I'm glad we're outside of the main house, so Rebecca can't hear us. “In shibari, there needs to be an emotional connection between the person tying the ropes, and the one being tied up. If there isn't, then it's simply Western bondage.” He scowls and puts his head up against the side of mine. My eyes close against the touch as my heart pounds.
Oscar steps aside, moving around to look at me from the front. When I try to adjust my arms, they won't move, but they also don't hurt either. The ropes aren't too tight; they feel more like a long-lasting caress than some sort of BDSM punishment. I look up at him in his suit and evergreen tie, gray eyes focused on my face in just such a way that I have to resist the urge to squirm.
Bernadette Blackbird does not fucking squirm. Gross.
“You're not going to like me after this,” Oscar says, reaching out an inked hand and cupping the side of my face. His fingers and hands rank up there with the most beautiful things I've ever seen. His fingers are long and wicked, the hands of an idle devil, and his tattoos look to be poured from the inkwell of a mad god. When he touches me, his hand is surprisingly warm. “But I can't help myself. Despite what you might think, I do not have Victor's control.”
