Page 40 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
“You have no idea who you really are. You thought you did, but you were wrong,” Kali hisses in my ear.
“Tie me up,” Aaron says, and I blink down at him in surprise. There are mottled bruises on his wrists and ankles. He might not want to talk about what happened with me, but even an idiot could see that he was likely restrained. “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care.” He purses his lips together, his eyes like flinty chips in the darkness. “Do it. Handcuff me to the headboard.”
“I have to say, I’m surprised,” Oscar purrs, and when I glance back, I see that he’s sitting with an elbow on the small, round side table next to the chair, chin parked in his hand. “Sadomasochism never quite struck me as your thing, Aaron.”
I turn back to Aaron, but the expression on his face hasn’t changed.
“Are you sure about this? Your hand …” I start, but he shakes his head, resting the fingers of his left hand lightly against my hip. Even though I can’t actually see the letters of Havoc scrawled in ink across his flesh, I swear I can feel them.
“My hand will be fine; I’ve got a cast on. Just … cuff my wrists.” He looks away toward the wall, and that’s when I decide to stop arguing. Everyone manifests their trauma differently; we all have our own ways of healing.
For me, apparently, my psyche needs to go through the process of healing by seeing ghosts. The Kali creature, not at all banished by the weed as I’d hoped, skitters across the top of the wooden headboard like a rat. Jesus, this is either really good weed or really bad weed. I’m not sure how to categorize what I’m seeing.
Manifested fucking trauma.
With a groan, I push myself up and crawl over to the nightstand, retrieving two pairs of fuzzy cuffs that Hael bought for me and Victor as a wedding present. Pretty sure it was a Homer Simpson gift that he himself intended on using with me. Such an asshole. Victor is basic, and we both know it. I mean that in the best way possible, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
I take the handcuffs back to Aaron and straddle him again, feeling his body sweaty and hot beneath mine. He might not have been able to get hard for Kali, but he’s most definitely hard for me. His cock is thick and needy beneath me, and he groans when I wiggle in place.
Presumably, Oscar is still watching us, but I ignore him as I hook my no-longer-ex-boyfriend to the bed. His breathing picks up, heart thundering as I lay my palm on his sweaty chest. I don’t ask again if he’s sure. I won’t question him, and I won’t hesitate. I promised I never would again.
I scoot back and free his cock from his sweatpants, taking the hot length of him in my palm and stroking him until his hips move to meet my hand. All the while, he keeps his eyes on mine, silently suffering in the dark.
My own hand sneaks between my thighs, pushing aside the loose boxers I’m wearing to find the swollen heat of my cunt, teasing the slick readiness and coming away wet. I wish absently that it weren’t so dark in here, so I could see Aaron’s face as I torment him, slipping my fingers into my mouth and sucking them clean.
We exchange a long look, one shared by lovers in the dead of night. It says I know your body aches the way mine does; I know your heart pounds. It’s a look that can be summed up with dark chocolate, black vodka, and clove cigarettes. It’s a look that, for me, tastes like the blackest night of the year when there’s no moon, only stars across a velvet sky.
I exhale and readjust my body so that the length of him rubs against that scalding space between my thighs, the one that wants him so badly that she’s lost any hope of rational thought. Life gets that way, melodramatic and meaningful both, when you come close to losing one of your few reasons for existence. It scares you in a way that’s indescribable, a way that digs into the soul.
Aaron watches me as I lower myself onto his cock, nice and slow, savoring every second. I keep going, until he’s fully sheathed in my body. I bite my lower lip, closing my eyes for a moment as I dig the fingers of my inked left hand into my hair. Rocking my hips forward, I tear a groan from Aaron’s throat that’s only half pleasure. The rest of it is agony.
I open my eyes to look down at him, but I don’t stop the rolling of my hips, stomach muscles tightening and releasing as I work his body with my own. The way Aaron stares back at me, the way the muscles in his arms tense as he strains against the pull of the handcuffs, it all tells me one thing: he might be tied up, but I’m still not the one in charge here.
