Chapter 4

four

Flynt

I kneelin her front yard with my fingers buried in the soil. When she comes to the window and looks out at me, I beg for forgiveness with my eyes.

She snaps the curtains shut and I rasp her name like a dying animal.

Having Ayla angry with me is like having a circular saw cutting into my throat.

She’s right. What I did is unforgivable.

Her first orgasm should have been as perfect as she is. There should have been candlelight and music and just the two of us. Now she’s going to have this horrible memory for the rest of her life, all because I’m a jealous prick. I deserve to feel like this. Like I’m dying a slow, torturous death. I deserve to feel like my bones are made of razor wire.

I followed her home after school, of course.

She took the bus, thanks to her car still sitting half-finished in the garage. One more part. I need one more part to repair her brakes and it’s the hardest to find. The most expensive. I’m going to scour the county tonight and have it ready for tomorrow morning.

Maybe she’ll forgive me, then?

In order to finish the repairs, I’ll have to leave her front yard, but my body weighs a million pounds. I’m made of concrete. Sorrow presses me down into the earth—as well as shame. Because I can’t stop obsessing about how her pussy felt against my fingertips. When I was in middle school, before I ever laid eyes on Ayla, I had experiences with a few older women who came into the garage and hit on me, perhaps not realizing how young I was. None of them were anywhere near as smooth and ripe as Ayla. As wet and sweet and tight. I expected her to be perfect, I didn’t know she would blow my fucking mind.

Made for me.

I’m salivating just knowing she is inside that house.

The beast inside of me wants to rip the door off its hinges, throw her down on the ground and lick her between the legs until she accepts my apology. My muscles seethe, screaming at me to follow that instinct. But although she might forgive me while in the throes of pleasure, I think she would still be pissed at me afterward.

No, I must do better.

She’s worthy of more.

With my heart bleeding in my chest, I stumble to my feet, realizing dazedly that night has fallen since I started keeping vigil in her front yard. I get into my truck and force myself to turn the key in the ignition, telling myself I’ll be back. I’ll be back.

The farther I get from her house, the more my insides shrink in on themselves. I feel dizzy and dehydrated while driving through town on my way to the garage…

And that’s when I see it.

Parked just off the main avenue is a car nearly identical to Ayla’s mother’s Volvo. A newer model by one year, maybe two. Close enough to have the part I need. The one I’ll use to repair her prized possession and earn her forgiveness. Problem is, I’d have to steal the part.

If I don’t, it could take me weeks to track one down.

Thousands of dollars I don’t have.

No. I can’t wait. I need my Ayla back or I’m going to die from the pain of her disapproval.

With determination blazing in my gut, I go to collect my toolbox.

* * *

I’ve never bought roses in my goddamn life, but this morning I purchased every bouquet they had in the supermarket. After repairing Ayla’s car, I drive it out to her house and park it in the driveway, just like I did when she turned sixteen, only this time I couldn’t find the giant bow. Not on short notice. The roses will have to do.

I spend the hours before sunrise cutting the flowers free of their cellophane wrappers and strewing them everywhere. On top of the car, inside the car, on the pathway in front of her house, the front doorstep, in the mailbox. I’m so intent on making the scene perfect for her, I don’t realize the thorns are tearing my hands to shreds the entire time. Not until I’m finished and it’s almost time for Ayla to leave for school.

“Goddammit,” I mutter, looking down at my clothes and finding them covered in blood. “There’s no time to go home…”

The front door of the house opens. My chest seizes.

There’s Ayla. She backs out through the opening and locks the door, not seeing me right away. My dick begins to stiffen at the sight of her, even faster than usual now that I know how juicy she gets when I finger her. How she sounds moaning from pleasure. And she’s wearing my favorite skirt today, on top of everything else. That red denim one with the zipper in back that runs right between her ass cheeks. How many times have I dreamed about lowering that zipper and letting the skirt fall to the ground? Thousands? Millions?

It’s warmer than usual out today, so she is wearing a white satin tank top today with thin straps. I’ve never seen it before. It must be new. Black lace outlines her tits in a tempting triangle. And if she thinks she’s going anywhere dressed like that, she’s wrong.

My blood heats, throat going dry.

I have visions of dragging her back into the house and forcing her to change, but somehow, I manage to restrain myself.

Calm down.

You want her to forgive you, not hate you even more.

Ayla turns around at the top of her stoop and gasps, stopping short. Her hands lift to her mouth to cover it, her eyes furiously scanning the yard. I wonder what it looks like from her perspective, hundreds of roses covering her front lawn and footpath. Maybe it comes across psychotic, but that can’t be helped. That’s what I am when it comes to her.

“Flynt,” she breathes, her hands dropping away from her mouth. “What is all of this?”

“Do you like it?” I sound like I’m suffocating.

She seems too overwhelmed to answer. “That’s…my car. Did you tow it here?”

“No.” I take the keys out of my pocket and approach the stoop, holding them out to her, thankful the blood has dried on my palms, so I don’t get it all over her keys. “I drove it here. It’s fixed.”

Her eyes well with moisture. “Really?”

“Yes.”

She swipes at her cheeks. “You said it would take weeks.”

“I sped up the process,” I say gruffly, my chest on fire at the sight of her happiness.

When she finally tears her eyes off the car, she looks down at me—and much to my dismay, horror transforms her perfect features. “Flynt!” She drops her backpack and scrambles down the steps. “Y-you’re bleeding.” Her fingertips race over my upper body, searching for the source of the injury. “There’s blood everywhere.”

“It’s okay.” Having her this close to me makes me feel like I could explode. Just burst into fragments. “It’s dry now.”

“It came from your hands,” she says miserably, picking them up and examining them. “You didn’t take care with the thorns.”

“I didn’t take care with you, either.” I drop to my knees in front of Ayla, burying my face in her stomach, my arms wrapped around her legs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

After a second, her fingers slip into my hair, stroking me. “You didn’t have to mutilate yourself in order to be forgiven.”

“I’d have done way worse, if necessary,” I say, half of my words slurred, because the feel of her fingers moving in my hair is incredible. “Tell me I’ve made you happy.”

“You’ve made me happy,” she whispers.

I moan my relief into her stomach. Merciful angel. She has spared my life.

“Now come inside so I can bandage those cuts on your hands.”

I’m already shaking my head no. “I can’t go inside.”

“Why not?”

Even after yesterday, she doesn’t understand, does she? I’m out of control where she’s concerned. “I don’t trust myself not to rip off your skirt as soon as we’re through the door.”

“Oh.” Her pupils expand as she puffs that single word. “Would you feel better if I just brought the first-aid kit outside?”

All I can manage is a curt nod.

It takes all of my willpower not to grab her as she turns and disappears inside. Don’t follow her. Don’t you dare. By the time she returns, I’m shaking from the effort of remaining at the bottom of the steps. I watch through bloodshot eyes as she sets down the tin box and gestures for me to sit down beside her.

“What exactly are you going to do?” I ask, eyeing the orange bottle in her hand.

She cuts me a measuring look. “Disinfect your cuts and then—”

“But…it’s a waste of time. They’ll heal on their own.”

Ayla pauses in the act of uncapping the bottle. “Why would you think tending to you is a waste of time?”

My shoulders feel jumpy. “I’ve always healed on my own.”

For a long moment, she stares up at me in the early morning haze, trying and failing to hide her sympathy. Then she takes my wrist and tugs until I have no choice but to drop down onto the step beside her. “No one has ever bandaged you up before?”

I can’t seem to speak. My throat is too tight. I shake my head, instead.

When she takes my hand and turns it palm-side up in her lap, a shudder goes straight through me. “I wasn’t touched hardly at all. Growing up.”

Why the hell did I say that out loud? It makes me sound pathetic.

“Don’t even think of feeling bad for me, Ayla,” I say through my teeth. “I’m fine.”

“I feel bad for the little boy.” She dabs some of the disinfectant onto my palms. It stings slightly, but I’ve experienced far worse pain. For instance, having her cross with me. So I don’t wince or make a sound. “As for the man, I wonder if you…well, I wonder if the reason you get so overcome when we touch is that…you’re starved for human contact.”

My brows snap together in confusion. “But I’m not starved for contact from anyone but you. For years.”

That simple statement of fact renders her momentarily speechless. “That does sort of shoot holes in my theory.” She starts to wrap my hand in a white strip of fabric and I listen carefully so I can hear her breathe and swallow. “But the fact that you weren’t touched at all growing up might still account for it affecting you more than most.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I close my eyes and examine the sharp, constant churning inside of me. The one that is always in effect when Ayla is close. Lay her down in the grass and get her pregnant. Get your fucking sperm inside of her. I shake my head to dislodge those urgent thoughts. They have no place here when this sweet girl is fixing my wounds. Try and be less of a bastard. “Maybe you’re right,” I choke out, truthfully. “When I touch you, I do feel like the void inside of me is being filled to overflowing.” I jerk my chin at the bandage she’s winding around my fist. “You patch me up in more ways than once.”

Her eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them. “And yesterday…”

“Yesterday…” I swallow hard, shame closing in around me. “No one has even been permanent in my life. No one has ever been mine. Until you. You’re mine and I got…scared when I saw you speaking to someone who could…”

“Someone who could what?”

“Be normal for you. I’ll never be that.”

“Normal has never interested me that much.” She looks down at her lap for long moments, then shocks the hell out of me. Because when she lifts her gaze to mine again, she’s pure sex. There’s been a tear in her innocence and she’s giving me a peek to the other side. I absorb it like a greedy beggar, groaning and shifting on the steps to accommodate my swelling cock. “I don’t think I’m normal, either, anyway,” she whispers.

“Why?”

Somehow she manages to look shy in the middle of all that sultriness, leaning in to rub her lips against my ear. “Because…I liked it yesterday when you called yourself…”

I grab my dick in a vise grip to keep it from erupting. “Daddy?”

She hums in affirmation.

Holy fuck. I didn’t see this coming. Calling myself her Daddy was something I planned on apologizing for, once the bigger transgression was safely out of the way. But she liked it. Son of a bitch. It goes without saying that I loved it, that taking that role for her felt inevitable, but never in a million years did I expect her to want more of that talk. That…play.

Take her inside.

Hold her down.

Flood her fucking womb while she calls you Daddy.

My God, I can’t stand this temptation anymore. I’m drowning.

“What does it mean that I like you being called that?” She glances back toward the house, turning a little pink. “Is it because…do I have issues? Am I just a cliché?”

“As if you could ever be a cliché.”

A corner of her mouth lifts, eyes appreciative. “I call him father. We…we’re not close. He pretty much just tells me what to do. There’s no affection. Not like when my mom was around.”

“I’m sorry about your mother, Ayla. I’m not sure if I ever said it out loud.”

“Thanks,” she whispers, searching my face. “I should be saying sorry to you. I know what love feels like, because of her. I’m not sure…you ever did. They left you alone so young.”

Because they were unhappy with this life. The same life I want to inflict on Ayla.

But I can still save her, can’t I? Save her from me?

“You’re going to be late for school, baby,” I say on a shudder.

Her lips are so close to my ear. “Let’s ditch.” Need is written all over her features when she pulls back slightly and my body throbs, desperate to ease her. “Take me to the lake.” Ever so slightly, she touches the lobe of my ear with her tongue and my balls harden to stone. “No one else will be there this time of day.”

The lake.

Young people in our town go there to make out. And much, much more.

“Ayla…if I bring you there…”

“I know.”

“I’m going to fuck you every way I can bend you.”

Her breath releases in a giant rush. “I know.”

I’ve snatched her up around the waist and lifted her off the stoop before those words have faded from the air. This is my chance to put a baby in her belly. Make her mine forever. She’s asking me for it. No…now she’s wrapping her legs around my waist and kissing my neck, begging me softly with her little mewling noises. I’m royally fucked.

One last shred of decency must be left inside of me, though, because I ask, “Are you on birth control?” The part of me that is desperate for Ayla to have a bright future and everything she wants hopes the answer is yes. The beastly part wants it to be no. “The pill? Anything?”

She blinks a few times. “Uh-huh. I’m on the pill.”

I’m not sure which side of me is winning—the depraved animal or the conscientious boyfriend—but I can only nod and carry her eagerly to the car, firmly ignoring the ripple of intuition that she’s not telling me the truth. And being fucking elated by her lie.