Fragile Lives: A small-town, age-gap, brother’s best friend romance (Little Hope series Book 4)
Fragile Lives: Chapter 16

I’m so mad at him right now, I just want to deliver a few hefty punches into his too-handsome face. I hate the disdain he has for himself. I can’t stand him at this moment. I don’t know how to show him that he’s wrong.

I’m so pissed that I almost miss the moment his eyes flash when I command him to sit down. Just like the moment I told him to wait for me in the kitchen. And I almost miss how his hands drop to his sides without touching me. I decide that I can fume later, and in the meantime, I can explore this new revelation and maybe prove him wrong and invoke a few orgasms while I’m at it. Sounds like a total win to me.

“Don’t talk, Stephan.” I lean in close, calling him his real name—I noticed how his face contorted in anger when I called him Archie, the name everyone else uses. “Not until I’m done. You got it?”

He nods, and I feel another pang of excitement in the pit of my stomach.

“You can’t touch me; only I can touch you.”

Another nod.

His cock twitches under my ass, and I feel a very unfamiliar tingle of power. A very new sort of power for me, as this strong alpha man is at my mercy. Stephan is as alpha as they come. And he chooses to be this way with me.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s empowering.

I start exploring his face with my fingers, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones, and the edge of his jaw, his stubble tickling my skin. I trace his heavy eyebrows before moving onto his straight nose and ending on his lips. I push my finger inside, and he starts sucking. I feel every pull from his mouth deep in my core, and my inner muscles clench in thirst.

I pull my finger out and lick his saliva from it as he watches my every move, his pupils dilated.

My hand goes to his chest, my nails grazing his pierced nipples. I give one ring a tug, and his breath catches. I pull on it again, and his mouth falls open. I lean to give him a quick, wet, open-mouthed kiss and suddenly pull away. Right when he’s ready to dive deeper. His chest rises in a deep inhale, and I lick my lips, still tasting him on me.

“Fuckin’ witch,” he murmurs with that British accent of his, dropping his head back in anguish, and I shush him.

“I told you to be quiet.”

“You didn’t—”

“Sh-sh.” I press my finger to his lips, and he bites it.

My smile is evil as I pull on his nipple. “Be quiet, or I’ll stop doing this.”

His grin is so wide, I’m scared his face will break in two. “Yes, ma’am.”

I give him a quick nod of approval and begin trailing the dragon tattoo around his torso, exploring every scale with my tongue. The second it touches his skin, he inhales loudly, and his hands move toward my waist.

“No!” I exclaim loudly, and he drops his hands with a muffled curse.

I dig my hand into his sweats and wrap my fingers around his thick cock. It’s hard and throbbing. The head is weeping with precum. I begin stroking the sensitive skin with my fingers, and his dick jumps.

“Please,” he begs, “I can’t fuckin’ take it anymore.”

I thought I wanted him to beg, but as it turns out, I don’t. I don’t like his pleading tone, so I quickly take my pants off and help him pull his off too. While he watches me with wide eyes, I center myself over him.

“Leila—”

“No, you don’t talk. Every time you talk, you think. So just…don’t.” I press my lips to his, and his tongue sneaks out, meeting mine. Just at that, I take his dick in my hand and push it inside me.

He inhales sharply as his eyes roll back. Mine do too.

I knew we’d have unforgettable sex, but I didn’t think it would be so good before we even started. I have to move a few times so I can adjust to his large size.

I open my eyes to look at him and replace him watching me, unblinking. His arms by his sides are strained, the veins and muscles popping. His mouth is slightly ajar. Every breath he takes comes out faster and shallower.

“Do you want to put your hands on me?” My voice is hoarse, like I’ve been screaming his name for days.

I didn’t even finish asking before he brings his hands under my ass and pulls me into the air. Rising from the couch, he walks toward the bed, still connected at our cores.

“Can we do it like this?” I ask him before we reach the bed.

His eyes turn bright. A feverish light in them makes me think I asked the wrong question, but the stupid thought lasts for only a second: there are no wrong questions in sex—you can explore anything you want.

“Hold onto me,” he instructs and shifts his hands from my ass to my thighs as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. It’s an awkward position, and I almost regret asking until he moves me for the first time.

His palms under my thighs move me up and down his cock, but not like he would do it on the bed. No. He drops me down every time, and I get impaled on his dick with every forceful descent, nearly knocking me unconscious. Every time he hits that spot deep inside me. Too deep. It’s painful. But the pain lasts only a moment, instantly replaced by pleasure. And then it all repeats.

His movements turn needier, the muscles on his neck, arms, and chest more pronounced. The vein on the left side of his neck beats with a crazy speed that matches my own.

Every time I rise up and down, my oversensitive nipples touch the rings on his, making the sensation stronger. I dig my nails into his shoulders, holding onto him and giving him what he likes—a healthy portion of pain.

He starts dropping me onto his cock faster. It hits the spot inside me harder, and after one of the drops, I fall apart. Literally.

I’m a blubbering mess, making incoherent mews of pleasure. I hold onto him, trusting him to carry me somewhere—anywhere—because I can’t even think straight. Wave after wave after wave hits me harder and harder. After impaling my quivering, pliable body onto his hard cock one more time, he starts shivering too. I wrap my arms tighter around his shoulders and start sucking on his neck. His fingers dig into my thighs as he pushes into me a couple more times, and I feel a warm stickiness inside of me, quickly sluicing onto my thighs.

Once the waves of pleasure subside, he shifts his grip, and his hands go back to my ass. He walks me to the bed and falls backward, and I land on top of him. He pulls the comforter over us and tucks me under his armpit. My cheek rests on his hard chest as I throw my arm around his torso.

He lets out a chuckle. “May I speak now?”

I giggle at his question and hide my face in his chest, a little embarrassed.

“Yes, you may,” comes my muffled reply, and his chest shakes in quiet laughter.

“You’re fucked now, Leila.”

I giggle. “I’d say so.”

“No,” his voice is void of any humor, “you’re truly fucked.” He pulls back a little so he can see my face. “You shouldn’t have been so open with this invitation because now I’ll never ever let you go.”

I stop giggling and watch him.

“Never, Leila. Do you understand that?” His eyes are serious.

I slowly shake my head, hoping he’ll elaborate.

“I’ve been searching for something to hold me together for a long time. And I just found it.”

Kenneth’s words resurface from memory. Go away, Kenneth! Not now, when I’m lying naked with the man I just fucked.

“Are you sure it’s not your orgasm or your newly discovered kink talking?” I try to bring some humor, but he ignores it.

“You’re mine, Leila, and no one else can have you.”

I should be scared of a declaration like that, but I’m not. I’m a woman of the twenty-first century, and it sounds too possessive, archaic, and unhealthy.

And I’m fucking loving it.

“Don’t you want to ask my opinion?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll change it in my favor.”

His body suddenly turns rigid. “Lei,” he says in a whisper.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, confused.

“We didn’t use…” His words trail off as he looks down at my legs.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I wave him off. “I’m on birth control and I’m clean.”

“I’m sorry, I should have asked before.” His voice is full of self-loathing again.

“You didn’t have time because I was holding your cock hostage.” I chuckle at my own phrasing. It’s not far from the truth.

“That you were.” His chest rumbles with a laugh. “But I’m clean too. In fact, never done it without protection, and quite frankly, wasn’t planning to. But you can be distracting.”

I turn into his chest and laugh, tickling his skin. Nibbling on it, I feel a stir under my thigh thrown over his most manly area. Because yes, Stephan is all man, but that, right there, is something extraordinary.

“Really? Already?”

“What did you expect?” His arm squeezes me tighter.

“We had sex a few minutes ago. Your balls should be empty.”

His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “I love when you talk dirty.”

I smile and relax, feeling content deep in my bones as I trace the cut scars on his chest. They’re barely visible because of his tattoos, but I can feel them with the tips of my fingers.

“How long have you been doing it?”

I don’t need to explain what I’m asking about because he knows. Sighing heavily, he says, “A few years.”

“And everyone was okay with it?” I hate that I ask about the women in his life, because I know for a fact there have been plenty. Kayla used to tell horror stories about how he came home every night with a new lady on his arm but was always a gentleman about getting them a taxi the first thing in the morning.

Bile rises up my esophagus, but I need to know.

“Yes,” his reply is curt.

“I hate them.”

“Lei, they’re not anym—”

“No.” I push away from him and sit, covering my chest with the blanket. “I mean, yes, I hate them for touching you. And don’t tell me anything about it being stupid and all that since they were before me and blah blah blah. I know it’s illogical, but that’s not the point.” I silence him with my finger as he opens his mouth to speak. “The point is I hate them for making you hurt. For making you bleed. I hate them, Stephan. And now I hate you a little bit too, for letting them do that to you. How can you hate yourself like that?”

He watches me silently, an unreadable look on his face.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Do you really need me to?” His voice is curt. “I thought you were just ranting.”

“Ranting?” I feel my nostrils flare like a bull’s. “I’m trying to talk to you.”

He pulls himself up too. “No, you’re sprunting hate. Everyone has their kinks, and you can’t blame someone for liking something just because you’re too scared to try it.”

I rear back. “Too scared to try it?”

“Yes, little girl. Too scared. I’ve lived longer.” His nostrils flare as he leans closer. “When you live as long as I have and try everything that’s out there, you get tired of vanilla sex eventually.”

“Longer? Vanilla sex?” I blink a few times, trying to understand if this is really happening. How are we here after the mind-blowing orgasms and his declaration of owning me? And as far as I remember, it’s not like he’s one hundred years old and already tired of everything.

“Yes, vanilla.” He leans back against the headboard with a bored sigh. “That’s what you do, vanilla. Right?”

“Vanilla,” I parrot and blink again. “Vanilla.” I glance around, searching for my clothes. They’re nowhere to be found, so I pull the comforter from the bed, wrap it around myself, and climb out.

“Leila,” he calls out with a sigh. “Leila, wait.”

“Fuck you, Archie.” I throw him the middle finger without looking back.

“Wait, Leila.” I hear footsteps behind me. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Offend me? Offend me?! You think that’s what I am—offended?”

“Yeah, with my comments about being vanilla,” he questions, looking a bit unsure now.

“And you’re calling me the child here?” I raise a brow and turn away from him to go replace my clothes. Why are all women thrown under the same stigma of being easily offended creatures with fragile egos? We’ve gotten a bad reputation for no reason at all.

“Leila, fuck. Wait.” He grabs my hand, spinning me around to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I see you, Stephan,” I spit in his face. “I see you.” I press my finger between his hard pecs and hiss. “Stephan.”

His eyes darken, and the muscle in his jaw pops.

“Pushing me away when things got too real.”

His lips thin at my words.

“Throwing insults, hoping I’ll run away screaming.” I wave my hand behind my back.

His right eye ticks.

“Is that what everyone does, runs away from you?”

He doesn’t respond. Obviously.

“What was that declaration when you were high off the orgasm? That I’m yours.” I parrot his words. “I’m not yours, Stephan. Because you really don’t want me. I don’t think you want anyone because you’re a coward.”

“Why am I a coward?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Because you’re scared to feel anything other than this all-consuming self-hatred and disgust for yourself.” I nearly spit on the word ‘disgust’ because that’s how I feel about it. “I mean you even turned defensive when you talked about what you like. Why? Screw everyone—you like what you like, and don’t be ashamed to admit it. I don’t. And I’m oh so young and oh so vanilla.” I mimic his tone, mocking him.

His jaw moves from side to side, but he doesn’t say anything. His chest heaves with every breath, his hands balled into fists by his sides. He’s nearly three times my size, but I don’t feel an ounce of fear.

“I can’t help you with that. You should replace a way to love yourself and let other people do that too.”

With that, I turn away and collect my cami from the floor. I half expect him to rush after me, but he watches me move around the room for a few moments before he goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Soon the water starts running, and for a second I think it would be a good idea to not waste hot water and jump in with him. But then I instantly give myself a mental smack for my over-crazed libido and get dressed.

Ten minutes later, he comes out, wearing new gray sweats and a tight white T-shirt. Fuck me if he didn’t dress like that on purpose. Every muscle in his strong body is on full display. Full sleeves of his tattoos look striking in contrast with the white. His hair is wet and disheveled like he didn’t bother with a brush. He probably really didn’t—the whole time I’ve been here, I’ve only seen him use his hands to manage his dark mane. I can see his sharp, pierced nipples poking through the thin material of his T-shirt. And as the nail in the coffin, he doesn’t wear any underwear—I can see his huge dick swinging with every step.

Evil bastard. Evil pants.

I give him a side-eye and walk to the bathroom. Game on.