I rise before Violet. I quietly brush my teeth and pull on different clothes, then sit on the unused bed. I grab her phone from the charger and open it, still sort of miffed that she hasn’t thought to put a password on it.
Some people are far too trusting.
Like Violet, asleep in my bed. I glance back at her and take in her hair scattered across her face, her full lips, parted as she takes in long, deep breaths. Her eyelids twitch, like her eyes are moving in a dream, and her fingers are curled into her pillow.
Other than her tense grip, she seems relaxed.
My hand aches, but I’ll deal with that later. Both hands are still wrapped. People kept commenting on them last night when I was trying to keep one eye on Violet. The normal rush from being at the center of attention didn’t come, because she wasn’t paying attention to me.
When the hell did my brain flip to only giving a shit about her?
I don’t like it.
I go to her texts, and a conversation with Mia Germain catches my eye. The director of her last show, from the video online. If she’s done with ballet, why is she talking to her? Then I see the appointment time, the doctor’s name, and my throat gets tight. I look back farther, but that seems to be her only correspondence.
I Google Dr. Michaels. He’s in Vermont. This town actually, which might explain Violet’s weird mood… and why she came along on this trip in the first place. Did Mia Germain infuse some hope in her, then the doctor—an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in working with athletes—took it away?
Well, I guess that solves some of the mystery. I erase my search history and move on. I click onto her social media and follow myself across the various platforms. I snoop through her emails, which proves to be slightly more fruitful.
Her academic advisor has sent her the form to graduate. My thumb hovers over the delete button, and then I glance back up at Violet again. She rolls away from me, burying her head in the pillow.
I go back to her texts.
The ex-boyfriend has sent a slew that has me grinding my teeth. There are a lot from immediately after the accident: I’m so excited to see you when you get back and we’re going to have an awesome junior year and then a few weeks later: Fuck, Violet, I miss you. I don’t care about your leg, just take me back. I’m sorry . Then they stop up until her return to school. A big gap.
I delete his thread and block his number.
What did he say to her? The line that he crossed to make her end things with him? For a second, I envision holding him down and cutting off his tongue. The imagery is satisfying, if a bit violent.
Like her.
I set aside her phone and circle around to the other side of the bed. I peel the blankets off her, letting them all slide to the floor. Sheets, comforter. Until all that’s left is her. I crouch beside it, level with her knees, and inspect her left leg more thoroughly. The scar is silver and straight down the front of her shin. I reach out and brush my finger over it.
How long was she in surgery?
When did they tell her she wouldn’t dance again?
I carefully lift her leg, shifting her weight, until she rolls onto her back. I wait a handful of seconds, but she doesn’t stir.
Whatever she took last night has done its job. First the high, then the crash.
So she doesn’t move when I pull her panties down either, exposing her pink pussy. The hair is trimmed and neat. She’s already wet—dreaming about me, I hope. I touch one of her outer lips, tracing the hot skin down and back up on the other side.
I lick my lips and lean forward, crawling between her legs. Her face is still angelic, peaceful. Relaxed. I rarely see her without some sort of pinched, exasperated expression. Even when she comes, she holds back.
It’s irritating.
On some surface level, I get it. We don’t trust each other. We can barely tolerate each other most times. But then there are times when all I want to do is get close enough to her to climb into her skin.
I don’t understand it.
I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Her legs are open, and she doesn’t react to my touch. Not yet. I slide a finger inside her, my gaze going from her cunt to her face. Over and over. I thrust in and out, curling the finger when it’s in her. Then add another one. She shifts at that, as my digits stretch her a bit.
I add another, then lean forward and taste her. She’s sweet. A hint of salt, of sweat. I lick her, then focus on her clit. My hand doesn’t stop moving. I nibble on her clit and keep the pressure. My focus is on her body, her face.
She squirms, and her muscles clench at my fingers.
When she comes, it’s beautiful.
Her mouth opens. Her back arches off the bed, pushing her breasts up. Her nipples are hard and pebbled, poking through the thin shirt.
Violet lets out a whimper, and she shivers. The orgasm overwhelms her.
I hope she’s having a good dream.
I slowly pull my fingers out, but my cock is rock-hard. Without thinking, I climb up, kick my shorts off, and thrust into her.
Hard.
Her eyes fly open, her expression transforming from sleepy to surprised. I don’t think she recognizes me. It’s still a little dark in the room, not quite sunrise, and she shoves at my chest.
I capture her wrists and pin them beside her head.
“Easy,” I say in her ear. “Just me.”
“Grey,” she groans. “Get off me.”
“Get out of you?” I roll my hips, eliciting another groan from her pretty mouth. “Really?”
She wriggles beneath me, and I hold her wrists harder. I start again, because her cunt squeezing my cock is going to make me lose control too soon. When I move, she stops. She blinks rapidly and stares up at me, squinting.
“Did you have a good dream?” I smirk at her.
Her pulse is quick under my fingertips. The hickeys on her neck are darker now.
There’s no hiding what I did.
“You—”
“I taste like you, if you don’t believe me.” I kiss her. I don’t give her a choice.
None of this is her choice—but it doesn’t stop either of us from chasing the feeling.
I pry her lips open and sweep my tongue into her mouth. Her morning breath isn’t too bad, surprisingly. I guess I always assumed that everyone woke up with dragon breath. I brushed mine before I snooped through her phone.
But no… I kind of like it.
Did Jack kiss her with morning breath? Or did she insist on rushing to the bathroom before they had any sort of intimacy?
My dick gets even harder at the thought that I’m experiencing Violet unmasked. Our kiss turns fierce. I bite her lip, drag my teeth down her flesh. She jerks her wrists against my hold and puts up a fight for a second. A minute.
Fire burns between us. She tears her lips from mine and twists her head to the side, kissing down my neck. The touch is electric jolts going up and down my spine. She marks me the same way I’ve marked her. Savage, then soft. Until I can’t take it anymore.
My balls tighten, and I slam inside her one more time. I still, coming hard, and a few moments later, I relax.
I loosen my grip on her wrists.
She rubs her face. “You can’t do that.”
“What?” I stay inside her. I like the feeling too much. Not that she’s in any real hurry to get me off her. She’s practically molded into the mattress. “I can’t make you come? Or I can’t…?”
“You can’t not use a condom.”
I smirk. “Why not?”
“Because you could have an STI—”
“I don’t.” I frown. “I get tested. I’m not a Neanderthal.”
“Uh-huh.” She reaches out and runs her hand along my jaw. “I have the worst headache.”
“Lucky for you, I have something for that.” I slip out of her and stand, but I get caught in another trance. Her pussy is fucking captivating, I’ll say that much. And the way my cum seeps out… I go back to her and push two fingers inside her.
She rises on her elbows and watches me.
I look up and rub her clit again.
“I’m sore.” She tries to push my hand away.
“Too fucking bad.” Her body is an instrument I’m quickly learning how to play. And I’m enjoying the ride. The way her thighs quiver and her hands grip the sheets. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on her collarbone.
I push her shirt up with my free hand and cup her tit. I pinch her nipple—not hard, just enough to make it stand even more at attention.
“Grey,” she pants. “I can’t—”
“You will. Twice now, I think.” I nod, emphatic. Something happens to me when she shortens my name like that, but I ignore the warm feeling in my chest. A few more orgasms will do her good—and then the painkillers to take away her headache. She probably needs to drink water, too. Coach is always after us about hydrating. Keeping our bodies like temples.
She twists away from me. The motion knocks my hands away, and I watch her shimmy toward the opposite side of the bed. On her belly.
Her ass is perfect. A little rounded, pale.
I climb back up and straddle her legs. I smack her ass cheek hard. The pain whips through my hand—especially my fucking knuckles. I’ll probably have to spend the week icing it to get ready for the next game. Never mind practices.
Fuck, I’m getting distracted.
A red print rises on Violet’s skin.
She didn’t make a noise the first time—and her face is pressed into a pillow now.
I narrow my eyes. “Vi.”
She doesn’t respond. She’s turned into a statue under me.
A foreign emotion winds through me, forming a weird pain in my throat. Concern? More concern than I’ve felt for anyone, I think, compounding on worry.
It’s such an abnormal reaction for her, I don’t know what to do for a minute.
Then I get the fuck off her and flip her over, her body so stiff she moves like a board. There are tears leaking out from under her closed eyes, streaking down her cheeks.
What caused this?
“Violet. What just happened?”
“Nothing.” She covers her face.
I pull her hands away and sit her up. Her shirt falls back into place.
“Spit it out.”
She tips forward and presses her forehead to my shoulder. “I just don’t like… that. It brings up bad memories.”
I narrow my eyes. Someone else did that to her? Spanked her in a way that left a lasting, negative impression?
She takes my hand and sniffs, then sits up straighter. Her expression is granite when she looks me in the eye. “Is it so bad that I draw a line with that?”
“Yes,” I say. Simple. “You don’t draw lines with me.”
Violet narrows her eyes. I like making her mad—and this seems to be a touchy subject for her.
“Why?” I question, letting more of my weight down on top of her. “More reason for me to banish whatever is making you feel like this is bad.”
“It’s dirty.” She pushes at my shoulder. “Let me go.”
“Not until you tell me more.”
“My dance teacher used to spank us when we messed up.” Her face gets even redder, and she averts her eyes.
I quirk my lips. “Naked?”
“No!”
“Sexually?”
“Greyson.”
“Grey,” I automatically correct.
She narrows her eyes.
I shrug, going for nonchalance. “Violet and Grey? Makes sense to me.”
Luckily, she drops it. And with that, I slide off her. I’ll bring this back around another day, but I’m mollified by the few questions I asked. A monstrous dance teacher who spanked his students for punishment—not pleasure.
Shame. The two should always go hand in hand.
But definitely not when she was… “How old were you?”
She covers her face again. “Ten.”
I make a face. Definitely not for pleasure then. My mom had her own brand of punishment, but it came in varied, unexpected ways. It was meant to knock me off-kilter, I think, rather than hurt. Dad just went for the pain as a reminder not to fuck up.
After she has her Advil, she slips into the bathroom. She has a slight limp, but it’s barely noticeable. The only reason I notice it at all is because I watch her ass as she passes, and there’s an unevenness to the sway of her hips.
My phone chirps.
REBECCA (PUBLICIST)
All set to publish. Roake approved it.
I swallow and cast a glance toward the closed bathroom door.
No going back now.
