Miscreants: Next Generation by Natalie Bennett (essential reading .txt) 📗

was still considered a sickly boy that couldn’t leave the house. What a load of crap that ‘sickness’ had turned out to be.

Regardless, the point he was trying to make was moot. There was no way in hell I’d simply lie there and take whatever happened to me. He was the only one I’d ever let touch me since the Francis incident.

He chuckled and drew back some, leaving his hand where it was.

“Seems I was getting worried for nothing. You’re still the same.”

Heart beating erratically, I stared up at him, struggling against the lecherous desire trying to snatch away my common sense. His words, his touch. They evoked a flurry of emotions within me.

Samael had me since before I was old enough to understand I was in love with my best friend. Before I realized how terrifying it was to fall for someone of his caliber.

“Don’t move,” he ordered calmly. His hands fell away, going straight to the hem of his shirt.

Mind swirling, I remained quiet, rubbing my neck to alleviate the sensation his touch left behind.

When he finally removed the one piece of clothing that was blocking my view of his amazing torso, my hand froze. My eyes eagerly devoured every line framing his eight-pack.

Sweeping upward, I took in the massive tattoo that expanded across his toned chest. When I met his stare, I was rewarded with another smile.

“Should I drop my pants, too? I promise the view’s still just as good.”

I bit my lip to stifle a laugh, eyes dipping back to his chest. The sinister gaze of a stag collided with mine. Its large antlers extended to each of his pecs.

“Does it bother you?”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking, but his demeanor went from playful to somber before I could bat an eye. Did he really think a tattoo changed how I felt about him? Regardless of what the symbols on our bodies represented, I only saw him.

Drawing in a breath to steady my nerves, I extended my hand to him. He accepted it and let me pull him closer. I scooted over so he had room to sit beside me.

“Nothing about who you are or what you’ve accomplished bothers me.”

“Nothing, huh?” he questioned, sinking down.

“Nope.” I laid my head on his solid shoulder. “You’ve done amazingly well. I’m proud of you.”

He pulled his hand from mine and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me onto his chest when he leaned back. Good thing that I had a queen-sized bed, or this never would’ve worked.

“You’re proud of me?”

I wasn’t liking the doubt I heard in his tone. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I’ve never heard you say that until now. I thought…” he trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

His voice had reverted back to its default setting: flat and emotionless.

I turned back time inside my mind. I was positive I’d told him this before, but there wasn’t any specific memory to prove it.

Had I never said that to him until now? A dullness spread through my already aching chest. Everything I wanted to say was swallowed back down.

“I’m proud of you.”

Those four words held a deeper significance to him than one might imagine. It tied into the past that had a hand in shaping who he was.

I hated this.

I desperately wanted to break his walls down, but I knew in the end it was better for both of us if I didn’t do anything. Who was I to dig into his wounds and then leave him to bleed?

Remembering what I said to him the night before, I closed my eyes out of shame and regret.

When I reopened them, I peered up at him and found he’d already been looking down. There was a tangible tension between us. Had this been a different point in time, this situation wouldn’t have been remotely like this. He would be touching every part of me before finally bringing our bodies together.

I missed that.

I missed him.

“Will you kiss me?” I blurted out.

His perfect brows rose ever so slightly. My face warmed. Why did I say that?

“Igno—”

He flipped me onto my back, causing my sentence to end on an “oof.” He spread my legs and settled his body between them. Soft, calloused hands slid beneath my thighs, pulling me snug against him.

“Mal.” I flattened a hand against his chest. He did everything intensely, especially this.

“You really don’t have to.”

“Tell me where,” he replied, sliding his palms higher.

“Anywhere?” I hadn’t meant for it to sound like a question, but part of my brain was still sending out warning signals. This wasn’t a good idea. I’d avoided being beneath him for nearly four weeks.

He laughed lightly and leaned down, capturing my mouth. As soon as our lips met, the debate in my head became obsolete. He kissed me briefly but deeply before moving his attentions gradually lower. My body warmed in response, the feeling in my lower stomach bringing more wetness between my legs. His lips on my neck, he gently nipped the flesh, causing me to shudder.

“Mal,” I breathed.

“Don’t speak. Just feel.” His voice was cool and controlled. He worked his way lower, telling me to lift so that he could remove my tank top.

The cool air had goosebumps spreading across my skin. With no bra on, my nipples hardened. Without comment, he continued his path downward, taking his time. Lips skimmed over my navel, making my stomach dip.

Gripping the elastic band of my shorts, he pulled them off and paused. I wasn’t wearing underwear, but I wasn’t embarrassed. He’d seen my body a hundred times before. His eyes traveled from my bare pussy to my hairline, taking their time. As they did, his hands tightened around my thighs.

“I fucking hate how beautiful you are. I hate