Trashed, p.13
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       Trashed, p.13

         Part #2 of Stripped series by Jasinda Wilder
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Adam leans into me, and his hands run over my shoulders, along my arms, to my hands. His fingers tangle in mine, my palms pressed against the wood, his palms against my knuckles. His chest is hot against my spine, and his cock is a thick, rubber-coated rod nestled between the globes of my ass. His breath heats my right shoulder, and then his lips touch the back of my neck.

  “Ready?” The word is a warm thread tickling my earlobe.

  I nod. It’s all I can manage. I’m not breathing. I couldn’t move a single muscle but for that incremental inclination of my head. I feel Adam dip, bending at the knees. He pushes his hips against my ass, and I feel the broad tip of his cock nudge against my clit. He rolls his hips, and I have to stifle a gasp. Another nudge, I have to hang my head and suck in as silent a breath as I can. And then he draws his hips back ever so slightly and pushes, and the head of his dick is spreading the lips of my pussy apart, and I’m angling myself to let him in, sinking down and pushing back.

  My mouth falls open in a silent scream. He exhales in my ear as he slides his cock into me, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated within me.

  “Not a sound, Des,” he whispers in my ear. I shake my head, and his teeth nip at my earlobe.

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  He pulls back and thrusts in, and I’m shaking all over, filled, spread apart, aching and burning and needing and replete. And then he drags my hands down the wall to bend me at the waist, and his fingers curl around my wrists and slide up my forearms, up my biceps, and then he’s cupping my hanging, swaying tits as he pushes into me. There’s no warning, just his cock driving into me with a sudden and punishing rhythm. He’s careful, though, and every thrust is silent, not even the wet sound of joining giving us away.

  Inches away, Bob and Martha quietly discuss their grandchildren, upcoming birthdays, their son and daughter-in-law’s marital difficulties.

  Tension in my core become unbearable, thick and hot and taut, and every drive of his dick into me makes it worse, or better, or something. Increases the fire’s potency, tautens the wire coiled inside me, swells the balloon of pressure expanding in my sex. He holds my tits in place, uses them for leverage as he fucks into me hard but slow.

  Then, abruptly, he buries himself deep and releases my tits, grabs my hips and pulls me backward. I’m forced to bend even further, so I have to press back into him and push against the wall with my hands to keep my balance. And now he’s thrusting in even more slowly, gently, and his palms caress my ass, my back, the crease of my hips.

  I have to suck in a breath, realizing I’d stopped breathing entirely for a few moments. I’m bent double, and he’s driving into me. I’m motionless, taking what he’s giving me and soaking up the ecstasy. I don’t need to move, don’t want to. I just want to let Adam do this to me, to take me.

  But then the volcano within me rumbles and begins to detonate, and everything I thought I knew or wanted or needed is erased. All I want and need is to come, is to have him deeper, is to get him to keep going, keep fucking me. I want to say that to him, but I can’t speak. I don’t remember why not, but I know I can’t. I’m breathing hard, and I hear a barely-audible whimper escape my lips.

  Adam’s hand goes across my mouth, muffling me. His other hand is at my hip, pulling at me, urging me. I move back into his thrusts, push, push, and I spread my legs farther apart. Adam’s hand slides down my thigh, grips me at the knee, and lifts. I put my foot on the bench, straighten, and I feel Adam lift up on his toes behind me, thrusting hard. And in this position, he reaches so deep it’s impossible to not whimper, but his hand is there quieting the sound. His foot goes up on the bench too, on the opposite side, and now he’s thrusting and thrusting and his breath is raspy in my ear. One hand is on my tits, cupping one and then the other, massaging and kneading and tweaking nipples. His other slides over the inner thigh of my propped-up leg, touching the delicate, sensitive crease between thigh and labia, and then his fingers are rubbing at my clit and I’m gritting my teeth to keep silent, the climax spreading through me from the tips of my toes and tingling fingers to the sun-hot fires burning in my core, and I’m dipping at the knee, needing him harder and deeper.

  I feel him rumble deep in his chest, and his breath catches, and his cock spasms inside me, his rhythm faltering, and he’s coming with me, coming hard, his face burying in my neck, my hair a black mass between us and around his head and face, and he’s still rubbing at my clit to make me come harder, or again, or still, or something, all I know is that I’m going supernova, being torn apart by the orgasm and he’s fucking deep and hard and fast and his voice is murmuring quietly in my ear:

  “You feel it, don’t you? I know you do…fuck, Des, you have to feel this. ” He bites my shoulder; a sharp nip that I know is going to leave a mark. “Deny it if you want, but I know—I know you feel this connection. ”

  I want to whimper, as much from the unerring truth of his words. I feel them like an arrow striking my secret heart.

  “Don’t make a sound, Des. Don’t say a word. ” He’s thrusting to the rhythm of his words, milking our orgasm even as he sends arrow after arrow of truth into me. “You don’t need to. I feel you. I know you. Fuck, fuck, you’re so incredible. I know you feel us. You do, don’t you? Yeah, you feel it, you fucking feel us, Des. ”

  We’re both exhausted, shaking, tremoring from the orgasm, but he’s still thrusting, and I’m so sensitive, so sore, aching from having taken him so hard, so many times, yet I can’t get enough even though I’m so post-climax sensitive that it’s unbearable.

  And then he pulls out, sweeps me off my feet and into his arms, carries me into the room and lays me on the bed. I watch him strip the condom off and wrap it, discard it, close the sliding door, and then he’s back on the bed, hovering over me. His mouth descends so slowly, so gently, and that almost breaks me, almost jerks the truth from me.

  I feel us, Adam, I want to say. But I don’t.

  Because I’m afraid. Because I can’t trust anyone.

  Because anyone I’ve ever trusted has hurt me. Those I don’t trust have hurt me, too. Everyone hurts me. It’s inevitable. Home after home, foster parent after foster parent. I wanted to trust them, to love them, to belong, and they always turned on me, hurt me, betrayed me.

  So I don’t say a word. I just kiss him back and hope he can feel the regret and the buried emotions.

  But the kiss doesn’t end. He breaks it, his lips parting from mine, his breath on my mouth, and then he kisses my throat and my chest and my breasts, and I want him again, even though I know I’ve had all I can physically withstand.

  His cock nuzzles my thigh. I can’t help touching it, grasping it, and can’t help caressing its marvelous length. I feel wonder course through me as it responds, and I watch between our bodies as it comes to life in my hand.

  He kisses my nipples, and then gasps and looks at me. “What are you doing, Des?”

  “I don’t know. ”

  “Again?” It’s a suggestion.

  I shake my head. “I can’t…I want to, but I…can’t. It’s been…a long time and I’m…sore. ”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  I can only shrug. “I don’t know. ”

  He doesn’t stop me, though. He remains on his hands and knees above me, and we both watch as I stroke him to life. He watches, and I watch, and my hand slips and slides, back and forth along his length. I rub my thumb over the head, and he flinches. I do it again, and again, stroke and rub the tip. He lifts his head, and his eyes meet mine.

  I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’d rather have him inside me, and I know he’d rather the same thing, but neither of us suggest this. He doesn’t move, and I keep stroking.

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  “Des…” His voice is shaky, low and rumbling.

  I keep my eyes on him, and I know that everything I’m feeling is shining out of my eyes. The conflict, the wish that I could say what h
e wants me to say, that I feel us, that I don’t want him to go, that I want this to last forever, that I wish I could stop time and have this with him for days or weeks or months, that I want this to just last, and last. And I know the fear is there, the fear that I’m already attached and that I know he’s going, and so am I.

  I feel us. The thought bubbles at my lips.

  He’s arching his back and pushing into my touch ever so subtly. He’s close. I want to watch this happen. I want to see it. His face is strained, his eyes hooded and dark.

  He thrusts into my hand, and I feel him thicken and pulse in my palm. I slow my strokes and squeeze. He grunts in the back of his throat, and I feel him tense. I put both hands around his thickness and pump one hand near his base and the other at the head, and his eyes lock on mine and refuse to waver, not even blinking, and his mouth is open and he’s gasping, moving only his hips now.


  He’s about to say something I can’t lie to or not respond to, so I lift up and kiss him, but then he breaks it and we both watch as he comes. A stripe of white spurts from him and hits my stomach. He thrusts again, and another jet gushes out of him and this one lands hot and wet between my breasts. I keep stroking him, and more seed spurts out of him, dripping onto my skin.


  I like the way it looks against my skin, the wetness of it on me, the fact that I brought it out of him.

  He’s shaking, sucking in deep breaths, and I caress his length a few more times with one hand, and feel a few more drips on my belly, and then he flops onto the bed, gasping.

  “Jesus, Des. ”

  “Same thing,” I say, using his own joke on him.

  I glance down at my chest and belly, considering the white pool of Adam’s come glistening and cooling on my skin. God, I wish I could stay. I wish he could stay. I want more of him. I don’t want to be closed off and untrusting. I want to tell him things about myself.

  I felt him touching my tattoos, and I feel an explanation in my mouth…

  But he’s leaving. He’s going back to his Hollywood life, and if I open up now, it’ll only hurt that much more.

  So I get up and move into the bathroom. I feel his seed dripping down my body, and I wonder if I should feel ashamed for what I just did, the whole night, and just now. But I don’t. I turn the water on and step in while it’s still scalding.

  I rinse him off me.

  When I get out of the shower, he’s dressed in dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He hands me a clean, folded pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. “Figure maybe you’d rather wear these home, instead of the dress. ”

  Saving me the walk of shame, basically. So fucking considerate. Damn him. I take them, and put on my bra and underwear, then the shorts and T-shirt. He even lets me wear his sports sandals instead of my heels. My dress and shoes go in a bag, and he walks me in silence to the elevator, and we ride down to the lobby. Eyes go to me, and then away. If it’s obvious that I spent the night with him, the gazes don’t give it away. I don’t feel shame. I only feel regret that this had to feel like so much more, when it couldn’t ever be more than just one night.

  A carriage taxi waits, and Adam hands me up, and sits beside me. He hands a hundred-dollar bill to the driver. “Another one for you if you take just the two of us. ”

  “Sounds good,” he says, and snaps the reins. “Where to?”

  Adam gives him my address, and the horses start to move forward.

  The ride is long, and tense. Neither of us is willing to speak freely, especially not in front of the cab driver. We stop at my building, and Adam gets out, hands me down, walks me to my door.

  “I’m leaving in a couple hours,” Adam says. “Probably as soon as I can pack. ”

  “I know. ”


  “Des…. listen,” he starts, then lets out a breath. His fingers touch my chin. “You know, there are so many things I want to say right now, but I’m not sure where to even start. ”

  “This is what it was always going to be, Adam. ” I lean in to kiss him, and feel my heart contract, feel it close and go cold. “You’re amazing. Last night was…and this morning…god. I don’t even have words. ”

  He seems to be fighting his own emotions, hunting for something to say. He touches his lips to mine, but this is a cold and passionless goodbye. “What’s your number?” he asks.

  Such a lie. It’s not cold, or passionless. I’m just refusing to feel anything.

  I can’t quite look at him. “I don’t have a number. I don’t own a cell phone. ”

  He seems puzzled by this. “You don’t have a phone?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. No point. No one to call. I see Ruthie every day, and she’s…pretty much it. Plus, cell phones are expensive. ”

  “So how am I supposed to find you?”

  I sigh. “God, Adam…”

  He lets out a breath and steps back, accepting that I’m pushing him away. Accepting, but angry. “Okay, Des. Fine. I get it. ” He steps backward again, hesitating, as if waiting for me to change my mind. I don’t, and he wipes at his face with a hand. “Goodbye, then. ” He says this far too casually.

  “’Bye, Adam. ”

  My heart completes the process of calcification as he turns and climbs into the carriage without a backward glance.

  Chapter 8

  Adam is gone, long gone. It’s for the best. But god, does it hurt—it never stops hurting. I’ve still got a few days left on Mackinac Island and I can’t wait to leave. I just want to get back to Detroit and to school and to the shit life I’m used to.

  I don’t cry, because I don’t do that. And except for that stupid panic attack, I haven’t cried in a long, long time. But that doesn’t mean I’m not all sorts of fucked up. I sit on my bed and try not to think, not to remember, not to dwell. I completely fail at this. I’m still on my bed half an hour later, when I remember that it’s Monday, and I have work in…an hour ago.


  I scramble into my uniform and run pell-mell across town to the office.

  When I stumble, sweating, into Phil’s office, he’s surprised to see me. “Des? Ruth stopped by earlier this morning to say you were sick. What are you doing here?”

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  God bless Ruthie, covering my ass. I wipe at my face. “I—I’m feeling better. ”

  Phil stares at me for a long moment, clearly sussing out the fact that something is wonky. Eventually he just shrugs. “Whatever. You’re here. Might as well get to work. ” He gives me my assignment, and I set out.

  I work hard, and when the shift is over, I work an extra hour to cover my tardiness this morning. And then I head to the stables and find Mack, the stable master.

  Mack is a short, heavy, late middle-aged guy with a thick beard and gentle brown eyes. He’s hard on stable hands and easy on the horses, but he loves me because I love the animals. “Hey there, Des,” he mumbles, and hands me a manure rake. “Glad you’re here. Far end could use some help. ”

  “Sounds good. ” I exchange the combat boots I work in for a spare pair of muck boots Mack keeps around for me.

  I muck out the empty stalls with a will, stopping by the stalls that have horses in them to pet their noses and murmur nonsense to them. I’m delaying. I don’t want to go back to the dorm. I don’t want to talk to Ruthie. I don’t want to have to think about things.

  So I work. I scoop horseshit and toss it in the wheelbarrow until it’s full, and then dump it, and start over again. I muck until my hands are blistered and my muscles ache.

  More than they already did, that is.

  Mack shows up and stands by a stall a few feet away, watching me work. Muriel, a black and white seventeen-hand Clydesdale, sticks her head out into the hall and bumps Mack with her nose. When I finish the stall, Mack takes the wheelbarrow from me. “Get outta here, Des. Gotta leave something for the other
hands to do, you know. ” He’s gruff and taciturn, but he understands my need to stay busy, and he never questions me.

  It’s past sunset when I leave the stable and head back to the dorm. My hands throb, my back aches, and everything else is on fire. Ruthie is on her bed, reading on her Kindle. She sets her Kindle down when I come in, and stares at me expectantly. I ignore her, changing out of my jumpsuit and into a pair of shorts.

  Which, belatedly, I realize, are the pair Adam left me. I sniffle, and Ruthie continues to stare at me.

  “Des. Out with it already. ”

  I continue to ignore her as I make a mug of tea. Finally, I sit at the foot of her bed and lean back against the wall. “I don’t want to talk about it. ”

  She snorts. “No shit. You don’t ever want to talk about anything. But…you gotta give me something. I mean, Jesus. I turn around and Adam fucking Trenton is standing there, asking for you. Add that to how shell-shocked you looked the night before…something happened to you, and he has something to do with it, and then you don’t come home last night, and now you’re here at…nine o’clock the next night, and you look like hell. So I say again, out with it, bitch. ”

  I pluck at the soft, slinky fabric of Adam’s shorts and hate how much I love that they smell like him. The shirt even more so. “I met Dylan Vale last night. ”

  Her eyes narrow. “Do not try to distract me. You’ll tell me EVERYTHING about that once you’ve told me why Adam Trenton was here, and why you’re wearing his clothes, and where you were last night. ”

  The only person on earth who knows I am—or was—a virgin, is Ruthie, and not even she knows the full reason why, although I think she suspects the truth. I shrug. “I was with Adam last night. ” I trace my finger up and down my thigh and refuse to look at Ruthie.

  “With Adam. ” I feel her processing all the possible meanings, and then she sits up, scoots toward me, and takes my face in her hands, forcing me to finally look at her. “And when you say ‘with Adam’ you don’t mean with Adam, do you?”

  I just stare at her for a moment, and then pull my face out of her hands. “Maybe,” I mumble.

  “You lost your virginity to Adam Trenton?” she all but shrieks, and then claps her hand over her mouth. “Des! What the fuck? Have you lost your mind? What were you thinking? Holy shit. Holy shit. What were you thinking?”

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