Heavy by Cate C. Wells

3

DINA

This closet is a mixed bag.

As a rule, I like small, dark spaces. I’m a hider. I have been ever since I was a kid. If I get freaked out, I find the most confined space I can and wedge myself in. I like the closeness and the quiet.

I don’t like not having the choice to leave. And I have to pee, the floor is cold, and it smells like motor oil, man, and rubber boots.

I’m also scared for my life. The fact that Heavy left without killing me bodes well, but what’s he doing now?

I didn’t give him anything to go on. The name Boris Stasevich alone isn’t going to get him anywhere, not with the caliber of tech guy he has on payroll. I entered the Steel Bones system with a drive-by download. I lured their IT “specialist” with a website offering free orc porn. That dude is no cyber-ninja.

Heavy could be getting his people to check me out. He’ll find even less on me than Boris the Russian. I did college online, and I’ve been consulting for the same company since I graduated. I have no social media. I stick to message boards on the dark web.

Of course, he might be arranging a way to kill me that won’t leave a hole in his favorite chair and blood all over his stuff. He could be looking for a plastic sheet.

My belly hurts. I’m not bloated anymore, but I’m nauseous. I haven’t eaten since before I left home. When my stomach’s empty and I’m stressed, I feel like I’m gonna hurl. I never do, but it’s still miserable.

I’ve always had a messed up digestive system. It goes with the ASD. Mom did all the things you’re supposed to when I was growing up. No gluten. No casein. No sugar.

I don’t know if it helped, but I eat donuts and drink soda pop all the time now, and I’m no worse off than I was when I was younger. No better, either.

Why am I hyper-focusing on my stomach?

Because I’m close to losing it and falling into a full-blown nuclear meltdown.

I don’t want to die.

Back home, it seemed so logical. My uncle did something unforgivable. He hurt Rory, my only friend in the world. He harassed and threatened my brother Kellum’s daughter and her mother. Tried to run them off. He has to be stopped.

My eyes burn, and I rock. Just a little. I hate thinking about it.

I like structure. I need routine. Mom, Dad, and I have Sunday dinner and Friday movie night and Taco Tuesday. No one bothers me in my turret, but they’re always around—Kellum in his house down the hill and Jesse in his trailer by the apple orchard. I don’t give a crap where Cash stays; he’s an asshole.

Uncle Van took all that safety and predictability and smashed it. Tainted it. Kellum almost lost his child for a second time. Dad sits at the table late at night now, nursing beer after beer, eaten by guilt. Mom forgets to put dinner on and stares out the living room window, up at Uncle Van’s vacant house at the top of the hill.

Everything is different. Rory’s not down the hill; she’s across the state. She’s hurting, and she’s scared. Meanwhile, Van swans around the city, posing for pictures at black tie affairs, convinced he can do whatever he wants because he’s rich and totally without a conscience.

I figure I can do what I want, too. I don’t have normal people feelings either. Someone has to stop him, and if I don’t, no one will. Kellum’s tried to talk Rory into testifying against him, but she won’t, and I get it. She wants it to have never happened. Me, too.

I can’t erase the past, but I can erase him. And once I decided to kill him, the plan popped into my head fully formed.

I knew about Steel Bones. My brother John’s been a member since before I can remember. I got bored and searched them up years ago. They used to be hard core. I found the photo of the sheriff arresting the bikers on the side of the road, cartons of cigarettes scattered on the ground around a crate of rifles.

They’ve supposedly gone legit, but I figured the club was a place to start. I don’t know any other criminals. It didn’t take much digging to find the offshore accounts. The shady overseas associates.

One fake orc porn site later, I had full access. They’re careful with communication. There’s no evidence of blatant wrongdoing, but there are so many clues. Calendar events without locations or subject lines. Credit card charges from Medellin and Odessa.

I don’t read fiction, but I like spy movies, and I love a puzzle. I haven’t quite figured out their entire game, but Steel Bones is far from clean. They’re in deep with mobsters from all over the world.

I figured helping me bury a body would be nothing.

I miscalculated.

And now I’m trapped, sitting in the back corner of a closet on a pile of flannel shirts. The floor’s so cold that my butt’s still freezing despite the heap.

I really have to pee.

I tuck my knees tight to my chest. I put on one of Heavy’s shirts when I made my nest. It’s ridiculous. As big as a sheet.

How much longer will he be?

I’m uncomfortable, and my brain’s hanging on now—barely—but what happens when it’s forced to be idle for hours on end?

On the other hand, I don’t want to die, so maybe Heavy can take his good, sweet time.

I should be planning what to say to him. How do I convince him that I would never go to the cops?

I wouldn’t. Obviously, that would be stupid. I’d implicate my brother and myself.

I really thought I was dealing with a smart man, but if he can’t see that, I don’t know what to do.

I’m stewing, picking at my cuticles, when there’s a scraping at the door.

He’s back.

I clamber to my feet. I’ve come up with nothing. I’ve sat here for hours, and all I have is a numb butt and a painfully full bladder.

There are a few bangs and a muffled curse, and then the door swings open, bright daylight flooding inside. Pain shoots into my brain. I squeeze my eyes shut.

There’s a grunt.

“What did you do to my shirts?” Heavy growls.

“Sat on them,” I say in the direction of his voice.

“Why are your eyes closed?”

“It’s too bright.”

“You were in there an hour and a half, tops.” He sounds grumpy.

“I have a light sensitivity.”

“You’re really fucking delicate, aren’t you?”

In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. I shrug a shoulder, and his huge shirt slips down. He sighs and stomps into the room, his footsteps echoing. All that’s missing is the bum, bum, bum.

Then he tromps back, coming straight for me.

“Why are you smiling?” he grumbles.

Plastic carefully slides behind my ears. Sunglasses. I blink and open my eyes, my fingers flying to the frames. They’re comically huge.

“Bum, bum, bum.” I can’t help it. My lip twitches. “You stomp around like a cartoon giant.”

“You need me to nail you back in a little longer to learn some respect?” He swings the hammer at his side.

“Respect is earned, Popeye.”

“I look nothing like Popeye.”

“Whatever you say, Shrek.”

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you for someone who’s been cooling her heels in a closet.”

I shrug. “I don’t have a filter.”

“You should get one.”

“You should get a thicker skin, Gaston.”

He chuffs, kind of like a horse, and then he places an enormous palm flat on my chest and slowly pushes me backward.

I duck to the side, away from his hand. He lets me. “No. I don’t want to go back in the closet. I have to pee.”

He raises his eyebrows. I shut my mouth. Point taken.

“Well, then. Come along, Princess and the Pea.”

He grabs my elbow and hustles me out into his room. There’s a door I hadn’t noticed on the wall with the murder board. He opens it, revealing an en suite. Thank goodness. I wrench my arm out of his grasp and sink onto the toilet, sighing with release.

It feels so good. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer.

A throat clears from the doorway. “You don’t want privacy?”

“You can shut the door if you want.”

He doesn’t move. He’s watching me. I don’t care. There’s not much to see. His shirt comes to my knees.

I wipe quickly, stand, and flush. I’ve rolled the shirt sleeves past my elbows, but there’s so much fabric, the folds come loose. I get a cuff drenched when I wash my hands, and it sticks to my skin like a warm, wet tongue.

I shake my arm, but all that does is knock the soaked cotton momentarily loose before it slaps back against my forearm and stays plastered there.

This sucks. I hold my arm at a distance, but it doesn’t help. Obviously.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” he asks.

“Nothing.” It’s the wet, slappy, gross sleeve.

Suddenly, he steps into the room and grabs my hand in his huge, rough mitt, holding it up as if he’s reading my palm. He rotates my wrist. I stare at the red plastic buttons on his shirt. He’s so big, even his chest rises and falls more than a normal man’s as he breathes.

He’s so much. Too much. Busting his balls hasn’t made him any more manageable in my mind. My insides are going crazy, like Pop Rocks and soda pop, but not just in my stomach. Everywhere.

Maybe it’s the fact he held a gun on me. That he could have killed me. That he still might. That’s enough to mess with anyone’s equilibrium.

I can’t even look at his buttons anymore, so I focus on the clean white towel. The entire bathroom is immaculate, and everything is oversized. Huge double sink. Jacuzzi tub. It’s really nice for an MC clubhouse. Not that I have anything to compare it to.

Since I’m not looking at him when he speaks, I startle. I jerk my hand, and he lets go.

“Get some clothes from a sweetbutt,” he says. A sweetbutt? Oh. He’s on the phone. “Size small. Bring them to my room.” There’s a pause. “Now would be good. You think I’m callin’ now ‘cause I need a dress tomorrow?”

I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look like a child in a grown up’s clothes. My hair’s a tousled mess. I lower my nose to my armpit and wrinkle my nose. I stink.

“Do you want a shower?” Heavy asks. I check. He’s talking to me this time.

From this angle, I can see him in the mirror. For me, a reflection isn’t as intense as direct eye contact, even though he sees me looking at him. And he watches me back.

He’s retreated to the doorway. He’s broader than the frame, so he kind of hunches, peering through, his arms braced on either side, massive biceps bulging. Under his threadbare red flannel, he’s wearing a faded black T-shirt tucked into worn jeans. The flannel is identical to the one I borrowed.

Except for the wet part, I like this shirt. It’s soft from washing. He cut the tag out, and it’s so loose, the seams don’t chafe. Once it dries, it’ll be fine. I don’t want to wear a sweetbutt’s clothes. Girly clothes have the worst fabric. And, like, rhinestones and embroidery and shit. I shudder. That’s not gonna happen.

Heavy strokes his beard, eyeing me as I lean against the sink. It’s like he’s waiting for me to say something. Oh. Yeah. He asked about a shower.

That’s a bad idea, right? It would be freaking amazing to wash all the smells off—the air freshener from the rideshare and the driver’s awful cologne and the vape smoke from downstairs—but I shouldn’t. I don’t see a gun, but he could have it tucked in his waistband in the back. Maybe he wants me to get in the tub so that when he shoots me, it’s an easy clean up.

My panic makes a valiant attempt to kick into gear, but my nervous system’s pretty much on the fritz at this point. Too much adrenaline for too long. And not enough sleep or food. My fight-or-flight response is tapped out.

I twist the faucet back and forth without turning on the water.

“Are you going to kill me?” I direct the question to the mirror.

He shifts his weight. “Maybe not.”

“Are you going to help me?”

“Yes.”

A thick sensation fills my chest. It’s not exactly a good feeling. This is a good thing, though. It’s what I wanted.

“So that’s it? You help me, I help you, and I go home?”

“That’s not it, little girl.” He sets his jaw. “You’ve put me in a difficult position.”

“I told you that I’m not going to tell anyone where you bury the bodies. It wouldn’t make sense. I’d be implicating myself.”

“Or entrapping me.”

“I’m not.”

“I can’t know that.”

“So we’re at an impasse?” My throat tightens. This isn’t an impasse. He’s bigger, stronger, armed. I can lie to myself all I want, but he holds all the cards.

“I have an idea,” he says. “A proposal.”

“Yeah?” I force myself to face him, but my gaze falls immediately to his well-worn boots.

I’m examining the scuffs on his toes when he says, “Will you marry me, Dina Wall?”

What?

My gaze flies to his face. His black eyes twinkle, and his lips are curved. He’s not serious. Obviously. He’s making fun of me.

My cheeks burn. “This isn’t a joke.”

“No, it’s not. You want to conspire to commit murder? I want assurances that you can’t turn state’s evidence.”

The heat seeps away. He’s not mocking me. This is a tactic. “Oh,” I exhale. “It’s a legal maneuver.”

“You could call it that.”

I don’t know much about spousal privilege, but I watched enough lawyer shows with my Gram before she passed. I understand the gist. Wives can’t be compelled to testify against husbands and vice versa. It’s actually fairly clever.  

“We’d get an annulment afterwards?” I muse.

“A divorce,” he concurs.

Why a divorce—?

“We’d only need a divorce if we had sex.”

“We’re going to have sex.”

I blink, and a prickly heat blossoms between my legs. I gaze at his beard while his eyes rake my face. He’s scrutinizing my expressions as he drops his bombs. He’s going to get frustrated. It drives my family nuts that I don’t react. They think I don’t care. I do, it’s just all my processing happens way deep in my brain—nowhere near the synapses that connect to my facial muscles.

He won’t stop staring. He probably expects a response.

“I don’t think you can say that with any degree of confidence,” I offer.

“Why not?”

I shrug. “I am curious, but I’ve never done it before. It wouldn’t be prudent to start with a prodigiously large penis. That would probably be very uncomfortable.”

He lets out a strange, garbled sound. Like a turkey got strangled.

I shift. I’m achy under the soft flannel. My breasts are almost itchy. Hot. I really do want a shower. Cool water would feel good on my skin.

“You’re a virgin?” he asks. His voice has dropped an octave lower, the deepest bass I’ve ever heard in real life.

“The concept of virginity is problematic.”

“I can solve it for you.”

I check his face quickly. The corners of his eyes are creased, and his lips turn up.

“You’re teasing me.” As I duck my gaze back down to the floor, I see the tent in his jeans. Very, very prodigious.

“I am,” he confirms. “But I’d make it good for you, baby. I promise.”

I’m already shaking my head. “I don’t think intent matters. It’s about logistics.”

“You came to me for logistics,” he points out.

A chill settles my chest, sobering me. I did. I’m not here to explore new things or trade ripostes with a boss biker. I’m here so he can help me kill my uncle. I need to get this back on track.

“If I marry you, you’ll help me?”

He exhales noisily. “Are you sure you want to do this? No offense, but you don’t seem the type.”

“What type?”

“Vengeful.”

“It’s not just revenge. It’s justice.”

He laughs. It has a bitter ring. Even I can make that out. “And you’re the judge? You’re confident you can tell revenge and justice apart?”

I’m not. Except for the big ones—anger, pleasure, fear—I’m not sure I know the difference between any emotions. It doesn’t matter, though. If I do nothing, the wrongs stand, and Van is free to keep hurting people. My family has turned their backs on him now, but what about in a few years?

Every Sunday at church, we’re admonished to forgive. Mom and Dad pride themselves on their virtues. Love of God and neighbor is the core of who they are. They’ll let him back in if he comes around with his hat in hand. And then he’ll tear us apart again.

I can’t read people, so I go by what they have done as a predictor of what they will do in the future. Van will hurt the people I love again. There’s no doubt in my mind. Kellum had his chance, but he got nowhere. It’s my turn.

“I’m confident,” I say.

He clicks his cheek. “Then, it’s a deal.”

God, I hope he doesn’t want to shake on it. I don’t want to touch his hand again. It was much too… enveloping.

Lucky for me, there’s a loud knock from the bedroom.

“Stay here,” he orders and strolls off.

I flip the faucet and fill my cupped palms with cool water, suddenly aware of how thirsty I am.

There are murmurs from the other room and then a door shuts. Heavy reappears in the doorway as I lap up one last handful of water.

He groans. Not sure why. “What are you doing?”

I slide him a glance. He has sparkly fabric wadded in his hands.

“Drinking.” I’d have thought it was obvious.

“Jesus,” he says. He disappears again and returns with a bottled water. “Here.” He sets it on the vanity. “And here.” He thrusts out what appears to be a gold dress.

“Oh, hell no.” I trip a step backwards.

It’s a tube. And it’s made of sequins. My skin tries to crawl off my bones.

“I’m not wearing that.”

He holds it up. It looks like a miniature pillow case for disco enthusiasts. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Turn it inside out.”

He pauses a second, and then he does. Oh, god. It doesn’t even have a liner. It’s sequins inside and out. Tiny scales with jagged plastic edges. That’s horrible. Who would make something like that? Who would wear it? By choice?

“Nope. No way.”

“You can’t wear my shirt to the airport.”

What airport?

I sink to the side of the tub and squeeze my eyes closed. The sunglasses aren’t enough. It’s too bright in here with those ugly ass sequins. And I’ve never been to an airport. Or flown in an airplane. What do they even smell like with all those people and windows that don’t open?

Ass. I bet that’s what it smells like. Or worse. Air freshener.

I flick my thumbs and gnaw on my lower lip until it hurts. My nail beds will be raw and bleeding by tomorrow.

Heavy releases a long, grumbly sigh, and then he firms his tone. “Get up. Put on the dress.”

“Pass.”

“You don’t call the shots.”

“I’m not letting that thing touch my skin.”

“You’re being a child.” His words are clipped and fast. He’s losing his patience with me. Everyone does eventually.

“You wouldn’t make a child wear that monstrosity.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’ll take less time if you find me different clothes.”

I’m not trying to be a brat; it’s just a fact. People don’t get it, but they should. Tall people gotta bend through doorways. Short people need ladders. I need natural fibers. You can dress me in synthetic blends—lord knows my mother tried—but it’ll be the equivalent of watching a dude Heavy’s height bang his head on a doorframe until either the head or the wood gives. Not a fun way to spend your time, my mother can attest.

“You’re not in charge here, little girl,” Heavy booms, deciding brute force is the way to go.

I don’t dignify that with a response. Of course I’m not in charge—he’s gargantuan and he has a gun. And yes, in the grand scheme of things, I know it’s objectively ridiculous to be this stubborn about a dress. If I could deal, I would deal.

And you know what? That’s an excellent point.

“Why are you being so stubborn about a dress?” I ask.

He blows his cheeks into rosy, round puffs and tramps forward.

“Get up.” He grabs my upper arm and tries to draw me to my feet. I go limp. He snarls and drops me. I slump back to the edge of the tub, leaning against the tile wall.

“Goddamn it,” he bites and rips my shirt open. Buttons go pinging off the tiles. Cold caresses my breasts, and my nipples pucker to hard points.

Heavy’s breathing quickens. He has the shirt I was wearing fisted in his huge hands. I peek up.

He’s staring at my tits. His gaze flits down to the juncture of my thighs.

For some reason, it’s not too much to watch his face since he’s not making eye contact. I crane my neck and look my fill.

He’s not an ugly man, he just has so much hair. This close, I can make out the bone structure underneath the thick beard. He has high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and full lips. He might be conventionally attractive if he shaved. Beautiful even.

His ragged pants echo in the stillness.

Why is he so interested in my lap? My legs are closed tight. All he can see are dark curls. I don’t wax or anything. I’m very sensitive to pain.

His gaze slides back to my face. I glance over at the sink. I liked it better when he was looking down.

Hmm. I have an idea.

I scooch until I’m sitting on the ledge at the foot of the tub. Then I lift my left leg, propping my foot on the side of the bath. I let my knees fall apart. He makes a strangled sound.

The cold hits my exposed pussy and goosebumps break out all over my white thighs.

“You showing me, baby?” he says, his voice low as a whisper. He’s not frustrated with me anymore.

I wriggle until my hips are canted slightly up. I guess I am showing him. Warmth spreads in my belly like I’ve thrown back a shot, and the tile is chilly on the bottom of my foot. I curl my toes to keep from slipping.

This is crazy. I like it.

He drops to his knees. The floor doesn’t shake, but it seems like it should. It’s like an oak was felled in the forest.

He’s close now, only an inch or so away from the side of the tub, only a foot and a half from my exposed pussy. His eyes are glued between my legs, so I can handle looking at his face again. It’s amazing. If he’d been in the social skills book my mother made me read with her when I was a kid, I would’ve paid attention.

What’s the man feeling, Dina? Is he feeling happy?

The man is not unhappy.

His tongue darts out to lick his slightly parted lips, and his thick brows knit as he squints. Squinting means interest. Or bad vision.

“That your pretty cherry?” he growls.

I do a crunch and peer down, but I can’t see what caught his eye. I’ve checked myself out plenty with a hand mirror, though. “It’s probably my hymen.”

His jaw twitches. “It’s so pretty.”

“So you said.”

“Why don’t you spread those pussy lips? Show me that sweet little clit. Has it popped from its hood?”

I have no idea. I’m definitely wet. There’s a strange fizzing in my veins and a warm swishing low in my belly like a washing machine as it agitates a load.

I slip my fingers between my folds and find the stiff bud. It aches when I brush it. My breath catches. Heavy leans forward a degree or two. I can see him even better now. There’s color along his sharp cheekbones—not red, he’s too tanned for that. But a shading that lightens as it disappears into his beard.

I love his beard. It isn’t waxed and styled like a lot of the guys I chat with online. It’s bushy and coarse, and reminds me of a thicket. It makes it hard to see the exact shape his lips are making. Lips are so much easier to read than eyes.

His face is a Picasso painting—curves and angles that form shapes I can’t recognize. Is he turned on? I’m turned on.

“Are you gonna let me touch it?” He’s breathing hard. He wants to touch me.

Do I want him to? It seems like a really bad idea. Not that long ago he was holding a gun on me.

“You were going to shoot me.”

“I would never have gone through with it.”

His gaze darts to my face so mine slides to his chest.

“I don’t know if you’re telling the truth.”

“I’m not a liar.” His voice drops even lower.

“I couldn’t tell if you were.” It’s a sad fact. I suck at lie detection.

He’s quiet for a minute. “Murder is a risk. I don’t take unnecessary risks. You said you’d marry me, so we have an alternate plan now. Less risky.”

Until you consider that we’re getting married so that he can help me commit murder, the logic holds. “That is a weird argument to get into my pants.”

“You aren’t wearing pants.”

My lips twitch. “Touché.”

“I’m not used to gettin’ down on my knees for a woman, let alone stayin’ down this long.” He rests a hand on the edge of the tub right next to where my foot is braced.

“You can get up anytime. You’re in charge here, Atlas.” I smirk, and I curl my toes into the meaty side of his huge hand.

He flashes his white teeth. “Oh, I don’t think I am,” he says.

He captures my foot and envelops it in a warm grasp, then he pushes my knee back toward my shoulder, gently, slowly, opening me up even more. The air is chilly on my wet folds, and the tiles are smooth on my ass and my back. His palm is rough on the sole of my bare foot. It’s a lot of sensation, but they’re all okay. Good. Nice.

He drops a bristly kiss on the knee he’s pushing back. “Can I taste that cherry, baby?”

I want—something. I’m throbbing. Swollen. Everything’s collecting between my legs, gathering, pulsing. If I were alone, I’d rub my clit until I came.

He groans. “Yes, show me how you like it.”

I glance down and blink. My fingers found my clit of their own accord, and I’m playing, tracing lazy circles around my hood, and it feels good. It’s taking some of the pressure off so I can think.

Women like oral. It’s in all the smut I read—usually around thirty percent. The couple bangs at fifty, and I usually DNF at that point. I don’t need to watch people communicate badly and screw up their relationships. That’s my life.

Anyway, other women like getting eaten out. Would I? His beard is intense. Probably scratchy. Which might feel good. Or it might be awful. And then there’s the tongue to consider—I’m already shaking my head no.

“If this is all you want to do right now, this is all we do.” He gently sets my foot back down on the edge of the tub, and he shuffles closer before sitting back on his heels. His lips are curved. He’s smiling.

It’s so strange. He’s enormous, kneeling at my side, smiling, patient, watching me. His jeans are tented, I swear, three-quarters of a foot in the air.

I want more.

I want him to touch me. Just to see. I reach out and grab his wrist, pull his hand between my legs and rest it on my lower belly. The corners of his lips draw back so far that I can see his back molars.

“Okay, then. We can do a little more.” He skims my dark curls with his thumb, lightly. I squirm. It tickles. His laugh resonates in the back of his throat.

I’m still idly playing with my clit, my hand ridiculously small next to his. He brushes my fingers aside and takes over. His touch is firm and certain but light. The pad of his index finger has a fine grain. Even slicked with my wetness, his touch has an abrasion that mine doesn’t. It’s not a bad sensation. It’s nice.

My nipples strain into the space between us. I want him to touch my breasts, too. But that might be too much, so I cup myself, and he moans.

“That’s so fucking hot. Your sweet titties are aching, aren’t they? You want my mouth on them, don’t you, dirty girl?”

That might feel good. I still have scratchy beard concerns, but his full lips look soft, and I bet his mouth is hot, and his tongue would feel amazing rasping across my hard nipples.

“Yes,” I exhale, and it’s like I shot a starter pistol. His head dips, and he’s palming me, tasting me, laving me with his wet tongue and sucking, drawing me into his hot mouth. His beard does scratch, but it’s a good scratch. The kind that makes me arch my back.

Between my legs, his touch firms and quickens, and that shouldn’t feel good either, but it does. I don’t want light and unalarming anymore. I want firm, sure, demanding. I want him to do something I don’t expect. He must know a thousand things that I don’t, and I want him to show me.

“More,” I pant, and I dig my fingers into his wild hair, and it’s thick and coarse. I pull. He snarls, his head rising, his blazing black eyes finding mine for a split second before my gaze flies to the ceiling.

“You want more?”

“Yes.” That’s what I said.

He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s gonna hurt before it feels good.”

“I don’t like pain.”

“You have to trust me.”

“I don’t.”

He lets out a strangled laugh. “This is a strange position for two people who don’t trust each other.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know you.”

Oh. Yeah. He doesn’t. Theory of mind is my Achilles heel. I assume other people feel what I feel and know what I know. It never fails to throw me when I realize for the bazillionth time that they don’t.

Heavy gently untangles his hair from my fingers and eases back. “Did I lose you?”

His breath is warm on my forehead. He’s giving me space, but he hasn’t backed off totally.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He taps on my temple. “You get lost in there?”

“Always.”

He laughs. “Come on.” He scoops me up like it’s nothing, and in five strides, we’re at his bed. He flops onto his back, and I bounce, settling a little above his belt like a cowgirl. I’m split open, and my knees don’t quite reach the mattress.

This is all new sensation. Cotton on my pussy. Denim brushing my ass. His hands are at my waist, securing me. He’s grinning. I’m on top, but it’s like being on top of a bull. Top doesn’t mean in control. Not at all.

I usually need control. I need to know what’s going to happen and when and for how long. But it’s like when I decided to do this—to leave home and make things right—I muted that need, and I guess this is what happens when I let go. I end up stuck on top of a man mountain, buck naked.

“You have your clothes on.” I rest my palms on his chest.

His hands are traveling all over me now, stroking my back, massaging my breasts, my thighs. “It’s better if I keep ‘em on.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re nowhere near ready to take me.”

When I wriggle back, my ass presses onto his hard cock. The zipper’s got to be killing him.

He sucks in a hiss. “Stop that.” He doesn’t wait for me to comply; he scoots me forward until I’m propped mid-sixpack.

I rock my hips forward. The friction feels good. My pussy is making a wet spot on his shirt, making the fabric even smoother against my swollen pussy.

I flash a glance to his face. His lips are curved, his mouth slightly parted. He’s propped his head up on some pillows.

“That feels good?”

“Yes,” I pant. Something’s building. Twirling. Spiraling.

His fingers find my clit again, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Baby, I’m going to slip a finger into this wet slit, okay? It’s gonna be tight. It might twinge a little. If it hurts, you just slap my hand away, all right?”

What’s he going on about? I can’t sort through it all—the sensations, the words. They’re all garbled up together.

And then he stops. My eyes fly open, and I claw my nails into his hard pecs. “Why’d you stop?”

“I’m gonna put a finger inside you. Okay?”

Okay? I don’t know. “Will it hurt?”

“Yeah. Probably a little. I don’t know. You’re pretty—intact.” He’s shifting under me, resettling me a little lower on his belly, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Why then?”

“It’ll feel good.”

“How do you know?”

His torso vibrates with a rumbly sound. “Experience.”

I bet he’s done this tons of times. I know he’s a big deal around here, and women flock to that kind of energy. And even though he’s big and scary, he has the muscles and the height and the hair. Honestly, I can’t think of a man more suited to appeal to the cave woman brain.

I don’t like pain, not even needles, but I don’t like this feeling either—like I’m a balloon being blown fuller and fuller, and I want to pop. I need to pop, but I can’t.

“You promise it’ll feel good?”

“I swear.”

I screw my eyes closed again. I don’t want to watch.

There’s a rummaging. The rip of a zipper. His left arm is reaching around my side, his forearm brushing up and down against my ribs. He must have taken his dick out. He’s stroking himself. My heart trips into a faster beat.

With his free hand, he’s teasing my clit again, petting my folds. I bite my lower lip. It’s good, but not enough. I arch my back, open up as far as I can, and then he dips his thick finger inside me, coating it in my cream, and then he pushes in.

I freeze. It pinched. And now his finger is inside me.

Does it hurt?

It did. For a second. But he did it quickly, in one smooth motion. I wriggle a little. His thumb is gently circling my clit, and that feels good. I don’t know about the finger. It kind of hits the spot, but it’s also weird. I’m perched on top of his massiveness, and he’s touching my insides.

“How’s my curious kitten?” he pants.

I wish he’d shut up. I need to focus. I rock my hips experimentally. Yeah. It doesn’t hurt.

And then he moves. Slides out and in, and I can feel my channel flutter. The whole thing cranks from a maybe to a definite yes. I like this. My hands rise to pluck my straining nipples, and that makes it even better, spurs everything onwards.

“Oh, yeah. You gonna play with those titties? Does that feel good?”

“Yeah.” I wouldn’t be doing it if it didn’t.

“Yeah,” he repeats, and then I’m even fuller. He’s slipped two fingers in me, and again, there’s a twinge, but I don’t care at all. I’m hurtling toward an orgasm, but it’s different than lying alone in my bed or in the shower. It’s more—better—because I’m not in control of it, he is, but that’s okay since he knows exactly what to do, exactly how fast and how hard. I don’t have to concentrate. The good feelings just keep coming in waves, bigger and bigger, until bam, a huge one crests through my entire body.

“I’m coming!” My abs clench and my thighs shake. I buck, and he snags my hip so I don’t go flying off while he strokes the last drops of pleasure from me with those crazy fingers.

I flop down on top of him like a rag doll. His chest hair is crinkly, and his skin is hot and damp. That should be a gross combination, but somehow his scent makes it tolerable. He smells like the outdoors. Dirty but in an okay way.

He’s rising and falling below me, breathing quicker, jiggling where he’s jacking his dick. A smacking sound grows louder and faster, and then he grunts, and there’s a hot splatter on the back of my upper thigh. He exhales, and then his rough hand begins to roam, smoothing my back, stroking down my spine, cupping my ass. He avoids the wet spot on my leg.

I push up on my elbows and try to peer over my shoulder. “Is that cum?”

“Ayup.”

I freeze. “Stop.” He does. On a dime.

Smart man.

I’m teetering. My brain’s reconnected from the temporary short an orgasm always causes, and it’s barfing up all the information in one spew of mixed signals.

It’s bright as hell in here. I lost the sunglasses. Where are they? Why didn’t I notice when they knocked off? Did I take them off? Are they broken? I shouldn’t move in case there are shards of glass, but I’m on top of a man.

He’s hairy, but that’s okay. And he has a strong smell, but it’s natural, and natural is fine. Animal smells are fine.

But his cum is on my leg, and it’s wet and warm and kind of trickling down my thigh, and that is not okay, and it has a smell, too, kind of yeasty, and that might be natural—I don’t know. I’ve never had cum on my leg before, and now my heart’s pounding, and my hands are balling into fists, and I don’t dare open my eyes to see just how bad it is because it’s so damn bright in this room—

Smooth plastic slides behind my ears. “You lost these.”

I blink. And breathe. “There’s cum on my leg,” I bite out.

He swipes my thigh with his forearm. The flannel seems to mop most of it up, enough so that I can flop off Heavy in a graceless dismount and stumble a few feet away. He pushes up to sitting.

“I need a shower.” Nothing is dripping anymore, but the cum was on my skin, and there’s no way I’m checking, but I bet it’s tacky to the touch.

“I feel so cheap,” he says. I hesitate in the door to the bathroom. He’s joking.

That dress is bunched in a glittery heap on the tile floor. I kick it out the door with my toe.

“I’m not wearing that,” I announce in the direction of the giant lounging on the bed before I firmly shut the door.