Breaking Her

The more he revealed, the more agitated he became, until at the end he was raising his voice. 

Gram held up a hand, and he quieted.  "I'll start asking around about all of this—Harris, the case.  I will get some answers, but I need you to stop getting into trouble.  You're only making it worse, Dante." 

"Harris was bothering me at school today," I defended him.  "Dante only got into trouble helping me." 

She studied us both, looking more ruffled than I'd ever seen her.  "Jesus.  What the hell is going on?"

That scared me more than anything.  If Gram didn't know what to do, the cause seemed completely lost. 

She took a few deep breaths and seemed to regain her composure.  "Like I said, I'm going to get some answers." 

I believed her and was comforted.           

And I believe she would have, if she'd had more time, but everything came to a head just two days later. 

I don't know just what Harris said to Dante, what seed he planted that troubled him so, but it took root quickly and flowered into this:  Dante believed that the only way my attacker would be arrested was if he went to find him personally. 

He left in the middle of third period, but I only found that out later.  I didn't even know he had gone at the time. 

When the news came, it was like a ripple moved through the school, information spreading like a furious gust of wind.  I was not the most social, as usual, and so I wasn't the first to hear.  I was blissfully ignorant for a few more minutes than the majority of the school, but when I heard the news, I was as shocked as everyone else was. 

Dante had been arrested for killing my attacker.      

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Never go to bed mad.  Stay up and fight."

~Phyllis Diller

PRESENT

DANTE

I woke up still on her sofa with a pounding headache and my cheek pillowed against a silky thigh.  It was almost enough to make my hard-on win out over my hangover.  Almost. 

And fingers, gentle, familiar fingers, stroking through my hair, lightly rubbing my temples. 

Was this real?  Was I dreaming she was tending to my hangover as if she didn't hate me? 

Was even my dream mind longing for her scraps?  What could be more pathetic than that? 

"Am I dreaming?" I mumbled into her skin.

"Do you usually dream about feeling like shit?  Because you look like shit." 

Almost was caving quickly to yes, please.  "Hangover," I murmured into her skin, turning my head to nuzzle, one curious hand sliding up her bare leg, trying without any conscious help from my brain, to figure out what she was or wasn't wearing. 

Pants, no.  Panties, yes, though they weren't much of a deterrent, and she wasn't resisting me, thank God.  I fingered her, and she shifted under my cheek, her thighs parting just the slightest bit. 

It was enough.   

I slid to the floor, going to my knees in front of her.

I made my way up her legs with my mouth, placing open-mouthed kisses against her thighs, spreading her legs wider as I moved higher, wedging my shoulders between.  I licked the tender flesh of her groin with quick, wet flicks of my tongue, rolling my eyes up to watch her reaction. 

She made a little noise, higher pitched than a groan, but more stifled than a mewl. 

I licked long and slow, right in that perfect little strip of skin at the very top of her inner thigh. 

She made the noise again.  I sucked her flesh into my mouth, drawing hard, until she gripped my hair and cried out my name.  

I smiled and went down on her, spreading her legs wide, pushing the tiny scrap of lace to the side, and kissing her, licking her, driving my tongue into her until I had her clawing mindlessly at my shoulders, just losing it, begging me to stop, to fuck her, to let up with my tongue. 

But I couldn't stop, wouldn't stop.  My entire life was out of my control, but this, her body, her pleasure, was mine.

She let me get her off, but the second she was done, she was up, moving away from me, agitated hands scraping her hair back from her face. 

I was still wiping my mouth as I studied her.  She was wearing the shirt she'd worn earlier but that was it.  No bra, no shoes, makeup scrubbed clean.

"How long have I been out?" I asked her.

"A while," she answered, still out of breath but trying to hide it, one hand braced against the counter, the other on her hip.  Her back was to me.  "I'm done shooting for the day."  She moved to the trailer's small coffee bar and I watched her silently, eating up her every move as she began to brew a cup.

When I realized she was making it for me, prepping it exactly how I took it, my heart did a slow, painful turn in my chest. 

What the hell was going on?  Why was she being so civil?  

It undid me faster and more thoroughly than her hostility ever could have. 

Perhaps that was why. 

She reached up into one of the tiny overhead cabinets and fished something out. 

I heard more than saw the rattling bottle of pills, because my eyes were preoccupied with every inch of skin she revealed as she reached up. 

I shifted uncomfortably, and it was only as I did so that I realized my clothes were off.  She must have stripped me while I slept, leaving me in nothing but my boxer briefs. 

She brought me two ibuprofen and the just right cup of coffee.  I thanked her, eyes devouring her face, but she wouldn't look at me, instead giving the barest nod and turning away again.