Placing my hands on her shoulders, completely fucking dwarfing her small frame, I walked her backward till the backs of her knees hit the bed.
She fell, sprawling onto the covers, a small laugh escaping.
Meadow’s laugh was nothing like Cleo’s. It was all kinds of wrong and almost threatened to kill my hard-on.
My mouth ached to kiss; my tongue wanted nothing more than to taste. But not this woman. Not a whore who I didn’t want. Only the girl from my past.
The first time I’d kissed Cleo—the first time I’d broken my stupid rules and let her win—I’d known. My fate was sealed to hers and she had power over me more than anyone.
She would’ve given me her virginity in that wonderful afternoon, but I’d stopped. I’d been a fucking idiot and thought we had forever.
Instead, here I was about to fuck a stranger just because I had to get her out of my mind once and for all. My past was dead to me.
She had to be, too.
“Do you have a condom?” My voice was rough, angry.
Meadow nodded, pulling a packet from her cleavage. I stole it from her fingers. It was warm and the rubber inside slipped like disgusting slime against the foil. Placing it on the bedspread in easy reach, I growled, “On your knees.”
I couldn’t do this looking into her eyes.
I swallowed hard. Goddammit.
I’d survived almost five years in a penitentiary without thinking of her, yet the moment I got out and saw the gift she’d given me all those years ago, I couldn’t stop her invasion.
You’re cheating on her.
I wasn’t.
I couldn’t cheat on her.
She’s dead.
Meadow rolled onto her knees, wriggling her ass, hoisting her tight dress past her hips to her waist. She wasn’t wearing underwear. She spread her legs for me, just like she had for the twenty members of the Corrupts.
My teeth locked at the blatant display of female body parts. I could fucking stare all day.
My cock didn’t care that this woman wasn’t Cleo. It didn’t care that she’d been a permanent fixture serving the men who’d betrayed Wallstreet.
All it cared about was fixing a problem. Leaving boyhood for my new future.
Unbuckling my jeans, I slipped the heavy denim to my ankles. I still wasn’t used to the scratch against my legs after the well-worn cotton of jumpsuits at Florida State.
I didn’t bother touching her or myself.
Grabbing the condom, I tore it open, screwed my face up at how gross the fucking thing felt, and rolled it awkwardly down my length.
“Move back,” I growled.
Meadow immediately obeyed, inching her ass backward, wetness glistening between her thighs. My hands landed on her hips, positioning her exactly where I wanted.
She looked over her shoulder, hazel eyes glowing with lust. “You don’t want me to suck you? Don’t you want to fool around a bit first?”
Hell no.
Anger popped in my blood; I couldn’t help myself. Grabbing her chin, I forced her head to face the mattress. “Don’t look at me.”
Don’t look at me with eyes that make me hate myself. Don’t make me miss her any more than I already do.
I should’ve been gagging for this. I should’ve been panting and so fucking happy at having a willing woman on her knees about to take my cock, but all I could focus on was the guilt-ridden heart inside my chest.
Godddammit, stop it.
“Give me your hands.”
She obeyed without question and I used my discarded belt to tie her wrists together. Now she couldn’t touch me either. I might fuck her but I would never seek comfort from her. Comfort I didn’t fucking deserve.
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed my cock and positioned myself at her entrance.
Her back tensed, her fingers opening and closing in the confines.
The moment stretched, anticipation sparking in my blood.
Then I slammed home.
Possibly too hard, probably too fast. I didn’t know—I had no fucking experience. But Meadow didn’t seem to care. Her head flew back as I pulled out and drove in again.
“Oh God,” she moaned as I moved inside her, testing, learning.
Her heat was subtle, her wetness hidden from me thanks to the condom, but the action of filling a woman like I hadn’t done before was enough to make me stop thinking of Cleo and throw myself into my first-ever fuck.
That night, when the compound had finally quieted, and I’d showered off the three rounds of sex I’d indulged in, I got up the guts to pull the Libra eraser from my jeans pocket.
I flopped onto my back glaring at the ceiling of my cell… I meant room. I’d only been here a few hours, but I already hated living at the Clubhouse. It was ridiculous. A bunch of grown men all living together. What happened to freedom and our own space? What happened to disinfectant and a vacuum cleaner? What happened to family and love?
The eraser was too heavy—too knowing—in my fingers. It was the sign for justice. The sign for right and wrong. And also my star sign. Go fucking figure. Hadn’t known until she’d told me.
Serendipitous, really—turned out my personality matched, too. She’d told me she was a Sagittarius. That she wasn’t meant to love someone who wasn’t a Capricorn or an Aries. But she’d make an exception just for me.
We’d lay on the roof of the garage where a bunch of Harleys, Hondas, and Triumphs were bedded down for the night. She’d whispered the traits of a Libran.
She rolled to face me, tracing my face with her gentle fingers. “You’re graceful.”