Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(14)

Sometimes, though, he lost the ability to do right by Abby in his imagination. Once, after spending an entire day in her company, he hadn’t even made it home before pulling over his truck and beating off to a picture of her on his phone. He’d taken it that day, trying to capture her smile as she flopped back on the grass in Washington Square Park. But her dress had inched up at the last minute, and he’d gotten a flash of the pink-lace thong between her thighs, immortalizing the image on his phone. It had felt so wrong touching himself to the picture, but the wrong felt so good, and he’d kept going. And going. Until he’d been mentally on top of her in the grass, feeding inches into her, taking her roughly for everyone to see. So damn wrong. He’d made it three weeks before breaking down on fantasizing about going that far with her again.

This? This was no fantasy. He should have damn well known, too, because it blasted anything his imagination had ever conjured right out of the water. Lust had him by the throat, and maintaining his focus on not f*cking Abby was all he could manage. At some point, he needed to remove his aching dick from between her perfect little ass cheeks and pull her goddamn skirt back down. How had this happened? How had it gotten this far?

Everything came back to him in a rush. Abby’s falling asleep, her hand eventually coming to rest on his belly, giving him wood for days. His reaching for the bottle of tequila, hoping it would alleviate his condition and take away the residual fear left over from today’s near disaster, but the liquor’s only succeeding in knocking him out. Then he’d woken up with Abby on her knees, him dry-humping her gorgeous, off-limits ass. No, there was more. More. More, Russell. Please. He hadn’t imagined her moaning those words. Hadn’t imagined her coming in his hand. Had he?

Fuck. The memory caused the oxygen to vacate his lungs—his cock to surge harder against his fly—and he fell forward onto her back. It had been real this time. He’d touched her *. Her clit. Might have gone further if he hadn’t . . . if he hadn’t . . .

Russell’s eyes flew open, and he lunged off the bed, away from Abby. The sight of her kneeling with her ass up in the air was too much, so he spun around and faced the wall. But not before the image branded itself onto his brain for the rest of his lifetime. He’d never recover. Never. Especially not from the angry, red handprint on her unblemished skin.

“Jesus, Abby. I’m sorry. I’m so f*cking sorry.” He raked both hands down his face, picturing her traumatized expression. Unbelievable. He’d spanked a virgin and suggested an act she had zero familiarity with. Great job, *. If she never spoke to him again, he’d be lucky. Every time she looked at him now, there would be irrevocable knowledge. He’d never anticipated Abby’s knowing he preferred sex to be hard. Aggressive. Why would she need to know? He’d never planned to touch her. “I thought I was dreaming. I can’t believe . . . I laid hands on you like that. Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.” He heard what sounded like Abby fixing her clothing, shifting on the bed. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I-I . . .”

Russell turned around to find Abby sitting cross-legged, hands in her lap. His masculine pride rejected her confession until he remembered the way she’d encouraged him. More, Russell. Please. He hadn’t imagined her ass writhing around on his lap, either. That had been real. “Did you ask me to stop at any point, Abby? At any point. Tell me the truth.” He held his breath, aware that if she said yes, he’d want to die but needing to know nonetheless. When she shook her head, pink rushing over her neck and cheeks, he fell back against the wall.

“I knew you were dreaming, and I let it happen,” she whispered.

He swallowed the growl trying to burst from his throat. She’d just confirmed her active participation, and his unsatisfied body demanded he approach the bed, flip her back over, and resume what they’d started. Fight it, man. This is Abby. Still, he couldn’t let his curiosity go unchecked. “Why did you let it happen?”

A slight hesitation. “It felt good. Really good.” She wet her lips, as if her honest confession wasn’t temptation enough to withstand. He’d made her feel good. Fuck yes. If needed, he could live off that knowledge for the rest of his life. “I know that’s not an excuse, though. I took advantage of you.”

His pride took a nosedive. “All right,” he scoffed. “Let’s not get crazy.”

Her nod was firm. “It’s true.”

“Abby, could you try not to completely crush my ego, here? I’m twice your size.” He cracked his neck. “Not to mention, I—you know what I did.”

“You called me angel. You’ve never called me that before.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.” His throat hurt in a way he couldn’t explain. He’d slapped her ass—left a goddamn mark—and she was fixated on his calling her a nickname. A secret nickname he never used out loud but one that fit her perfectly. It felt as if he’d been holding back something important from her. Just that one word.

The direction his thoughts were taking was dangerous. This was how mountains eroded. One tiny crack in the foundation, and the whole thing flattened in an epic dust cloud, obscuring what had been there in the first place. You can’t have this girl. He’d known that since he’d laid eyes on her, since she’d opened her mouth, and beautiful innocence had floated out, so at odds with the freak show in his mind. The foggy yet brutal memories of his past, coupled with the surge of sexual dominance she brought to the surface. That had been before he’d found out about her endless supply of money, which had sealed the deal. He couldn’t provide for Abby, and, therefore, he couldn’t try.