Havoc at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #1) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,47
such a big deal when you don’t know if you’ll even make it through your twenties.
“You brought me here to think?” I ask, and Victor laughs again, shaking his head like I'm just too much. He rakes his fingers through that purple-dark hair and turns to look at me, his gaze so open and direct that I'm not sure how long I can put up with it. This man, he's buried in secrets, and yet he looks at me like he's an open book. What am I supposed to make of that?
“What else? You think I brought you here to fuck?”
“You read my mind,” I quip back, lifting my cigarette in salute.
The look he gives me is pure hell.
“You think if I wanted to fuck you sooner, I couldn't do it?” he asks me, and I stiffen up as he moves closer, tracing the edge of my leather jacket with a finger. “You belong to us now, Bernadette. You're a Havoc girl. There's no reason for me to drive forty minutes out of the way to have you.”
My jaw clenches and I flick my cigarette over the edge, not caring if it starts a forest fire. What does it matter? I want my whole life to burn.
“The anticipation is making me sick; I just want to get it over with.”
“No,” Vic snaps, his entire mood darkening, violence edging into that one word. “You're not just going to get it over with.” I turn to face him and find him watching me with that inexplicable gaze of his, an impossibility, a puzzle without a solution. “No. That's not how it's going to be between us, Bernadette Blackbird.” He takes another step toward me, cupping my face in a huge, inked hand. The smell of him poisons me in the best way possible, this smoky amber and musk scent that makes my body feel like a traitor. It's always been that way though, me against my body. This stupid fucking body that's only ever bought me pain. Why does it hurt to hate yourself so much?
“How is it going to be then?” I ask, realizing suddenly that I'm holding back tears. I never wanted to be pretty; it was a curse that was thrust on me. But I've suffered so much because of it, I figure why not? Why not put on mascara and lipstick and leather? Why not, why not, why not?
The monsters come anyway—whether you wear short skirts or sweats. A sob gets caught somewhere in my throat, stifled and drowned out when Vic tilts my chin up to face him, his eyes a dark impossibility, his mouth a slash of definitive heat.
“You're going to love every moment of it, Bernadette. We need each other, you and me.”
“How do you figure?” I ask, my voice rough and broken. Just like his. He's broken, too. Maybe that's it, why he thinks we need each other?
The smirk he gives me is cocksure and definite: Victor knows what he's doing to me, how wet I am, how tight my body is clenching in anticipation of his touch.
“I need a way to let my demons out, and you need a way to confront them.” He cups the back of my neck with a tattooed hand and tastes me. That's what it is, both more and less than a simple kiss.
My hands fists in the front of Vic's black wifebeater, and all the blood in my body rushes to my head, making me dizzy. Victor's kiss is exquisite torture, a moment torn from the timeline of my life that I can never get back. It both hurts and excites me, all at once.
I offered my body to get my revenge.
I didn't expect to get anything else along with it, but it feels like I'm getting more than I bargained for. Much, much more.
His tongue takes over everything, leaving me aching, reaching, wanting more. Heat sears between our slanted lips as I arch my back and press into him. It only lasts a few seconds, but it could go on for an eternity, and I wouldn't know how to process it.
Vic releases me suddenly, and I stumble back. I don’t mean to; it just happens. I can’t seem to find my feet or my breath. Lifting my eyes up, I meet his, as dark as obsidian, as endless as the night sky without the stars. He looks at me then with that cold, business-like expression burning away all the passion of the moment before.