Madeline Sheehan - Unbeautifully

He pulled off near a cluster of trees and they walked side by side toward the river. Danny, who’d already kicked off her shoes, found a decent-sized rock to sit on, allowing her to run her feet through the rushing water. He pulled up on a patch of grass beside her and leaned back on his elbows. Now what?

He glanced at Danny. Hunched over, she stared sadly at the water below her. He felt for her; he knew shit wasn’t good at home because shit wasn’t good at the club either. Deuce was lately either a raging psychopath who preferred punching over talking, or he was brooding silently with a bottle. And everyone knew why.

Eva motherfucking Fox.

He hated Eva. He straight up hated her. Not just because she’d been married to the asshole who’d sliced up his face and body, and every time he looked at her all he could see was Frankie. Not just because when they’d finally found Frankie, it was because of Eva that they couldn’t kill him. Not just because Frankie had killed a whole shitload of people trying to get to Eva, putting the entire club and everyone in it in danger.

No, he hated Eva for all of it. As far as he was concerned, Eva getting raped and kidnapped, being forced to kill Frankie, it had been what she’d deserved for being such a fucking moron. But he kept his feelings to himself. Had for years.

Both Deuce and Cox had fallen hard for those two New York bitches, and while they were both smoking hot, he just didn’t understand the concept of being head-over-heels crazy for a woman. Not when you could just replace one bitch with another when she pissed you the fuck off, and be done with all the drama and bullshit. And Eva Fox had come with a whole lot of bullshit. Bullshit and baggage, and a fucking sick and twisted serial killer for a husband.

Everything bad in all their lives came back to that bitch. Why Deuce hadn’t dumped her a long time ago, he’d never understand. So they had a kid together. Who fucking cared? The guy had two kids with that cunt Christine and he’d tossed her to the curb. Hopefully he’d be doing the same with Eva. As it was they weren’t speaking, weren’t spending any time together. Eva rarely came to the club anymore and Deuce was always there.

One could only hope.

Pulling his flask from the inside of his cut, he took a long swallow.

“Can I have some?”

He cut his eyes her way and grinned.

“Baby, your old man would kill me.”

“Doubt it,” she muttered. “He doesn’t seem to care about anything lately.”

…annnnnnd, that was just another reason to hate Eva.

What the hell? It was her prom night and she was spending it on a rock with a Freddy Krueger look-alike. She deserved a little pick-me-up. He handed her the flask and pulled out a fresh roll for himself.

“You think my dad and Eva will work it out?” she asked.

He shrugged. He hoped to god not. But Danny liked Eva. Fuck, everyone liked Eva. Everyone except him.

“You never know,” he muttered.

She sighed and took another swallow of tequila, following it with a slight cough and a grimace. Way to go, Danny.

“They love each other though…right?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

He snorted. “Loved my parents. Love ridin’. Love the club. Ain’t never loved a woman though. Not enough to be puttin’ up with the shit your old man puts up with from Eva.” He shrugged and took another hit. “Ain’t no woman worth a damn is gonna love a face like this anyway,” he said, his voice wheezy as he held the smoke in for a beat before blowing it out.

He felt Danny’s hand on his and realized she’d climbed off the rock and was sitting next to him.

“Ripper,” she said softly. “There isn’t anything wrong with the way you look.”

“Yeah,” he said sarcastically, pulling away. “I’m a fuckin’ supermodel.”

“Ripper, you’re still beautiful,” she continued. “So you’ve got some scars. So what?”

He stared at her; her sweetheart features, her big blue eyes, her cute little nose, and those wide pink lips. What the fuck had she just said to him? He was beautiful? Ha-ha. No, he wasn’t. She was beautiful, and seeing as she thought he was beautiful, she was apparently dumb as shit too.

“Baby,” he said. “Listen to me. I ain’t beautiful, you are. You’re so damn beautiful you got it spillin’ out all over the place, blindin’ you into thinkin’ I’m beautiful when I ain’t. Farthest thing from it.”

Her lips parted and her eyes went wide and his world stopped. It just fucking stopped. Crashed into a brick wall and went utterly still.

He knew that look. He’d seen it a hundred times on a hundred different women. Women he’d been trying to talk his way into fucking and had finally found the bullshit line that had broken through. But seeing that same look on Danny… Danny.

“Thank you,” she whispered and for a moment they just stared at each other.

“Here,” he muttered, handing her his roll. “Enough talking.”

Because, shit, Danny wasn’t pussy he should be scoping. Danny was Deuce’s daughter. A bullet to the head.

Before he could stop her, she took a long drag and he ended up pounding on her back as she choked through her exhale.

“Shorter drags,” he said, taking his roll back. “Like this.”

An hour later he was higher than a motherfucker and Danny was…

“I wanna go swimming.” Danny giggled, trying to stand up.

He shook his head, laughing. “Swimming drunk is never a good…”

He trailed off; one, because Danny was taking her clothes off, and two, because Danny was taking her clothes off.

He stared.

And he just kept on staring.

Stared at nothing but miles of smooth, suntanned skin and sleek, toned muscles and her tits… Jesus, he was certain he had never seen a pair of more perfect tits. Handfuls of high and tight flesh topped with quarter-sized brown nipples.

She was blonde. Everywhere.

His brain slid straight to his cock.

Wait, she was saying something…

“What?” he asked, refocusing on her face.

“I said,” she slurred, “let’s go swimming!” She bent over, her breasts now mere inches from his face, and held out her hand to him.

Suddenly, his half-baked brain cells in collaboration with his cock decided that, yeah, swimming was a great idea.

“Rock and fuckin’ roll,” he muttered, grabbing her hand.

Ripper’s eyes flew open and he jackknifed into a sitting position, his head whipping left and right as his hands patted down his naked body.

Naked?

Fuck.

He’d passed out at the lake.

Fuck.

He glanced beside him.

FUCK.

And all at once his memories came back, slapping him in the face, each one harder and more painful than the last.

He looked down at his flaccid cock. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve just fucked yourself to death.”

I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Did I look different?

No. Still blonde. Still blue-eyed. I still looked like me. But I definitely felt…different.

I felt sore and used and…delicious.

And every time I closed my eyes…

My head fell back as he took my breast between his teeth and sucked it inside his mouth, sucking, pulling, biting. Then his hand was between my legs and one finger was up inside me, then two, then I was gripping his head, whimpering, rocking my body back and forth over his hand.

My sex clenched in response to my thoughts and I slumped backward against the wall, feeling the overwhelming urge to touch myself.

His hips were between my thighs and I could feel him, right where I’d wanted him, hard and ready, pushing inside of me. Grabbing his face, I kissed him, kissed him hard and deep, stroking my tongue against his, sucking and nipping his lips, pouring everything I had into it and…

It had been like nothing I’d ever experienced before, not that I’d experienced much, but this…this was something I’d never dreamed existed.

…we came together in a frantic rush of skin and limbs, my magnitude of need an all-consuming burn that I needed…needed…god, I just needed all of him, touching all of me.

I’d never felt like that before, the wanting, not to that magnitude—that incredible burning heat and desire. Maybe it had been the alcohol, maybe it had been Ripper. Ripper. I’d had sex with Ripper.

It was surreal, it was confusing, it was…

His hands were all over me, everywhere at once, making his way up and down my body. He was kneading, grabbing, and squeezing, making me cry out as he relentlessly pushed my limits of pain and pleasure, soothing my cries with sweet kisses and soft caresses and then more pain and more pleasure, and more pleasure, harder and faster, until my skin was burning, my muscles quivering, my insides clenching, and I was clawing at Ripper’s body while he clawed at mine, taking me hard and fast and harder and faster, until I forgot where I was, forgot who I was, and just felt…all of it.

It certainly hadn’t been anything like the one and only other time I’d had sex, junior year, with my one and only boyfriend that I’d had for one entire week before my father scared him off. Something he still denies doing. But during that week I’d managed to lose my virginity in the woods behind school, which had been horrible, and not just because I’d been lying on sticks and wet leaves but because he hadn’t known what he was doing either and…ugh.

But with Ripper…

Holy crap.

The ride home had been awkward. In fact, everything after I’d woken up had been awkward. He wouldn’t make direct eye contact with me and when he spoke, his sentences were short, his words clipped, not saying any more than he absolutely had to.

I knew he regretted it and probably wanted to forget it had ever happened, and I couldn’t blame him for that. If my father ever found out, Ripper would be in serious trouble and I would probably end up locked in the basement for the rest of my life.

But even knowing all of that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About him.

About how he’d felt…inside of me.

Sated, I was lying naked in the grass; beside me, sitting up, Ripper lit a cigarette. Glancing down, he jerked his chin upward and grinned at me. “Ready for round two?”

My breath left me even as I smiled.

“Please,” I whispered and his expression changed. Hardened, tightened with hunger the likes of which I’d never seen on a man before. At least, not on a man looking at me.

“Ain’t like I was actually gonna give you a choice,” he said, maneuvering himself between my already spread legs. His roughened hand ran up my body, pausing at my breasts to squeeze and roll, before it wrapped around my throat.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, with my hand pressed against my belly, my eyelids fluttering, breathing shallowly, just remembering the night before when—without warning—my bedroom door flew open and I jolted upright.

Flushing with mortification, I came face-to-face with my father.

“Where’s Eva?” he demanded.

I gaped at him. “Knock much? What if I’d been changing?”

He grunted. “You weren’t, so who cares? Where’s Eva?”

Exasperated, I threw my hands up in the air. “How should I know? I’m not her babysitter! She doesn’t tell me where she’s going!”

His eyes narrowed. “Did she come home last night?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I was at prom,” I bit out.

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

Then his brows went back down and his eyes narrowed. “Wait, are you saying you didn’t come home at all?”

Oh, so now he cared. After months and months of not giving a crap about where I was or what I was doing, he suddenly did.

I folded my arms across my chest and gave him an identical, narrow-eyed stare. “I came home pretty late,” I said. “I didn’t check to see if Eva was home.”

“What’s pretty late?” he growled.

Oh, that was it. I’d had it. He couldn’t just waltz in here after nine months of being both emotionally and physically absent and suddenly start demanding details of my life.