The Certainty of Violet & Luke(31)

Slanting back, I guide her with me until we’re both standing up straight. She looks like she’s going to protest, but I back her up against the wall and lower my lips, licking up the water on her tattoo, just like I wanted to. She moans, relaxing under the touch of my tongue as it travels up her body, taste her flesh until I reach her mouth and crash my lips to hers. Her good hand grips at the back of my neck, pulling me close as my tongue searches every part of her mouth.

‘Luke,’ she groans, her leg lifting up and hitching around my waist. Something snaps inside me and every part of my body wants to be connected to her.

We haven’t had sex since the thing at the police station happened. I’m not sure why, other than it seems like we’ve both been tangled in this emotional web of confusion and trying to figure out stuff.

‘Tell me it’s okay,’ I whisper against her lips.

She doesn’t respond with words, instead rocking her hips against mine and moaning. ‘It’s more than okay.’

My fingers slide up her leg, grip her thigh, grasping her tightly as I hitch her other leg around my waist. Her legs open up to me and her arms loop securely around the back of my neck. My lips collide with hers, pulling her nearer, our bodies aligned, but it feels like I need her closer.

She continues to kiss me, biting my bottom lip as I brace one of my hands against the wall and slide deep into her, our wet bodies colliding, our hips meeting rhythmically. Steam surrounds us, consumes us, makes it difficult to breath. The feel of her lips … her warmth … the inside of her … watching her head fall back and her eyes gloss over as she comes undone in my arms temporarily takes all the bad away and pushes me toward the edge. Moments later, I join her, struggling to hold us upright. We’re breathless, our chest crashing together with each breath we take.

‘That was …’ She trails off, breathing profusely.

‘Perfect,’ I finish for her.

‘Such a softy,’ she whispers. Usually she jokes when she says this, but now she just looks tired and kind of content.

I want to call her a softy, take the upper hand, because that’s what we do, back but I keep the remark to myself, figuring I don’t want to do anything to ruin this good moment.

A really, really rare, but good f*cking moment. If only I could find a way to make more of them.





Chapter 13


Violet


Things haven’t been that bad for the last couple of weeks and that’s saying something. I haven’t heard or gotten any surprise packages from Preston either and the texts have stopped. Mira Price is behind bars for now, something that I’ve wanted to happen since I was five. I’m still dealing with my visit to her on an emotional level, the cast on my arm constantly reminding me of what happened. But it’s strange. I’d been so angry and unstable at the police station, to the point that I’d broken my arm, but as the days go by, it almost feels like some of my internal scars are healing, right along with my broken wrist. I feel like a part of me was sort of set free in my outburst. Seeing Mira in that room, knowing she was there – knowing she’s still there – is a small bit of justice for my parents, if only they could just catch the other person. I know that it won’t bring them back and that’s still another thing I’m dealing with, but after the drowning incident I’m trying to avoid testing my life at the moment, choosing to live life I guess.

The detective called me into the station for a little chat the other day to give me an update, which was basically so he could inform me that Mira was being an uncooperative pain in the ass. He’s kept looking down at my casted arm and then suggested that maybe I should go see a therapist to help me go through this. I’d told him I was fine, since the idea of going and spilling my thoughts to someone is something I never wanted to go through. I remember the looks people used to give me when they found out I’d spent twenty-four hours in the house with my parents’ bodies.

Pity.

Horror.

Fear.

But it turns out I might not have a choice. The publicity of the entire thing has got the University involved and it was ‘recommended’ by my school advisor that I talk to their counselor. Already being on thin ice, I agreed and I have my first appointment today.

The woman sitting behind the desk when I walk into the office is a bit different than what I expected. She’s got fiery red hair, the kind you have to dye to make it look like that. And I can see a tattoo peeking out from the collar of her shirt. She’s dressed in a pant suit though and her hair is pulled up into a bun, like she’s half-business woman, half rebel, which kind of matches the dark but beautiful artwork she’s got hanging up on the walls.