The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(61)

I want him to tumble with me.

I want to know what that feels like.

I lock my legs around his hips, biting down on his thumb, and I witness the moment Alex gives himself over to it. His eyes flash, and then he’s falling on top of me, crushing me to him, driving himself deeper and deeper, faster and faster…

“Shit. I’m going to…I’m gonna fucking…”

“Come. Fucking come, Silver,” he snarls into my ear. “Do it right now. I wanna feel you throbbing around my dick.”

All it takes is his command. I hurtle headfirst into my climax, unable to breathe, unable to make a sound as an explosion of pleasure hits me with the force of a ten-ton truck. My back bows, and Alex holds onto me as I ride out the wave. Then he's roaring, the muscles in his arms straining, and he's coming too, crushing the life out of me as we move against one another.

It seems as though it takes a long time to come down from the high. Eventually, though, when we can breathe again, Alex rolls onto his side and then onto his back, pulling me with him. I lie on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow, and the feeling of his hand as he lazily strokes my hair is almost hypnotic.

“Is this the part where you pretend you’re late for something, make your excuses and you leave?” I whisper.

Alex huffs out a shallow, soft burst of laughter. “No, Dolcezza. This is the part when I realize you’ve stolen my fucking soul and I have no chance of ever getting it back.”

I laugh, too. “So, not leaving then.”

“Nope.”

I trace my fingers over his chest, following the lines of his tattoos, enjoying the warmth of the fire on my own skin. His torso is covered in ink, a large shield-like design spanning across his pecs, following the line of his collar bone. Sweeping down over his side, the top of his shoulder and down his left arm, a long, scaled body of a creature winds, convincing and lifelike. Sharp thorny vines wind intricately from his right arm, around his neck, down across his stomach, weaving in between what looks like a woman on her knees, praying.

“I promised you the nickel tour, didn't I?” he asks softly. “I suppose now's as good a time as any. Come on.” I don't want to get up. This moment is far too perfect, but Alex seems intent as he gets up, holding out his hand to help me to my feet. By the window, he displays his hands palm-down, showing me the wolf and the rose inked there. “This is me,” he says, indicating to the wolf. “And this is my mom. All of the roses are for her.” He's given her his right hand, as well as his entire right arm. “She was soft, like flowers. Beautiful.” He runs his own fingers over the vines, his eyes distant. “She had her sharp edges, too, though. Her own demons that plagued her.”

It looks like the vines that represent those demons are wrapped around Alex’s throat, as if they could press in and strangle the life out of him at any moment. “Is that why…?” I can’t bring myself to ask if that’s why she killed herself. Alex seems to understand my half question, though.

He nods. “She had these manic episodes. They'd last for days. She'd have so much energy, running around the house, cooking, singing, cleaning. She'd take us on these crazy adventures, walking miles and miles with us through the rain and the snow. She'd take us into Walmart and ask me to look after Ben while she got something, then she'd forget she'd even brought us there and leave. The grocery store. An auto shop once. She was always forgetting us places. She'd feel so bad afterward that she'd sink into these black moods, smashing shit, tearing the apartment up, screaming at the top of her lungs. Once that part was over, she'd get into bed, and she wouldn't get out for days. She was never diagnosed as far as I can tell, but I'm pretty sure she was bi-polar. I read when I was a kid that it's genetic. That sixty to eighty percent of cases are hereditary. I used to scare myself shitless, wondering if I was going to turn out like her, but…” He arches one eyebrow. “I can't even be sure that's what she had. And I've never displayed any of the same behaviors she did, and I've been keeping an eye out for them, believe me.”

He shrugs, moving on, pointing out the tattoo of a spartan, shield and drawn swords on his other arm. “This is pretty self-explanatory. My Roman roots.” He plants a hand against his chest. “This, too. It's the Moretti family crest. My own interpretation, I guess. I added the skulls and the engine parts.”

I see the mechanical-looking elements now, as I look closer. The skulls, too, laughing and macabre. Different flowers bloom from the gaps in between, and red, and blue, and green—the only splashes of color in the otherwise black designs.

“Cobweb on my elbow,” he says, lifting his arm, frowning a little ruefully. “Got that in juvie. Kinda wish I hadn’t. And this,” he says, stroking a finger across the scaled tail of the creature that’s wrapped around his body, “is the Lord of the North Wind, Bahamut.”

“Unusual name.”

“From Arabic mythology. Misappropriated, but who gives a fuck. He’s a bannerman for the weak and downtrodden. A safe refuge. Also, takes no shit,” he says, grinning. “He’s pretty badass, but he metes out justice if you fuck up.”

“Where’s the rest of him?”

Alex's quirked eyebrow rises even higher as he turns around. There, the front half of a beautiful, somber-looking dragon has been tattooed between his shoulder blades—elaborate, with swirls and curlicues, yet incredibly masculine. Above the dragon, in darker, older ink, is the word ‘Fearless.’