ALL THE RAGE (writer: T.M. Frazier)(33)

So f*ckable.

I almost asked her if she’d ever touched a cock before. I wanted to ask her to tell me how she touched herself. Explain to me in great detail what she did to make herself come while I stroked my cock with her tiny hand. As much as it hurt to, I held back. I needed more time to crack through that shell of hers.

Which is why we had a date.

She didn’t know it yet, but Rage was about to become mine.

In every way.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




Rage


Small waves crashed up against the shore, leaving lines of grey foam behind each time the water slid back into the Gulf. The smell of salt was thick in the humid night air. The breeze was barely enough to rustle a few hairs out of place, but as it grew dark, it brought with it much cooler air that felt great in contrast with how hot it had been that day. The occasional couple holding hands passed by on the water’s edge. I watched as the last of the families packed up their coolers and blankets, wheeling and dragging their beach gear through the sand between the cottages, heading to one of the many pay-to-park car lots.

I’d been outside on the deck, people watching and leaning against the railing with Murray at my feet, when I heard the sliding glass door open and close and then his heavy steps on the old creaking wood. I felt him standing behind me. He didn’t touch me, but my body was entirely aware of his presence. His heat. He smelled fresh and clean from the shower, and when I turned around I noticed that his hair was still wet, slicked back behind his ears. Although he was wearing his usual dark brown flip-flops, it was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than board shorts. His faded jeans were slung low on his narrow hips, his untucked tight white T-shirt hugged his chest and biceps.

“Wow,” he said, looking me up and down. I bit my lip and tugged at the hem of my dress. I never traveled with more than what could fit comfortably in my bag, but had managed to trade my usual cut-off shorts for a simple white cotton sundress, which I kept stashed in there. It had a halter neckline, cut low in the front. It hugged the curve of my waist and flared out, stopping a few inches above my knee.

Nolan cleared his throat. “Come on, I want to show you something,” he said, grabbing my hand and leading me toward the steps.

Hands.

Hands are a funny thing. As infants, we are born sucking on our fingers for comfort. As adults, we use them to hold on to one another. To feel. To touch.

My time with Nolan was making me look at hands as something more than the dirtiest part of humans and the transfer point for disease. When he intertwined our fingers, the thoughts that used to be my first when touched, barely registered at all.

Cody and Smoke had been the only other people I’d ever been able to touch without cringing, but with them I never felt the jolt the way I did when Nolan touched me. I’d only known him for such a short period of time, and although I knew our arrangement was temporary, I let him hold my hand, telling myself that it was part of the rouse in order to get the information I needed.

When Murray saw that we were leaving without him, he whined in protest.

“It’s okay, boy. We’ll be back,” I told him.

“I’m actually thinking you’re starting to like him,” Nolan teased.

“That is something I will never confirm nor deny.” How I felt about Murray was still up in the air. Just because I scratched his stomach while we watched TV, took him on daily walks down the beach, bought him an array of different colored sparkling doggy bandanas from the pet section of the grocery store, and baked him specialty muffins for dogs, did not mean I actually liked the drooling little creature with his wonky eyes and dragon breath. (Although, the green toothbrush shaped treats I bought him would help clear that up.)

Nope, it didn’t mean I liked him. Not one single bit.

When Nolan started to descend the steps, I reached over the railing and grabbed one of his crutches. I pushed it into his free hand. He rolled his eyes. “Thanks Mom, but the doc said I’m okay to spend a little time crutch free.” He set the crutch back over the railing and continued leading me down the stairs to the sand below.

“Do you have to drag me everywhere?” I asked, not entirely unhappy at the warmth that spread through my arm as he clasped his big gorilla hand over mine, towing me around like a child with a rag doll. There was something about him holding my hand in his big strong one that I found oddly appealing. As much as I didn’t want to admit it to myself, I found myself looking forward to being his rag doll. “Where are we going?” I added as he led me over to the water’s edge. The idea of entering a natural body of water where I couldn’t see what was lurking underneath the surface made me freeze.

Nolan gave my hand a tug. “Don’t worry. We’re not going in there,” he assured me. “The sand is harder by the shore. It’s just easier for me to walk down here than it is through the dry sand. I know why you hate the gross pool, but don’t tell me you don’t like the Gulf either.”

“I like the Gulf, especially the parts where the water turns bright blue and looks like the waters of the Caribbean, but the parts of the beach where the water is darker, and especially at night, it’s not somewhere I want to venture. I just like to be able to see underneath the water,” I explained, ending my little story. “If it’s hard for you to walk out here we could have just walked on the street,” I said, turning back to the cottage, but was stopped short when Nolan didn’t budge and didn’t let go of my hand.