Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone Page 10

  “You—you— I should have known you wouldn’t listen.” She sputtered then whirled and stomped out of the office.

  “She’s amazing,” Carter said on an exhaled breath.

  “No,” I said.

  “Angry fuck,” Carter replied, his gaze locked onto Jo’s retreating backside.

  “Carter.” I cocked my head, glaring.

  One side of his mouth curled up like a comma. “See you later, brother.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder and sprinted toward the elevator. “Hope you work things out.”

  I scrubbed a hand through my hair and sank into my chair, uncertain what had just happened. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to see more of Bronte, and I was willing to go the extra mile to make it happen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bronte

  Rhett knocked on my apartment door at exactly eight o’clock Saturday evening. I appreciated his punctuality almost as much as I appreciated his faded blue jeans and cable knit sweater.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as he opened the car door for me.

  “You’ll see,” he said, smirking. “It’s a surprise.”

  “I don’t like surprises.” The muscles in my chest tightened. When he’d said to dress casually, I’d assumed we were going to his apartment for dinner and a movie. Fear of the unknown kicked my OCD into overdrive. I counted the number of my heartbeats before he spoke. Two. An even number and therefore a positive sign.

  “You’ll like this one.” He crossed around the front of the car and took his seat behind the wheel. Instead of starting the engine, he turned to face me. “You can trust me on this, Bronte. You’re going to love it. At least, I think you will. And there won’t be anyone there but us and one other person.”

  “Okay.” Some of the tension eased out of my body. More than anything, I wanted to believe in him. If we were going to be friends, I had to have faith that he’d do the right thing.

  “You look great tonight, by the way.” His stare started a flurry of butterflies in my belly. I’d worn my hair loose, letting it cascade down my back, and a pair of my favorite jeans. “I like this.” He tugged on a lock of my hair. The butterflies doubled speed.

  “Thanks. I hope this is okay.”

  “Perfect.”

  Unlike most women, I had no idea how to put together an attractive outfit. The intricacies of fashion eluded me, so I tried to recreate styles out of magazines, using Pinterest as a guide. Once I’d saved a little money, I’d hired a personal shopper to put together a basic wardrobe suitable for my lifestyle. Apparently, she’d done well.

  I liked watching him drive, the way he gripped the wheel in his large hands, his confidence as he maneuvered through Saturday evening traffic. The sun hovered on the horizon, basking the city in a golden glow. He dropped a hand to the gearshift. His fingertips grazed my thigh. I clamped my legs together to ease the sweet ache between them.

  “You make driving look easy,” I said.

  He shifted gears and crossed two lanes to enter the freeway. “It is easy.” A sexy sideways glance caused my heart to stutter, and arousal pulsed through my body. “You don’t know how to drive?”

  “No. Dad was always afraid it would be too stressful for me.”

  “Stressful for you or stressful for him?” Rhett raised an eyebrow.

  “Both, I think.” His question made me realize that a lot of Dad and Jo’s fears were based more on their own needs than mine. “I don’t really need to know how. I can take a bus or cab anywhere I want to go, but I want to learn.” I couldn’t imagine how it felt to be able to go anywhere, anytime, without relying on someone else to get me there. It was a skill I’d always envied.

  “Why don’t you take lessons? Or I could teach you.”

  “I couldn’t ask you that.”

  “Sure. I taught my younger brother to drive, and he’s an Indy car racer now.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but he thinks he is.” He parked the car behind an unfamiliar building. “Ready?”

  His hand slid into mine. The palm of his hand was rough, his grip gentle. I relaxed, letting my fingers curl around his. We crossed the parking lot. Rhett knocked on the back door of one of the establishments. A woman greeted us. Her kind eyes and genuine smile put me at ease. We followed her down a dark corridor. Rhett never let go of my hand.

  The final door swung open. I blinked against the light then inhaled a sharp breath. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating white walls. The room smelled of sugar and confectionary delights. In the center of a whitewashed antique table sat an enormous chocolate fountain. Colorful bouquets of fruit-tipped dipping sticks clustered in glass vases. Alabaster china plates held squares of cakes, cookies, and brownies.

  “It’s for you.” Rhett squeezed my hand. “What do you think?”

  “You did this for me?” My voice was a breathy whisper. Tears stung my eyes. No one had ever done anything like this. I let go of his hand to trail fingertips along the white lace tablecloth.

  “We’ve got two hours to stuff ourselves,” Rhett said. “Let’s get to it.”

  I used to dream about being a normal girl, about having a boyfriend, getting married, and raising a family. At the age of thirteen, those fantasies went down the toilet when a child psychologist diagnosed me with mild spectrum autism and Asperger’s. The school put me into a group of mentally handicapped children and labeled me. Over the years, I’d been called gifted and talented, intellectually disabled, and special. Only special in this case meant weird or different. To me, the word defined a world of loneliness.

  Rhett didn’t seem to care that I counted the cracks in the sidewalk as we walked from the parking garage to his apartment. He laughed when I hopped over the grates in the concrete and joined me by sidestepping the metal contraptions. “Those things have always freaked me out,” he said.

  We stopped at his place so he could change shirts. I’d accidentally dropped a chocolate-covered cheesecake bite on his shirt, but he never complained about the dark brown splotch on his chest. His apartment was dark and messy. My fingers itched to straighten the crooked painting on the wall and align the pillows on the sofa. Instead, I clasped my hands behind my back and wandered the living room. The apartment had a decidedly feminine undertone in the floral curtains and color scheme, completely out of character for the man I knew.

  He came out of his bedroom a few seconds later, shirtless. I bit my lower lip and tried not to gawk at the rippled expanse of his abdomen or the dark trail of hair leading from his navel into the waistband of his jeans. His muscles bunched as he drew a black T-shirt over his head and down over his chest.

  “Want something to drink?” he asked, heading to the kitchen. “I’ve got water and beer. Not much else.”

  “Water is fine.” I followed him to the refrigerator and watched him remove two bottles of water. “Thank you for tonight.”

  “You’re welcome.” He removed the screw top from one of the bottles before passing it to me. Our fingertips grazed, sending a small electrical thrill up my arm. “You handled the surprise well.”

  “I did.” We shared a smile. This night had hosted a handful of tiny breakthroughs. I’d survived the surprise of the chocolate shop, held hands with a hot guy, and resisted the urge to rearrange his apartment.

  “It’s the least I could do. I think this night deserves a toast.” He lifted his water bottle into the air like a champagne glass. “To all your successes. May this be the first of many more.”

  We touched bottles and took a sip. An awkward silence followed. Rhett set his water on the counter and took a step toward me. His eyes darkened, their focus dipping to my mouth. I searched for a topic to fill the quiet but came up short. His second step brought him within inches of me. My heart pounded.

  “Have you been to the new museum on Ninety-Ninth Street? I heard they have a Game of Thrones exhibit this month. I’d like to go but it’s all the way on the other side of the city, and I’d have
to ride, like, five buses to get there. It would take all day, but I’m sure it would be worth the trip. I looked up the tickets online. They’re sixty dollars. It’s expensive but…” Rhett kept his stare locked with mine. My hands began to tremble.

  “Bronte, stop talking.” He swept my hair behind my shoulders, his hands coming to a stop on either side of my face.

  “I can’t. It happens when I’m nervous. It’s like turning on a faucet. Everything just pours out and I can’t—” His mouth pressed to mine, putting a stop to my anxious chatter.

  A quiet groan vibrated his lips. The sweetness of chocolate lingered on his tongue. I opened my mouth, savoring his taste, letting him plunge deeper. He moved slowly, like he was afraid I’d run away, when I only wanted to get closer. I brought my hands to his head, tangling my fingers in his thick hair.

  He pulled back, leaving my lips swollen and wet, and sighed. “Damn, girl.”

  I tried to step back, but he caught me with an arm around the waist and hugged me to his hard chest. “I’m a shitty kisser.”

  “You’re a fantastic kisser.” The pad of his thumb rubbed over my bottom lip. “You’ve got the most fuckable mouth I’ve ever seen. I’d like to do hot, nasty things to this mouth, Bronte.”

  “I wish you would.” The thought of his hands on my body made my body scream for his touch.

  “I dream about your lips, your eyes, your beautiful tits.” He cupped one of my breasts and squeezed gently. The nipple tightened and stung as blood rushed into the tip.

  “What do you dream about doing?”

  “Fucking you, making love to you, making you come.” Gray-blue eyes drilled into me, their color intensifying. “Does that scare you?”

  “No.” I smoothed my hands down his back, along the groove of his spine.

  “I know you said you’re not a virgin, but you seem so innocent, and I want to do crazy, wicked things to you.” With light fingertips, he traced the curves of my temple and jaw. “Would you let me do those things to you, Bronte?” The timbre of his voice deepened.

  “Yes.” I closed my eyes and turned my face into his palm.

  “Would you let me kiss you here?” His hand slipped between us, skating along my belly to cup my sex.

  I pushed into his palm. “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I want you to kiss me there.” The thought of his mouth on my sex made my voice crack. How many times had I pretended my hand was his tongue while I brought myself to climax? I had a feeling the reality would put the fantasy to shame.

  “Come on.” Threading his fingers through mine, he tugged me out of the kitchen and into his bedroom.

  At the foot of his bed, he began to undress me, taking his time, baring one sliver of skin at a time then kissing it. His touch tickled across my belly as he unbuttoned my jeans and slid down the zipper. I stood before him in my bra and panties, waiting for the panic to arrive, but it never did. He made me feel safe, treasured, and I knew without question that he wouldn’t hurt me on purpose.

  “Lay down,” he said.

  I scooted to the center of the mattress then watched him undress in the semi-darkness. He pulled his shirt over his head then unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his jeans. I stared, memorizing every movement, every second to replay later, because this surely had to be a dream. Snug black boxer briefs clung to his narrow hips. The soft cotton outlined the impressive length of his cock. My panties dampened at the sight of his arousal. I’d done this to him—me. I smiled to myself. Awkward, ugly Bronte had herself a hot guy, and she was going to make the most of every second with him.

  The mattress dipped as he walked up the bed on his hands and knees. He kneeled, his legs on either side of my torso, and bent to brush his lips over mine. “Don’t be nervous. I’ll go slow.”

  “I’m not,” I replied. Instead of anxiety, I felt alive, full of anticipation, eager for his touch.

  “You skin is so smooth.” He ran a hand along the length of my belly, dropping butterfly kisses in its wake. “Look at all those freckles. I’m going to count them later.” My insides quivered. The hand eased inside the waistband of my panties. One of his fingers dipped into the wetness of my sex. “Let’s get these off.”

  I lifted my hips as he slid my white cotton panties down my legs. I waited for the embarrassment, the shame, to arrive, but it never did. This felt right, not like the awkward groping of Walt in the backseat of his car. Rhett’s movements were easy, controlled, teeming with tenderness.

  He eased my thighs apart and settled between them. His dark head dipped between my legs while his fingers stroked my folds. When the tip of his tongue touched the sensitive bundle of nerves, I squeaked and tried to sit up. He pressed a hand between my breasts and pushed me back down.

  “No one’s ever kissed me there,” I said. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Absolutely. You taste sweet.” He lifted his head to cock an eyebrow. “I like this.” He tugged on the red curls at the juncture of my legs.

  I covered my hands and groaned. Up until this moment, my sex life had been nonexistent. I never imagined getting naked with Rhett, so I hadn’t bothered to shave down there. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I like it.” He spoke with his mouth on my clit. The words vibrated through my center, doing amazing things to my body. I buried my fingers in his hair while he spread my thighs wider. The softness of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue, and the gentle pressure married into a kaleidoscope of sensation. A wave of pleasure rolled into the ends of my limbs.

  Sex with Walt had been a mess of awkward gropes and unpleasant jackhammering. The whole time he’d made fun of my body, the swell of my tummy, the thickness of my thighs, my freckles, the paleness of my skin. Years of therapy with Dr. Mortensen had led me to understand Walt’s need to belittle others as a means of boosting his self-worth. Rhett moaned and whispered little terms of endearment, like he was enjoying himself. I fought to push memories of Walt out of my head and tried to focus on the hot hunk between my legs. Now I understood the good doctor’s words. Rhett was twice the man Walt had been, and above comparison.

  “Rhett!” I squeaked his name when he pushed a finger inside me then added a second. The pressure, the fullness, the suction of his mouth untied the knot of my self-control. I twisted, overcome by the pleasure.

  “Easy, Bronte. Let go. It’s okay. You’re safe with me.” His hot breath burned my skin. My internal muscles pulsed. I arched my back and rode his fingers. “Relax.”

  I opened my eyes. The sight of him on his hands and knees renewed the yearning. He blinked at me over my belly, his gaze hot and needy. The sounds of wetness filled the silence, punctuated by my heavy breathing. My knuckles ached from gripping his hair. The harder I pulled, the faster his fingers moved. I came in a flash of white light. My blood sang through my veins, illuminating all the dark corners of my body with fiery pleasure.

  “That’s it. I want all of it.” He fluttered his fingers inside me, renewing the flood of sensation. My orgasm pulsed in time to my heartbeat. I whimpered then collapsed in a puddle, letting my hands fall from his hair. Although my eyes were closed, I felt the mattress sink as he climbed up my body.

  “That was unbelievable,” I said through a fog of endorphins.

  “We’re just getting started,” he said. I cracked an eyelid to watch him wiggle out of his underwear. “Unless you want to stop.”

  “I don’t think I can do any more.” My tongue felt thick, my body heavy. Sleep tugged at my consciousness. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the drawer of his nightstand open, followed by the rip of foil.

  His chuckle reverberated between us. “You’ll be fine.” Warmth flooded my side as his naked body pressed against mine. Soft lips sucked one of my nipples into his mouth. His tongue swirled around the tip. A bolt of desire shot into my center.

  “Ah.” My eyes flew open. His knees nudged my thighs apart. He continued to suck on my nipple, punctuating the suction with tiny nips of his teeth. On instinct
, my hips thrust upward.

  I understood the mechanics of sex better than most people. I’d studied the release of hormones, the chemical processes necessary to procreate, and the body’s physiological response to physical stimulation. None of that research adequately described the emotions accompanying orgasm.

  Rhett gazed into my eyes. I liked the symmetry of his features, the sharpness of his nose juxtaposed with the soft shape of his mouth. His lips parted. The tip of his tongue glided along his teeth. I ran my hands over the rounded swell of his shoulders, admiring their width and strength. He was much bigger on top of me than he seemed standing at my side.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Am I too heavy?”

  “No. You feel great.”

  He nuzzled his nose along the curve of my ear. “I’m going inside you. Let me know if it hurts.”

  The tip of his cock nudged against my entrance. I shifted, and he slipped inside, just an inch. We both groaned. He ducked his head, grimacing. The tendons along his neck strained. He was big, almost to the point of pain. He pushed in another inch.

  “Jesus, you’re tight,” he said, his words guttural. “Are you sure you’re not a virgin?”

  “I’m sure,” I replied, squeezing my eyes tight to fight against the memory of Walt, of losing my virginity to that prick. Rhett had shown more compassion and genuine concern for my welfare in the last few hours than Walt had shown in the two years of our so-called relationship. “You don’t have to go slow. Please.”

  Rhett lowered his hips. Friction built between us as he moved deeper. When he was fully seated, he closed his eyes and threw back his head. His weight balanced on his braced arms. I scraped my nails down his back, enjoying his hiss of pleasure.

  “I want to be gentle with you, but you feel so good.” He buried his face in my neck, punctuating his words with soft flicks of his tongue. My muscles rippled along the length of his cock, already primed and ready to come again.

  “Don’t treat me like I’m fragile.” I lifted on my elbows. He leaned back, tilting his head to one side. “You won’t break me.”