I’m aware of the risk I take. Of the danger I put myself in when I edge toward him. I shouldn’t be putting myself in the way like this, but the thought of doing nothing, the idea of watching him hurt so much is so unbearable it’s like a vise tightening around my chest. My airway momentarily constricts, clogging my throat, my pulse galloping at warp speed beneath my skin but all there is for me is Maddox. I take a deep breath and wait to find the precise moment before wrapping my arms around his middle and setting the side of my face against his rigid back. He doesn’t let me hold him for long. He doesn’t take any comfort from me. He stiffens. And then he reacts. He grabs my forearm, drags me around his body, and slams me up against the blood-smeared wall. It all seems like one move, done so swiftly that I barely have time to gasp. He shoves his knee between my legs, pushes it so far up I’m forced to straddle his muscular thigh.
I’m afraid to look at him, but he takes what little choice I have away when he sweeps a hand behind the curtain of my hair and his fingers curl at the nape of my neck. The slightest bit of pressure from those fingers has me instantly meeting his rapier gaze. He looks rabid. So menacing that a rightful dose of fear plunges down my spine.
“You shouldn’t have followed me.”
That savage growl is all the warning he gives me before he lowers his head to kiss my mouth. But it’s so much more than just a kiss. It’s punishing and rough and urgent and imbued with blazing fury. He grabs my face, desperately holds my head with grip-like fingers, and spills every last bit of his rampant emotions into me. I taste how raw he’s feeling in that instant. I taste Maddox, dark, hungry, and primal. It’s a flavor potent enough to start an addiction.
I revel.
I float.
I breathe as he breathes.
He’s the wind and I’m the tree, bending and swaying to his all-encompassing force.
Lightheaded and overcome with need, I can only mewl and whimper at the hot and slick carnality of his kiss.
“I knew it,” he pants harshly against my wet, swollen mouth, his voice raspy yet strong, his thumb playing at the corner of my lips. Slowly sliding it back and forth across my bottom lip. “Fuck. I fucking knew if I ever kissed you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.” He grasps my jaw, digs his fingers in my skin so my mouth forms an O. “I can’t fucking stop kissing you.” He takes possession of my mouth again, and it’s wet bliss. His firm but supple tongue tangles in hot, languid strokes against mine, his teeth nipping at my lower lip before he dips back inside my mouth to take his fill.
I know I’m no good at it, because Maddox Moore is my first real kiss. But I follow his lead, tentatively touching my tongue to his, doing what feels right. What feels good. When I make to wrap my arms around his neck, he jumps away from me like I’ve torched him. He stands at a short distance with flaring nostrils and a heaving chest. He looks like he just ran a marathon, and the way he’s standing now seems like he’s ready to go again.
We stand for a long time like this. Just staring at each other, our labored breaths echoing in the stairwell.
“Look…”
“We should fix your hands,” I interrupt. I’m almost too sure of what he’s going to say. I can read it across the features he’s trying to get under control. He wants to push me away. Sever this thin thread of a connection we’ve made. He wants to retreat because I’m seeing him at a weak point. I’m seeing him vulnerable and I can safely assume that vulnerability for Maddox Moore is simply out of the question. Making yourself vulnerable to someone is like giving them the weapon, and showing them exactly where and how they can hurt you. But hurting Maddox is the last thing I’d ever want to do. And even then, even if it came down to causing him pain, I’d hurt myself infinite times before I ever hurt him.
“Aylee…”
Ignoring him, I head downstairs. “Mr. Kauffman keeps a first aid kit in the pottery area in the back of the art room.”
I have déjà vu when I look up at him from the bottom of the staircase. We’ve done this scene before. Only he was the caretaker. The night after Tim hit me. Maddox had followed and cornered me in a stairwell just on the opposite side of school. He was there for me. Getting so angry on my behalf and yet somehow understanding that I needed his comfort more than anything else. Now the roles are reverse and I have the chance to comfort him.
“I can’t do this with you.” All he wants to do is run.
Heading back upstairs, I stand on the first step just in front of him. “All I want from you right now is just to paint you. You told me you’d help me, and I want you to keep your word.” I need more time.
He glowers and I can see how badly he wants to say his two favorite words. “You’re not allowed to tell me to fuck off,” I say, quietly, further inciting his annoyance. He pins me with narrowed eyes for a long time. And I actually feel the prickly tingle of nervousness across my skin.
“You’re a goddamn brat,” he grouses before moving past me and trudges down the stairs. I follow behind him at a more sedate pace, and the widening smile on my face is something I can’t help.
***
In the art room a little while later, he sits on the dais in the middle of the room, which is where Mr. Kauffman typically puts the subject matter of that particular class. I’m on my knees between his parted legs wrapping the white gauze around his scraped, raw knuckles. So far he hasn’t protested much to me doing this. Letting me lead him to the sink and remaining relatively quiet while I washed the blood from his hands. Then I’d fetched the first aid kit Mr. Kauffman kept in the pottery area and returned with the necessary supplies. Hissing and flinching only the slightest bit when I cleaned his wounds with rubbing alcohol, he allowed me to rub some ointment on each hand before wrapping them up in gauze.
I finish wrapping the last knuckle. “You shouldn’t be doing this.” That’s the first thing he’s said to me since the stairwell. His voice sounds hoarse, gruff like he’s been screaming.
I lick my lips and shrug one shoulder. I can still feel his lips on mine. “It’s not a big deal,” I reply, putting the supplies away before coming to my feet. “If you give me a minute, I’ll set up and we can get started.”
Moving around with intent, I unfold my tripod, prepare a canvas, and set it up on the easel. Going in and out of my designated cubby to gather my brushes, I head over to the communal island countertop where all the paints are kept. I grab what I need, mostly the acrylic paints, and return to my canvas. He has his phone in front of him, the overgrown fringe of his dark hair falling sexily across his vision. I want to go over there and brush it back. But I don’t. I do nothing except take a seat on the stool behind me while I silently watch him text. Is it a girl? Or is it work? Those two questions go round and round in my head like a carousel in an abandoned theme park. I can feel myself begin to obsess so I’m grateful when a spark of inspiration blazes through me compelling me to outline, to sketch, to do what comes too naturally to me.
He gets up a little bit later and swaggers my way, and I have to blink a few times to snap myself out of my spell of inspiration.
“I gotta go.” When he’s close enough, he reaches out to grab a lock of my hair. Like before, he plays with it like it’s something intriguing enough to keep his attention. “I should go,” he says, a little more firmly, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince him or me. Looking up, I find startlingly-clear and emotional eyes stare right through me. And then he lowers his head down, his hand now cradling the curve of my cheek. “Tell me to go.” There’s a strain in his voice now; choked desperation. “Damn it, Aylee, tell me to leave you alone.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But I don’t want you to leave me alone.”
Like the weight of his emotions is too much, he rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. “I’m no damn good for you,” he murmurs, and sighs deeply. “There’s nothing here for you but pain. You get close to me and I’m going to end up hurting you.”