Raw Power Page 24

  Then Jack lifted the wrist he’d been holding so tightly and, keeping his gaze on hers, he brought it to his mouth, his lips brushing the sensitive skin on the underside of it.

  Tightness gathered in her throat, tears slipping down her cheeks yet again, even when she tried to blink them away, and then, as if he was intent on making her feel even worse, he leaned forward and so gently brushed his mouth over hers.

  She didn’t know why she was crying. Why his sudden gentleness made her feel as if he were breaking her chest open, but it did. And that wasn’t what she’d intended. This was supposed to be about him, not her.

  He’d let go of her wrist and was now cupping her face between his palms, holding her gently, soft brushes of his lips moving over hers, as if she was fragile, precious.

  The tears fell quicker and she couldn’t stop them. “Jack,” she whispered against his lips. “This isn’t . . . I don’t want . . .”

  But he took advantage of her open mouth to deepen the kiss, turning it into something so achingly tender that the tears kept on falling.

  She took her hand from the back of his neck, trying to push at him to keep him away, because rough she could handle, but this softness? This gentleness? She didn’t know if she had the strength to handle it.

  Except he didn’t let her push him. His hands dropped from her face and his arms slid around her, gathering her close. One hand slid up her spine to cup the back of her head while the other kept her held tight against his chest, as he tasted her mouth, even deeper, slower. Taking his time.

  She trembled, her throat aching, wanting desperately to pull away and still not understanding why it felt like he was slowly taking her apart little by little. But the way he held her made it so that she couldn’t move, her hands trapped against his muscular chest. All she could do was bear it as his kiss became a slow, steady exploration, heat and what she was terribly afraid was tenderness fusing into something that set her hunger alight. Yet at the same time—for the first time since she’d met him—she felt scared.

  It didn’t make any sense to feel scared of this, because he wasn’t hurting her or being rough. Then again, his roughness had never scared her. Turned out it was his gentleness that was the scariest thing about him.

  You were worried about him not experiencing gentleness. But did you ever wonder the same thing about yourself?

  No, she’d never thought that. Mainly because she’d never experienced gentleness herself, not from anyone. Yet now that she knew what it felt like, now that she knew how much it hurt, she was pretty sure she didn’t want to ever experience it again.

  “Jack,” she murmured again, more desperate, keeping up the pressure of her palms on his chest. “Please, stop . . .”

  He lifted his head, the cut-glass green of his eyes feeling like it was slicing her open. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t . . . want it like this. I want it rough. I want it to hurt.”

  His arms around her were very tight, not giving her any room, any space. “Why?”

  “I just do. Anyway, this isn’t about me. This is about—”

  “What’s wrong with gentle?” His thumb moved in a slow, caressing movement over the curve of her skull. “What’s wrong with slow?”

  Her throat was tight and it was difficult to speak, especially with him touching her the way he was. She tried to shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not exciting. It’s not . . .” She stopped, struggling to articulate how painful it felt. “I just don’t like it, okay?”

  But he was looking at her like he knew all the answers already, like he could see deep inside her, see parts of her she couldn’t see herself. “Has anyone ever held you, Princess? Has anyone ever touched you because they cared about you?”

  How did he do that? How did he turn everything she’d been thinking about him and make it about her? She wanted to tell him that of course someone had, but she knew he’d see the lie the moment she said it. But she didn’t want to admit that no one ever had either, because it made her feel . . .

  Awful. It makes you feel awful. Like dirt.

  She swallowed and dragged her gaze from his, pushing harder against his chest. No, this was wrong. She’d been feeling so good, so strong, and now the things he was saying, his arms around her, were making her feel the way she felt every time her mother looked at her with that blame in her eyes. Weak.

  Worthless ...

  “Let me go.” She struggled harder this time, but his arms were iron bands.

  “They haven’t, have they?” His voice was quiet, his tone flat, as if stating facts. “No one has ever held you. No one has ever touched you like you mattered.”

  A sob caught in her throat and no matter how hard she tried to swallow it, the constricted feeling wouldn’t go away. And every word he spoke simply made it worse. She turned her face away from him, half closing her eyes, so he wouldn’t see the truth in them.

  So he won’t know how little you matter to anyone.

  “Callie,” he murmured. “Callie, look at me.”

  But she couldn’t think of anything worse. In fact, she could only think of one thing at all that she could do.

  If he wouldn’t give her the fight she wanted, then she’d have to take the fight to him.

  Callie turned back to him. And did the thing she always did when she’d been pushed too far. She leaned forward and bit his lower lip. Hard.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jack stayed very still as Callie’s teeth sunk into his lip and didn’t react. He’d been expecting her do to something like this from the moment he’d touched her face and watched alarm and distress flare in her blue eyes. And then, when he’d gathered her in close, he’d felt the tension in her whole body.

  Yeah, she didn’t like him being gentle. But shit, the way she’d cried for him, the way she’d trembled when she’d told him about her mother, the fierce look in her eyes as she’d told him that he couldn’t believe he’d failed, because then she’d have to believe that her mother was right, that her father’s abusive behavior was her fault . . . Christ, all those things had made him realize that he’d gotten so caught up in his own pain and anger, he hadn’t given one thought to hers.

  He’d gotten so angry when she’d touched his scars and told him they were marks of bravery, and he wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t sure why he wanted to deny that, because he’d always thought that’s what they were for too. Yet there had been something inside him that had denied it, that had whispered to him that he hadn’t kept those scars because he was proud of them. He’d kept them to remind himself of all the people he hadn’t saved. The people who’d been most important in his life. His mom. Molly.

  He didn’t know why he’d admitted that to her, not when it was something he could barely admit even to himself, yet he had. And she’d cried for him, her tears eating away at him like acid, making him even angrier. Until she’d told him about her mother, about the blame that woman had piled on her daughter, and all his anger had suddenly drained away.

  Because behind the ferocity in her eyes, he’d seen the pain and the doubt. The weight she’d been carrying around all those years. And he knew how heavy that weight was. Christ, he carried something like it himself.

  It wasn’t fair that she should have that on her shoulders. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right for a kid to have to bear that burden. Especially when he knew how open it left you to doubt. Sure, he’d only been eight when his sister had died, and no, he probably couldn’t have stopped his father doing what he’d done, but what if he could have? What if he’d pleaded with his mother a little harder? What if he’d woken just a little earlier, in time to throw himself at his father and maybe allow Molly a second’s breath?

  Those what-ifs stayed with you. They never went away. They were like termites, undermining your soul, hollowing it out and making it fragile.

  And she was so very fragile. Sure, she was brave and she was strong, but he’d forgotten that she was also so vulnerable.

  He’d wanted to touch her then,
gather her close. Treat her gently, tenderly, ease the doubt he saw in her eyes. So he had, drawing her in for a kiss and taking it slow, being careful with her.

  But she’d gone rigid in his arms and when he’d asked her what the problem was, she hadn’t been able to tell him. Yet he thought he knew the answer to that question.

  Gentleness had been absent in her life, just like it had been absent in his, and she was afraid of it. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t know what it was, she’d been touching him with gentleness for the last ten minutes after all. It was simply that for some reason, it scared her. God, he wished he knew why.

  She’d told him she liked it rough, because it made her feel strong, so did being gentle with her make her feel weak? Was it the absence of having something to fight against that scared her?

  He reached up and wound his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back. Her cheeks were pink and tear-stained, and her eyes were red, and she was breathing very fast. “Come on,” she said hoarsely. “Make it hurt, Jack. That’s what I want.”

  “I don’t want to fight you.” He’d hurt her before, and yes, they’d both got off on it, but he didn’t want to hurt her now, not when she was already in pain. “I want to make you feel better, not make it worse.”

  “But fighting does make me feel better.” She pushed against his chest again, struggling in his hold. “I like it. I want it.”

  She tried to bite him again, but he angled his head away. “No,” he said flatly. “Not this time.”

  Frustration flickered across her lovely features. “Then if you’re not going to do that, let me go.”

  “Not going to do that either.” He stared down into her sea-blue eyes. “I asked you a question and you didn’t give me a straight answer.”

  “I don’t have to—”

  “I answered all of yours. I told you about my mom. I told you about Molly. Fuck, I even told you what those scars meant to me. You think that was easy for me to say? You think it was easy for me to admit to?”

  “No, but I—”

  “No, you’re damn fucking right it wasn’t.” Keeping his fingers wound tight in her hair, he touched her mouth with his other hand, feeling the tension gather even more tightly in her. “But now it’s your turn, Princess. You can’t push me and expect to escape the consequences, not today.”

  Her lashes fell, veiling her gaze, the tears caught in them glittering like tiny diamonds. “No,” she said thickly after a moment. “Is that what you wanted to hear? No, no one ever held me. No one ever touched me like I mattered.”

  It was the answer he’d been expecting, yet the note of pain in her voice made him want to put his fist through someone’s face all the same. Preferably her father’s. Instead he settled for running a finger over her lower lip, tracing it gently the way she had his. “Then isn’t it about time someone did?”

  She turned her head away. “I don’t want you to.”

  “Why not?” He stared down at her features, at her small, determined chin and strong jaw. At the lovely angles of her cheekbones and her elegant nose. A passionate little face. “Is it because you believe you don’t actually matter? Is that what the problem is?”

  She shook her head wordlessly, but he already knew the answer. That’s exactly what she did think.

  Anger blossomed inside him, but not at her. At the two people who’d made her feel like that: her parents. Christ, if her father was here right now, Jack would have beaten the shit out of him, and as for her mother . . . Well, he wouldn’t have laid a hand on her, but he’d have pointed out to her exactly what blaming Callie had done to her daughter. How badly it had hurt her.

  Fuck, they were wrong. So goddamned wrong. She did matter. She mattered to him, and maybe it was a dangerous thing to admit to himself, but he didn’t give a shit about that right now.

  He wanted to dry her tears and ease her pain. He wanted to show her that she was important and that she deserved gentleness, deserved tenderness.

  Of course, he was the wrong fucking guy to be showing her since it wasn’t as if he knew anything about being gentle or tender. He hadn’t had anything like that in his life after all. But he wanted to try all the same. Because she was strong and beautiful and brave. Passionate and creative and perceptive.

  Because she was just fucking worth it.

  “You matter, Callie,” he said, wishing his voice wasn’t quite so rough and yet not being able to make it any less so. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but you do.”

  Her lashes remained closed, but they trembled and he saw her throat move. She’d heard him all right.

  He didn’t wait for her to argue with him, he simply gripped her little chin in his hand and lowered his head. Brushed his mouth over hers, then traced her lower lip gently with his tongue, coaxing her to open for him.

  She resisted, but he didn’t stop, nipping her gently, keeping his kiss gentle but insistent. Releasing her chin, he slid his hand down her neck, spreading his fingers wide, caressing her as his palm came to rest in the hollow of her throat. Her pulse beat fast against his skin, getting faster.

  He cradled the back of her head, his thumb massaging the tension in her neck as he kept up that coaxing kiss, encouraging her to relax, to let him give her this. And eventually she gave a groan and her mouth opened to him, letting him into the heat and sweetness inside it.

  He explored her, tasted her, taking his time to learn her flavor and what made her tremble, what made her moan. She tried to kiss him back, getting impatient, getting a little rough, but he didn’t give in to it. He kept it slow and tender, silently relishing the impatient sounds she made.

  This wasn’t something he’d thought he’d like—he preferred it rough too, after all—but kissing her like this, being gentle with her, was far more erotic than he’d ever imagined it would be. He wanted to push her back onto the mattress and fuck her hard, the way they’d done it before, but he ignored the urge. Leashed it tightly.

  He had a point to prove, a mission goal he was going to achieve and failure right now was simply not an option.

  Not her. Not today.

  So he kept on kissing her, taking it hotter, deeper, but keeping it slow. Long, tantalizing licks into her mouth and gentle nips. Making her shudder. Making the hands she had pressed to his chest creep up around his neck and hold on tight. She was arched into him, her soft little tits against his chest and he could feel the hard points of her nipples, smell the subtle feminine musk of her arousal. Desperate sounds were escaping from her throat and he was very tempted to not to give in to them, push her desire even higher.

  But this wasn’t about denying her. This was about giving her what she deserved, so he eased her back down onto the mattress. Then, after a moment, he turned her over onto her front.

  She made a small sound of protest, but he ignored it, putting a hand on the back of her neck. Then he slid it down, following down the lovely curve of her spine to just above her ass, before trailing his fingers back up again. And again. Long, gentle strokes. Learning the shape of her, the firmness of her muscles beneath the skin, the fragility of her bones, the silky smoothness of her skin.

  She quivered, turning her head toward him as he did nothing but stroke her. Touching her gently and with tenderness.

  “Jack . . .” Her voice was very thick.

  “Shh.” He drew a pattern between her narrow shoulder blades, and then spread his fingers out, trailing a zigzag path from one side of her body to the other, all the way down to the small of her back.

  Her eyes closed, but she trembled even harder, tears seeping from underneath her lashes, to slide down her cheeks.

  As if his touch hurt her.

  He couldn’t bear it. Her tears made him hurt too.

  “Princess,” he said quietly. “Don’t cry. Please, sweetheart. Don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it.” She took a ragged-sounding breath. “It hurts.”

  So what he was doing did hurt her, which meant he should stop. But no, he had a m
ission and he was going to achieve it. Besides, he knew a little bit about healing and it always involved pain of some sort. If it didn’t hurt then you weren’t getting better.

  “Where?” He traced another gentle pattern across her tailbone. “Where does it hurt?”

  She opened her eyes, the sea blue gone dark, like a storm approaching. Then she twisted slightly onto her side, and lifted her hand. “Here.” Her palm rested just above her heart. “It hurts here.”

  His chest went so tight he could hardly breathe. Christ, he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t. But he didn’t want her to carry that pain around either.

  “What about this?” Reaching out, he took her wrist very gently and turned her hand up, pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. Then he returned her hand to where it had been resting on her chest, pressing it gently against her skin. “Does that help?”

  Another tear slid down her cheek. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” He traced another pattern down her side, to her hip and farther, to the top of her thigh, then back up again. “You’re beautiful, Callie. You’re strong and stubborn, and yeah, pretty fucking annoying at times.” He softened it with a half smile, that made her pretty mouth twitch too. “But it’s also pretty fucking impressive. I have a lot of respect for you. For the way you’ve handled a really shitty situation.” He let his hand curve over the softness of her ass, not demanding, just touching her, tracing her. “You didn’t let yourself get swallowed by that prick. You didn’t lie down and take it. And then, fuck, you’re creative, too. I mean, I have no idea about music, but I do know that you sounded really good. That song . . .” He wasn’t a man who talked about his feelings. At all. But he wanted to give her this. “It touched me, Princess.”

  She blinked fiercely, her gaze still dark. She didn’t say anything and he didn’t either; he looked into her eyes, his hand tracing circles and patterns over her body, letting her know without saying a word that she mattered. That she was important. That she was special.

  And when her tears slowly slid down her cheeks, he said, “Wounds always hurt when they heal, Callie. That’s how you know you’re getting better.”