Soundlessly measure air in, out of your lungs. Don’t let the whistle through your nose give you away as a living, breathing thing. Charlie is just a vacant, cyan-blue locker in an abandoned school. But for a locker, she’s sure wrestling with an uncomfortable knot of emotion.
So what if Sebastian Monroe turned his back on her – fled like a selfish coward? What else did she expect from the grim conductor of her father and brother's deaths? But somehow she'd fallen under the spell of his symphony's second, romantic movement, and insanely, she'd come to believe she could depend on him…when she could no longer depend on Miles, could never depend on her mother.
The slatted locker door flings open without warning.
“Bass!” she whisper shrieks.
Her eyes track his elegant, blood-crusted finger as it brushes against his scruff-framed lips, silencing her. He pulls her out by the arm and into the girls’ bathroom, locking the door with a click.
“You came ba-” she begins, but his cracked lips bore against hers, as he backs her hard into a sink. She wobbles off balance into the porcelain fixture, one booted foot kicking upward. “You came back because of me?” she manages quizzically, as he pulls breathily back.
Bass jams his rough fingers inside her jacket and slides the leather down her arms onto the floor. “I thought I was done with the Mathesons, but… I’m not,” is his explanation, eyes wide and intense. They travel down her bare right forearm to the emblazoned M. The piece of her he already owns.
They both stare at it in stony silence.
“When did it happen?” he asks.
“Trying to recover a kid off a conscription boat of yours.”
“I’m sorry.” He makes no excuses, askes no additional questions, just apologizes. For its utter simplicity, it seems genuine.
Charlie can’t remember the last time someone said those two words to her - more meaningful, in fact, than the I love you her mother has recently dispensed. Because Mom didn't apologize for calling her stupid. Or for abandoning her - not really. Miles hasn't apologized for lying to her, withholding from her, and these days, for constantly brushing her aside in favor of Rachel. No. Nobody thinks of how they widdle away little bits of her soul, except for the least likely person: Monroe.
Bass sinks onto his knees before her brand and runs his lips along the puckered flesh, exciting goosebumps up her arm. Want pools in her belly. He begins to kiss her brand more rapturously, tonguing it, sucking at it. Somehow the sensation is heightened in those damaged ridges. The tingle reverberates in her throat into an audible moan.
She scarcely realizes what she’s doing before she ushers him back to his feet, opening his fly with her left hand and seeking the soft skin beneath – finding it hard, veined, but delicate silk, all the same. She drags its head over her brand, and he gets the idea, taking over. She leans back, free hand steadying herself on the cold sink frame, while he guides his cock roughly over the angles of the M, his other hand reaching over to rub friction between her legs.
He unzips her jeans and fingers her sopping panties. Kneading his dripping dick into her forearm, he's getting increasingly urgent, and just when she’s about to beg, he thrusts aside the cotton barrier and enters her with his fingers, hooking them against that bundle of nerves.
It’s a deep, thudding release that constricts her pelvic muscles, swallowing his calloused flesh, and then he’s coming too: slamming against her again and again, cum dribbling down the length of her arm to her fingertips.
“Yeah,” Bass rasps, pulling out his fingers and gathering her into his arms. She rests her cheek against his shoulder - spice and sweat. Perched precariously on the edge of the sink, both her feet dangle inches from the ground. But Bass has got her. He won’t let her fall.