Fiery Little Thing: Chapter 7

Subtle shivers rack through my body despite the heater running on full blast—and I’m pretty sure I’m seconds away from breaking my jaw from how tense it is. My entire body is sore as shit, and my head is pounding, but at least the nausea is gone. I guess that’s why they call it Suicide Tuesday. I would much rather die than go through the shit I went through yesterday again.

I tried seeking Elijah out yesterday, because why go through a comedown when you can keep going? But the little coward ran in the opposite direction. I was even willing to give him a handjob in the bathroom for it.

His loss.

Just kidding, it’s my fucking astronomical loss.

So, I had to suck it up and try to live through the comedown, and almost died choking on my own damn vomit. It’s not as bad today because I’m running on pure rage. Elijah is two seats to the right of me and hasn’t looked up from his hands since the history teacher hid herself behind her desk so we can have “study time.”

Just in time, the person between us gets up from her seat to go to the bathroom. And who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I growl under my breath as I slide into the seat she occupied. He’s not attractive enough to be treating me like this.

His frantic eyes cast to mine, and then he twists his entire body to look at the table behind us before jerking straight upright. What the fuck?

“I wasn’t.”

Read the room, jackass. I flick his forehead with my index finger. “Don’t insult me with a shit lie. You’ve been avoiding me. Why?” By the time I finish talking, my face is two inches from his ear.

Can’t avoid me now, bitch.

He whips his head toward me, whisper-yelling, “You didn’t tell me you were with that psychopath.”

I rear back. “Which psychopath?”

One comes to mind, but there’s no way we’re thinking about the same person.

“Kohen.”

“Are you insane? I wouldn’t touch that man if he were the last person on Earth.” Mentally, at least, I wouldn’t go anywhere near him. Physically? This slut likes whatever it is he’s packing. My ovaries see him, say “wow, so strong,” and think he’s a suitable mate to procreate with. “Why would you think we’re together?”

Elijah throws his hands up. “Because he shoved me and threatened me!

”

I snort. I’d do the same to Elijah too. “For what? Wait, let me guess, you looked at him for too long? You made a joke about him being held back a year? Ooh, ooh, I know. You called him Kiervan.” It’s gotta be one of those. Not that he knows who Kiervan is. That man only reacts that strongly when either of those things are mentioned. My house is evidence of his tantrum.

“No, you.” At the face I pull, he explains, “He practically pissed all over you.”

“Never say that shit again.” I blanch. “The only thing he’d do is pour gasoline over me. Now, how about we pick up where we left off yesterday, huh?” I glance around to ensure the teacher isn’t looking our way, then place my hand on his thigh. “What have you got for me?”

He stiffens. “Are you sure nothing is going on between you and the new kid? He made it seem like you guys were an item or something.”

I scowl at the imagery and the fact that it doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should. My reaction to my thoughts about that crazy hunk of a man should be visceral and make me throw up on the spot. Instead, my head goes a little light thinking about having all that muscle beneath me and having his golden eyes tear into me in an entirely different way.

“The man has a few loose screws,” I purr. “Don’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth.”

I can’t say Elijah looks any more at ease about my admission than he was a minute ago, but eventually, his shoulders slump slightly. “I’m out, and my guy won’t have anything for a couple more days. But you still owe me for yesterday.”

It’s my turn to tense. Now, this reaction is near visceral. There’s no way I’m going anywhere near his disgusting penis unless I’m hopped up or he’s waving a more figurative carrot in front of my face.

I’ve never done any kind of sex sober before, and I don’t intend to start now. The lights would have to be off, and even then, I couldn’t stomach it. Especially when I know for a fact it will end with me feeling unsatisfied and in desperate need of a shower. I definitely will not die a virgin, but my fingers would have racked up considerable mileage before then.

I snatch my arm away and glare at him. “I was ready to pay up with my hand, but you were nowhere to be found. You fucked me around.”

Elijah frowns. “I told you that lunatic tossed me around.”

Welcome to my life, bud. I roll my eyes and then frown, feeling my face heat. “Fine. Next time you have something to give me, come find me.”

“You think a handjob is enough after all the shit you’ve leeched?” His nostrils flare as he speaks.

Throwing caution to the wind, I palm his cock and hold back bile. He snaps upright, gaping at me but hardening all the same. Gag.

The hair at the back of my neck stands on end like I’m being watched. “Harsh words, Elijah.” I lean in closer, so my chest brushes against his arm. “Get me something worth my time”—and will make me lose all sense of reality so I’m not aware of what I’m doing—“and you might find something… warm and wet in return.” My voice is silky smooth even though acid is rising up my esophagus.

I pull away and pat the top of his head like a dog, then slide back into my chair, unable to get comfortable. It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. My head slowly inches toward the source of the vacuum, and my mouth goes dry .

My eyes meet Kohen’s, and all sense of disgust evaporates out of me. He feels like a real danger for the first time since I’ve met him. The pyromaniac isn’t just looking at me like he’s going to eat me alive, he’s looking at me like he’s about to commit murder. The question is, who’s the victim?

I whimper and press my face into the pillow, all my muscles protesting. A solid eight hours, zero bathroom breaks, or soul-altering dreams might solve all my problems.

After flipping my pillow over and beating it half to death, I lie back down, the faint whiff of the weed I scored earlier reaching my nose. Maybe if I didn’t constantly feel like I’d been hit by a truck, I would get an epiphany about the course my life was going down, and then everything would suddenly be in order.

The shitty sleep has everything to do with the shit Elijah gave me two days ago, and smoking a joint has done nothing to make sleeping possible. Come to think of it, I need to change tact and go right to the source. Take out the middleman and see if Elijah’s dealer can score me some vitamin K and give me a bump; then Bob will most definitely be my uncle.

A couple more minutes pass, and I turn over, tangling the sheets and ratty blanket between my legs as I do. My exposed leg skirts the edge of the bed, and not for the first time, I’m loving the central heating this place has. It’s a fucking Christmas miracle that I haven’t needed to sleep in a coat and hoodie to survive the colder months.

Now, even though it’s freezing outside, I’m in here at risk of a tit falling out of my singlet, and the bogeyman getting an eyeful of my ass. This really is the life. If only I were born into a wealthy family.

Oh wait.

Sighing, I rub my leg up and down the cotton sheets and smile to myself. Grandpa was forced to buy me a new set for school. It’s cheap, but it feels damn good not sleeping in something threadbare or ripped. At least once I’m out of this place, I’ll have semi-acceptable bedding—and a goose down. I’ve always wanted one of those.

“I’m so sick of your shit.”

My eyes snap open.

I’m tripping. I did not seriously just hear that.

I notice movement from the shadows in the corner of my room. I don’t get the chance to make a sound before the man is on me, trapping half my body beneath the blankets. How does that saying go? Strike, scream, then run? Fuck it, screaming is my first instinct anyway. He doesn’t cover my mouth fast enough because a strangled cry leaves my lips before his hand is on me.

“Shut up, Blaze,” the man growls, fisting my hair to keep me steady as he moves his face closer.

My mouth snaps shut. I blink, adjusting to the darkness and making out the beautiful deadly features of the man on top of me.

“Kohen?” I mumble against his hand.

Oh, this motherfucker has a death wish.

Three questions race to mind: how did he get in here, why is he here, and how do I get him out?

I don’t let myself think about the sudden burst of desire that rips through my core at the realization his hips are nestled between my very bare legs, and that he’s lowered himself down to his elbows on either side of my head.

His hand slowly moves away from my mouth, and that’s when I strike. Pain radiates from my forehead as I whip my head forward, colliding with his nose. In the darkness, I can just make out his widening eyes.

Good.

His creepy smile as he touches his nose is a little less good.

I leverage my arms and wiggle my hips to throw him off me, but he’s back on me before I get that chance.

Not good.

Thick thighs straddle my waist, and his strong hands wrap around both my wrists, holding my body captive against the bed. I buck my hips and attempt to sock him with my head again, but everything about him is overpowering.

“Why the fuck do you keep fighting me?” Kohen snarls, tightening his hold on me.

I swing my legs up because they’re the only free part of my body, except he easily holds them down by shifting his legs over mine, and the next thing I know, the only brutal thing I have left is my tongue. “Because you’re a psycho pyro who won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“I bet you fucked Elijah just like you fucked Duke.”

My jaw drops. How the fuck does he know about Duke? I narrow my eyes. I bet his parents told him about it after they heard it from the police.

“And you, what?” I huff. “Wanted a slice of the action? Wanted to see if your balls fall off, you creep?”

His hold around my wrists goes painful for a split second before he uses one hand to put my throat in a steellike grip. “Don’t you dare put me on the same level as those two dicks-for-brains.”

The rough material of his jeans scrapes against my lower stomach, and I tense. I’m going to need to check myself in to see Dr. Van der Merwe, because my heart is slamming against my ribcage for reasons other than the threat to my safety. The pale moonlight sneaking through the gap in my curtains highlights his cheeks and the path along his nose, accentuated by the shadows that fall on his face and dip beneath his jaw and down the column of his throat. For one very concerning, very unsettling moment, I want to know whether he tastes the same way he smells.

Enough of this shit. This creeper behavior is not okay—maybe just a little—no. Fuck, I hate that it turns me on a little that Kohen could have done anything to me if I were asleep when he came in. He probably got an eyeful of me for however long he stood in the shadows of my room.

I try thrashing around again, and shifting my elbow. But nothing works. This guy has a better grip than the security guards.

“Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous,” I say. The accusation even sounds ridiculous to my ears, but Elijah mentioned he thought the pyro was acting territorial.

“I’m not!”

There goes the painful grip again. If I wake up bruised tomorrow, I’m definitely snitching. No one will believe me unless I have proof, but I’m sure McGill and every other person in this school will spin it in a way to say that I somehow did it to myself.

My entire body is protesting from all the movement, and the added strain tells me that it’s going to hurt like a bitch tomorrow. I try to whip my head forward to knock his nose, but he dodges it easily because his grip around my throat stops me from getting very far.

Frustration slices through my spine, and I snarl. “Then why the fuck did you sneak into my room to rape me?”

“I fucking wasn’t!

”

“Someone’s throwing a tantrum. Do you need some crayons to help you express your feelings?” I mock in the same tone I’d use to talk to a child.

I involuntarily flinch because his hold is getting a little too painful for my liking. Either he realizes the same, or I’m doing a terrible job concealing my expressions, but he eases off in the next heartbeat.

Kohen’s eyes harden. “You’re such a bitch.”

“Hmm, I wonder why I might be acting like this. Oh, maybe it’s because you broke into my room and burned my fucking house down!”

“It was your fault!” He gets right in my face when he yells it.

“Victim blaming, asshole? Really? Uncool.”

“Shut up.”

“No. I’m sick of you acting—”

“Stop talking.”

How dare he? “Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking. You think you know me so well? Fine. It doesn’t take a genius to know you started lighting fires the day you were born because it was the only way you’d be seen in your brother’s shadow. Your impulsiveness wasn’t something hardwired into your brain. You kept feeding it so you could see how long you could get away with it until your parents started giving a damn about you the same way they did Kiervan. The bigger the fire, the more the attention, right? Wrong. Nothing worked, so now you’re an angry, bitter, spoiled—”

I don’t get to finish because he gets me to do exactly what he wants: I shut up. I don’t make a single sound when he kisses me—whether in shock, disgust, confusion, or a wave of lust, I stay completely still.

Until I don’t.

It doesn’t matter how much I yell at myself to stop, to pull back and spit in his face; my lips keep moving with his .

My suspicions were correct. Kohen tastes like mint and patchouli.

His lips are the softest things I’ve ever felt, giving me a headier feeling than any drug I’ve ever taken. I had no expectations about kissing Kohen, but I always imagined it would be exactly like this: searing hatred that makes the air so thick with tension, feeling as if he’s lit a match between us and we’re being enveloped in smoke.

Nothing about this is loving. It’s packed to the brim with poison and cinders that make my veins boil with need. This is the first time I’ve been kissed sober, and I’ve never felt more intoxicated.

I’m unsure what happens next, because this high has seeped into my marrow. One second, he’s gripping my hair to deepen the kiss; the next, his tongue pokes out to battle mine. Suddenly, he moves away from me and cold rushes through my body as he ends up on the other side of the bedroom.

Kohen shakes his head and runs his hand down his face, pacing the short space between the width of the room, pissed off beyond comprehension.

It doesn’t matter how hard I try to understand it; I can’t figure out why he’s the one who’s angry. He snuck into my room. He mounted me like a caveman, then shoved his tongue down my throat. None of this is my fault.

My lips feel bruised, like I’ve just gone ten rounds in the ring. One thing’s for certain: if I thought the ache in my muscles was terrible before, it’s nothing compared to the throbbing that’s started between my legs. If he hadn’t been straddling me, I would have died from embarrassment over what my body would have done against my wishes.

He runs a hand over his head, paces back and forth twice, then hits the wall. The sound stirs me to my feet, and I somehow find the decency to drape the sheets over my shoulders.

I lick my lips, tasting the remnants of him as I swallow the lump in my throat. “Alright, settle down, Kyle.” My voice lacks its usual lethal touch.

The pyromaniac whips toward me. “What the fuck did you just call me?” The rage that carries with his voice rumbles down my spine and has me swaying backward.

What the fuck is his problem? I’ve never seen him so distressed before.

His gaze drops from my eyes to my chest—where I’m certain my nipples have come to say hello, and have only become more enthusiastic in their greeting now that they’re getting attention. I’m only wearing a tacky, shoestring tanktop, and the air is already kissing the top half of my tits. I can only imagine just how much cleavage he’s getting.

My stupid, traitorous eyes do the same thing he did. They fall from his face to the heavy rise and fall of his chest, down to his jeans. I suck in a sharp breath and try to get the image out of my head, but there’s no unseeing the tent in his pants. Holy Mother Mary, there must be a monster living under there.

My tongue slips out to wet my bottom lip, and his inhale is so audible I squeeze my legs together in a useless attempt to alleviate the tension.

I bite the inside of my cheek, and I hate that his eyes drop to my lips. I have to stop this. Now.

“It’s not funny when I have to explain the joke to you, dipshit. All the Monster–drinking, wall-punching dudes are named Kyle—” Wait. Why am I explaining this to him? “You know what? Get the fuck out of my room!

”

Kohen moves faster than I do, cornering me like I’m a caged animal. The chill of the wall seeps into my back, and the sheet I had draped over myself lies discarded on the floor. I press my palms against his chest to stop him from getting closer, but it’s as if I’m Sisyphus pushing the boulder—minus the strength, endurance, and will—because Kohen keeps coming closer.

His hand goes around my neck, thumb feeling for my thundering pulse, his preferred position. Our combined ragged breaths settle over my skin like I’m in a sauna. Unlike all the other times he’s had his knee wedged between my legs, the only thing stopping my pussy from making direct contact with him now is the pair of thin cotton panties I’m wearing—my very drenched cotton panties.

The differences don’t end with the uneven division of clothing between us. It spreads to how his eyelids have gone heavy, even though the rest of him oozes disapproval.

The worst difference is what’s going on below our waists.

His thigh isn’t just wedged between my legs; the thick fabric of his pants is touching the only material I have on the bottom half of my body.

If I thought the ungodly thing warring in his pants was impressive a minute ago, having it pressed against my stomach feels akin to having a gun pressed against my head; a little horny at what could be done with it, and a teeny bit uneasy about the prospect of death.

But fuck me sideways if I’m not tingling all the way down to my toes imagining what this pyromaniac looks like without clothes. Better yet, what all that muscle will feel like under my fingertips. And like a damn frigid virgin, I squeeze my legs around his thigh—which is the worst possible thing I could have done because my lust-addled brain doesn’t catch up fast enough to stop me from moaning.

If Kohen looked like he wanted to eat me alive earlier this afternoon, right now, he’s ready to splay me out to feast on me like I’m a Sunday roast, and he’s been starving all week.

I try to save face by curling my lips into a scowl, but then his hand on my hips—something I hadn’t realized until now—grips me tighter, guiding my hip into soft rolls. The feeling of my throbbing core against the rough fabric of his jeans has my eyes rolling to the back of my head, and I’m done for.

I’ve lost before the rules of the game are even set as I whimper—I fucking whimper like I’m touch starved, and he’s the only person alive that has touched me like this—and he’s done absolutely nothing to me. This is the first time someone has touched me sober, where I feel electrified instead of repulsed.

I see why people seek solace in external sources like God to get over drugs, because right now I’m seriously considering turning to sex. It’s almost the same; the body tingles, the lightheadedness, feeling like I’m on top of the world, reaching for the stars like I never have to worry about falling. Nothing matters but what’s going on within the parameters of my skin.

Kohen does it again, dragging my center over his hard thigh, pressing his cock harder against me when he brings me up. My head falls back against the wall while his dips down to watch me with more scorching intensity than the sun.

This is wrong. Fucked up on every level. But I’ve always been a sinner, getting turned on by the things that are bad for me.

Kohen’s stare brings me back to earth, and it takes extreme effort not to move my hips again to feel his cock and alleviate the pressure that’s ready to explode. “What the fu—”

“No.” My eyes widen as I gasp when he closes his fingers around my windpipe, depriving me of my oxygen and rendering me silent. “I’m sick of hearing shit come out of your mouth.”

If he notices the subtle movement of my hips in response, he doesn’t let on. He doesn’t react when I slip my hand over his broad shoulders to the back of his neck or when I sink my nails into the knotted muscles that ripple beneath the surface of his skin. Blood pebbles beneath my nails, and I do it again in a different area while focusing on keeping my damn hips still.

“You—”

He tightens his grip around my throat, cutting me off. My eyes roll to the back of my head as another moan builds in my chest.

A trip to the shrink isn’t enough. I need to be put down.

I make my muscles go rigid when he tries moving me again, but all it does is make him flush his body against me, dragging his thigh along my pussy so there isn’t an inch of space between us. The simple gesture tells me everything I need to know: I don’t need to comply for him to get me off.

He does it again and again until my body becomes putty in his hands, grinding against him like I’m an animal. The vein in his forehead throbs as he watches me from beneath his heavy lids. I can see him cataloging every minute response and saving them for later—probably to use against me. I fruitlessly try to push him away. I do it partly for show and to assure myself that I tried.

“Fuck you,” I manage to breathe out of my burning lungs, grinding up and down his thigh.

His hot breath fans my ear as he roughly nuzzles the side of my face, tilting it so he has better access.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Blaze. You’re looking at me like you hate me, but you’re riding me like you love me.

”

The deep cadence of his voice sends a shot of liquid fire straight to my core, and I press myself harder against him with the next grind. The sound of his harsh breath is nearly muted from the blood rushing through my ears.

Stars dance behind my vision as I try to push him away. We both know I could make it happen if I really wanted him to stop. I’ve kneed him in the balls plenty of times. Mostly, he knows just as well as I do that if he keeps going, I will make an even bigger mess of his jeans.

The fingers gripping my hips dip beneath my panties and dig into my ass, holding it like he’s about to fall off a cliff. A barely noticeable sound rumbles at the back of his throat when he skims my soaked center, and my eyelashes flutter. The combination of sound and touch forces me to bite my lip to keep from whimpering for more.

He rakes his teeth along my jaw, eliciting a shudder. “You don’t want to be good. You don’t want to be broken. You want to be loud and mouthy because you want someone to notice you. You want to choose when to hand over control, and it makes your pussy wet that it’s me making all the decisions.”

A muffled groan is the only response I can give him. It’s becoming impossible to keep my eyes open to watch how he looks at me. It’s even more impossible to hold my body up on my own. I need to tap out or get him to ease his grip. Somehow, I know he’d do it if I gave his arm the slightest nudge. Except I can’t bring myself to do it.

If I tap out, he wins. If he lets go, I lose the headiness I itch for every time I look for my next hit. The blood rushing through my ears, the slowed thoughts, the fuzzy vision. A part of me—some sick, twisted part of me—wants to see how far he’ll take it. Whether I’ll pass out and wake up to his lips around my nipple or my underwear pushed to the side as he lines us up .

“Look at you, so needy and helpless. It’s pathetic—you hate me, and yet you’re about to come on my thigh when I haven’t even touched that pretty clit of yours.”

Our grip around each other’s neck loosens incrementally, and slowly, my head drops against his chest, and my eyes fall closed. There’s no fight in me to stop him from moving my hips, and without my restraint, he rolls my hips even faster until my hiccupping breaths stop, and nothing comes in or out anymore.

Kohen lets my throat go before my lights go out, and I gasp for breath as strength returns to my body. My hold on his shirt is the only thing keeping me upright as my lungs fight a battle between moaning and getting more oxygen.

“Fucking hell, Blaze. Are you trying to die?” he growls under his breath and yanks my head back with a fist in my hair.

“A murder charge would look good on you,” I sputter between strangled gasps, staring up into his disgustingly beautiful eyes.

I wish I could say I was only disappointed that he stopped, and there wouldn’t be big purple bruises around my neck for me to stock as evidence. Instead, the bar must be somewhere in hell, because my heart goes gooey knowing he let go before he could do any damage. It’s crying a pathetic tune under a misguided perception that Kohen might care for me.

He pulls my hair harder. “You think you can get away that easily? Haven’t you figured out there’s no separating us?”

Huh? “You’re delusional.”

“Is that why you’ve soaked through my jeans?” He makes a sound between a huff and a snarl—whatever it is, it does things to me. “Fuck, you’re a dirty little whore.”

Feminism? Out the window .

My hips buckle on their own. “Fuck you.”

“I’d be careful if I were you. I’m this close to fucking you into the wall.” He palms my ass. “Think I could fuck the brat out of you then, Thief?”

He releases my ass for a moment to flick my nipple, and out of pure reflex, I slap him. He has my arm above my head in the next heartbeat, and it kills me that my eyelids flutter. It shouldn’t turn me on how easily he overpowers me. I guess I’m a simple-minded girl who wants a strong man; none of his other qualities matter. The fact he ruined my life? Nope, my pussy doesn’t give a shit about any of that.

I grin. “Others have tried and failed.”

I know my answer would only piss him off more because what person wants to hear about the other’s sexual escapades when condensation coats the windows from their heated encounter.

Kohen’s lips peel back, and each one of his movements becomes painful, from the pull of my hair to the grip on my ass, to the coarse fabric of his jeans. “Only I get to make you come. Only I get to feel your thighs around me. You burn for me. Only me.”

His fingers drift past my ass to skate over the entrance to my pussy, and I bear down on his leg, riding his thigh because fuck him.

Kohen isn’t the winner here; I am. I’m the one using him. I’m the one who gets to come at the end of this, for once.

I let my hips loosen, let him move me faster than I’d be able to move myself as I claw and hit him like I’m the brat he knows me to be. I let myself moan without restraint, and I look him in the eyes as I do it. Helen of Troy had the right idea, because this is how she sank a thousand ships.

He’s not in control. I am. He thinks he’s broken my spirit, taken from me when I didn’t want to give. This isn’t humiliation. This is liberation. He wants the fight, and I want the feeling of ecstasy. I’m the one who wins this war. I don’t need an army to take him down when he has holes in his armor.

So when I come, there aren’t just fireworks and overfilled champagne. The earth rumbles, the ground opens up, hellfire tears through the sky, and I throw my head back to scream his name.

Not his.

His.

Kiervan’s.

Checkmate, asshole.