Blight

By A.C. Warneke

Blight is dark and violent and it is the 1st book in a series

Rebecca “Beck” Lewis has always known she was destined for an early grave. Ever since her parents became monsters and tore her perfect world apart she has been shattered, unable to put the pieces together again. But she doesn’t care because her goal in what is left of her life is to take out as many Blights as possible before they take her out or she finally gives in to madness. She likes being able to kill the monsters without mercy, without doubts, and she is very good at what she does.
It doesn’t matter that the amethyst-eyed demon who haunts her dreams is slipping into her reality and is stealing pieces of her soul. It doesn’t matter that he is destroying whatever remnants of humanity she has left and fashioning her into something new. It doesn’t matter that he is taking everything she loves away from her.
She never had much use for her soul anyway.

full length DARK Urban Fantasy, approx. 112,000 words
warning: contains graphic language, explicit sex (M/F) and a strong female character that drinks too much, swears inappropriately and kills a lot of Blights, all of which some may feel is offensive

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.C. Warneke
• Release date: Jun 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476408194

A.C. Warneke

Like most writers, I spend most of my time telling myself stories and occasionally writing them down when they get too loud to remain in my head. Each book likes to be created in its own way, which makes establishing an environment that is most conducive to writing quite difficult, though it occasionally involves Dove chocolates, music, minesweeper, lots of solitaire, notebooks and scraps of paper, doodling and day dreaming, and fruity, sugar-free bubble gum, not necessarily in that order and not always at the same time. Of course, none of this would be possible without the love and support of my very loving and very tolerant family, who politely listen as I go on and on about my characters' motivations and back stories, their connections within the worlds created and how they fight to gain control of their destinies. But I am a cruel writer and make them earn their happy endings. Since I am also a Romantic at heart, they are all happy endings. Available Books: Darkness Comes (Darkness book 1-PNR) Darkness Falls (Darkness book 2 - PNR) Stone Lover (Stone Passion Trilogy book 1 -PNR, romantica) Stone Romance (Stone Passion Trilogy book 2 -PNR, romantica) Stone Destiny (Stone Passion Trilogy book 3 - PNR, romantica) Siren Song (PNR) Stone Solitude (Stone Passion Twins book 1 - PNR, romantica) Stone Seduction (Stone Passion Twins book 2 - PNR, romantica) Awakening (PNR/UF) Blight (UF) After Blight (Blight book 2 - UF) Blind Attraction (Contemporary) Winter's Heart (STEAMY Contemporary) A Million Kisses or More (Contemporary) I love hearing from readers. Email me at: [e-mail] or connect on facebook: www.facebook.com/ACWarneke or visit my blog and leave a comment: acwarneke.com

Book preview

BLIGHT

by

A.C. Warneke

Smashwords Edition

*****

Published by:

A.C. Warneke

Blight

Copyright2012 by Andrea Warneke

All rights reserved

Images credit/copyright© Kiselev Andrey Valerevich/ Shutterstock

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

This book has always had a special place in my heart; it is the first I completed and the first I shared with others. This is dedicated to all of those brave souls who read it when it was still in its roughest stages and enjoyed it none-the-less. It is dedicated to my friends and family; it is dedicated to the men and women who fight on our behalf so we don’t have to worry as much about the wolves who prowl just beyond our doors. And it is dedicated to the memory of Michael McCloskey who was taken from us too soon; you are missed.

****

BLIGHT

*****

PROLOGUE

13 years ago….

I wake up in Michael’s room as he rustles around, packing whatever he can fit into a backpack. Confused, I watch until he turns to me and says we have to go. Pulling me from the bed, he frowns as I rub my eyes and look up at him. He looks afraid, sad. Resigned. We have to leave, little one.

What’s wrong? I ask, grabbing my teddy bear from the bed.

We’re not safe here anymore, he tells me softly, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards his window. Away from the door, away from my twin brother.

What about Gene? I ask slowly. When he doesn’t respond, my heart stops in my chest. I look at him and he just shakes his head no. We have to go back!

It’s too late, he says desperately, his eyes begging me to go with him. But I can’t leave. With my hair in two pony tails, clutching my well-loved teddy bear to my chest, I drag my sixteen year old brother down the long corridor of our old house. He’s whispering that we need to leave but I have to find Gene, my twin.

Daddy had returned from the war a changed man and the life I once knew and loved was stolen from me. We used to sit around the family room and watch movies: Gene and Michael would wrestle on the floor, daddy would rub momma’s shoulders and I would rest in momma’s lap, blissful. I remember the joy of loving and being loved. I remember believing in God. But after daddy returned, things were different. And in the weeks since daddy returned, since he died, I turned to Michael for comfort, protection.

Michael, I need to get Gene. I whisper, afraid to talk too loud.

We have to get out of here, Becky, he hisses. Michael tries to pull me back so I let go of his hand and head down that hallway, desperate to get to Gene before….

Momma used to have a sparkle in her green eyes, which danced with fantastic secrets. I used to think that it was God Himself speaking through those eyes, blessing me with a quiet knowledge of Him and His plan, and it was good and beautiful. Perfect. Michael tells me I have momma’s eyes, only without the laughter. Like I fucking care. She was the most beautiful person I have ever known and when my ten-year old eyes looked at her, I knew everything was going to be okay, because her eyes sparkled.

Even after daddy came home, damaged, broken, her eyes still danced. He no longer massaged momma’s shoulders, and darkness began to descend over the house, but her eyes still said everything was all right with the world. I could hear the brutality in their bedroom at night, the banging, the muffled screams. I would hide under my covers and when I woke in the morning, I would look to momma. Her shoulders were stooped; even with the teeth marks on her neck, the bruises on her face, her bare arms, her eyes still sparkled. Even when she began to change, her eyes sparkled.

The disharmonic music they made in the bedroom grew more in sync as both of them howled like wild beasts, tearing at one another, fucking and hurting each other. By that point, I was hiding in Michael’s room, the one most insulated from the screaming and destroying. I would climb into his bed, my heart racing in terror, too scared to make a sound. He’d stroke my hair, whispering that it was going to be okay, that he was going to protect me no matter what. It was the last moments I ever felt protected, safe.

Michael has my hand again and pulls even harder. I twist out of his hold and race towards my bedroom, where I used to sleep when I wasn’t so scared. It is as if I have to see what is happening, to see with my own eyes what has gone wrong.

Even after daddy swallowed his gun, his brains and skull all over the garage, the spark was still in her eyes, though I had to search for it. On the night that daddy was buried, momma brought home Uncle Felix, though he wasn’t really my uncle. He was one of daddy’s war buddies. I could hear the screaming all the way in the safety of Michael’s room. And I am pretty sure it was Felix’s screams. Momma lost the spark shortly after.

I manage to quietly make my way to Gene’s bedroom. Momma is bent over him, making blow fishing sounds against his bare stomach. I smile because momma has returned and she is playful again. It had all been a bad dream, but now….

Momma! I cry out from the doorway, about to run over to her, feel the safety of her arms, the warmth of her embrace. I want to see her eyes; I need to see them sparkle.

Her head jerks up, her body tense. She turns to face me, blood and entrails covering her face, her body, her hands, matted in her hair. Her eyes are dead. Yellow, watery monster eyes. In fright, I glance down and see Gene’s body, all over the bed. His lifeless eyes stare at the ceiling in horror. As my teddy bear slips from my fingers, my heart drops through the floor, passing straight into Hell. I am frozen in place, unable to breathe, as momma-beast begins to stagger towards me, her head cocked at an angle; a predator closing in on her vulnerable prey, her eyes vicious and evil.

I close my eyes and will the monster to disappear but it doesn’t and I feel its breath on my face, foul and pestilent. I want to cry, to scream, to move, but my body is no longer mine and I cannot move. I open my eyes, hoping to see some final spark in momma’s eyes. Instead, I see her dead, yellow eyes glittering with hunger, her long, sharp teeth in her open mouth as she bends her head towards mine….

She is Blight.

CHAPTER ONE

I no longer wake up from my memories screaming even as my heart desperately tries to break free of its confines. My body is wet with moisture that feels too close to blood and my stomach turns as my body wants to rid itself of all that is vile and evil, just as I did when I was ten. I can still feel Michael’s arm around my stomach where he grabbed me and lifted me off my feet, running for our lives.

I run my hand under my pillow, feeling the cold steel of my blade and am comforted. I smile, tired, knowing I am not going to be able to go back to sleep. Unconsciously, I run my fingers over the thin vertical line along my left wrist and close my eyes in remembrance. Life hasn’t been normal for a very long time.

Rolling over to flip the switch, I take a slow, deep breath. Lately, I only have two dreams. One dream is a memory of what happened all those years ago, the night that I realized everything was fucked up, the dream I have had for thirteen years, and the other dream is of a man – a demon – with amethyst eyes. I think I have always dreamed about Him, even before… everything.

He’s so magnificent and he comes to me in my sleep, seducing me, comforting me, terrorizing me. He takes me in every conceivable position and makes me burn. In truth, I don’t know which dream is worse: one I wake up screaming, the other I wake up aching and unfulfilled. Worse still is the fact that I’m going crazy; I have been seeing the amethyst-eyed fucker while I’m awake, his black hair gleaming in the sunlight, his face carved to perfection by angels, his lips smiling, mocking me…. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it’s just I’m not sleeping when I see Him

I slide out of bed and wander into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Or something a little stronger. I pass by my large, glass container of sharp, white teeth and smile again. Running my finger along the rim, its contents are comforting, something tangible; a testament to the number of Blights I have taken out. I sigh; those ones won’t be bothering anyone ever again.

It’s still dark outside so I decide on wine. After I pour myself a glass of chardonnay, I sit down at the table, pieces of my puzzle strewn over the top. I pick up a piece and try to fit it in place. Trying to keep my demons at bay, keep the sections of my mind from scattering in the storm, I concentrate on putting the pieces together into something coherent. I have stacks of puzzles to put together; I have many puzzles on my walls that I spent many nights putting together. The darkness recedes behind an illusionary wall and my mind is numbed, at least temporarily.

As the room begins to lighten, I look up and see that it is almost six and I notice that my glass is empty; I don’t remember drinking it. But it’s Monday and I have to get ready for the day so I meander into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror because I already know that my auburn hair is a mess and there are circles beneath my green eyes. I am not pretty when I haven’t gotten enough sleep and I have spent the last couple of weeks not getting enough sleep.

I go through the motions of getting ready: taking a shower, brushing my teeth, brushing my hair, getting dressed, but my head is a million miles away. I feel like a Blight, mindless and rudderless, but I know that I am still human. At least for a little while longer.

I fall back onto my bed, my hair still wet from my long, hot shower that failed to wake me up. Absently, I finger one of the buttons on my blouse and glance at my digital clock on my nightstand. 6:32 a.m. I still have a couple of hours before I am expected to show up for class. I should get some sleep but I am too tired to actually fall asleep. Besides, if I close my eyes, I don’t know what demons I’ll have to face.

I grab the pillow from beneath my head and put it over my face; maybe inducing artificial night will make it easier to pretend to sleep. Instead, the smooth surface of Teddy rubs against the back of my neck, oddly comforting. Bending my elbow, I run my fingers over the blade, needing to feel the cold metal. I am almost twenty-three years old and I still sleep with a teddy bear. A choked laugh comes from my throat at that thought. This teddy bear is metal and sharp, and though he does soothe me, he kind of hurts to sleep on without a pillow.

Sighing in vexation, I lift my head out from beneath the said pillow then slam it back down on the fluffy thing. It isn’t the same as slamming your head against a wall; which is probably a good thing. I once read somewhere that you lose like a thousand brain cells each time your brain bounces against your skull. The thought of my brains sloshing around in all of that cerebral fluid should really bore me to unconsciousness, but it doesn’t.

With another sigh, I look out the window: it’s cloudy now, it may even rain. That wouldn’t be so bad; I enjoy a good storm. I love it when the storm is right on top of me, when the thunder rattles the windows and the lightning fills my room. Nothing demonstrates God’s power like a good storm: wind, rain and electricity; a whole bunch of sound and fury. Unfortunately, if it does storm, I’ll have to drive in it to get back to the Agency. Whatever. A little rain never killed me.

Realizing that I am not going to sleep, I sit up and push my legs over the edge of the bed. The sudden change of positions sends my blood away from my head, making me a bit woozy and the room spins. Resting my head in my hands, I close my eyes and sit there for a moment, waiting for my body to adjust itself. I try to make a list of things that I can do before I need to go back to work, but the only thing that sounds at all appealing is opening a bottle of wine and drinking until I’m numb. Unfortunately, it’s barely 6:30 in the morning and that’s not going to happen.

Warm hands press down on my shoulders, sending jolts of internal lightning throughout my body. Dread and anticipation war and my heart beats too fast as I look up and see Him standing there in all of His dark magnificence. My breath catches in my throat as He stares down at me with deep purple eyes; eyes lit with hunger and pleasure. Thick, dark lashes add to the sultry look He gives me and my belly quivers. It actually fucking quivers.

He is ethereally beautiful, dark and glorious; a holy demon, a fallen angel. It’s hard to fathom such masculine perfection, even as I stare it in the face: cheek bones so sharp, emphasizing the hollow beneath; a carved jaw bone too perfect for words; sensuous lips that beg for debauchery. His thick black hair falls luxuriously to His broad shoulders.

Heat creeps into my cheeks and I have to moisten my lips as my eyes drift down, roaming over His naked body. He is Hades, god of the underworld; fashioned by the Greek masters, He is perfection brought to life. His stomach is ridged with just the right amount of muscle and His long, thick penis juts out magnificently between His strong thighs. Sleek, corded muscle, bands of sinew, pale marble flesh, all combine to create something extraordinary. Something predatory.

I look up and His eyes are nearly black with desire; it terrifies me.

He frightens me.

Wh...what are you doing here? I ask softly, drowning in the dark depths of His eyes.

His lips curve upwards in a wicked smile, darkening His divine face even further, Look in the mirror, Rebecca.

I shift slightly so I can look behind Him to the mirror on my dresser. My pale face stares back, the shadows beneath my eyes making me look like a wraith. It is not a pretty sight. My forehead wrinkles as I continue to look at my reflection until comprehension finally dawns: it is only my reflection that I am looking at. I look up and catch His mocking expression. Bending His head, His lips next to my ear, He whispers, This is all in your head, love.

I swallow past the lump in my throat as the smell of Him envelops me: deep, luxurious masculine heat. I close my eyes to shut Him out but it doesn’t help. With my eyes closed, all of my other senses clamor for attention. My skin crawls with awareness, warming beneath His gaze; my heart pounds drunkenly in my chest, painful, expectant. I can hear it, mixed with the harshness of my ragged breathing. I can almost taste Him on my tongue: rich, slightly salty; He is temptation. I take a deep breath and am overwhelmed once more by His luscious smell. By the smell of my own desire.

I tell myself that this time I will not respond; that this time He will not make me. But His hands are gently pushing me back onto the bed and seemingly of their own volition, my feet lift off the floor. I am laying down once more, the length of my bed beneath me. I will not give in, damn it. Yet I do nothing to stop Him.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, He leans forwards, kissing the corner of my mouth. Heat arcs across my skin from the simple touch, my lips tingle. As he kisses the other corner, He begins to unbutton my blouse. I grab His wrist, What are you doing?

Instead of answering, He presses His lips to my throat and liquid cravings pour into me. I flatten my hands against His naked chest and push. Stop.

This is your dream, Rebecca, He breathes, putting a hand on my bare skin. Slowly, He moves His fingers up my body, from my waist, over my ribs. A whimper escapes my throat as His hand covers my breast; His fingers capture my nipple and roll it. My stomach tightens and I push against Him once more.

Instead of stopping, His body covers mine, pressing me into the bed. He hooks His legs over mine, pulling them apart, settling His weight between my thighs. His erection is hot, heavy, against my thigh. My hands fall to His waist and I feel the ridge of muscle, the hot flesh. His skin burns my fingertips. How can this not be real?

My fingers curl into His body as He squeezes my breast, pinching my nipple with His forefinger and thumb. I will not give in. Not again. Half-heartedly, I repeat, Stop.

His hand moves across my stomach, resting on the waistband of my jeans. I stare up at Him and He holds me in place with His dark gaze as He unsnaps the button on my pants. The sound of my zipper being pulled down startles me. I twist my body beneath His but it is ineffective; I cannot move.

I turn my head as He moves His mouth over my throat, my sternum, my belly; as He pulls my pants and my panties off my legs, trailing kisses along my body. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut; it’s not real, He’s not real; I don’t want to give in. I don’t want to want to give in. Softly, I beg, Please, stop.

He lifts His body and I breathe out with relief, with shame. Until He grabs my hands in one of His, raising them above my head. Covering me with His body once more, I feel the tip of His erection nudging into my body. Please.

You are ready for me, He murmurs, His breath stirring the air next to my ear. I try to contort my body away from Him, try to shut Him out, but His grip on my hands tightens. He growls, Look at me, Rebecca.

Slowly, I turn my head until I am swimming in purple oceans again. My skin is on fire, my body trembles, my throat is dry, my flesh is swollen. I rasp, You’re not real.

His decadent lips curl into a brazen smile and without another word, He pierces me with His cock, His tongue. Dark pleasure consumes me whole as He moves in me and my body arches off the bed. My head twists and I scream silently, my body no longer my own, as the fire races through my blood and over my skin.

His rhythm is relentless and He drives me towards destruction, my own destruction. I can hear myself panting, sobbing, and still He slams into me. Over and over, deeper and deeper, until I cry out. Until my body shatters into a million pieces. His lips move against my ear and the frantic racing of my heart, my soul, comes to a standstill.

You know what I want, He taunts, His voice mesmerizing. He runs His tongue along the shell of my ear and I shudder.

No, I deny, my body still shuddering beneath His.

Give in, He croons, trailing His fingers along my jaw. Lose yourself in me.

I open my eyes and I am alone once more, my clothes in their proper place. I wipe my hands over my face, feeling the moisture on my cheeks. Did I really cry? I drag my hands down my throat, over my still tender breasts, flattening my palms against my stomach.

I gave in. Fuck; I gave in.

In a rush, I fly off the bed and make it to the bathroom, barely making it before my stomach purges itself. Kneeling in front of the toilet, my stomach continues to rebel, but there is nothing left to expel. My nose burns and tears continue to seep out from beneath my eye lids; I don’t know who I am.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I force myself to stand up and look in the mirror over my sink. Brilliant green eyes look back at me, unblinking as I wash my hands, as I rinse my mouth out with water. The darkness in my soul; I can feel it churning, clawing at my skin. I close my eyes for a moment before looking again, unable to look away. The brightness is beginning to fade, taking the shadows with it.

Slamming my fist against the mirror, I jump when the glass cracks. Shit; I didn’t mean to break the damn thing. I’m too agitated; how can I possibly face a class room of students today? I cannot. But I cannot stay here; I would claw my skin off. I need to get out of here; I need to find a place of control once more. I need to fight.

As I pass through my bedroom, the crash of thunder matches my mood. I grab my car keys from the counter and stalk out to my clunker, not caring whether or not the rain drowns me. I hop in and start driving, not caring about the destination. Mindlessly, I find myself at the Agency and a humorless laugh escapes at my pathetic-ness.

Avoiding – ignoring – everybody, I make my way to the locker room, quickly changing into a long-sleeved t-shirt and gym shorts. I need to clear my head. Since there are no Blights around to dance with, I will settle for a punching bag. Wrapping my hands with tape, I viciously tear the ends. Punching my left palm with my right, I wince only slightly at the sting.

Satisfied with my wrap job, I leave the locker room and walk over to a bag and begin thrashing it, throwing punches and kicks as swiftly and precisely as I can. Still seething, I beat it until my blood seeps through the tape. And still I fight, not finding control. I can still feel Him, His hands, His body. His amethyst eyes mock me and I let out a guttural yell as I swing, my fist breaking the leather and puncturing the bag. Shock freezes me and I stare at my arm sticking out of the ruined bag.

Clapping breaks the spell and I pull my hand back, peripherally aware of the bleeding knuckles. I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes but it doesn’t move; it’s plastered to my head. Grumbling, I swipe it behind my ear just as I turn and see Wilson. He’s leaning against the wall, watching me, his blue eyes sparkling with… what? Whatever. All I know is that he looks really good in a tight t-shirt and shorts.

He’s in his late twenties, ex-military. He has been growing his dark blond hair out and I like how he looks with hair. Of course, I liked how he looked with a buzz cut. Wilson is a very attractive man and once upon a time I would have given anything for him to notice me as a woman and not the little girl who joined the fighters because she was too fucked up.

We met when I was almost sixteen and he was twenty two and I thought that he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen in real life. I instantly developed a huge crush on the older man. He has the bluest eyes, eyes that just absorb a person, and his face is perfectly chiseled, with a strong jaw and taut cheeks. When he smiles, two dimples appear, one on either side of his extraordinarily luscious mouth. And, God, he has a body to die for, all lean muscle and strength. I still think he’s beautiful.

Our relationship has always been solid, even when I was a child and he watched over me as a brother. He’s the only one who gets me; he treats me like a human, which I appreciate since just about everyone else treats me like I am some delicate dragonfly that is going to run off and crash into a windshield. I have to admit that he is also a great Blight Fighter, and seeing him swing a blade is a thing of pure lust. Unfortunately, he isn’t for me, no matter how much I might wish it because if I had a choice, I would be with him forever.

Once I was too young, now I am too lost.

Wilson.

Impressive, he nods his head. Pushing off the wall, he walks towards me, his stride confident; sexy. I shake my head slightly to dispel that thought before it gets carried away. He’s infuriating, swaggering with all of that male… testosterone. He smiles and my heart does a little jig in my chest, but I ruthlessly squash it. I am over him; I am so over him. I have no choice.

My skin is still too tight, but the punching bag is broken. Watching Wilson move, his grace and athleticism evident in every inch of his body, I cannot force myself to look away. I’ve always been drawn to him, it doesn’t seem to matter that he’s not meant for me. As he nears, my nostrils flare as they catch his scent: clean, warm. Wilson. Narrowing my eyes at him, I growl, Fight me.

He doesn’t even protest, he simply nods his head and motions towards the mat in the center of the room. After you, Beck.

As I walk past him, I throw my shoulder into his stomach, gratified to hear the guttural oomph rush past his lips. I look over my shoulder and the playful, seductive smile on his lips makes me stumble. Fortunately, I recover before anyone notices. Unfortunately, seven years of having a crush on a man doesn’t just disappear and my pulse stutters.

Wiping my arm across my forehead to get my damp hair out of my eyes, I crouch down and get ready to spar with Wilson. Instead of immediately following suit, Wilson grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing well-honed muscles and a very nice torso. His body isn’t as blindingly perfect as the dark man in my dreams, but it’s awfully goddamned close. I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of his body but when he gets into position, I force myself to get my head back in the game.

It won’t work, I tell him as we begin to circle.

What won’t work? He smiles as he flexes his abs and pectorals; he knows what I’m talking about. It comes from years of training together. Of having to rely on one another in the heat of battle.

You trying to distract me with all of that satiny, golden skin, I grin, allowing myself a quick perusal of his body. God, what a nice body.

Well, maybe you could take off your shirt…. He waggles his eyebrows and lunges. Dropping the center of my gravity, I stay upright. Only now, Wilson’s arms are around me. I might have wanted to think this sparring with Wilson through. Having his arms around me, even if only for this moment, is too tempting. My eyes close as I just take the briefest moment to breathe him in. If only he showed me some sign last year; if only….

Swiping my leg, I drop him to the floor, landing on top of him. His body is so solid beneath mine, so real. My hands are on either side of his head and for a second our eyes meet. Does he feel the attraction, or am I just delusional, wanting something I cannot have? I mimic a smile, I’m not removing my clothes, Wilson; this isn’t a date.

Is it my imagination, or did his blue eyes get darker? Pushing myself off his body, I wait for him to get up to begin again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a few people taking an interest in our match. Wilson must have noticed, too. With a grin, he winks at me, We’ve got an audience; are you still up for it?

Lowering my lashes slightly, I offer a half-smile, You want to do it in front of spectators? That’s so kinky, Wilson; just promise that you’ll go easy on me.

I don’t make promises I can’t keep, he grins, his blue eyes laughing. Memories from this morning are quickly fading in the presence of Wilson’s light. I actually feel almost real and that feeling makes me want to laugh.

I don’t know how long we spar; maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours. Wilson’s chest is glistening and his hair is matted to his head – and he looks sexy as hell. I am probably faring much worse; I can feel strands of hair sticking to my face, my neck. And my shirt is plastered to my body, drenched in sweat; the cloyingly sweet smell hangs in the air. It’s not fair, you know.

What isn’t? he asks, the dimples deepening on each side of his mouth as he smiles. God, he has a gorgeous smile. He has a gorgeous everything.

You can’t win, I tease. If I take you down, you get beat by a girl; but if you take me down…. Well, that’s just pathetic.

I’ll take my chances, he laughs, lunging unexpectedly and catching me around my waist. I fall through the air and land on my back. A half second later, his solid weight lands on top of me and this time I am the one who lets out an oomph. Our legs tangle and he moves until he covers my body with his. I win.

Unable to help myself, I laugh, the sound almost foreign to me. But as I continue to lay there, Wilson’s warm body covering mine, I notice other changes. I can feel my body softening towards his, accepting him; wanting him. It’s… different than what I imagine late at night – earlier this morning. He’s gentle, tender. I watch his face as he watches his hand brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. You’re so beautiful, Beck.

My pulse races at that statement and it’s hard to catch my breath. I’m flying a little bit. But then His voice whispers in my ear, He just wants to fuck you, Rebecca.

I swallow past the dryness of my throat, trying to shut Him out; He doesn’t belong here. Wilson lowers his chin and our eyes meet and my troubles disappear. Slowly, he smiles at me and my heart slams against the walls of my chest. I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue and his eyes darken. I can feel his penis thickening, swelling, against my stomach and I panic. Pushing against his chest, I plead softly, Get off.

Without hesitation, he rolls off, flopping onto his back, resting his hand on his flat stomach. He is completely unaware – or unconcerned – about the tent in his shorts. I frown at his behavior; he got off of me. As I continue to frown at him, he turns his head, his blue eyes still dark, but he smiles his brilliant, beautiful smile, Great work out, Beck; thank you.

Unsure how to deal with him, with his kindness, I push myself to my feet. I stumble towards the locker room, where hopefully I can find equilibrium from the other direction. Looking over my shoulder I see that he is still lying on the mat, but his eyes are following me. Desire simmers in the blue depths and a chill trips