Where's Molly, page 13
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan. “Quit talking.”
“I'll make sure to buy him a magnifying glass then,” Molly says, one corner of her lips curled upward.
“For the splinters or his penis?”
“Ma.”
A laugh bursts from Molly's throat, and instantly, I forgive my mother for being so crass. I'm used to her making jokes at my expense, but I'm confident Molly has never met anyone like my mother, and her personality definitely isn't a one-size-fits-all. There's been a few girlfriends in the past that she's scared off, which instantly told me they weren't worth it anyway.
“I'm not gonna scare ya off, am I?” Mom asks her, as if reading my mind.
She shakes her head. “I don't scare that easily. Not anymore, at least.”
“See? She's tough,” Mom tells me, then focuses on Molly, a sly grin on her face. She's going to say something terrible, except I don't have time to stop her. “How viable is your uterus? Eggs haven't shriveled yet, right? I've been waiting for grandkids.”
“I'm sorry about her,” I apologize, leading Molly into my childhood room. “Believe it or not, she doesn't ask about every woman’s uterus that I've brought around.”
She gives me a guarded look. “How many women have you brought around?”
My expression is serious as I say, “Two. And they were hopeless attempts at trying to make myself feel what I felt with you.”
She turns away, choosing not to answer.
“My mom really likes you,” I tell her, refusing to let her run away, even if it’s in her own mind.
“She hardly knows me,” Molly argues softly, running her fingers over a high school soccer trophy.
“She knows all that she needs to,” I say, shrugging a shoulder.
She raises a brow. “What have you told her?”
I grin. “Only the important parts. That you’re incredibly strong, funny, and the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. I think she can see that already.”
“What if she's wrong? We're not even dating.”
My muscles tighten, and my teeth clench. I'm overcome with the urge to show her just how wrong she is. She’s mine, as explicitly as the heart in my chest.
I’m advancing on her before she can slide her fingers across another trophy. Her breath halts as I crowd into her, my chest molding against her back. She shivers as I lean in closely, feathering my lips across the shell of her ear.
Those little tremors are not nearly enough.
I want her to fucking convulse like she’s being possessed, and it’ll be my cock inside her while she does.
“You think I need an anniversary date to put my baby inside you?”
I don’t recognize my own voice anymore, but I do find that little gasp familiar.
“You wouldn’t,” she breathes. “We hardly know each other.”
“No,” I agree. “Not yet, at least.” I place a kiss below her ear. “But I would. I absolutely—” Kiss. “—fucking—” Kiss. “—would.”
She whips around, those fiery eyes pinned to mine as she snaps, “I wouldn’t let you. What if I find you to be absolutely insufferable? You could leave food crusted on your dishes instead of rinsing them off. Or have dirty clothes all over the floor and soggy towels on the bed.” She pauses and glances nervously to the side. “You could find my nightmares intolerable.”
“You don’t think I have them?” I question, enjoying the feeling of her heart beating against my chest. “I’ve suffered in life, too, baby. Just in different ways.”
“You have nightmares?” she questions curiously.
In response, I grab her hand and pull her after me.
“Where…?
She trails off as I lead her out of my old room, down the hall, and to the last door on the right.
She doesn’t speak as she takes in the pale yellow walls, blue-and-yellow duvet, and the pictures pinned to the corkboard hanging above her white desk. Pictures of a blonde-haired girl sticking her tongue out next to friends or holding up the peace sign and pursing her lips.
She was beautiful.
“Her name was Olivia. She was murdered when she was sixteen, and I was twelve. It ultimately led me to get into the business I’m in. She and her friend were caught trying to get into a nightclub with a fake ID. Her killer was a cop who came to pick them up, and she never came home.”
“I’m sorry,” Molly whispers, slowly walking up to the photos and studying them closely. “Not many people come home.”
“You did, though, didn’t you?”
Slowly, she turns her head just enough to peer at me over her shoulder.
“If anyone deserved to be the one to escape, it would’ve been her.” She turns away, but not before I see the sadness polluting her eyes. “Turns out, I wasn't important enough to deserve it. I thought Layla needed me, but I think I only delayed her happiness. My father was being investigated, and eventually, CPS would’ve found him unfit anyway. I was convinced she’d just go to another unfit home, but what if she didn’t? What if she found a good home, rather than me taking her away to live four miserable years with me? No stability. Being hungry all the time—” Her voice cracks, and she cuts herself off abruptly.
“You’re wrong, ya know,” I tell her, fire building in my chest. “Or, at least, there’s a good chance you are. She would’ve gone into the system, and there’s no guarantee she would’ve ended up with a good family. She could’ve gone from one abuser to the next.”
Molly nods, the movement choppy, but she doesn’t appear convinced.
I’m furious that she could think so little of herself. Even more furious at the people who made her feel as though she’s not a goddamn goddess walking this earth that we don’t deserve.
“You are the most important person I've ever met, Molly,” I whisper. “And while I will always be devastated that my sister didn't survive, I'm so fucking happy that you did.”
Though her back is facing me, I hear a soft sniffle. She doesn't respond. Instead, she stares at Olivia, that smile on her face forever frozen in time.
“For years, I couldn't step foot in this room. Anytime I saw those pictures with her smiling face, it would slowly morph into a dramatic frown, her mouth opening on a wail. It looked fucking demonic, and I had all but convinced myself that was the real expression frozen on her face when she died. Her cries of terror outlived her heartbeat.”
“Do you want to talk about her?” Molly asks quietly, voice clogged with tears. “I'd like to get to know her.”
My chest tightens, and I can't tell if I want to wrap her in my arms because she cares, or because I need something to hold on to while I tell her about my sister.
“She loved 80s music. ‘Sunglasses at Night’ by Corey Hart was her favorite song, and she insisted on constantly wearing these neon pink sunglasses for three months after she heard it for the first time. Mom thought she was the cutest thing, and I made it a point to tell her how ridiculous she looked.”
Molly's head swivels to find the picture of Olivia wearing them, a bright smile pasted on her face as she sits beside me in our mom's car, my face slackened in a dry, unamused expression. She’d just gotten her driver's license that day and, of course, blasted that Corey Hart song all the way home.
“She wore pink lipstick every day, even when she was sick. She always said the version of her without it was her evil alter ego. She hated tomatoes but put ketchup on everything, even her mashed potatoes. Which I still find very fucking gross, by the way.”
“I would have to agree with that,” Molly chuckles softly.
Her stare slides to a picture of Olivia sitting beside a bald little boy in a hospital bed, with birthday hats atop their heads.
“When she turned sixteen, she spent her birthday at the children's hospital in the cancer unit because she felt guilty that they may never see that age.”
My heart aches, and for a moment, it feels impossible to continue.
“She never knew she wouldn't see past that age, either.”
Molly turns to me, sadness swirling in her gaze.
“She sounds like she was an incredible kid,” she whispers. “Amazing, really.”
I nod, working to swallow past the rock in my throat.
Almost shyly, she grabs my hand and walks me over to Olivia's bed. I'm not sure what she intends, but my head is too fuzzy to ask.
With a slight smile on her face, she lies down on one side of the bed and pats the empty spot next to her. Confused, I follow suit, the both of us staring up at the ceiling silently. Right as I begin to ask her what she's doing, a burst of music fills the room.
My eyes flick to where she holds her phone up, “Sunglasses at Night” playing from the speakers.
“Mol—”
“Shh,” she hushes, laying her hand over mine. “Don’t be rude. Olivia might be trying to listen, too.”
I can't breathe.
A fire explodes in my chest, burning a path down to our entwined hands.
I hope to God that it burns her, too.
I want the flames to melt our hands together so she can never let go.
If she wanted me to fall in love with her, she only needed to tell me. Now, she has no choice in the matter.
Though, I suppose she never really did.
Turning my head, I stare at her until she meets my eyes. “I will chase away all your nightmares until they grow wary of returning. They will fear me, my little ghost. But you never will.”
Molly
Nine Years Ago
2013
I don't know that I've felt so clean in my entire life. Nor has my skin ever been so smooth.
A towel is wrapped tightly around my body, and my hair tumbles over my shoulders in a mass of curls, water dripping from the ends.
Anxiety is holding every last one of my nerves hostage. I'm standing at the door, staring at it as if it's the mirror on the wall from Snow White, and it’s going to tell me my future.
Will I like sex?
I've never had an orgasm before. Too caught up in trying to survive to even consider it. I’ve always avoided intimacy or anything to do with sex. After what my father did to me, and then everything that happened in Francesca’s house—I never felt inclined to try.
Now, I wish I had. If I don't even know what I like, how will he?
I'm too much in my head.
Surely, he can figure it out.
Inhaling deeply, I swing open the door and find the room empty. That's both disappointing and relieving. Had he been standing there, I probably wouldn't know what to do with myself. But that means I'm going to have to seek him out now. Which sounds equally terrifying.
What the fuck am I even supposed to say to him?
Hi, excuse me, can you put your dick inside me? I'm not sure if I’ll like it, but let's find out together.
I'm going to embarrass myself. I just know it.
I walk over to the bed, noticing a pile of clothing folded atop. They look like men's clothing, and when I pick up the soft black t-shirt, I'm instantly hit with a delectable scent—a mix of vetiver and sandalwood.
My eyes nearly roll, and I'm unabashed in the way I practically stuff the soft fabric up my nose.
“Smell good?”
The voice is so sudden, there's no containing the loud screech that bursts from my throat. I drop the shirt while I whip around, my towel unraveling from the quick movement. I catch it before it falls completely, then bar my arm across my breasts and hold it there, though it only manages to cover my center. With my other hand, I grip the towel against my stomach, keeping it from swaying and exposing me further.
My heart is on the verge of exploding out of my chest, and I'm too stunned to get my shit together and cover myself properly. At this moment, I hardly remember how to breathe. My lungs are functioning no better than an old, rusty engine that was left abandoned in a junkyard.
Green eyes darken, a red-hot flame burning within. They blaze a trail over my exposed flesh, unashamed by the way his stare so readily devours me. I don't miss the way it catches on the white bite marks imprinted on my skin. My hips, my thighs, my stomach…
His teeth visibly clench, rage flashing across his gaze.
“What?” The delayed question comes out as a breathless squeak.
Nostrils flaring, he takes a step toward me, and the battered muscle in my chest flies up into my throat. I lock my knees, forcing myself to stand still despite how much I want to back away.
Distinctly, I feel a bead of water drip onto the swell of my breast, which his gaze immediately tracks. The droplet slowly trails down the valley between my breasts, and the muscle in his jaw pulses, nearly tearing through his skin. His animalistic gaze snaps up to mine, his chin tipping low as he stares at me fiercely from beneath thick brows.
Heat gathers low in my stomach, sinking down between my trembling thighs. My clit pulses from that single look alone, and I know that if he were to part my legs, he'd see the evidence glistening from within.
Never in my life have I ever felt this way. Never has my core felt so… empty.
He's silent as he stalks toward me, but I'm positive my escalated heart rate is audible.
I shift on my feet, feeling how slick I've become. It's almost embarrassing, yet it's a reaction the men in Francesca's house would claim, but never actually accomplished. They wanted us to weep for them, but the only thing they ever made wet was our eyes.
Cage, on the other hand, easily makes my pussy weep, and he hasn't even touched me yet.
He stops an inch before me, the heat radiating from him warming my skin. Goosebumps scatter across my flesh, and a shiver tumbles down my spine. It feels as if bees are buzzing beneath the surface, their fluttering wings creating electricity and engulfing my body in it.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks quietly.
It's a question that requires a simple answer. Yes or no. Yet, my brain turns it over as if he presented me with a complicated math equation.
The throbbing between my legs screams its answer, though my head can do nothing but focus on how I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing.
“I-I'm not very good at this,” I mumble, keeping my eyes pinned to his chest. I'm not brave enough to meet his stare. It'll eat me alive, and I'm too afraid that I’ll allow it to chase me away before I can let him touch me.
“Has anyone made you feel good before?”
I lick my lips, feeling like any moisture in my body has flooded south.
“No.”
“Then that's all you need to do. You don’t need to do anything else, except let me make you feel good.”
My nod is choppy, and the butterflies in my stomach have been freed. But they're hungry, too, and they've begun to tear at my insides. Especially as his forefinger hooks beneath my chin and forces it up, until my stare snaps to his like a magnet.
“Where do you want me to kiss first?” he asks, his tone hushed, deep and rough.
Silently, I reach up and brush my fingers across my lips, drawing his attention there.
He's slow to lean in, as if to prolong the torture. But the second his lips capture mine between his, I wish he'd given me an extra moment to breathe.
The kiss is short, but primal and entirely too explosive for only a second. It’s nothing like those pecks I've seen on TV, and I can't imagine they felt the pure fire that's raging between us.
He watches me for half a second before he crushes his mouth back onto mine, evoking a volcanic eruption that’s melting me into a pile of ash. Yet, he holds on to all the pieces of me and gathers them against his chest until there is no me and him. Only an us.
His hand slides along my jawline and dives into my damp curls, directing the angle of my head so he can lick along the seam of my lips. And like a greedy little puppet, I eagerly open for him. He tastes the smallest of gasps on his tongue as it glides against mine, which seems only to invigorate him.
It transforms from a passionate kiss to being devoured whole, and the only thing I can do is submit. I'm a slave to him, and it's the first time I'm happy to be one.
In a moment of madness, I drop my towel altogether, the thump over my feet causing him to pull away, though his lips rest against mine.
“Where do you want me to kiss next?” he rasps.
I've never heard a voice so deep, bordering on demonic. It would make sense why I feel so possessed.
“Lower,” I rasp.
He places an open-mouthed kiss on my jaw, ending it there.
“Let me hear your words,” he purrs. “Do you want me to kiss these pretty tits? Or I can kiss your sweet pussy. I'll fucking feast on her if you want.”
“Yes,” I moan. “All of it.”
He dips at the knees just enough to grab the backs of my thighs and lift me up, my feet hooking behind his back. But it's useless because, within moments, he's laying me on the bed and descending my body, wasting no time wrapping his lips around my nipple.
A shot of electricity races down my spine, and my back bows off the bed, a cry slipping past my lips.
“Cage!”
His answering growl is primal, followed by the sharp bite of his teeth. My mouth falls open on a silent scream, my body unable to properly function beneath the assault.
Every one of my nerves is hyper-fixated on the way his tongue swirls over me. Then, he switches to the other, cupping both of my breasts in his large palms as if he's feeding them into his mouth.
My fingers dive into his short strands, scraping my nails against his scalp.
His teeth gnash at my abused nipple one more time before he pulls away, taking his wet kisses lower.
My lungs tighten, refusing to pull in a single breath as he reaches my belly button. There lies a scar that's fitted perfectly around it. Aside from the one on my face, I've always hated that one most because of how ugly and centered on my body it is.
I'm prepared to tell him to ignore it, but before I can manage a sound, he's matching his teeth to the scar and sinking them into it.
“Cage!” I screech, the burning pain encompassing my shock.
