Real Ugly (Hard Rock Roots #1)

Chapter Nineteen: Naomi Knox

I see Turner standing there naked, abs tight and body slick with heat and sweat. His thick cock stands up proudly between his legs, just another piece of art added to that perfect body. He's so covered in tattoos that it's hard for me to take them all in: spiders, wolves, paw prints, bats, webs. He wets his lips, flashing me his tongue stud for just a moment before the light in the bathroom goes out with a spark.

A second later, our bodies crash together so hard it hurts, and I find myself on my back on the dirty, disgusting fucking floor, my hips cradled in Turner's hands, his cock pressing eagerly at my opening. It happens so fast, sliding in balls deep before I get a chance to think this through, to protest.

I blame the cocaine.

The music continues to blast from outside the door, and I can hear people screaming, shouting, begging for more. It's loud but not loud enough to block the guttural groans clawing their way out of Turner's throat, blending in seamlessly with my rapid breathing, so that we're practically playing a song of our own. I want to think of it as a requiem, but somehow I imagine that it's a prelude.

Shit.

My hands curl, fingers clawing at the tiles, sliding through bits of soggy toilet paper and discarded tampon wrappers. I should be disgusted, but I'm not. I'm excited, thrilled even. All this time hating Turner, wishing him ill, wanting him dead, has built up into this angry sexual fervor that begs me to ride him until my heart explodes from my chest and my fingers draw blood from his back.

I drag my nails down his spine, wrap him so tight that our sweaty bodies slide over one another, mixing heat and warmth, skin against skin. His balls tease my ass, and his mouth drops to mine. I nibble his tongue ring harder than I probably should, hurting him with my teeth while he grinds his hips so hard into mine that I feel like we're both going to break, that our bones are going to shatter and leave us a messy, dirty puzzle on the floor.

We don't speak. Why bother? We have nothing to say to each other with words that we can't say with our bodies right here, right now, rutting on the floor like a pair of wild cats, tails flicking, ears back, claws bared.

Turner breaks away from me and goes for my nipples, using his stud to flick them hard and bring chills over my body while goose bumps spring to life and betray me, letting him know how damn much I'm enjoying all this.

And I shouldn't be.

He fucked me over before, left me with that horrible decision ...

But I still don't hate him as much as I should. Why? Why? Why?

I arch my back and press into him, drawing myself off the cold floor as much as I possibly can, letting Turner slide an arm beneath me, so he can prop me up. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I sit up and end up straddling Turner somehow, draping my arms over his neck and drawing his face back to mine.

And suddenly, the lights are flickering back to life, highlighting our faces with brightness and shadow both, making me see him, his expression, the desperation there that he doesn't even know he has. That passion he's carrying around, that intensity that he hides behind the arrogance and the fucking and the drugs, is showing and it's starting to stick to me. It was only a matter of time, really. I think I'm just hitting him at the right place, right time. But you know that isn't entirely true. That first night, you two had a connection. You knew it; he knew it. He might've been fucked out of his mind, but he didn't get that tattoo because he was drunk. He got it because he liked you then, just like he does now. Turner doesn't want someone who'll roll over and take it. He wants someone who fights. He wants you.

I call bullshit on my brain as Turner reaches up and grabs my glasses, throwing them so hard that they smash into the wall behind me and shatter into a million pieces. I grab his chin with my nails, pressing so tightly that little dots of red show up, highlighting his pale skin, the stubble on his jaw, that cocky smile.