Chapter 12: Shared Trauma Bonding
The click of the lock was the loudest sound Lexi had ever heard. It sealed them in, a bubble of shared, breathless mortification. For three full seconds, they just stood there, Ace still half-turned toward the door as if poised to flee, Lexi’s back pressed against the cool wood, her chest heaving.
Then the absurdity of it all hit her like a freight train.
A choked snort escaped her, then another, until she was laughing, loud and helpless, the sound too big for the quiet room. She slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, tears of hysterical embarrassment streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh my god,” she wheezed, looking up at Ace’s stunned profile.“His face. And her robe… it was just… wide open. Wide. Open.” She dissolved into another fit, her shoulders shaking. “Guess we both saw more of Dede than we ever wanted.”
Ace slowly turned to look down at her. The rigid tension in his shoulders loosened a fraction, his own mouth twitching. A low, reluctant chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Your dad’s gonna kill me.”
“He’s gonna kill me,” Lexi corrected, wiping her eyes. “I’m the one who brought the corrupted influence into the house.” She sniffed, the laughter dying into shaky breaths. The image was burned into her retinas: her father, half-naked, eyes dark with a feral possession she’d never seen before. It made her feel ten years old and a hundred at the same time.
She uncurled herself and pushed up from the floor, the laughter evaporating completely, leaving a hollow, weird feeling in its wake. She walked to her bed and flopped onto it, the duvet puffing up around her. She stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars she’d stuck to her ceiling when she was twelve.
“Stay,” she said to the ceiling, her voice quiet now.“Please. Before I start imagining things I can’t unsee.” She turned her head on the pillow, looking at him. He was still a statue by the door, a beautiful, troubled statue in a leather jacket.“Just… sit. Talk to me about something stupid. The carburetor on your Mustang. Anything.”
He hesitated, the war inside him visible in the tight line of his jaw. Finally, he shrugged out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thump. He walked over and sat on the very edge of the mattress, as far from her as possible, his posture still wound tight. The bed dipped under his weight.
“Carburetor’s fine,” he muttered, focusing on picking at a thread on his jeans. “It’s the alternator that’s a bitch.”
“Tell me about the alternator, then.” She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. She just needed his voice, something solid to anchor her to this new, uncomfortable reality where her dad had a sex life that wasn’t a hazy memory from before the divorce.
He shot her a look, seeing right through her. But he started talking, his voice a low monotone. He described volts and amps, the wrench he’d snapped, the way the engine light glowed like an evil eye. It was technical and utterly mundane, and she clung to every ordinary word. She watched his hands as he talked, the rough skin, the scar across his knuckles, the fluid way they moved as he described the shape of a bolt.
Gradually, the invisible wire holding him rigid seemed to loosen. He leaned back, bracing himself on his hands, his gaze drifting around her room. It landed on the open sketchbook on her desk, the one with the half-finished drawing of his profile from the day at the garage.
He went very still.
Lexi’s breath caught. She’d forgotten it was there.
Without a word, he stood and walked to the desk. He didn’t touch it, just looked down at the page. The lines were soft, capturing the stubborn set of his jaw, the unexpected softness of his lips. She’d drawn the focus in his eyes as he’d worked, a world away from the usual guarded glare.
“Lexi,” he said, her name a soft exhale.
“It’s nothing,” she rushed, sitting up. “Just practicing.”
“It’s not nothing.” He turned to face her. The room felt smaller, the air charged in a completely different way now. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by something dense and potent. “You see me like this?”
She didn’t know what to say. Her throat was dry.She just nodded.
He crossed the space between them in two long strides. He didn’t sit this time. He stood over her, his gaze tracing her face—her eyes, her mouth, the pulse hammering in her throat. “You shouldn’t.”
“Why?” The word was a whisper.
“Because I’m not that guy.” He leaned down, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, caging her in. “The guy in your drawing is somebody who could be good for you. I’m the guy who leaves bruises on your neck. The guy your father wants to murder. The guy with a fucked-up life that would drag you down into the dark with me.”
She didn’t flinch. She looked up at him, at the pain and the fury and the want all swirling in those blue depths. “You didn’t drag me. I walked right next to you. And the bruise is gone.”
“It’s not about the mark on your skin,” he said, his voice grating. “It’s about the mark I leave everywhere. My stepfather’s in jail because I put him there. My mom can’t look at me. My little brother calls me crying every other night because he’s scared. That’s my life, Lexi. It’s dirty.It’s loud. It’s violence and court dates and social workers. It’s not… glow-in-the-dark stars and lavender walls.”
“So let me see it,” she challenged, her own voice gaining strength. “All of it. You don’t have to be in the dark by yourself.”
A raw, broken sound escaped him. He closed his eyes for a second, as if praying for strength. When he opened them, the resolve had hardened into something desperate. “You don’t get it. Being near me is the danger. Wanting me is the worst thing you could do.”
“It doesn’t feel like the worst thing,” she breathed. “It feels like the only real thing I’ve felt since I got here.”
His control snapped.
One hand came up to cup the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the storm in his eyes. “Last chance,” he whispered, his breath warm against her lips. “Tell me to leave.”
She answered by bridging the final, impossible inch between them.
Her lips met his. It was hesitant, soft, a question. For a heartbeat, he was completely still, letting her lead, letting her explore the unfamiliar terrain of his mouth. Then a groan vibrated deep in his chest, and he took over.
The kiss transformed.
It was no longer gentle. It was possession, hunger, a pent-up flood breaking its dam. His mouth slanted over hers, demanding, consuming. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and when she opened for him, the taste of him—spearmint gum and something uniquely, essentially Ace—flooded her senses. His hand slid from her face into her hair, tangling in the dark waves, angling her head to deepen the kiss. The other arm hooked around her waist, pulling her up from the bed and against the solid wall of his chest.
She’d been kissed before, clumsy, fleeting things at parties. This was nothing like that. This was a revelation. It was heat and pressure and a dizzying sense of being completely overwhelmed, yet safer than she’d ever felt. Her hands came up, flat against the hard plane of his chest, feeling the rapid, thunderous beat of his heart through his thin t-shirt. She sank her fingers into the fabric, holding on.
He kissed her like he was starving and she was the only food he’d ever known. He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air. It was messy, and desperate, and perfect. When he finally broke away, they were both gasping. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word ragged.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word ragged.
His hands, which had been cradling her face with a tenderness that belied his reputation, slid down. They found the hem of her soft cotton shirt. His knuckles brushed the bare skin of her stomach, and she flinched, a sharp intake of breath that had nothing to do with cold.
“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, but he was already pulling the fabric up. He broke away only long enough to drag it over her head, letting it fall, forgotten, to the floor. The cool air of the room hit her skin, pebbling it, but the heat from his gaze was stronger.
He looked at her, at the simple lace of her bra, and something in his expression fractured. It was awe, mixed with a staggering wave of self-loathing. “Jesus Christ, Lexi.” He didn’t touch her there. Instead, his hands went to his own shirt, yanking it off with a single, frustrated motion.
The sight of his chest, all defined muscle and pale skin etched with old, silvery scars, stole the air from her lungs. She reached out, her fingertips hovering over a long, thin line that curved around his ribcage. He caught her wrist before she could make contact, his grip firm.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low. “Not those. Not right now.” He brought her captured hand to his lips, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her palm that made her whimper. Then he guided it down, past the waistband of his jeans, letting her feel the formidable, rigid outline of him straining against the denim.
Her eyes widened. She’d felt it through their clothes, but this was different. This was real, heavy, and terrifyingly large. A low, primal part of her clenched deep inside.
“See?” he said, watching her face. “That’s not for you. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.”
“I’m not scared of you,” she lied, her voice trembling.
“You should be.” He kissed her again, a slow, drugging kiss that melted her bones, even as his hands worked open the button of her jeans. He peeled them down her legs, taking her panties with them in one slow, deliberate slide. The vulnerability was absolute. She was naked on her childhood bed, exposed under the glow-in-the-dark stars.
He stood back, drinking in the sight of her. His jeans were still on, the bulge pronounced and obscene. “Turn over,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “On your stomach.”
Confusion flickered through her, mixed with a thread of sharp, unexpected disappointment. Was he not going to look at her? But she obeyed, rolling onto her belly, pressing her face into her pillow. She heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of denim, and then the bed dipped with his weight as he knelt between her legs.
His hands smoothed over the curves of her ass, a rough, appreciative caress. “So fucking perfect.” Then he urged her hips up, and she rose onto her knees, face still buried, her back arched in a way that felt intensely submissive. She expected pressure, intrusion, the hard crush of his body.
What she got was the warm, wet shock of his tongue.
He bypassed everything else and went straight to the heart of her, licking a slow, torturous stripe from her entrance all the way up to the top of her cleft. She cried out, the sound muffled by the pillow. Her hands fisted in the sheets.
“Ace…”
“Shh.” His voice was a dark vibration against her skin. “Just feel it.”
And then he ate her out with a focused, devastating thoroughness that obliterated thought. His tongue was relentless, flicking and circling her clit with a precision that felt like it was wiring her directly to a live current. He used the flat of it to lave broad, wet strokes, then pointed the tip to tap and tease the hypersensitive bud until her legs began to shake.
One of his hands came around her hip, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, deliberate circles in perfect counterpoint to the thrusting plunge of his tongue inside her. The dual sensation was too much. It coiled the tension in her lower belly tighter and tighter, a spring wound past its limit.
“I can’t… I’m going to…” she babbled, hips pushing back against his face.
He grunted, a sound of pure hunger, and doubled his efforts. His fingers worked her clit faster, his tongue fucking her deeper. The orgasm tore through her without warning, a silent, breathless scream that locked her muscles. Her back arched violently, and her thighs clamped shut around his head, squeezing with a strength she didn’t know she had as waves of pure, mindless pleasure racked her.
He rode it out, his tongue gentling to soft laps as she shuddered and collapsed onto the mattress, boneless and gasping.
Before she could even process the aftermath, he was moving her again, turning her onto her back. His face was glistening with her. He looked utterly wild. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips, salty and intimate.
His cock, freed from his jeans, lay thick and heavy against her thigh. It was intimidating, veined and ruddy, the head leaking fluid onto her skin. She reached for it instinctively, but he caught her hand again.
“No,” he said, breathing hard. “Not that.”
“But you—”
“I’m afraid,” he cut her off, the admission stark and naked. “I’m afraid of fucking wrecking you. Of being just another thing that hurts you.” He shifted down the bed, settling between her legs once more, but this time he looked her in the eye. He kissed the inside of her thigh, a soft apology.
Then he pressed one finger, slowly, inside her.
She was still fluttering from her climax, swollen and sensitive. He went impossibly gently, curling his finger, searching. When he found that spot inside her, he pressed it with a steady, rhythmic pressure. His thumb resumed its work on her clit, but slowly now, a persistent, building tease.
“Come on, baby,” he murmured, watching her face. “Give me one more. For me.”
It was different this time—deeper, less frantic, more insidious. It built like a tide, rising from her core rather than crashing over her. He focused entirely on her responses, the hitch in her breath, the twitch of her hip, adjusting his touch accordingly. He added a second finger, stretching her carefully, that full feeling making her gasp.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice rough. “Take it. You’re so fucking wet for me. So tight.”
The second orgasm rolled through her, longer and softer than the first, a deep, internal pulsing that made her sob his name. She clutched at his forearm, her body bowing off the bed as he worked her through every last spasm, until she was oversensitive and pushing weakly at his hand.
He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes never leaving hers. The act was so brutally intimate it made her blush. He then collapsed beside her, pulling her into his chest. His heart hammered against her ear. His cock, still hard and untouched, pressed insistently against her hip.
They lay in silence for a long time, the only sound their slowing breaths. Down the hall, a door quietly opened and shut. The reality of the house, her father, the world, began to seep back in.
Ace finally spoke, his voice hollow. “I need to go before he finds me in here.”
He pushed himself up onto one elbow, the movement stiff with reluctant resolve. The warmth where their bodies had been pressed together began to cool, replaced by the clammy dread of reality. Shadows lengthened across the floor, sketches of the gathering dusk outside her window.
Lexi’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “No.”
The word wasn’t a plea. It was a command, flat and final. Ace froze, his muscles coiled, caught between the instinct to obey and the deeper instinct to flee.
“Lexi, don’t.” His voice was gravel. “This is where I fuck it up. This is where I become him.”
“You’re not him.” She sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. The fading light caught the determined set of her jaw, the fierce emerald fire in her eyes. “And I’m not a thing to be fucked up. I’m right here.”
Before he could move, before he could even process her intention, she moved. With a fluid grace that belied the tumult inside her, she swung a leg over his hips, straddling him. He was still half-propped on his elbow, his body trapped beneath hers. His breath hitched, a sharp intake of shock.
Her naked core settled directly over the thick, aching length of him. The sensation was electric, obliterating. His bare, throbbing cock nestled against the dripping wet heat of her pussy, separated only by a layer of frantic sensitivity. He could feel every fold, every pulse of her, the slickness coating his shaft. It twitched violently against her.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. His hands flew to her thighs, fingers digging into her soft flesh, not to push her away but to anchor himself against the onslaught of sensation.
“I see you, Ace Ryder,” she whispered, leaning forward until her lips were a breath from his. “The guy who fixes alternators. The guy who protects his brother. The guy in my sketch.” She kissed him, a slow, deep claiming of his mouth. “That’s the guy I want.”
He tried to resist. He tried to form the words, to summon the strength to lift her off. But her taste—a mix of her own sweetness and his—flooded his senses. The feeling of her soaked pussy rubbing against his cock was a brand, a torture, a prayer answered. A ragged groan was torn from his chest.
His ambition to leave, his resolve to protect her, it all crumbled to dust. His hands slid from her thighs to her hips, gripping hard. He began to move her, a slow, rough grind. He guided her body against his, his cock sliding through her slickness, the swollen head catching at her entrance with each upward pass but never, never pushing inside.
“Fuck,” he snarled against her mouth, his control splintering. “You’re so fucking wet. Are you trying to kill me?”
“Show me,” she panted, her own movements becoming more urgent, meeting his grind. “Show me what it could be.”
He lost it. The careful restraint shattered. His thrusts became harder, faster, a frenzied, frictional rhythm. The slap of skin on skin, the obscene, wet sounds of her arousal, filled the quiet room. He fucked the space between her thighs, his cock a hard, relentless pressure against her clit and her yielding entrance.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his eyes blazing up at her. “Look at what you do to me.”
She did. She watched his face contort in agony and ecstasy. She felt the terrifying, wonderful pressure building where their bodies met, a mirrored tension coiling in her own belly. The friction was incredible, a wildfire spreading from where they were joined.
“Ace, I’m—“
“Come for me,” he gritted out, his rhythm becoming punishingly precise. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The command, the raw need in his voice, tipped her over. Her second climax of the evening crashed into her, a different beast entirely—deeper, guttural, born of pure friction and desperate want. She cried out, her inner muscles fluttering wildly against the rigid length rubbing her raw.
The feel of her convulsing around him, the sight of her head thrown back in ecstasy, was his undoing. With a final, brutal grind of his hips, he stilled. A shattered, guttural groan was ripped from the depths of his soul. Hot, wet pulses erupted from him, striping the inside of her thighs and her trembling stomach, marking her with his release.
He collapsed backward, pulling her down with him so she lay sprawled on his chest. Both of them were slick with sweat and him. Their hearts hammered a frantic, discordant rhythm against each other. The room smelled of sex and salt and desperation.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Down the hall, a toilet flushed. The mundane sound was a bucket of ice water.
Ace’s arms tightened around her. “What have I done?” he whispered, the words hollow with horror.
Lexi nuzzled into the hollow of his neck, her lips against his pounding pulse. “You stayed.”