FULL NOVELXO Skin of a Sinner: Chapter 11
Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.
His lips crash into mine, cutting off my words as he drags me to him by his grip on my hair. The entire world lights up on contact. Every bulb grows brighter, every smell becomes stronger, and I can feel the kiss in my soul. The stars could fall, and I wouldn’t notice. The room could be set ablaze, and I would be helpless to his possession.
His lips move without waiting for me to catch up. Mickey pulls me beneath him, settling himself between my legs as he dominates every inch of me. Choosing where my legs are curled around him, we become a battle of tongue and teeth that I already know I will lose.
A low growl rattles through his throat as my back arches and my legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips closer to mine. When he takes my bottom lip between his teeth like he’s marking his territory, I can’t help but whimper.
It isn’t just a kiss. Our lips aren’t just touching. He’s claiming me, body, mind, and soul, and there is nothing I can do to get away from it. Because I want him, too, more than anything else in the world.
Not want.
Need.
I need him more than I need air. If he leaves, I won’t survive. There’s nothing else in this world that could compare to him.
I’m his, and there’s a Roman-shaped hole in my heart that is perfectly made to fit him.
As he pushes his hard length against the part of me that aches for him the most, fireworks dance behind my vision. My body takes over at the sensation, and I grind my hips along him. A guttural moan makes it past our lips, and I try to chase that high again.
But then he stops.
“Fuck,” he groans, pulling away from me, and I whimper when his touch vanishes completely.
He leans to the side. One hand disappears beneath the covers to adjust himself. Then he throws his head back and laughs at the ceiling. Looking back down at me, he beams from ear to ear. “God, that was better than I ever imagined. You taste so damn good.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m going to survive another year,” he says, more to himself than to me.
“What?” I shift and try to make myself smaller.
That was amazing, but I don’t understand why he pulled away. Did I kiss him wrong? Was that bad? I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I can’t help feeling like I wasn’t enough, even though he is smiling at me like I’ve given him some gift.
He flops onto his back next to me and grabs me before I can escape any scrutiny. Tucking me into his side, he cages me in his arms. Should I be fighting him? Do I try kissing him again? I don’t understand what’s happening.
“I’m going to see you every day, and it’s going to kill me not to pounce on you.” Mickey pushes himself onto his back and raises himself on his elbows so he’s staring down at me with a grin. “On that note, no skirts, no shorts, no low-cut shirts, and—I never thought I’d agree with the teachers—no shoulders. For God’s sake, you better put away the shoulders. They’re too tempting. And those thin little tank top straps? So breakable,” he rambles, talking so fast I almost miss what he’s saying. I’d believe him if he told me that he was drunk or high.
If the term ‘on top of the world’ could be captured, it would be Mickey at this moment. He’s encapsulating pure joy. I’ve never seen him smile so brightly before. There isn’t a hint of maliciousness or mischief in his lopsided grin. If he started skipping around the room, I wouldn’t be surprised.
I wish I could feel what he’s feeling. My lips curl into a smile, but it’s forced, so nothing happens to the look in his eyes. He’s happy. Truly happy.
But he stopped. He pulled away from me.
His brows drop suddenly, frowning to himself. “Actually, cover the ankles, too. There isn’t an inch on you that doesn’t do it for me. I’ll control myself, don’t you worry. But if someone looks at you?” He whistles. “If you thought I was crazy before, you have no idea what you’ve just unlocked.” Moving again, onto his knees this time, he settles between my legs as if he’s done this thousands of times and belongs there. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that? For years, every single time I saw your pretty pink lips, I imagined what they would feel like between my teeth and whether they were as sweet as you look.”
I blink at him. He’s not making sense. Why won’t he—why did he pull away? “But… a year? Is there—’ Something wrong with me? Someone else? Something else? Is he waiting for me to be better or more mature?
He chuckles to himself and runs his hands up and down my thighs and waist like the feel of me is a drug he can’t get enough of. “A year and one day from today, you’re not going to be able to walk. Because once I get my hands on you, you’ll be ruined.”
Oh, right.
My age.
Two years isn’t that big a difference? So many girls at school have older boyfriends, and it’s not like I just met Mickey.
What if he’s actually waiting for me to be different—better? What if one year is a countdown before he decides whether he really wants me? What happens in the time between? How am I meant to change?
“It’s getting late,” he says, without even looking at the time. “We should go. There’s a long ride ahead of us, and I want you tucked into bed before midnight.”
I try to hide my grimace. He wants to get rid of me like he always does at night. He deposits me back into my room before nine and doesn’t return until morning to take me to school. What’s he doing after this? Will he call Cassie and get her to help with the bulge pressed against me?
“Okay,” I whisper. Even though there are a hundred questions I could ask, I won’t utter a single one.
Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to, and don’t cry for help when you’re drowning. The only things that can save you are the answers you never asked for.
I can imagine my heart shattering into a million pieces if I ask him where he’s going. He’ll say he’s running into the arms of a woman when he’s just been in mine.
He kisses my lips that I pretend I don’t feel, even though I kissed him back with the weight of all the questions I never asked.
I take his hand and let him help me to my feet, and we pack away the items while Mickey goes on a tangent about all the motorbikes that came into the garage this week. I’m listening, but not really. I feel full and hollow at the same time. It’s an awful thing to feel.
I’m barely conscious as I climb back onto the bike and ride for hours until we stop in front of the two-story house with the window open on the top floor.
He kisses me again when our helmets come off. I peer through the curtains once he escorts me inside. There’s a skip in his step as he goes back to his bike.
My doubts don’t stop swirling as I drag my feet to my room. They don’t take a break when my head hits the pillow, and I look up to see the glow-in-the-dark stars Mickey helped stick on.
Eventually, sleep comes.
The next day, I wake with the same thought as I did yesterday: Days like today are always the hardest.
But I know Mickey makes it better. He finds a way by saying something ridiculous.
I pull myself out of bed and go through the monotonous motions of getting ready before the rest of the house makes it out of their rooms. Shower. Dress. Hair. And… and inhaler. And breakfast. For once.
Only after locking the door behind me do I realize there’s no bike waiting for me. No Mickey.
I stand there at the edge of the porch, watching Jeremy leave for school. Then Greg and Marcus disappear off to work.
But Mickey never comes.
He doesn’t answer when I pick up the phone and call him.
He isn’t there when I go to our spot after school, or the next day when I walk out of the house with my hair down.
I call again.
It goes straight to voicemail.
I show up at his home, but no one answers his door.
I go again the next day and the next.
Until days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months.
A year goes by.
He doesn’t show up for my graduation.
He doesn’t come when I am hospitalized.
He doesn’t say “happy birthday” when I turn eighteen.
A year and one day later, I can’t walk, just like he said. I can’t bring myself to leave the bed or eat.
I’m not enough.
He ruined me.
Roman Riviera was right, and I was wrong.
I won’t die without Roman Riviera.
But sometimes I wish I would.