Born To Be Your's

Chapter 12

Blake walked up the stairs, leaving the clammy basement air behind. The entire floor hummed with the slow, welcome churn of the new boiler. He didn't even stop in his room. He headed straight for the bathroom, locking the door.

He turned the knob, letting the water run until the spray was scalding, thick with steam. It had been months—maybe a year—since they’d had truly hot water; it was always lukewarm at best, a metaphor for their lives. He stepped under the deluge, letting the heat punish his aching, grime-covered muscles. The water ran down his handsome, grimy face and strong chest, washing away the dirt of the street and the shame of the theft.

The physical relief was immediate and profound, but his mind, freed from the necessity of work, immediately betrayed him.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, savoring the heat, when the image flashed into his mind with brutal clarity: Liv, standing in the cold light of her room, her body framed by the pink walls. He saw the black vines and roses clinging to her ribcage, the tight lace of her bra, and the perfect curve of her ass as she slowly unzipped her jeans. He remembered the arrogant, seductive smirk, and the final, beautiful, hostile middle finger she’d given him.

The memory was pure, raw desire, spiking instantly through the exhaustion. It was the thrill of the chase, the danger of her defiance, the ultimate challenge wrapped in absolute beauty. It was turning him on violently.

Blake gave into the temptation, his breath catching in his throat. He reached down, his imagination supplying the dark heat of her skin, the demanding fire in her eyes, the low, rasping voice whispering insults he wanted to silence with his mouth. He was no longer touching himself; he was touching the memory of her, the promise of a war he desperately wanted to lose. He climaxed hard, his body shaking under the water, the intense release fueled entirely by the vision of her challenging him.

As the hot water continued to stream over him, Blake leaned against the tiles, breathing heavily. He ran a hand over his wet face, a deep shame settling in his gut. What the hell was wrong with him? He had just pleasured himself to the thought of a hostile girl who had been mocking him, while a perfectly beautiful, willing girl named Claire was back in her suburban house dealing with the fallout of his escape. Liv was a disruption, a dangerous, unpredictable variable, and she was already hijacking the one thing he always kept separate from his heart.

He scrubbed himself clean. He stepped out, wrapping a towel tight around his waist, and walked toward his room.

Meanwhile, in the warm, pink-walled room across the yard, Liv was lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, headphones pulled over her ears, the aggressive drums and guitars of her music trying to drown out the noise in her head. She was trying to forget the sight of Blake: his damp, muscular body straining under the boiler, the sweat dripping from his shaggy hair, the cold, calculating focus in his dark eyes.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head toward the window, her body going instantly rigid.

Blake had just stepped out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel wrapped precariously around his waist. His skin was still glistening from the shower, his messy, dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead.

Liv’s breath hitched, the music in her ears forgotten.

She watched him walk toward the dresser. His entire frame was powerful, corded with hard muscle honed by work and hustling. She studied his body—the defined lines of his stomach, the thickness of his neck, the sheer, devastating strength of his arms and shoulders. He was impossibly sexy, a raw, masculine presence in the dark bedroom.

She felt a deep, unfamiliar throbbing start in her core. She continued watching until he grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt, and finally walked away from the window, out of her view.

Liv bit her lip, then snapped back to reality. She shook her head violently, trying to dismiss the image, but the fierce, s****l thrumming between her legs wouldn't stop. She sighed, her guard completely down. She slid off the bed, walked to the window, and, with a final, defeated gesture, closed the curtains and locked the bedroom door—a ritual of self-confinement.

She lay back down on the bed, her mind already consumed by the fresh image of his damp, powerful body. She closed her eyes, giving in to the temptation she usually repressed with iron discipline.

Her hands moved to her own body, but her mind was entirely on the boy next door. She fantasized his large, strong arms wrapping tightly around her waist, pinning her to him. She felt the imaginary weight of his muscular body pressed against hers, his lips trailing down her neck, his hands, the same hands that had effortlessly hauled a heavy boiler, roaming all over her smooth skin. She imagined him breathing heavy in her ear, his deep voice thick with desire, whispering her name.

The internal images were overwhelming, the desire for his strength mixed with the terrifying vulnerability of wanting to be held by him. She moved faster, harder, until the desperate pleasure hit her. She bit her lip until it stung, muffling a cry of pure release into her pillow.

Liv lay there, panting, realizing with a cold, terrifying certainty what she had just done. She had pleasured herself to the image of the handsome, arrogant Copper. He was supposed to be a tool, a means of escape, not an obsession.

He’s in my head, she thought, echoing Blake’s own realization. And he needs to get the hell out.

---

The next morning, Tuesday, the world was a study in white. A blizzard had rolled in overnight, continuing its fierce, steady descent. The news blared across the radio: school was canceled.

Maddie and Ryan treated the announcement like Christmas morning. They were already wrestling a protesting Mark into his thick, puffy snow gear, their excited shouts echoing through the cold house. Once secured, the three children burst out onto the porch and into the fresh, deep powder.

Maddie immediately set about trying to build a perfect, traditional snowman. Ryan, meanwhile, was constructing a low, squat, decapitated version, which he accessorized by squirting ketchup from the kitchen onto the neck for a grotesque effect. Mark sat down directly in a snowdrift, quietly eating the fresh, unsullied powder with his mittened hands.

Blake stepped out onto the porch, lighting a cigarette and savoring the first quiet drag of the day. The cold air felt clean, a necessary contrast to the suffocating heat of the shower and the unsettling thoughts that had plagued him.

Just then, Liv walked out of Paul and Francis’s house. She was equally bundled—a stylish, form-fitting black jacket, thick scarf wrapped around her neck, and gloves—looking like she was headed to a punk rock fashion shoot, not a snow day. She started walking past the Copper porch, intent on escaping the vicinity.

Maddie, spotting her opportunity, jumped in front of her. “Liv! Come make snow angels with me! Please!”

Liv shook her head, her beautiful face firm. “No, thank you, Maddie. Snow angels aren’t really my thing.”

Liv tried to move around her, but Ryan jumped into her path, wielding his blood-stained shovel. “Want to have a snowball fight then? I’ll let you use my special ammunition!”

Liv scoffed, her gray-green eyes narrowed. “And get hit with a dog s**t bomb? No, thank you. I value my face.”

Blake, leaning against the porch railing, took a deep puff of his cigarette. “Hard to tell, Liv. You seem pretty cavalier about that beautiful face of yours, letting it get hit with kickballs yesterday.”

Liv stopped instantly, turning on her heel. Her expression was dangerous, but there was a flicker of something else—the recognition of a worthy opponent. “I handle my own problems, Copper. I don’t need a six-foot-tall boy stepping in to protect me.”

Blake grinned, a wide, challenging flash of white teeth. “Too late. And now you owe me for the save, which means you listen to my rules.”

Liv’s eyes sparked. She dropped her bag, quickly bent down, scooped a handful of fresh snow, and packed a ball with vicious speed. She hurled it at him.

It hit Blake squarely on the chest, a cold, shocking impact.

Blake didn’t look angry. He simply chuckled, a dangerous, low sound that vibrated in his chest. “Oh, you’re going to get it now, princess.”

He tossed his cigarette into the snow and ran down the steps. He quickly packed a heavy snowball and threw it at her. Liv ducked, the ball whistling past her dark hair and hitting Francis’s porch railing.

The game was instantly on. Liv, surprisingly agile, dodged his next throw. Maddie, seeing the two hostile adults finally engaging in an activity that resembled fun, instantly switched allegiance.

“Team Liv!” Maddie screamed, quickly packing a small, misshapen snowball and throwing it harmlessly at Blake.

The sides were set: Blake and Ryan (the violent genius) against Liv and Maddie (the agile beauty and the loyal child).

Liv threw another snowball, this one packed harder, and it connected with a solid thwack against Blake’s face. He laughed, wiped the snow from his eye, and knew he had to end this fast.

Blake used the distraction of Ryan launching a wild, off-target bomb to his advantage. He lunged across the yard, closing the distance in three long strides. He grabbed Liv around her small waist, his big, strong hands easily encompassing her. He picked her up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of laundry.

Liv gasped in surprise, then let out a sharp, genuine giggle—a sound Blake had never heard from her before. Maddie immediately started throwing snowballs at Blake’s back, trying to save her new ally.

Blake walked Liv toward a massive, undisturbed drift of soft, fresh snow. He meant to simply toss her in and escape, but as he was falling forward to release her, Liv made her move. She quickly reached out and grabbed a handful of his sweatshirt and collar, pulling his six-foot frame down with her.

They landed together in the soft, deep snowdrift with a heavy thump, Liv’s smaller body cushioned beneath his.

They both laughed, the sound breathless and honest, their faces inches apart. The cold air was instantly replaced by the hot, fast heat of their bodies pressed tightly together. Blake was sprawled heavily on top of her, his hands buried in the snow beside her head, his muscular body covering hers.

Their eyes, half-lidded and sparkling with adrenaline, met. The laughter died instantly. They were so close Blake could smell the subtle scent of smoke and expensive body wash mixed with the cold air on her skin. Their lips were inches away, close enough that Blake could taste her breath—sharp, cool, and intoxicating.

They leaned in, slowly, inexorably, the magnetic pull undeniable.

Suddenly, a massive chunk of snow hit them both squarely on the side of the face.

Blake turned his head quickly to see Ryan, standing over them, making an exaggerated, disgusting kissing face. He launched another snowball directly at Blake’s head.

Blake chuckled, the tension broken. He quickly scrambled up, pulling Liv up effortlessly with him.

“You’re dead, Ry!” Blake shouted, grabbing a massive handful of snow and chasing the little psychopath toward the back of the house.

Liv stood in the snowdrift for a moment, watching the sheer, chaotic joy of Blake’s pursuit. She touched her face where his snow-covered lips had almost met hers. The cold was overwhelming, but she was burning up.