SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

drift away, looking off into the distance at the shipping lane. And I’m just about to force her to look at me when she turns back.

And then her fingers are moving. Quickly and with confidence. And I am… mesmerized. So enthralled with the signs she makes—because while some of them are standard, most of them are not. They are weird combinations. It’s like slang. Signs that only long-time users of ASL would even be able to comprehend, let alone make up on the spot.

And this is why it takes me almost thirty full seconds to realize what she is telling me.

I know who you are. I know what they did. I know what you lost.

I know why they call you Sick Heart. You’re backwards. You are not Sick Heart, you are Heart Sick.

And I know who did that to you.

I pull back, unsure what that means. No, I sign. That’s not what I was asking. We’ve all lost people, Anya. I don’t want to talk about that, I don’t want to think about that, I just want to know why you don’t want me to touch you.

I do, she signs.

You pulled away.

She shrugs. Nervous.

Lies.

It takes her a moment to respond. And when she does, it wasn’t what I was expecting.

Why did you bring me down here tonight?

Ah. I get it. She wants to know where this is going. Well. The answer to that is… nowhere. But that’s not what I tell her. I answer the actual question she asked, instead. Because you stood up to Maart. You earned a place on the mat. You’re on the team. It’s a milestone and I wanted to make sure you got to celebrate it. Because now that you’re on the team, you’re on the team. In three weeks, you will fight one of those kids up there. And you will get your ass kicked, Anya Bokori. There is no way around that. Everyone here is better than you—except Ainsey, and she won’t have to test through, she’s too small. So I’m sorry, but you can’t fight her.

Anya smiles and then laughs out loud. It’s that same sweet, unexpected laugh I heard the very first day we met on the ship.

And this reminds me of what we were doing before we got all sidetracked.

I want to hear her. So bad.

And this time, when I lean in and slide my hand up her bare thigh, she doesn’t go stiff and still. She leans into me, her head resting on my shoulder, her legs opening to give me better access. Her hand slipping down the inside of my thigh where my cock is beginning to grow under my shorts.

I have doubts. And doubts lead to regrets, and regrets lead to mistakes, and I know better. I have spent my entire life carefully picking my way round landmines. Stepping gently. Speaking carefully. Fully understanding that this tenuous reality I have built is something so fragile, just breathing the wrong way could bring it all down.

But I like this girl.

I like her mystery, and her innocence—even though I am fully aware that it was stolen from her the moment she was born—and I like her anger.

Because that’s what she is. Anya Bokori isn’t some sweet, fair-haired, Viking-eyed child. She is unafraid. She is driven. She is dangerous. That’s why she’s still alive.

She is a threat. Lazar knows it, Udulf knows it, and now I know it too.

But… she’s here with me. Her hand on my cock this very moment. And I understand what she’s doing. I understand her power. But I don’t care.

That is the kind of shit that comes later.

This is the kind of shit that comes now.

I reach down and place my hand over hers, helping her jerk me off. I look into her eyes and find them lit up silver. Shining with the waxing moon above us. Bright with the idea—or maybe even the anticipation—of sex. And searching me, like she knows I hold some secret that could change her life.

I search her like that too. I think she is the secret that can change my life.

She tugs on my shorts and I help her out a little by lifting my hips and sliding them down my legs.

Now we are both naked. Both bathed in the ancient light of the stars. Both stuck in between worlds like prisoners. Neither of us caring.

She climbs into my lap, her full, round breasts taunting me as they sway in front of my face, her long, wild tresses flitting against my arms and my shoulders. She takes my face in both her hands and stares down at me.

And then we blink and the moment changes.

It becomes urgent and heated as she positions her hips over mine. As her hand reaches down between her legs to grab me and place me at her entrance. As she sits down, forcing me to fill her up. I almost moan, that’s how good this girl feels.

My arms instinctually wrap around her middle, pulling her close to me until her breasts are pressed up against my chest and our sick hearts are beating the same staccato rhythm. She releases my face and bends her head until we are bumping foreheads as she moves back and forth across my lap. Slowly and deliberately.

And I want to kiss her so bad, but her injury… So instead, I tip my head up, grab fistfuls of her hair, and hold her there. Capturing her essence and becoming her prisoner in the same breath.

There is this need that flows between us. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it. And she feels it too. Because her hips begin to move quicker and with more determination. Her fingernails grip my shoulders, digging into the flesh. My hands wander across the smooth, pale skin of her thighs and then I grab her hips and drag her back and forth across my lap, thrusting my cock deeper inside her with each pass. She closes her eyes, and arches