Knight (63 page)

He tightened his hold. “What do you want?”

“To feel safe.”

He laughed. His hand jammed against my throat. He squeezed, just enough to frighten, just enough to threaten where I was most vulnerable, just enough to clear my mind of the lingering memories of the last time I was touched.

“Now do you feel safe?”

I’d rather fear one man than live the rest of my life afraid of the world. I shook my head as much as his grip would allow.

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” He leaned in close, pushing my head back. My lips parted for him. I wished I understood why. “Maybe I’d get off on that.”

“You don’t.”

“How do you know?”

Because I did. “You don’t want to hurt me. All you want is to make sure you didn’t break your vow when you said you’d protect me.”

“You fucking talk too much.”

“You’re a man of your word,” I said. His fingers clenched against my throat. A warning. I ignored it. “And I trust you to keep me safe. Even if you don’t think you can keep that promise anymore.”

Thorne’s expression blazed with heat and the aching tension of unbridled rage. He threw himself at me, seizing my lips with a possessive, uncontrolled kiss that bit more than savored and frightened more than comforted.

And I welcomed it.

I needed it.

I kissed him with all the promise I could offer.

My cheek bruised from the kidnapping. Thorne covered it with his hand.

My thigh stung as I ground my legs together, offering a forsaken part of me its first teasing attention in my life.

My insides clenched, hard, twisting against an urge I never thought would awaken and a need entirely too wild and new and uncontrolled to ever be tamed.

At least, untamed by me.

Thorne knew exactly what to do. How to do it. What he did to me.

My mouth parted for him, but he seized more than the demure pant of my puffy lips. He assaulted me. Thrust his tongue against mine with aggression, a duel for control. He didn’t need to fight me. I surrendered immediately against his harsh touch, the demands of his grip, the frenzy of his lips.

And, for the first time in my life, it didn’t feel wrong.

The crushing burden of that secret lifted.

In its place—warmth. Lust. Sensual need.

I surrendered to his passionate, angry kiss because he promised protection. I gave myself to him because he was strong. He rescued me and kissed me and wanted me and pressed hard against my body with an unfailing desire that proved just how right it would be to seek my safety curled beneath his body.

I had never voluntarily touched a man before. My hands shook as I reached for his shoulders. I braced myself, like the tattoos streaking over his skin might have burned my palms. Only the hardened, perfect muscle warmed under my hands.

“You know what I want.” Thorne rasped against my lips. “Better fucking speak up before I do something we regret.”

I accidentally giggled. He frowned, but it didn’t chase away my smile. Or what I wanted. Or how desperate I was to fuel the warmth kindled within me. The heat destroyed the past and flaked the memories into forgotten bits of cinder and repression.

“I won’t regret this,” I whispered. “And neither will you.”

He didn’t expect my honesty, and he tensed as I shifted off the sink and sunk to my knees before him. The gun-metal gray of his eyes loaded and aimed, but he wouldn’t get a fight from me. Not even when the familiarity of cold tile on my knees bruised more than just my skin.

I waited. Still. Quiet. Pleading. As meek and mild as someone demanding to offer another’s satisfaction could appear.

This was what men liked, after all.

Right?

A willing woman. A soft mouth. Devoted attention above all else.

But I didn’t want to run. Thorne’s kiss, his aggression, the hardness of his body and the smooth jazz of his voice twisted everything inside me with such new and exciting and beautiful feelings.

I reached for his jeans. That seemed to surprise him too. He hesitated only a moment before stepping closer.

I’d show my appreciation for the rescue. For listening to my set. For defending me.

For
awakening
me.

He probably expected so much more than I knew how to give. His guttural order shuddered within me, commanding me to do what I was meant to do. What I was taught to do.

And I wanted to do it.

I think I did.

The bruise again. This time harder. A haunted pain in my knees, an inevitable ache in my jaw.

It all twisted with heat and need. I tugged down the zipper.

The tinny promise screamed in the silent bathroom.

Why did all zippers sound the same?

Thorne hardened before he shifted from his pants. Excited. Desperate. Without a shadow of guilt.

His hardness enthralled me. My hands shook as I reached for him. He brushed me away and pulled his jeans lower. He didn’t wear any boxers.

His cock jutted from his body.

Frustratingly Hard.

Pulsing with need.

Intimidating and beautiful.

Thick. The very epitome of masculine pleasure.

His hand gripped my hair once more. The memories returned like a deserved backhand. One for too much teeth or not enough enthusiasm. My desire shoved the thoughts away.

But Thorne’s hissed whisper wasn’t a punishment or a threat. His desire encouraged me. The absolute perfection of his body deceived me. The offer of his protection promised
everything
.

Now wasn’t the time to think. It was the time to act. To pleasure. To prove to Thorne how much I wanted him. To prove to myself the excitement was real. To ignore the prickling, suffocating bait of panic wiggling in my chest.

And so I swallowed his cock. Not like a virgin. Not like someone chaste and pure. Not like someone who had never before touched a man or pleased one.

I closed my eyes and took as much of his length as I could, and, like a good girl, I didn’t dare come back for air.

His choked gasp was my reward, as was the trail of savory promise which coated the head of his cock. The salty, clean, masculine allure of his taste was amazingly tempting. His skin wove smooth over his rigidness. I ducked hard against his length.

He was bigger than I was used to.

As if I had ever been used to it.

His hands tightened against my hair. He pulled too hard. I liked the burst of pain. I liked anything but pudgy, too-soft hands against my cheeks.

He grunted.

A deserved, honest, perfect reward. A sound I never thought I’d earn.

I sucked harder. It was all I knew how to do. I impaled myself on his body, swirled my tongue and tightened my lips. Hummed. A song every man would like.

Thorne’s body shuddered. His body primed. Tensed. Took every last bit of pleasure I offered and promised so much more.

“Jesus
Christ
, Rose.”

Thorne loomed over me. His hands tangled in his own hair before slamming on the sink behind me. He flexed his hips and shoved his cock deeper within my willing mouth. I fell against the cabinet. He followed. I took more of his length. I didn’t know what else to do. Or what else I wanted to do.

“Where the fuck did you learn to suck cock like this?”

I choked.

Gagged.

Pushed him away.

He didn’t want to know the answer to that. I didn’t want to admit it. Dad had been right.

It was a good talent.

And men would be grateful I learned.

The tears came before I freed myself from the tangle of Thorne’s legs. I scrambled past him, but I had nowhere to hide. The bathroom door closed behind us, and I didn’t know what would collapse first—the walls or my screaming, straining lungs.

“Rose!” Thorne rustled his pants and tucked himself into his jeans.

He stared at me, wide-eyed, from across the bathroom. I backed up another step. My leg cracked against the tub. I stumbled, and he rushed to catch me before I fell, but I tangled in the shower curtain and held myself upright.

He called my name as I blinked through the tears and pointed toward the door.

“All right.” He didn’t know how to soften his voice. The words bit the air, chewed against my panic, exposed every last bit of what I kept hidden.

He waved a hand and hurried from the room. I slammed the door behind him and shrunk against the cold tile floor.

He didn’t move far.

One sob escaped. A pained, horrible, breathy sob that ripped a path from my chest and up, scarring every bit of sweetness and melody I used to hide the ugly and broken.

Thorne heard it.

He allowed me only a moment after I tucked away my panic. His voice growled against his frustration. His rage.

“Did Exorcist hurt you?”

Exorcist
?

I closed my eyes. “No.”

“Who did?”

I didn’t answer. The cool bathroom tile summoned a constant parade of goose bumps over my skin, and I clutched at myself to ease the prickling march. Every rising hair on my arms and neck, every tensed and aching muscle, every twist of my trembling stomach swept over me because of the memories.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t fear what happened to me, or curse it, or hide it. I didn’t care about the past. I didn’t care about
him
.

But I did worry for the future. For the next time I’d want to touch a man or be touched in return.

Would it always be this way?  Even locked away in jail, removed from the world and society, harmless to any around him, he still held a power over me. That terrified me most of all.

I didn’t speak. My head rested against the door as my breathing eased into shaking sighs. Thorne called from the bedroom. His deep voice wove over my skin. It battled the goose bumps and warmed parts of me too confused and betrayed to even understand why it slickened.

“I think I have a concussion,” he said.

“Me too.”

“Want to sleep it off?”

My trembling stilled as he spoke. I stared at my injured leg, my bruised body, and winced as I sucked in a deep breath from my aching chest. Injured, but not dead. I shouldn’t have felt safe, but his voice chased away the haunted memories.

I bit my puffy lip. “Together?”

“If we end up in a coma, at least we’ll have company.”

I smirked. He stepped aside as I shuffled from the bathroom. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t question my panic or demand any explanations.

Or any satisfaction.

Thorne shut off the lights, and I slipped between the soft sheets in his bed.

He grabbed me before I turned away. I stilled, but his thick arm draped over my side, and he pulled me against the warmth of his body.

Cradled. Covered. Consumed.

I swallowed the panic and forced myself to lean into his heat. Thorne tightened his grip. I closed my eyes and braved the only fear still clutching my heart.

“Please don’t tell my brothers.”

Thorne exhaled, long and hard. A moment passed, and his arm tightened over me.

“You survived a kidnapping, ran from a burning building, then hotwired and stole one of our enemy’s bikes.” He laughed. “Sweetheart, I’ll do any fucking thing you say.”

The pressure eased. I nuzzled against the man I should have feared—the one who controlled the club that ruined my life, stole my family, and nearly had me killed. Sanity and rationality and legality told me to run far from Anathema, to hide out under assumed names and dye my hair until I was sure no one from the club would find me and none of their enemies targeted me.

As long as I stayed within Pixie, my life would be a constant barrage of gunfire and memories, and I didn’t know which would destroy me first.

Instead, I closed my eyes and breathed in the wild, leather scent of the man promising his protection and delivering me deeper into Hell.

And I felt safe.

Exorcist might have spared my life, but I was in trouble.

Big trouble.

I didn’t have a patch to shield me—just two over-protective brothers and a man who dreamt about murder while cradling me close to his chest throughout the night.

Thorne and my brothers thought Exorcist wanted to kill me. And they were probably right. One sleepless night, a constant shiver despite Thorne’s heavy arm over my waist, and reliving the most frightening moments of life offered me enough perspective.

Exorcist would kill me even if I delivered the money and retrieved the drugs.

His words spawned lies, and his intentions desecrated Anathema in betrayal.

If I did as he said, my brothers and Thorne would live a little longer, but I wasn’t an idiot. I wasn’t useful to Ex. A psychopath like him wouldn’t trade my life for an acoustic cover of
Janie’s Got A Gun
.

That only gave me a few days to work out a plan.

I wasn’t just in trouble.

Everyone was fucked.

I slid out of bed before Thorne woke and tried to drown my headache in another shower. My leg stopped bleeding, but the cut still pulsed, raw and sore. I tangled my thigh in a fresh bandage and hid in the bathroom until Thorne’s phone rang. He swore, called for me to follow, and stalked downstairs to the bar. The door slammed behind him.