I rotate my hips, try to draw him in deeper. My breathing becomes shallow and labored, my body tightening as I race closer to orgasm. And then Cain hunches his body over me. He slides one hand around my front, going between my legs. His fingers pluck at my clit while he tunnels in and out of me. The other hand comes up, circles around my neck, and he pulls me up slightly.
Placing his lips near my ear, without ever missing a beat of his pumping cock, he murmurs. "Not going to lie, Sloane. I missed fucking this pussy."
While his voice rumbles richly, the words are designed to let me know that the sex is the only thing he's interested in about me. That cuts deep, yet I can't seem to find my own voice to deny it. I want to call him a liar and tell him we had so much more, but every time he hits me deep, my brain starts to get fuzzier and fuzzier.
He keeps talking, a weird mix of sexual heat and frozen taunts.
Not sure I'll find better than this, but one can hope.
I'm going to come in you so deep, you'll be feeling me for the rest of your life.
And my absolute favorite, I'll hate myself for it, but I'll jack off to this memory of tonight for some time to come.
Finally, he shuts up, and it's a good thing too because I want to slap him for ruining this. His bitter feelings and acerbic words are starting to cause darkness to well up inside of me. I almost have the fortitude to pull away, but then his finger presses roughly against my clit and he slams into me hard.
His voice breaks when he says, "Christ... you fucking destroy me, Sloane."
My orgasm tears free, refusing to be quelled, and it explodes out in homage to the explosive passion between us, no matter how much hurt resides there. Cain pulls out, pushes back in roughly, and then starts to shudder as he comes. His forehead comes to rest on the back of my head, he grinds his pelvis against me, and he whispers, "Fucking destroyed."
My tears well back up again. I blink once and they fall down my cheeks, stream past my jaw, and drip onto his hand. I suck in a breath and tell him, "I'm destroyed too."
Cain's body tightens, and he breathes out a regretful sigh. Placing his lips at the back of my head, he gives me a soft kiss. I feel hope start to swell within me.
Releasing his hold on my throat and pulling his other hand out from between my legs, Cain straightens and slides free from me. I immediately feel his semen start to run out of me, a poignant reminder that we once again shared a deep intimacy by having unprotected sex.
I straighten up, awkwardly pushing my skirt down and then pulling the stretchy material over my breasts. When I turn to face him, I find him tucking his dick back in his pants and zipping up.
Finally, he raises his gaze and looks at me with sad eyes. "I forgive you, Sloane. I understand you were doing a job and that you ultimately sacrificed it."
A smile breaks out on my face, and I take a wobbly step toward him. His hands come up, palms out to hold me off, and he takes a step back from me.
Shaking his head, his eyes turn hard. "But there's nothing else between us."
"No," I say immediately. "That's not true. Didn't you feel it?"
"I felt an amazing fucking orgasm," he says, his bitterness evident. "But that's all. God help me, Sloane, I trust what your body can do for me. That was never in question. But it's the only part of you I trust, and that's just not enough for me."
"But--"
"I have to get back to work," he says, giving me a nod of farewell. "Take care of yourself."
"Cain," I say desperately, tears now falling freely again. "Please... give us a chance."
He doesn't respond, just melts into the darkness.
The next seven hours are a blur.
I make my way on shaky legs from the back of The Silo to the parking lot, twisting my ankle no less than three times on the uneven gravel playing havoc with my four-inch heels. The pain is barely noticeable as the intense squeeze of heartbreak has my full attention.
It takes me just a little over thirty minutes to drive to my apartment. Another five online and I have a ticket booked out of Jackson leaving at 7:31 AM, connecting through Denver and then on to Nashville.
It takes me twenty minutes to shower, dry my hair, and put on my pajamas.
Another hour and I have my measly possessions packed.
Four hours of tossing and turning in bed with fits of tears that I refuse to let fall but which keep my throat clogged with emotion.
Red eyes and exhaustion making people do a double take as I walk through the small, rustic airport toward security.
A quick text to Callie, because she's the only one who will truly care, and besides... other than Cain, I don't have anyone else's phone number. I'm getting ready to board a plane. Going home. I'm sorry again for everything. Will you let Bridger know? I didn't know how to get up with him this early in the morning.
Callie... ever the early riser, texted back within moments. Why? What happened? I can come there, and we can talk.
My text back. No, it's okay. This is the right thing to do. Take care of yourself. I'm sorry again.
I turned my phone off before she could text back.
The plane boarded, and I slept all the way to Denver. Drank three cups of coffee while I waited for my layover and had an extreme case of the jitters on the flight to Nashville.
Called my mom when I landed, cried, and told her I'd be home soon. She cried too. I refused to look at my text messages and turned my phone back off.
Rented a car and drove the hour and a half to my mom's house in Sewanee.
Made it home by four PM, and by five, I was on the couch with my mom, telling her everything that happened.
We cried together.
Chapter31
Cain
I strut into The Silo, a man on a mission.
This is the only way to get Sloane out of my mind. I need to make a complete break, and that means giving up the last vestige of a tie with her. That means I need to fuck someone else, so I can get back to being me.
Once I fuck someone else, I can stop replaying in my mind every tiny detail of what happened last night. The weird feeling I had when I didn't see her behind the bar when I walked into The Wicked Horse. The astonishment when Bridger told me she was in The Silo. The rage seeing Logan and Rand look at her with hunger. The look of happiness on her face when she saw me.
The fucking way she told me she only wanted me.
And the way she felt so fucking right with my world when I sank into her.
Yeah, all of that shit has to go. Time to vacate it out of my mind and get back to living life.
The crack of a whip catches my immediate attention as I step into the common circular area. My head swivels in the direction of the sound and I see Bridger in one of the rooms, working a woman over with a four-foot single tail whip while she's mounted to a St. Andrew's cross. He's wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a sheen of sweat as he lands another precise strike on her ass, which is crosshatched with red stripes. She's stoically silent when the leather strikes, but her back arches in pain.
Bridger is an artist with his implements, and I've watched him make people come with just a few well-placed lashes to their delicate skin. I don't understand people who need pain to get off, but there's no denying... it's erotic as hell to watch.
I turn my back on the show, vaguely hearing two more cracks before I get up to the bar. I order a Hoback Hefeweizen, take a seat on a stool, and turn out toward the common area to take stock of the pickings.
Catherine is here, wearing a romantic-looking dress made of white silk and lace, baring her shoulders. Her dark hair is long, wavy, and she's wearing a single white daisy tucked behind her ear. My dick twitches a tiny bit as I realize she's going for the sweet, innocent look tonight, meaning she wants to get sullied up good by whoever fucks her.
Maybe.
But then again, I should stay away from sweet and innocent reminders tonight. Too much like Sloane.
A scream echoes out from the room where Bridger is working the woma
n over, and I see her entire body shaking as she moans in ecstasy. Bridger drops the whip to the floor, walks over to her, and removes the restraints at her wrists and ankles. She sinks down to the floor, smiling up at him in gratitude, and he gives her a curt nod. That's about as touchy feely as Bridger gets when he's doling out his kink.
I watch as he walks over to a bench, picks up a black t-shirt, and pulls it over his head, straightening it down over the flocks of blackbirds on his torso. He walks out of the room without a backward glance, disappears a moment as he traverses the back hall, and then appears from the exit hallway.
He makes eye contact with me immediately, and his lips tip upward in silent welcome.
See... even he knows that I need to get back in the saddle so to speak.
Bridger walks across the room, completely oblivious to the hungry stares that follow after him by men and women alike. But most will never have him because he's choosy and he's expensive. While most acts of debauchery that occur within these rounded walls are part of the membership fee, those who want a crack at Bridger have to pay big bucks. And that's not prostitution because he doesn't have sex with those paying customers. Nope, he just reddens their skin, sometimes drawing blood if that's what they require, and they happily hand over their hard-earned bucks for a momentous orgasm brought on by the sting of leather.
"Nice to see you join us," Bridger says drily as he takes a seat next to me. I spin my stool back around, so we're both facing the interior of the round bar. Bridger nods at one of the bartenders, who knows to bring him a bottle of sparkling water, his preferred drink after working up a sweat.
"It's time," I say simply and take a sip of my beer. At least that's what my brain says, but my dick might be saying something else. While it might have given a tiny twitch at thinking of Catherine a moment ago, I think that was more of a reaction to her similarity to Sloane in that moment than anything. And even watching Bridger play is usually guaranteed to get me half-hard, but I'm as soft as a goose-down pillow right now.
No worries though. I'm in no rush to get my rocks off tonight. In fact, I plan on taking my time about it, making sure it counts. Making sure it finally obliterates all of these awful feelings swirling inside of me, especially when I think of Sloane crying last night.
And Christ... even though the words felt right, why did it hurt so much to walk away from her? Why did I feel like I was leaving something important behind? Something that felt a little bit like myself.
I take a longer pull on my beer, swallow it, and then take another. Maybe I need to just get drunk instead.
"Charles Mason is back from his work trip," Bridger says offhandedly, as if it's just another day at the office discussing business. "Wanted to know if you wanted to get together with him and Amy this week. In one of the fantasy cabins."
"Yeah, sure," I say distractedly, and then take another mouthful of beer. I swallow hard and set the glass down. "Whatever."
"Well, try not to be so excited," he says blandly.
I blink at him in surprise and try to put on my best high school cheerleader voice while I clasp my hands in front of my chest. "Well, yay... of course I'd just love too, Mr. Payne."
"Smartass," he grumbles with a smirk.
"Welcome back, dickweed," I hear as two hands slap onto my shoulders. I turn slightly and see Rand behind me, his fingers digging into my muscles briefly before releasing his hold. Logan comes up on the other side of Bridger and takes a seat.
"Assume no hard feelings?" Logan asks as he gives me a sly grin. "It looks like things worked out well for you last night, right?"
"What happened last night?" Bridger asks with mild curiosity as he looks at Logan.
"Miss Bonham here got his panties in a twist when he caught us flirting with Sloane last night," Rand says with a mocking laugh from my left.
Bridger's head swings the other way to look at him briefly before cutting to me. "That right?"
I refuse to answer because I don't want these guys ragging on me about my overt display of jealous propriety last night. It's something I prefer not to dwell on, especially since it was so out of character for me in normal circumstances, and just completely fucking weird given the fact I couldn't stand Sloane.
Well, yeah... I can stand her. Hunger for her actually. But I was furious with her and wanted nothing to do with her. So it was just fucking weird last night.
"Oh, yeah," Rand tells Bridger whose eyes slide past me to listen. "Came in here, dragged her out all caveman style. Never came back so I assume Little Bonham saw some hot action last night and Miss Sloane had a satisfied smile on her face today."
I don't miss the change of emotion on Bridger's face, because he goes from mild interest to outright anger. He turns that gaze back on me and says, "What the fuck did you do to her?"
I rear backward slightly from the menace he projects, but I stand my ground. "What the fuck does that mean? And what's with the 'tude?"
"I wasn't sure what the hell happened, but now it's clear... you must have done something to send her scurrying," Bridger says with ice practically falling off his tongue.
"Scurrying?" I say dumbly, having no idea what in the hell he's talking about.
"Back home... to Tennessee. She texted Callie this morning from the airport that she was leaving. Callie and Woolf went by her apartment, and it's empty."
"She's gone?" I murmur, my tongue feeling numb as it says the words.
"Yeah, she's gone," Bridger mutters. "And I'd like to know what the fuck you did to send her running."
My mind spins and fuck... I feel a little dizzy. Now, whether I would have actually gone through with fucking someone tonight is beyond me at this point, but I do know one thing as I sit here contemplating what I've just learned. I never in a million years thought Sloane would be gone. I just assumed she would stick around and continue to work on me. I can't say as I hated what happened between us last night.
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I fucking loved every nut-blowing moment of what we did. So much so, I think subconsciously I was sort of banking on it happening again, maybe even secretly hoping that my walls would get chipped away with every orgasm we wrung out of each other.
Yeah... no way in hell am I'm ready to fuck someone else tonight, I think with total clarity.
"Cain," Bridger barks and I startle, raising my eyes from my beer to him.
"I didn't do anything," I grit out. "I fucked her... she enjoyed it. I left."
"Try again," he commands.
"I told her I forgave her, but that there wasn't anything between us anymore. I left right after...went back to work."
"Well, no wonder she fucking left," Rand says quietly.
"You're kind of a prick," Logan adds on. "She's a sweet girl too. Wouldn't have minded--"
"Say another fucking word of that thought," I growl at Logan, "and I'll rip your tonsils out."
Logan's mouth snaps shut, and he glares at me.
"And why the fuck are you all taking her side?" I grumble, my eyes coming to rest on each of their faces in turn. "She's a snake in the grass. A liar. A betrayer."
"Dude, you have got to get ahold of your tender sensibilities," Bridger mocks me. "That girl came to Jackson with a serious agenda--an insatiable fire lighting her sense of justice. You ended up tilting her world in just a matter of a few days. In just that short period of time, she gave up vengeance and justice all for you and Callie. She apologized. She made it right. And if I know Sloane, and I'm betting I do, that girl probably poured her heart out to you in an effort to have you care for her again, and you left her standing in a puddle of tears. She's got a soul made of pure gold, and you're a fucking moron who chased it away."
Vengeance? Justice? What the hell is he talking about?
But I can't think about that now because guilt overwhelms me. That's exactly what happened, and while I might have felt a twinge of it last night, it's oppressive to me now. Still, I'm not ready to go down without a clean fight, and I need one of them to at l
east admit to me that I have a right to feel betrayed and angry about this.
It would really help if one of my fucking friends had my back just a tiny bit.
So I try to explain myself better. "I get that she was in a bad situation, and I get that she pretty quickly realized what she was doing was wrong. I even understand that ultimately, she made everything right, and for that, I forgive her. But I'm sorry... she should have come clean sooner, especially when I... when she... when we started having feelings. If she would have just cut the deception a little sooner, it would have been easier to bear."
"She couldn't," Bridger says. "She had no choice."
I can't help the half-scoff, half-snort that comes out of my mouth and nose. It's not a pleasant sound, but it makes a point. Because she most certainly had a choice, and she chose badly. That's what I can't let go of.
"She was being blackmailed." The flat anger in Bridger's voice punches deep into my gut, and I don't doubt his words for a minute.
"Blackmailed?" I say incredulously.
"Yeah... her editor threatened to write a lurid article about her mom's most recent hospitalization and her past suicide attempts."
Again, I go dizzy and my confusion is like a thick puddle of goo within me. "Why in the fuck would her editor care about her mom's suicide attempts?"
"Because her mom was married to some senator who cheated on her and used government monies to fund his affair. The scandal destroyed her mom. It was the first time she tried to commit suicide. Her editor threatened to open the story back up if she didn't produce some type of evidence against Callie and the club."
Vengeance? Justice? It all makes sense now.
"Son of a bitch," I wheeze out, feeling like the air in my lungs went on hiatus. I press my fingers to my temples and squeeze my eyes shut. This is not fucking happening. "Why didn't she tell me?"
"She didn't want you to think she was making excuses. She thought just being honest about her mistake would be good enough."
"But she told you," I point out bitterly, opening my eyes and drilling Bridger with a heated look.
"True enough, but we'd pretty much made our peace with her before that," he says, and my guilt starts humming again.
"If she would have just said something..." I say, and my voice drifts off.
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