Sweet Obsession: Ruthless Games #1

by Rose, Callie

  His eyes narrow. “Are you sorry we were?”

  My stomach flips over. The meth-head’s knife very nearly sliced into my face, and if the three men hadn’t shown up when they did, there’s a decent chance my mugger’s next slash would’ve caught something vital.

  “No. But I will mind if you keep following me.”

  Ryland just shrugs, as if there’s nothing he can do about that.

  “I don’t want you following me,” I repeat more forcefully. My heart is beating harder, rattling in my chest. I’m not sorry I didn’t end up dead in a robbery attempt a week ago, but that doesn’t mean I want any part of whatever this thing is.

  The broad-shouldered man crosses his arms over his chest again. “It’s not up to me.”

  “Right.” I lick my lips, taking one step closer to him, even though I have to force my feet to obey. “It’s Marcus’s call. Well, in that case, I’ve got a message you can pass along to Marcus, all right? Tell him to fuck off.”

  With those words, I turn on my heel and walk quickly back toward my apartment building, unlocking the door before gathering up all my shit one-handed and slipping inside the apartment.

  I never once look back across the street to see if Ryland is still there.

  I don’t have to.

  I can feel his gaze on me even as the front door swings shut behind me.

  Chapter 4

  The temptation to lock myself in my apartment like I’m trying to survive a zombie apocalypse is strong.

  But if I hide, that means they win.

  So despite the fact that my skin prickles with nerves every time I step outside my apartment building, I continue to go about my regular routine for the next two days.

  I’m off work today, which means I actually could refuse to leave my apartment if I wanted to, but instead, I head to the library. My gaze darts quickly around the street as I head toward the bus stop, my hand unconsciously curling into a fist.

  There’s no sign of Ryland or Marcus or their other friend, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t mean shit.

  I sit at the back of the bus, which is my usual spot anyway—but today, there’s even more reason for it. I want a wall at my back, and I want to be able to keep an eye on the other passengers.

  Shit. For all I know, it’s not just those three men who are watching me. Ryland said something about covering for Marcus because his friend had other shit to do and asked him to.

  How many people has that psychopath roped into following me around?

  The potential answers to that question do nothing to settle my nerves, so I push them out of my head and dart off the bus quickly when it reaches my stop. Hiking my bag higher on my shoulder, I make a beeline toward the library’s imposing stone steps and take them two at a time.

  Only once I step inside the dim, quiet space do my nerves unwind a little. I know I’m not technically any safer here than I would be anywhere else, but the hushed, hallowed atmosphere calms me a little.

  Nodding to the librarian at the front desk, I make my way to the worn stairs on one side of the building and head up to the second floor.

  Since I can’t afford to go to school yet, the library has become my de facto classroom, the place I go to make sure I won’t be too far behind when I finally save up enough to afford a college education. This branch of the Halston Public Library is old, dingy, and understaffed. But it’s big, and it’s got a decent selection of books.

  A while ago, I got my hands on a list of “Fifty Classics You Need to Read” or some shit like that, and I’ve been working my way through the list slowly but surely. I try to make myself focus on math and science books too, but to be honest, the fictional ones interest me more.

  Some of them are shit. Catcher in the Rye? Ugh. Go fuck yourself, Holden Caulfield.

  But a lot of them are amazing, and when I sit in my favorite spot in the back of the library and get lost between the pages of a book, all of my own problems and worries seem to disappear for a while.

  Today, I’m on the hunt for something new by Virginia Woolf. I’ve read a few of her books already, and I’m craving the dark, melancholy atmosphere that seems to pervade her stories.

  I’m browsing through the stacks when the fine hairs on the back of my neck suddenly rise on end. My fingers freeze on the spine of a book, my heart lurching in my chest, picking up its pace so fast it almost leaves me nauseated.

  Fuck.

  The prickling feeling grows more intense, and when I turn around, I almost crash backward into the large shelving unit.

  Marcus stands there, so close he could reach out and touch me. Jesus, how did he get so fucking close before I even realized he was there? He’s like a goddamn ghost.

  My lungs burn, demanding more oxygen, but I refuse to let him see me gasp for air. I refuse to let him know how much he scared me.

  Swallowing, I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze dead on. “This doesn’t look like you fucking off.”

  He chuckles lightly, a rough sound that seems to rumble in his chest. “Yeah. I got that message.”

  “So? Fuck off.”

  Despite the heavy thud of my heart, my voice is strong. But if I expected my words to have any damn effect on him, I’m disappointed. He doesn’t budge, just stands there staring at me from two feet away.

  My legs burn with the impulse to run. To flee. To get away from this man, as far and as fast as I can. But I’m rooted to the spot, and I can’t tell if it’s fear that binds me in place or something else.

  We’re in the far eastern corner of the library, and it’s a Tuesday afternoon. There’s no one else around, and I’m not even sure the librarian at the front desk would hear me if I yelled.

  When I spoke earlier, I kept my voice library-quiet out of habit—but the truth is, there’s no one around to hear us at any volume.

  “Why did you do it?”

  Marcus’s voice is quiet too, although I’m sure it’s not out of respect for the library, and there’s an intensity in his words that seems to burn through my skin.

  I know what he’s talking about. He’s referring to the night I got shot. The night I almost died. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure that out. But I see no reason to give him any ground at all.

  “Do what?” I keep my face impassive.

  His eyes narrow slightly, and he steps forward, closing the space between us until our chests are practically brushing. “You know what.”

  I have a sudden impulse to put my hand on his broad chest. To hold him at bay. To create some kind of barrier between us.

  But for some reason, I’m terrified of touching him like that. So instead, I grab on to one of the shelves behind me, my hand near my hip, clutching the ancient metal like a lifeline.

  “Is that why you’ve been following me all this time?” I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “Just to ask me that? You could’ve saved yourself a long-ass time and asked me months ago.”

  “I’m asking now.”

  Up close, I can see every detail of his face, and I can’t help but drink it all in. This is the first time I’ve truly gotten a good look at him. Every other time I’ve seen this man, his features have been partially obscured by shadows, or by the shifting lights inside the club that night.

  But here, under the dim gray fluorescents that hum in the ceiling, I can see him clearly.

  He’s beautiful.

  So much more beautiful than a man this dangerous has a right to be.

  His hair is a rich, deep brown, cut shorter on the sides than the top. His jaw is square and broad, and his high cheekbones accentuate the angles of his face. A long, straight nose sits above full lips, and heavy eyebrows set off the long lashes that frame his eyes.

  His eyes.

  Fuck, it’s his eyes that make me feel like I’m drowning. They’re just as mesmerizing as I remember, and they dart back and forth in small movements as he takes in my face with the same intensity as I studying him.

  I realize suddenly that silence has falle
n between us for who knows how long while I stare at him, and my stomach churns with a fresh wave of discomfort. I don’t like him knowing I have any interest in him at all. Any curiosity about him.

  And while I’ve been studying him, what has he seen on my face? What did I give away?

  I rip my gaze away from his, staring blankly at a spot just past his shoulder as I shrug slightly. “Fine. You wanna know why I did it? What made me decide to save your life?” I huff a quiet laugh. “Nothing. It was an accident.”

  The last word is barely out of my mouth when Marcus moves, springing into motion so fast I don’t even have time to react.

  He closes the last bit of distance between us, pressing his body against mine as he pins me to the shelves behind me. One of his muscled thighs wedges between mine, and his broad hand comes up to wrap around my jaw, tilting my face so I have no choice but to look at him. His lips press together and his nostrils flare as he stares down at me.

  “I don’t like being lied to, Ayla. In fact, it’s one of the few things in the world I won’t fucking tolerate. So you wanna try that again?”

  My heart slams unevenly in my chest, my pulse thrumming so hard and fast I’m sure he can feel it where his fingers touch my neck. Fear rises up in me, tainted by a sharp, unwanted zing of pleasure as his hard thigh presses against my clit.

  My whole body goes tense as I rise up practically onto my tiptoes, trying to mash myself into the shelving unit behind me to keep as much distance between our bodies as possible.

  But there’s none to be had.

  He’s above me, in front of me, all around me. His thigh presses harder against me as he tightens his grip on my face, and my fingers are like a vise as I clutch the shelf near my hip.

  He’s everywhere. His magnetic gaze burns into me, and when I inhale sharply, his scent floods my nostrils. It’s clean and rich, with a bite of leather that must be from the jacket he wears.

  “I—”

  He’s gripping my jaw so tight it’s hard to talk, and when he notices that, he loosens his hold on me.

  But that only makes it worse. Because now his touch feels almost like a caress—too intimate, too tender.

  “I was… at Club 47 with a few friends that night,” I say slowly, my voice rough and quiet. “It was… I didn’t want to be there anymore, so I slipped out the back. I smoked a cigarette in the alley, then decided to get a cab home. I was heading down the sidewalk when I passed you and your friends. And that’s when”—pop pop pop—“I heard gunshots. That’s when I fell.” I meet his gaze, forcing my voice to remain steady even though I can barely catch my breath. “I was walking past you. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all. It was an accident.”

  He freezes. His leg is still shoved between mine, grinding against my clit, and I try to ignore the dull ache building between my thighs as he stares down at me.

  I can see him processing every word I’ve said, measuring it against some internal barometer.

  Believe me. Please fucking believe me.

  The words slipped off my tongue easily enough. And why shouldn’t they?

  I’ve told myself that exact same story hundreds of times over the past two and a half years, rearranging small details here and there to support the version of events I want to believe.

  That it was an accident.

  That I didn’t choose to step between this man and three bullets.

  That I was simply a girl who went out with some friends and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  That it was bad luck, and nothing more.

  Marcus considers my words for so long I start to feel like we’ve been trapped in some kind of bubble where time no longer exists.

  Nothing else can penetrate my consciousness. There are only the burning points of contact where his skin meets mine, his large hand framing my jawline. The feel of his broad, muscular frame pressed against me, his chest brushing mine. The steady pressure of his leg between my thighs, the feeling of being pinned by him.

  Then he shakes his head suddenly, the movement sharp and decisive.

  “Lie.”

  “It’s not!” My voice comes out louder than I mean for it to, fear and anger mixing with the uncomfortable arousal swirling in the pit of my stomach. I grit my teeth, trying to pull my raging emotions under control. “Listen, you asshole, I answered your fucking question. I told you exactly what happened. I’m sorry if it’s not the fucking fairy tale you were hoping to hear, but—”

  He cuts me off again, looping his other arm around my back and nearly lifting me off my feet as he immobilizes me completely. My clit rides his leg as he hauls me closer to him, and I have to bite back a gasp at the shock of sensation that tears through me.

  “I said no lies, Ayla.” His voice is low, soft, but no less dangerous because of that. “You weren’t the only one who was there that night, remember? I was there too. I saw exactly what happened. You’re not filling out a goddamn police report right now. I’m not falling for your bullshit, even if the cops might.”

  “It’s not… bullshit,” I gasp.

  It’s getting harder to speak.

  Harder to think.

  Memories of that night are swirling around in my mind, dredged up by his presence and his forceful questions. They mix with the dreams I’ve had almost nightly for the past two and a half years, sending my body a confusing mix of signals.

  I remember the heavy thud of the bullets as they pierced my flesh, shoving me backward.

  I remember Marcus’s face hovering above mine, and the way the blood on my fingertips smeared over his cheek.

  I remember him kissing me, how pain mixed so perfectly with pleasure.

  I remember him fucking me, stretching me, invading me. Breaking me apart.

  No. No, that didn’t happen. You’re fucked in the head, Ayla.

  Those parts of my memories aren’t real. I know that. But they’ve replayed over and over in my dreams so many times that they feel real.

  Marcus’s body this close to mine, his thigh pressing hard against my clit, his scent enveloping me—it all feels terrifyingly familiar.

  As if my body knows this.

  Welcomes it.

  Craves it.

  Something in his gaze shifts, like he’s reading every one of my thoughts—even though I’m sure I’ve kept my goddamn mouth shut. The hand at my back splays over my t-shirt as he hikes me tighter against him, deliberately dragging my crotch over his thigh.

  A forceful rush of pleasure makes a soft, animalistic noise pour from my lips, and he smiles grimly, his lips parting over even white teeth.

  “Go ahead. Lie to me again,” he murmurs, repeating the action and moving his own hips against mine this time, giving me even more friction and making my body scream with sensation. “Tell me it was an accident. A coincidence. That it doesn’t mean anything.”

  I open my mouth, but all that comes out is another low, tortured sound.

  “Tell me, Ayla.” Using his grip on my jaw, he forces my head to tilt up even more, dropping his own so we’re almost nose to nose. His breath fans across my face, and despite the fact that it’s not even noon yet, I catch the rich scent of whiskey. “Go on. Fucking say it.”

  He’s working his hips against mine harder now, moving in deliberate motions, holding me pinned tightly to him as we grind against each other.

  He’s hard. I can feel his cock pressing into my belly, hot and thick through the layers of clothing between us.

  My pussy is slick, and I can tell my panties are fucking soaked from being coated in my arousal with every drag against his body. My heart is speeding up, beating harder and harder as pleasure crashes through me like a tidal wave.

  Fuck.

  Oh, Jesus fuck.

  Oh god, I’m going to—

  I let go of the shelf behind me, gripping a fistful of Marcus’s shirt instead as my muscles contract, my whole body going rigid.

  The sound that falls from my lips as I come is one I don’t
even recognize. It’s a low, deep grunt, as if Marcus has somehow managed to drag out a piece of my soul.

  A piece of me he was never supposed to have.

  As soon as the orgasm breaks through me, my heart starts pounding a mile a minute, sensations flooding my body along with the rush of blood. I’m breathing hard and fast, no longer able to hide my desperate need for oxygen.

  My fingers clutch at his shirt and the firm flesh beneath it, fingernails digging into his broad pec through the fabric of his dark tee.

  He’s breathing just as hard as I am, I realize. Choppy, ragged gasps of air, like he’s just resurfaced after almost drowning.

  For several long seconds, we just stare at each other, trapped in a strange sort of bubble that smells like sex and whiskey and a hint of leather.

  Then he releases his grip on my chin. He shifts backward slightly, allowing my feet to fully touch the floor again. He’s still too close, his presence too overwhelming, but he doesn’t back away any farther or give me more space than that.

  Instead, he slides the hand that was splayed against my back around to my front, then shoves it roughly down the front of my pants.

  My mouth drops open, shock and a fresh starburst of sensation stealing my breath as he drags a finger through my wet, swollen folds. The pad of his finger brushes over my clit, and heat flares in his eyes as he watches my body jerk in response.

  His shirt is still clenched in my fist, and I tighten my grip. I’m frozen, my muscles locked up and stiff.

  Fuck, I don’t know if I’m trying to push him away or drag him closer.

  One thick finger slides inside me, and my pulse quickens, my inner walls clamping around him instinctively.

  “If you’re looking for my hymen, it’s long gone already,” I rasp out, trying to inject a sneer into my voice.

  Because I have to say something. I have to fill the heavy silence between us. Have to prove to him somehow that he’s not in charge here.

  A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. He hooks his finger, using his grip on my pussy to pull me closer to him as he drops his head, lowering his voice. “I don’t want your hymen, Ayla.”