Rush (Men of Rapture #1)

by Faye Byrd

  A mock pout shapes her plump lips. “No price is too high,” she says, licking my jaw.

  I chuckle darkly and shift, sliding my arms from my hooded jacket and dropping it at her feet. “On your knees, baby.”

  She glances to the jacket and back to me, a wicked gleam shimmering in her eyes. “Sounds tasty,” she purrs, her tongue trailing across her lips.

  She steps back and fists the hem of my T-shirt, pulling it up to expose my inked chest to the cool early-morning air. My nipple rings jut forward as the buds harden against the chill. Her smile is triumphant as she goes in for the kill.

  I don’t know how long she explores the planes of my chest and abdomen with her hot little mouth, but there comes a point where my cock is feeling left out. I push her head, urging her lower. Her fingers make quick work of my zipper, and I assist her by sliding my jeans down my ass.

  Once my cock is free, she wastes no time enclosing it between her wet lips. My head thumps against the brick as she begins working me over. The buzz becomes a roar as the blood pounds through my veins. Louder and louder it thumps until I feel like I might explode, and then I do, reducing the life pulses to tiny rivulets of nothingness.

  Her mouth begins its journey upward, and I cringe, pushing her away. “I can’t allow that.”

  She stands and crosses her arms with a huff. “So that’s how it is?” she snaps, and my eyes jump from her naked tits to her face. “You get everything, and I get nothing?”

  Guilt gnaws inside, and I sigh. It’s not the optimal emotion, but it’s better than feeling empty. She’s been a great companion, keeping me occupied for hours on end, so I should probably suck it up and get her off while keeping her hands and lips away from me.

  Time to pretend.

  “Give me your panties,” I command, pressing her against the wall.

  She smirks and leans forward to whisper, “I’m not wearing any.”

  “Easy access.” I smile, flicking my eyes down her body. “I like it.”

  I kneel before her, my fingers ghosting up her thighs to the wetness beneath her skirt. She sighs and grips my hair, urging me to reciprocate her actions from just moments ago. I steel myself, pushing my eyes tightly closed, and dive in mouth first.

  Everything is out of order inside me, chaotic and tumultuous, as I force myself to hold up my end of the bargain. The act itself isn’t the problem. The timing is. I can enjoy a woman’s body before my own orgasm; it’s part of the thrill. Afterward, intimate contact only makes me want to puke.

  But judging by her death grip on my hair and the sound of her purrs, I’m doing a great job of faking my way through. I just want it to be done, my price to be paid, so I can go home and suffer alone before the darkness swallows me right here in this alley.

  One minute, she’s gasping for breath, and the next … she’s screaming in terror. Before my mind can recognize the shift, a hard blow lands to the back of my head, knocking me to the ground. I’m disoriented but vengeful as I jump to my feet and face the attacker. There are two of them, and one I easily recognize.

  The fuckwit from earlier tonight.

  “I told you this wasn’t over,” he sneers, motioning to a startled Stella. “Grab her while I show this fuck what he gets for messing with my girl.”

  The second guy grabs Stella, and she lets him, but I don’t have much time to ponder why because fuckwit is throwing a punch, and it’s wrapped in a pair of brass knucks. I reel from the blow and wipe blood from my brow as I turn and charge him, taking us both to the ground.

  We roll around, scrambling for the dominant position. A metal blade glints in the dim lighting as he delivers a slice across my abdomen. The next one runs up my arm. Blood pours from the wounds, staining our hands and making a slippery mess. I take a knee to the chin, stunning me momentarily, and he jumps to his feet, delivering kick after kick to my head. The last thing I feel before everything goes dark is a sharp, blinding pain to my thigh.

  Later—hours, minutes, seconds, I have no fucking idea—my eyes pop open to a dark, deserted alley. There’s no sign of Stella or either of the men. My entire body’s on fire, and a knife is sticking out of my thigh. I yank it out and blood flows freely, so I grab my already-stained jacket and tie it around the wound. Then I struggle to pull myself to Rapture’s door.

  Locked.

  I pound on it with as much force as I can muster, calling Niko’s name over and over. When I get no response, I press my back against the cold gray metal and close my eyes. They pop open minutes later as I remember something from last week. Across the alley. The other door. The raven-haired woman wearing a doctor’s coat. The sign: Cole’s Pet Clinic.

  Medical supplies.

  I dig deep, struggling to get my body across the alley. I half stumble, half crawl across the ever-widening concrete. My head is light, and my breathing is heavy by the time I reach the door. I grab the handle. Locked. My eyes move to the small rectangular window and then search the ground around me for something I can use to bash it in. Nothing. I start pounding. I punch the glass until it shatters, slicing my knuckles to bits, and breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the inside latch.

  Success.

  Dragging myself through the door, I’m barely able to string my thoughts together in a coherent manner. Supplies. I move down the hallway, lightheaded and fading fast, as I look for a room that might contain a suture kit.

  I don’t think I ever make it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Stitching

  ALYSSA

  The alarm clock blares at four-thirty in the morning, and I slap at the nightstand to quell the annoying noise. Sleep didn’t claim me until after eleven, and it’s still dark outside, but I have a patient that needs a little extra care.

  Sammy is a six-month-old mixed breed puppy who contracted parvovirus because he never got his shots. It’s heartbreaking. The treatment will end up costing more than the prevention, and that’s only if I can save him. He’s a small guy but a fighter, and his little sad eyes are the reason I’m willing to crawl from my bed at the butt crack of dawn.

  I’m dressed and out the door in less than thirty minutes, with my car parked in the lot around the corner in another twenty. The sun’s just edging over the horizon, brightening the sky and warming the chilly air. The sounds of people beginning their day form a chorus as I walk the short distance to the clinic.

  Locking the door behind me, I turn on lights as I move through the reception area, heading to my office to stash my purse and hang my jacket. Eager to check on Sammy, I step into the hallway and turn right, passing the patient exam rooms. At the end of the corridor, I flick the switch for the fluorescent lights in the back part of the building where the small kennel area and surgical rooms are located.

  As I round the corner, I stumble to a halt as several things vie for my attention. Sammy is in the room to my left, safely ensconced in his kennel. His eyes are open as he lifts his head, but I can’t offer him more than a glance because more pressing things demand my attention.

  A cool breeze blows through my hair as I trail my eyes to the far end of the hallway. The latch of the door that leads to the back alley is in the unlocked position, and the window is broken. Dark stains cover the metal surface, and shards of glass glimmer from the polished gray floor.

  I’m on edge, the sound of my thundering heart drowning out everything else. My fear spikes as I take one step and then another, walking toward the mayhem instead of away. About halfway down the hall, a blob in my periphery draws my eyes to the left. A person. A man. He’s on the floor in a surgical room, rolled to his side with blood smeared on the floor beneath him.

  I don’t think; I react. Running toward him and dropping to my knees, I check for a pulse. He’s alive. Then I check his breathing. It’s steady. I sigh and shake his shoulder in hopes of getting a response.

  He groans, and I keep at it, not exerting much pressure, as I don’t want to agitate his wounds. “Sir,” I say lowly, shaking him again. “Excuse me, sir, I
need you to open your eyes.”

  He rolls to his back, and I almost choke. It’s the man from the alley encounter only a week ago. His face is swollen and purple, he has a deep cut on his eyebrow, and blood is everywhere. It stains his skin and soaks his clothes.

  I quickly stand, but his voice stops me before I reach the door. “Don’t go.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I say in a soft voice, turning to him. “Let me get my phone, and I’ll call for help.”

  “No!” he yells, holding up a hand as if to reach for me. “No hospitals. No police. I just need a suture kit.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” I say, faltering. “I should call an ambulance, but I won’t call the police.”

  “Please,” he says, trying to lift to a sitting position and failing as he grabs his thigh and curses. “Fuck! Aren’t you a doctor? All I need is a few stitches, and I’ll be good as new.”

  “I work on pets, not people,” I answer, shaking my head. “You could be bleeding internally.”

  “I’m not!” he snaps, gritting his teeth as he lifts and leans against a nearby cabinet, breathing heavily after the exertion. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll pay to have the door fixed. Hell, I’ll pay you! Please, just get me what I need, and I’ll go.”

  I study him—torn.

  This man has broken into my clinic with the intent to steal, yet he’s unapologetic and demanding I help. He obviously needs medical attention, but he’s also lucid enough to vehemently refuse a hospital visit. I am technically qualified, and I don’t want him dying in my clinic, but this feels like I’ll be crossing a line, stepping into a situation I’m not prepared to handle. Helping a man who’ll bring me nothing but trouble.

  I can only imagine why he ended up this way to begin with.

  I trail my eyes over him, pausing at his blood-soaked thigh, and as I stare at it, realization dawns. His hooded jacket is secured around the wound. The same one he used so deftly as a shield after his transgression last week has been reduced to a bloody bandage. It’s almost as if it’s a symbol for how far he’s fallen since that day.

  “Fine,” I mutter, scanning the room. “I’m willing to take a look, but”—I point a finger toward his beat-up face—“if it’s too bad, you have to agree I can call an ambulance.”

  His swollen, bloody lip lifts at the corner as his eyes run over my body. “Give yourself more credit than that.”

  “That’s not an agreement.” I stubbornly cross my arms.

  His eyes narrow and I look away, refusing to be bullied. “Whatever, lady. The sooner you get me back on my feet, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

  I shake my head, annoyed. “Can you get on the table?”

  He looks at the small exam table and back to me before sliding over and gripping the edge, trying to pull himself up. “Goddamnit!” His face scrunches in pain, and he pounds his fist against the flat metal surface, his body half standing, half leaning across it. “A little fucking help wouldn’t hurt.”

  I’m snapped from my observation by the sarcasm in his voice. “Right,” I respond, moving toward him. “Maybe you can use me as leverage.” I step to his side and prompt him to anchor his left arm around my shoulders. “Now pull toward me, and then gently roll to the table on your back.”

  It’s a burden as the weight of his body bears down, but he’s quick to make the shift, landing on his back with a thud and a loud groan. “Fuck!”

  I take a deep breath to center myself before snapping into doctor mode. Pretend he’s an animal, I chant on repeat as I don a pair of gloves and gather some much-needed supplies. My hands shake as I lay the items on the counter, and I close my eyes, forcing my body to submit to what my mind has already agreed to.

  I turn, gauze and Betasept in hand. “It may sting a little, but I need to get the area around the wounds cleaned.” I soak the material and set the squeeze bottle beside his head, slowly extending my hand toward his brow.

  He jerks away before it reaches him. “There was a fucking knife sticking out of my thigh. Start there.”

  My hand hovers as I digest his words. “Okay,” I reply, tossing the unused gauze beside him and turning to grab a pair of scissors.

  His eyes widen. “What the fuck you gonna do with those?”

  I bite my tongue to stop myself from telling him I’m going to shove them up his ass. “I need to see the wound, so unless you think you can get those tight, blood-soaked jeans down your ass, I’m going to have to cut open the side.”

  “You don’t need to make excuses.” He snorts. “Cut away. I’m sure you want a peek of the goods.” He motions to the general area of his crotch and lays his head back, closing his eyes.

  “You should really dial it back a notch there, killer,” I say, grabbing the sleeves of the drenched jacket and tugging them open a little harder than necessary.

  “Fucking hell!” he roars, slamming his fist into the table. “Take it easy, would ya?”

  “Did you take it easy when you busted into my clinic?” I ask, lifting my eyes to glare at him. “Any normal person would’ve already called the cops, but I’m helping you despite your vulgar insinuations, so maybe you should just quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Sassy. I like it.” He lies back with a smile and closes his eyes.

  I roll my eyes, frustrated, and start cutting through the jean material. When I reach the red stain, I pause and peel back the denim to get a better look, and I get an eyeful. He’s not wearing briefs, and his dick isn’t lying dormant. It’s not completely hard either, but it wouldn’t take much more than a warm breeze to stir it to life. I’m impressed with its size and terrified of all the things it’s done at the same time.

  Averting my eyes, I carefully make a few more snips so I can get my first look at the wound. It’s only a few inches long but very deep and located on the front area of his outer left thigh. All the major vessels have been missed, and the bleeding has slowed, most likely due to the makeshift tourniquet.

  I lay the scissors on the table and move to the corner of the room, dragging a stool back with my foot. Taking a seat, I soak the gauze and start cleaning the skin around the wound.

  “Jesus fuck, woman!” His eyes jump open, and his hands ball into fists. “What the fuck is that shit?”

  I pause and flick my eyes to his, tossing the blood-soaked gauze into the trash bin. “Let’s get one thing straight. My name isn’t lady or woman. It’s Alyssa, but you may call me Dr. Cole.”

  “I’m surprised you’re insisting on such formalities with your hands so close to my cock, but”—he pauses with an exaggerated sigh—“if you insist, doctor.”

  I keep my lips pressed tightly together, afraid of what I might say, and get back to work with a new piece of gauze. “There’s no way I can clean all the blood, but I’ll get the wound taken care of, and you can get the dried blood off later with a warm washcloth.” I glance at him. “At home.”

  He chuckles, but it turns into a curse when I accidentally press down too hard on the gash. “Oh, sorry,” I say, not bothering to look up.

  “I bet.”

  Feeling guilty, I toss my gloves and the piece of gauze into the bin as I get up to retrieve the saline solution. While I’m at the counter, I take a minute to sterilize the stainless rolling tray before arranging my suture supplies on it. My body is reluctant, straightening and re-straightening the items, resistant to taking this step.

  I prop my palms against the counter and hang my head, taking several deep breaths. You can do this, Alyssa, I assure myself before squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, intent on seeing this through. I don a new pair of gloves and turn, rolling the tray behind me.

  “About fucking time,” he mutters, lifting his arm from across his eyes and glancing toward me. “I was beginning to think you’d chickened out.”

  “I guess you think the world owes you? Everyone’s here to cater to you?” I say, retaking my seat on the stool and adjusting the tray’s height. “Or is it just women you treat th
is way?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” His hazel-blue eyes roam my face. “You say that like you know me, but you don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

  A flash of heat creeps over my skin, and I shift my eyes away. “I know how you’re acting right now, and it’s not very appreciative,” I say, my bravery drowned in voyeuristic guilt. I continue fiddling with the tray, avoiding his stare, but I can feel it burning across my skin.

  “You’re right,” he finally says, prompting my eyes to jump to his. “I am being an ungrateful asshole.” He lifts his hand and shoves it toward me. “I appreciate you helping me, Dr. Cole. The name’s Rushland, but anyone who doesn’t want their teeth kicked in calls me Rush.”

  My eyes flick to his covered-in-dried-blood hand and back to his face. “Nice to meet you, Rush, but I think I’ll pass on the handshake.”

  “Shit!” He quickly withdraws it. “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem.” I laugh for the first time this morning. “Okay, I’m going to flush the wound and numb it before I start stitching.”

  “Go for it, doc.”

  Other than the tensing of his thigh muscle when I spread open the wound to flush it with saline solution, he doesn’t react. I work methodically as I numb the surrounding area and replace my gloves before opening the sterile equipment. I pretend he’s someone’s beloved pet as I add twelve stitches to the gash and finish it off with a coat of purple antibacterial spray.

  “All done,” I say, standing and pushing the tray to the side. “Let me take a look at this injury over your eye so I can determine if it’ll need stitches as well.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he says, shifting away. “Besides, girls like a bad boy with a nasty scar, right?”

  I pause, my hand hovering above his face, conflicted. The question is rhetorical, but it’s also scornful and full of contempt. Taking a chance, I grip his chin and angle his head where I need it to begin the examination. He doesn’t balk as my fingers poke and prod his brow, but he does stare at me, his hazel eyes darkening to a deep blue.