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Fight
by Sarah Masters
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Erotica/Suspense/Thriller
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loveyoudivine
www.loveyoudivine.com
Copyright ©2010 by Sarah Masters, Jaime Samms
First published in 2010, 2010
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Authors
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Scanning, uploading and/or distribution of this book via the Internet, print, audio recordings or any other means without the permission of the Publisher is illegal and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Fight
Copyright(C)2010 Jaime Samms and Sarah Masters
ISBN 978-1-60054-516-0
His and His Kisses Edition
Cover art and design by Emmy Ellis
All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
Published by loveyoudivine Alterotica
2010
Find us on the World Wide Web at
www.loveyoudivine.com
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Fight
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By
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Sarah Masters and Jaime Samms
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Dedication
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Sarah Masters—For all those who have been abused and have come out the other side smiling.
And for Jaime, who is a pleasure to work with, an amazing friend, and a beautiful human being.
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Jaime Samms—Thanks, Bryn, and Claudia, and of course, THANK YOU SARAH!!!! for inviting me to do this. You made writing fun again.
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[Back to Table of Contents]
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Chapter One
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Khakis, sandals and a long-sleeved white tee, and those incredible, dark eyes locking with mine as the car slowed and stopped, eclipsed everything else in the park. His suggestive smile went straight to my dick. The guy was built, and even the smoke billowing from between his lips didn't deter my appetite for the cut of his abdomen under the tight tee, the way the white contrasted with his dark skin, or the round, neat swell of his ass.
Beside me, Carl scowled at the red light through the windshield. “You're cruising him!”
“Oh fuck, please. I'm looking out the window.”
“But you think he's hot.”
The park, and the stud, slid away on my right as Carl pulled through the intersection. “So? So do you.” The pathetic little statement squished itself out through my teeth. I hated when he was right; his anger justified.
He jerked the car violently around the corner."I wouldn't say so to my boyfriend, Paul.” Tires squealed as he hammered the gas.
I gripped the door handle and pursed my lips. “No. You'd come back here later, when I'm sleeping, and fuck him in some dark alley.”
“Shithead.” He braked hard, and the tire jumped the curb outside my building.
I opened the door, thrust one foot out, and looked back at him. “You coming up?”
He threw the car into park, slammed out his door, and a few minutes later slammed me against the closing door to my apartment, his lips hard and demanding against my mouth.
I don't know if you could ever have called what Carl and I did together ‘making love'. I knew lately the barely concealed violence behind his every touch was getting to be too much, even for my tastes, though. After the guy-in-the-park argument, he dispensed with hiding the aggression altogether. I was still steaming the ache out of my back when he left. I vowed, as I sat on the fire escape later and rubbed liniment onto my chaffed wrists, I was never letting him in the door again.
A month ago, smoke and the taste of ash and cancer would have kept me company out there. Tonight, not even starlight struggled through the city smog and overcast sky. The sounds of traffic drifted up from the street. I listened to that song for a while, wondering when it had replaced birdsong in my mind as comfort music. It was comforting, though. It filled the void that got bigger every time Carl...
“Shit.” I needed a smoke. Instead, I twisted the lid back on the tube of cream and leaned my head on the rail. My wrists stung. I'd told him it was too tight, and he'd laughed. I should never have invited him up. Not with the obvious aggression. There was nothing left. Just violence, anger and that dangerous light in his eyes, and one of these days he'd really hurt me. I wouldn't be able to stop him.
“Idiot.” I tangled my fingers in my hair, tried again to convince myself. I needed to get rid of him. So why did I listen so hard for the door, for his knock? Why did I sit out there waiting for him to come back, flowers in hand, and tell me how sorry he was? I shifted, looking for a more comfortable position on the hard metal step, and my ribs complained. There would be bruises. I'd have to call Brian and beg off the swim practice tomorrow. I wasn't interested in fielding the looks or coming up with another plausible excuse.
The knock came just as the breeze picked up, carrying the shrill wail of a siren up the alley. I scrabbled inside and slammed the window down. Drops of rain plopped against the glass, and in a moment, a torrent flooded the streets. I fully expected Carl on the other side of the door.
“Hey.” Brian stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I saw Carl's car. It's gone now.”
I clenched my teeth around disappointment. “Yeah. He left.”
I backed away from the door, leaving it open. Brian shambled in and closed it behind him. I had my back to him, so when he grabbed my arm, I jumped and jerked away.
“You put something on that?”
“What do you want, Bri?”
A heavy sigh tickled the back of my neck.
“You coming to the pool tomorrow?” He said it like he already knew the answer, so I didn't bother responding. “Let me see.”
“What?” I skidded off to one side at that, putting the table between us. “See what?”
“Bruises? How bad?”
“Not...” I shook my head, swallowed. He'd never asked that before. “He's probably going to be back soon. You should—”
Someone knocked. For a second, we both looked to the door, neither of us moving.
“What's he going to do?” Brian asked.
“Nothing.”
“Paul—”
“Nothing! He'll apologize. Hang out a bit. Then he'll go home.”
“Why do you let him do this?”
“Oh please.” I stalked around the table, keeping him on the other side, and reached for the door. “Like you've never had a bit of
rough sex in your life. That Denis guy—”
“Never made me feel like I should be making excuses for him.”
I didn't say anything, but didn't open the door, either.
“He never did anything we didn't agree on beforehand, Paul,” he said, suggesting, too accurately, that maybe Carl crossed that particular line.
“Not having this conversation, Brian. I'm going to let him in, and you're going to leave.”
Brian shook his head, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing, but I yanked the door open before he could say anything. Carl's smile flashed bright, momentarily blinding my good sense, like it always did. Brian glared at him as he squeezed past, and for one split second, the look on both their faces made the growing storm outside seem tame. Then Brian had gone, and Carl filled the tiny apartment with his presence.
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“What the fuck did he want?” Carl asked, shoving Paul's chest and sending him sprawling backward against the hallway wall.
Paul stared at him, mouth an O, hazel eyes wide as if he had something to hide. Well, Carl would soon get it out of him if he did. No way was he letting Paul bullshit him with tales of Brian popping round to check if they were going swimming. Fucking swimming! If he ever found out it was more than that he'd—
“He came round to ask about swimming.” Paul straightened up, eyes darting toward the front door.
Jesus Christ...
“Swimming. Right. And you expect me to believe that, do you? Get in there.” Carl pointed in the direction of the bedroom, his heart thudding dully, his fists bunching.
Paul moved off the wall and walked into the room, waiting just inside the doorway. “I... Carl, I'm not—”
“Not what? Not in the mood? Not telling the truth again?” Carl smirked, trailing the backs of his fingers down Paul's cheek. “You know you're in the mood. Now get on the bed.”
Paul did as asked, his movements sluggish, and he winced once or twice when settling back onto the mattress.
“What's the matter, Paul?” Carl stood at the foot of the bed and looked at the man he enjoyed tormenting. Paul enjoyed it too, he was sure of that. He just needed a little encouragement to admit it, that was all.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Carl strode to the wardrobe and pulled out a hanger holding Paul's belts. He selected a wide leather one for maximum pleasure-pain. At the side of the bed, he gripped Paul's wrists and held them together with one large hand, winding the thick belt around them. He secured the buckle, and Paul stared up at him, the soreness from his already chafed wrists apparent.
“You know pain is part of the game, so quit complaining inside that damn head of yours. Accept it, and you'll enjoy it more. I've told you this before.” He hauled Paul up the bed, closer to the headboard, and reached to the bedside cabinet for a silk scarf. Looping it through the tiny gap between Paul's wrists, he threaded one end of the scarf around the iron bed strut and tied it to the other. “And as I've also told you before, you can transcend the pain if you put your mind to it. You've never yet reached that heightened state, have you?” He shook his head and rifled in the drawer for the lube. “Shit, you're missing out.”
Carl dropped the tube on the bed, straddled Paul, and gripped the neck of his t-shirt. He ripped it down the middle. Chest exposed, Paul lay still and unresponsive—save for his eyes watching Carl's every move as though he hated him.
I wonder if he does.
Carl shrugged, not giving a shit either way, and moved down Paul's body, popping open his jeans button and tugging at the zipper. He yanked the jeans down, tossing them to the floor, then took off the boxers he'd repeatedly asked Paul not to wear.
“Why do you keep defying me?”
Paul didn't answer.
“If you don't answer, I'll get pissed, and when I get pissed, you know what happens, don't you?”
Paul nodded. “I, uh, I forgot.”
“You forgot. Right. Okay.”
Carl got off the bed and returned to the wardrobe, pulling out a whippet-thin black belt. He spun, lunged toward the bed, and raised his arm. The belt cracked across Paul's chest, and his torso rose, arm muscles bulging, neck tendons corded, pressing against the skin. Paul dropped back down to the bed, and damn, that man never uttered a fucking word.
He'll regret that.
“You won't forget again, will you?” Carl climbed on the bed, kneeled between Paul's legs, and took out his own cock. He settled his lover's ass on his thighs.
Paul shook his head, and Carl had the fleeting thought of whether it was a response to his question or his way of saying he didn't want Carl doing what he was about to.
Doesn't matter what he means. He'll put up and shut the fuck up.
He lubed his cock and, without priming the hole, widened Paul's ass cleft and settled his cock tip against that pucker he loved so much. He glanced up. Paul's eyes widened, and he bit his lower lip.
“You like this, huh, Paul? Yeah, you do.”
He eased his dick inside, smug that Paul's cock hardened and bobbed. Usually, he took his time, stretching Paul slowly, but now? Seeing Brian here had pissed him off, so Paul was going to take it how it came. Fuck the burn.
Carl began a swift rhythm, short, sharp thrusts that turned him on so much he almost came right then. Seeing Paul bound and at his mercy always did that. No one else had ever made him feel the way this man did. He worked harder, faster, and his bollocks tautened as release came too close.
“Come,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Come, Paul.”
Carl closed his eyes and spewed cum, the rush heady, almost too much to handle. He pumped again and again, releasing all he had to give, then slowed and opened his eyes. Paul's stomach remained dry, and his cock had started to soften right along with Carl's.
“You didn't come.” Statement not a question.
Paul shook his head.
Carl pulled out and got off the bed, striding into the bathroom. He washed his cock with angry, soapy strokes then returned to the bedroom. “Why didn't you come?”
Paul closed his eyes for a moment then opened them, staring at Carl with...defiance?
“You've fucked me off, you know that?”
Carl raised a fist and smacked it into Paul's gut. Paul's knees rose, and a muffled “Oomph!” came out between partially open lips.
“I'm going to leave you there like that for a while. I'll take your keys and come back when I think you deserve to be released. You got that?”
Paul nodded.
Carl left the apartment, anger blazing a trail through his gut. He swallowed bile and got into his car, intent on hitting a bar or two and seeing where the night took him. He'd see to Paul another time, maybe tomorrow, catch him unawares, teach him a lesson. No way was he going to put up with that crap. He called the shots, not Paul.
He drove to town, bringing the car to a screeching halt in a side street. Out on the sidewalk, he slammed the door and clicked the lock button on his key fob. The rain had stopped, thank God, and he walked to the town proper. Throbbing beats filtered from the pubs he passed, but Dewer's and The Anchor didn't appeal. No, he was headed for Jilly's Club, the place where like-minded people got trashed and went home to fuck and strive for sexual peaks they'd never reached before. His cock hardened at the thought.
Once there, he approached the head of the line, ignoring the straggle of drunkards waiting patiently to get in. The bouncer nodded at him and opened the door, and Carl breezed inside like he owned the joint. At the bar, impatience ripped through him, and he tapped it with his knuckles. A barmaid studied him with narrow eyes, her glare telling him she thought of him as a cocksucker.
She's got that right.
He smirked and waited for her to give in and serve him. She did.
Carl paid her and walked off sipping from his beer bottle, searching out a potential guy for what he had in mind. He spotted him in the corner, already too drunk to stand straight, all spiked-up hair and muscles. Not his usual fare, but i
t didn't matter what he looked like. He neared him, watched as the guy stood straighter, puffing out his chest.
Placing his bottle on a nearby table, Carl asked, “You want something?” He looked down at his crotch then back to the man's.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. Come on.” Carl jerked his head in the direction of the club's rear and walked away, confident the man would follow. He reached the back fire escape door and leaned against it, pleased that the guy arrived at his side. Carl looked around. No one paid them any attention, so he pushed down on the metal bar. The door swung open, and Carl stepped outside, beckoning the man to follow.
“You like it outside?” the man asked.
“Yeah. Shut the door and come with me.” Carl walked close to the building, knowing exactly where the security cameras were from the last time he'd done this. He strode along the wet backstreet and turned down a side alley, smiling to himself upon hearing heavy pursuing footsteps. He stopped halfway behind some large refuse bins and waited.
“Here?” the guy asked.
“Yeah, here. Lean up against the wall. I like it there. Face it.”
He did, and despite the dimness, Carl made out that tight ass and thick thighs. He reached out a hand and gripped the man's hair.
“You like it rough?” he asked, pulling his head back.
“Yeah. Some.”
“Good.” Carl slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and brought out a knife. He raised it, eased the blade in the space between the man's neck and the wall, and drew it across his skin in a quick, sharp movement. “As rough as that?” he whispered, holding the man's weight as he sagged and struggled to speak. “Fucking prick.”
He stepped back, let the man go, and watched him fall to the ground. Anger assuaged, he left the alley, peering down at his clothes when he passed under a streetlight. Not a speck of blood that he could see. Damn, he was getting good at this shit.
[Back to Table of Contents]
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Chapter Two
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“Fucker.” Not nearly enough venom laced the word, but I could barely breathe, let alone spit vitriol. It roiled in my gut, though, made my stomach lurch and spin at the thought of coming with that asshole inside me. I was done. Nothing he could say could make up for this one. The need to puke forced me to ignore the pain and squirm up until I could get my teeth at the knot in the scarf.
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