by Naima Simone
No woman had ever given herself to him as freely as Gabriella. The others—they’d been erotic games, roles played. With Gabriella…it wasn’t playing; it was essential.
So much had been altered, broken, between them. But this need for her surrender, her trust? It was the same. Just as vital. Just as powerful. Like then, it validated him. Made him feel worthy. If this woman—this gorgeous, independent, strong woman—could submit everything to him, then maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the petty thief with a drunk for a father. Maybe he was more than muscle for a mob boss. Maybe he was more.
How, after all that had passed between them, could she still make him feel that way? Still make him feel honored that he could care for her after she’d blacked out from the pleasure he’d given her. Make him feel important as he’d removed the sex toys from her and rubbed aloe into her reddened skin before wrapping her in a blanket. Make him feel like a protector as he held her while she slept.
Killian tipped his head back, so he could suck in air that didn’t contain the scent of vanilla, cucumber, and sex. Too much shit had happened between them. Even if he could forgive and forget about her calling the police, he could never trust. He’d emerged from jail not only with a broken voice, but a broken belief in people, a mistrust that had been etched into his soul by the betrayal and abandonment of one woman.
And she rested against him, her soft breaths whispering across his skin like a gentle caress.
“Killian?” Gabriella stirred, her voice slurred with remnants of pleasure. Like a kitten, she snuggled deeper against him.
“Yeah,” he rasped, dropping his arms from around her. “I’m here.”
She turned her head, her lips grazing his skin and rekindling his simmering arousal to full blast. Not that it required much. He hadn’t come yet, and after having both his fingers and mouth inside and on her, his body throbbed in complaint.
Sitting up on his lap, she dragged her hair out of her face, a growing awareness quickly chasing the lethargy away. The blanket he’d wrapped around her slid from her shoulders, baring her from the waist up. Like a magnet, her full, delicate breasts drew his attention. He hadn’t tasted them yet. Desire thrummed inside him, drawing every muscle tight. That would be a crime he would be rectifying soon.
With Herculean effort, he returned his gaze to her face and slumberous, lilac eyes. The humor reflected there also curled her mouth. With a small sigh, she pinched a few strands of his hair that had loosened from the band and rubbed them between her fingertips. “For the past years, I’ve pictured you as you were. Shorter hair. But I like this lumbersexual look you have going.”
“Lumber what?” He grunted. “Is that even a real thing?”
“Oh yes.” She nodded, the curl of lips wider, spreading into a smile. “There are thousands of Pinterest pages dedicated to it.”
He grunted. He’d never bothered with the social media site. It seemed like nothing but a time suck and a place where people could post pictures of their cats…and apparently lumbersexual men.
“How long i—well, damn,” she breathed, turning fully in his lap until she almost straddled him. Splaying her fingers wide over his pecs and shoulders, she released a sigh that sounded nearly reverent. “You’re so beautiful.” She traced the lines of the tattoos that stretched across his chest from shoulder to shoulder and down both arms. Ornate crosses, angels, demons, leviathans with gaping mouths…he was a walking canvas of good versus evil. A reflection of the thoughts that dominated his mind, especially after he was released from jail. Each tattoo received her attention, and just as she trailed a caress over his ink, he curled his fingers at his sides so he didn’t do the same to the delicate arches of her dark eyebrows, or the elegant bridge of her nose, or the plump curves of her mouth.
“Nipple rings.” She huffed out a chuckle, brushing the rings. “I thought I’d felt these under your shirt earlier. The tattoos, the piercings. They’re new,” she murmured. “At least to me.”
Pinching one of the sterling silver hoops between her fingers, she tugged lightly. He hissed, feeling the small pull in his cock. Gritting his teeth, he rolled his hips, stroking his dick against her bare thigh. Her eyes widened slightly, a low gasp escaping her parted lips.
“What does it feel like?” she whispered, treating his nipple to another tug. “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah,” he ground out, hips jerking again. “A little. A good hurt.”
“Yeah,” she repeated. Her hands skimmed lower, lighting up nerve endings in her wake. She trailed her fingertips over the light bruises marring his ribs. In another day or so, they would darken to the color of her eyes. Another reminder he’d carry after tonight. “Is this another kind of ‘good hurt’?”
He studied her, searching her face, but she didn’t meet his gaze, instead traced the mark over and over before moving to the next and repeating the caress.
What could he say that wouldn’t sound just a little bit unstable? She’d already witnessed his…episode…in the elevator. The thought of appearing even weaker, crazier, in her eyes…
“Wendy mentioned you were involved in underground fighting,” she said when he didn’t reply. “The fighting, the pain… They silence the demons, don’t they? Give you an outlet for them.” Her lashes lifted, and he stared into understanding, into compassion. The fist squeezing the hell out of his chest loosened. She nodded. “I have a lot to answer for, don’t I?” she murmured.
Did she? Not with this one. Using his fists had always been his release valve. Only once he’d done it for the O’Bannons, and now he did it for himself. His sanity.
So, no, this guilt didn’t belong to her. She’d been his balm, not his catalyst. But his throat closed around that admission, so he said, “Not this, no,” and drop-kicked the subject for another. “Why L.A.?”
A beat of silence, followed by a nonchalant shrug. Too nonchalant. “Why not?” Her gaze dipped, and as if she couldn’t keep her hands to herself, she toyed with his piercing. Grinding his teeth against the pleasure zinging to his balls, he covered her hand with his and waited until she returned her attention to him. Several more seconds passed before she sighed and shook her head. “It was the farthest place from Boston without leaving the country, and big enough to get lost in.”
“Is that what you wanted? To get lost?”
Something dark ghosted through her eyes. “Once I realized God had no intention of letting me stop breathing like I asked him to after you went to jail, I figured pretty much becoming a ghost in a city where people looked through you rather than at you seemed like the next best option.”
God had no intention of letting me stop breathing like I asked him to… The words rattled against his skull, and a dirty fear coated his throat, his tongue.
“What are you talking about? You didn’t try to…” He trailed off, not even able to complete the thought.
“Kill myself?” she supplied. Shaking her head, she eased off his thighs, sitting next to him, her knees pulled to her chest and held there by the band of her arms. “No. But some nights I wanted to fall asleep and not wake up. I knew you would eventually be released from jail, but for all intents and purposes, you might as well have been dead to me. After what I’d done, I’d lost you. And there were moments I didn’t want to exist in a world where you didn’t. Melodramatic, I know.” A small, humorless smile curled the corner of her mouth. “You’d been gone about a month before I realized I couldn’t remain in Boston. Not when I saw you everywhere. So L.A. it was. I packed up what I could stuff in my car, borrowed some money from Uncle Garrett, and left.”
“You didn’t have a place to live, a job,” he said, belated worry for her settling inside him. A city the size of L.A. couldn’t have been kind to a woman totally on her own.
“I managed. Found a job bartending, stayed at a motel until I could afford an apartment. I had more than you. And I’ve been…okay. Sometimes even happy. At the end of next month, I’m going to be the owner of my own bar. Nothing like yours,” she said
with a dry laugh. “But a small dive bar in Culver City. Uncle Garrett would be proud.”
“That’s wonderful, Gabriella,” he murmured. “I’m happy for you.” And he was. When they’d been wrapped around each other in bed, she would sometimes talk of taking over her uncle’s bar. That she’d still managed to grab her dream… It was a testimony to her will and strength. He wasn’t so much of an asshole that he couldn’t be proud of her for that. Admire her for it.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Closing her eyes, she loosed a shuddering breath. “Killian, I…”
“No.” He jolted off the bed, stripping his opened shirt off and throwing it aside.
“Killian—”
“Lay down,” he ordered, stalking across the room to the armoire. Yanking the door open, he snatched a silk scarf off a hook. He wrapped the material around his fists, staring down at the cloth. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he inserted a thread of steel in his voice. “Lay down, Gabriella.”
After a brief hesitation, she complied and slid down on the mattress, her gaze fixed on him. Questions lurked in the purple depths, and he turned away from them. What could he say? That he’d been afraid of what she was going to say? That she was sorry again? Could he forgive her? He didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Because damn if he knew what he would say in response.
He’d played himself.
From the moment he’d set eyes on her, his goal had been drowning in her once more. Taking what he’d been denied for five long years. Sex, then back to their lives. At some point—maybe the moment she slid down the wall to her knees, taunting him, or the second he’d touched her bare flesh again—the scales had started to shift. Her pleasure—their pleasure— had begun to outweigh the original goal. This night had become less about taking and more about the desire that only this woman had ever been able to elicit and stir. About feeling alive again outside of an illegal fighting ring. She’d made him come alive instead of remaining the angry shell of a man he’d been since leaving the stink of jail behind.
And he didn’t want that to end. Not yet. It eventually had to; this night would inevitably lighten into day, and he would forfeit his right to touch her, bury himself inside her. An expiration date swung over their heads.
But until then, he had a legitimate reason to have her under him.
Shutting the armoire door, he returned to the bed and Gabriella. He tossed the silk scarf on the mattress, then quickly removed his pants. A soft gasp echoed in the room, and her lashes lowered, hiding her gaze from him. Just as he parted his lips to demand she open them, so he could see her thoughts, read her emotions, she opened her eyes, and Jesus. The arousal there, the heat. It seared him to the bone and twisted the dial in him from blazing to goddamn conflagration. No woman had ever looked at him with such need, hunger, or…longing.
That had to be wrong. Unlike him, she’d known where he was the entire half decade. If she’d missed him, she could’ve contacted him. He’d waited for her to come to him in the jail, to see him. But she’d deserted him, and that had hurt him worse than calling the cops. Even now, the knowledge throbbed like a thousand bee stings. Still, this time, he would walk away. But not until after…
“Put your wrists together and hold your arms out,” he instructed, picking up the long length of dark blue material and placing a knee on the mattress next to her hip.
This time, she didn’t waver but thrust her hands toward him. He quickly bound her wrists. Then, straddling her body and leaning over her, he secured the scarf around a bed railing. Once satisfied the material wouldn’t loosen, he straightened and stared down at the lean, graceful, but powerful body under him. Greed and anticipation coursed through him like rushing waters finally freed from a dam.
Jesus, she was beautiful. Without warning, a fissure cracked open inside him, and a rush of loneliness poured out of him, catching him off guard. He’d missed this connection, this sense of…safety in having the freedom to be vulnerable, to be himself with a woman. Inhaling, he briefly closed his eyes. Only with her. Only with Gabriella had he been truly happy. Grief-laced anger flickered within him. Constantly being on guard, having to shield himself from possible pain was another, different prison. And experiencing that freedom right now was another, different kind of pain.
Mentally shaking his head, he refocused on the beauty spread out before him. All that black as midnight hair spread across the pillow and tangled around her face and shoulders, spilling over her breasts. Cherry-red nipples poked through the strands, and he gently brushed them aside, baring her flesh to his hungry gaze. Her slender torso and flat belly flared into hips that fit perfectly in his hands. And then the neatly trimmed triangle of tight, raven curls. He’d had his mouth and fingers on and inside the flesh those curls hid. And he needed more. Was desperate for more of her. Needed to imprint her scent on him.
Slowly, he leaned back, cupped the back of her thighs and guided her legs up and out. With her long limbs bent at the knees, he had an unhindered view of her pink, swollen flesh. Of the puffy folds that were still damp and grew wetter under his stare. Of the small, grasping entrance that would soon stretch around him like the sweetest, tightest mouth. And…he slid his hands under her hips, lifted, and pressed his thumbs to the firm, bottom curves of her ass, spreading them. His gut clenched at the sight of the puckered and newly opened hole.
His fingers pressing into her skin, he lowered her legs and adjusted them to their original position. Once more he straddled her, and he dropped forward, his palms denting the pillow on either side of her head. For just a second, his mouth hovered above hers, and the siren’s call of those lush lips tempted him. He’d told himself earlier that kissing her was too intimate, that he wouldn’t cross that line. But with every breath carrying the flavor of her kiss, he couldn’t deny himself this pleasure anymore. Screw the line.
In spite of the aching, desperate need insisting he take, ravage, he slowly pressed his lips to hers. Slowly parted her lips and slid his tongue deep. Slowly licked the roof of her mouth, then sucked. And tangled. The taste of her. Damn, it never got old. And he called himself about ten different kinds of fool for ever trying to convince himself he’d forgotten. That he didn’t crave this. Like ripe peaches and sunshine. Like sin and every bad thing he shouldn’t want. But so fucking did. That sensation of old and new ricocheted through him once more. The woman was the same, but the hungry way she nipped at his lips, danced with him—that was new. Bolder. Hotter.
Yet, it was like coming home. Like the welcome he didn’t know he wanted, needed.
He feasted on her, for a moment, his control slipping as he drowned in her taste, savored each soft lick, delighted in each thrust of her tongue. Over and over, he dove between her lips, taking, giving, claiming, and surrendering.
With a growl, he wrenched away and dipped his head to her neck, delivering a hot, openmouthed kiss to the elegant column of her throat. She pressed her head into the pillow, arching her neck, and offering him more of her. Grazing his teeth over her golden skin, he sucked the taut flesh, bruising it. So when she glanced in the mirror for several days to come, she’d remember who marked her skin. Fuck, just remember him.
“Unless it’s my name or your safe word,” he whispered against her neck, “don’t speak. Understand?” If she couldn’t talk, she couldn’t say anything that would derail this. He couldn’t allow anything to come between them yet.
She nodded, her hips undulating between them, rubbing her pussy over the base of his cock. Electrical pulses tingled in his balls, eating at his control. Locking down a groan behind clenched teeth, he lowered his arm and tapped her thigh, stilling the restless movements.
Immediately, the shifting stopped, her puffs of breath like cannon shots in the silent room. With hunger and just a bit of wariness darkening her eyes, she watched him. That lilac gaze accomplished what her bound hands couldn’t. Tested his discipline, urged him to fall on her like a starving animal and devour her. And yeah, he would—not gorging on her wasn’t an opt
ion. But not yet. Not just yet…
Pushing himself off her, he balanced his weight above her. Silence permeated the room as they studied one another. With his order for her not to speak, only her harsh inhalations echoed in the air. And though with a flick of the remote in one of the bedside table drawers, he could have music pouring into the room from the state-of-the-art sound system, he didn’t move.
He valued the quiet—after two years in a place where silence was a pipe dream, the void of sound was one of the sweetest melodies to his ears. And here, with Gabriella, it emphasized every gasp, every whimper, every pop of flesh, every suction of her wet sex welcoming and releasing him. And he didn’t want to miss. One. Thing. He needed to etch every sound into his brain, his memory…
Splaying his fingers over her rib cage, similar to how she’d touched him earlier, he slid his hands up her torso, not stopping until he cupped her breasts in his hands. As if in benediction, he briefly closed his eyes. He hadn’t forgotten, but his mind had lied to him that she hadn’t felt this good. The hell she didn’t. Her soft flesh filled his palms and fingers, the rock-hard nipples poking him. What had he told himself about waiting to fall on her like a ravenous beast? Screw that.
With a low growl, he dropped down and sucked her breast into his mouth. Lashed the tip with his tongue before curling around it and drawing hard. Her cry goaded him on, and he molded her other breast, flicking the peak, twisting it while worshipping its twin with his lips, tongue, and teeth. He nipped at her breast, circling the dark ring around her nipple, then raking the crest with the edge of his teeth. She twisted beneath him, and he didn’t reprimand her, enjoying how she simultaneously attempted to escape his touch and crowd closer to it.
In response, he tugged, sucked, tweaked, and pinched harder. And by the time he switched breasts, she seemed firmly in the give me more camp. Though she didn’t utter a word, her sighs, groans, and writhing told him she wanted the torment of his mouth and hands.