by Lydia Rowan
“Who’d vouch for those guys? They’re scum.”
“Hey, I thought we were the worst guys in history?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Demon.” The words were icy.
“I’m just saying,” he said, hands raised, “you seem to think you’re a monster, and I think you think I’m a sleazeball, so what’s got you so wired about these guys? They seem run of the mill, if a little rough around the edges.”
“You are a sleazeball, asshole, and I told you I saw them harassing some innocent lady.”
Demon shrugged. “It happens. We don’t do that kind of stuff, but we’d be out of business if we cut off everyone who did, so we don’t exactly have a moral high ground. What’s gotten into you, man?”
D’yavol was so angry he couldn’t speak. Demon’s words were right. They had no—he had no—moral high ground, the opposite, in fact. Helping Julie one time didn’t even begin to erase his sins.
“Nothing. Let’s drop it. Tell me about tomorrow’s fight before I go warm up.”
••••
As he entered the makeshift ring, a tight circle marked off by stacks of wooden pallets around which spectators crowded, the sounds of the screaming crowd, his opponent’s taunts, everything faded to a dim hum. He stared at the man across from him and felt that sharp tingle, the one he’d grown to love, the one that said he was close, oh so close, to being able to let go. That anticipation drowned out every other thought and feeling, and his heart began to race with it. Demon, who knew well enough not to try and talk to him, not now, simply patted him on the back and pushed in his mouth guard. Initially, he’d eschewed the mouth guard, all of the fancy accessories, actually, but during one bout several years ago, he’d been so deep in the bloodlust, his jaw clenched so tight as he did his work, that he’d cracked two teeth without even noticing. He hadn’t cared, but Demon, in mother-hen mode, had clucked until he’d agreed to wear one.
Mouth guard, tape, and shorts. That was all he wore. Everyone assumed he wore the tape for some competitive advantage, but in truth, he hated to see blood on his knuckles, hated washing it off. It was too strong a reminder, and he never, ever, wanted to go to that place again.
Standing stock-still, he looked as his opponent, bulky, overly muscled, and slow-moving from what D’yavol could see—this match would practically be a walk in the park—jumped around and screamed, directed lewd hip thrusts in D’yavol’s direction. These antics didn’t move him. Opponents were not to be taken personally; they were solely slabs of meat there to aid him as he exorcised his need to mete out punishment. But then the man turned, and D’yavol spied the emblem on his jacket. A Steel Heart, or at least a wannabe, based on the insignia. That changed things. D’yavol felt his lips curl, and his opponent, who had turned back to face him, faltered momentarily at the sight. D’yavol saw the fear rise in the other man’s eyes. Smart of him.
He should be afraid.
Cappy, one of the usual “refs” who’d been around as long as anyone remembered, gestured that they approach the middle of the circle, and when they had, grabbed each man by the wrist.
“You know the rules, gentlemen!” he screamed above the roaring crowd. “No kicking, no spitting, we go until one of you is unconscious! Now let’s have a good, clean fight!” he said as he let them go and stepped back.
Clean. What a joke. Rumor was Cappy had been in legit boxing a lifetime ago and had washed out, probably because of his gambling, but, even though the refs were mostly around to make sure that there was no flagrant cheating, that no one died unnecessarily, and were otherwise ornamentation, Cappy still held onto some of his old ways and beliefs about honor and technique and the “nobility” of it all. D’yavol knew better. There was no clean or good in these fights. It was punish or be punished.
Something his opponent seemed all too aware of as he grabbed and held D’yavol’s right hand while punching ferociously with his left, raining blow after blow on D’yavol’s abdomen. The blows were weak, irritating, and more importantly, left the man exposed. D’yavol stood still for a second longer, and then, without the slightest mercy, unleashed an unimpeded blow to the man’s flank.
The effect was immediate. The guy, D’yavol hadn’t cared enough to listen to his name, wobbled and his knees buckled. He let out a scream and grabbed his side, doubled over from the pain.
“Argh, fuck,” he said between gasping breaths, “I need help.”
None would be forthcoming.
D’yavol circled the man once, twice, eyes never leaving him, waiting for some hint that he could continue. Blood was flowing now, and D’yavol wasn’t ready for this to be over. The man writhed, and the crowd screamed for him to get up, but after the third circle, D’yavol knew he was through. No need to waste time; he wouldn’t get satisfaction from this pretender.
D’yavol kneeled down in front of the man, both gratified and disgusted as he watched the fear in his eyes grow. Without a word, he threw a right hook, not nearly as vicious as his first punch, but as effective. The consciousness drained out of the other man’s eyes, and his body went slack.
The crowd booed, angry that they’d been denied a good match, as Cappy jumped in and declared D’yavol the victor.
The words were scarcely out of Cappy’s mouth before D’yavol wrenched his hand away and begin walking out of the makeshift ring. Demon followed, chattering about how great the fight was and how much money they’d made. But he didn’t respond, so when they reached the dressing room, Demon put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“What’s up, Devil?” D’yavol flashed a glance at the offending hand, and Demon, ever sharp, got the hint, though he still waited for an answer.
“Nothing. I’m just ready to go. Collect the money and have it back before I’m dressed.”
“Fine,” Demon curtly said, aware of how D’yavol sometimes was, particularly after an unsatisfactory competition, and headed out of the holding room.
D’yavol was busily cutting away the tape on his hands when he heard the approach of footsteps. He kept the scissors in his grasp and turned to face his visitor. Two large men, both wearing Steel Hearts jackets, stepped out of the shadows. D’yavol was on full alert now.
“Great fight there, Mr. Devil. It seems your reputation is well earned.”
“What do you want?” D’yavol asked in a low growl. He was in no mood for niceties, especially with the Steel Hearts. The sight of them reminded him of what their friends had planned for Julie, and in this state, still so keyed-up and currently lacking an outlet, he felt even less able than usual to play nice with them.
“No need to get testy, Mr. Devil,” the bigger of the two men said, his smooth words at odds with the glint in his eye. “I have a proposition. Seems you’re a legend, and as newcomers to this community, it might be useful for us to make friends with you.”
D’yavol grabbed a bottle of water, took a sip, swished, and spit into one of the buckets.
The man continued, seemingly undeterred. “We’d like you to join our organization. A man with your skills could be useful.”
“And what’s in it for me?” D’yavol asked, partly out of curiosity and partly as a taunt.
“No man is an island. We all need friends, to protect ourselves, to protect the people we care about”—he let the words hang for a moment—“and we’re good at protecting our friends.”
Red swarmed in D’yavol’s peripheral vision, expanding and expanding until the interlopers were tiny pinpricks right at the center of his vision. D’yavol stood and walked toward them, the two men stepping back as he approached. No one knew about Julie, at least he thought they didn’t, and he’d gone to great lengths to keep it so. The guy was just fishing, stirring the pot to get a reaction, figure out potential weaknesses, but despite knowing that, D’yavol was prepared to respond, give a reaction that he was certain would make an impression. A split second before he was about to pounce, Demon rushed in and stood in front of the Steel Hearts.
“Get the fuck out of h
ere! Now,” Demon yelled, and after a tense moment during which the taller of the two seemed to take his measure and reach some decision, the men complied.
“What happened? I know that look, man. Calm down,” Demon said after they’d left, now looking at him, hands extended.
“Keep those cockroaches away from me, Demon.” His voice was as a deadly whisper and not at all a reflection of the heated rage coursing through him.
Demon nodded and looked down at the money-filled leather pouch he held in his still-extended hand.
“For tonight. Let’s get out of here. We should hang out, maybe hit a club or something.”
That a selection of more-than-willing bed partners would also be present went unsaid. Before, D’yavol would have agreed. Not tonight though. He was on the edge and knew that only one person could calm him.
Chapter Three
He’d fought with himself during the entire trip, told himself to go home, stay away from her, even as he hopped in his car, even as he knocked on her door, even as she opened it and stepped aside to let him in, even as she closed, locked, and dead-bolted it after. That thought fled as he watched her rounded silhouette in the moonlight, her nightgown barely falling to midthigh and hitched up even farther after she’d lifted her arms to slide the chain lock across the door.
The wild energy that had been flowing through him all night converged at his cock, and he hardened in an instant, need for her leaving room for nothing else. When she turned, he captured her in an embrace and swooped his mouth down to catch hers in a hard kiss. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could be more tender, but when her mouth opened on a moan, those thoughts also fled, and all that remained was desire, dark and unyielding. He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, the solid weight of her comforting in his arms, the heat from her uncovered mound burning him through his pants. He gripped the fleshy mounds of her ass, kneaded and rolled them in his palms as he continued the brutal kiss, unwilling to break contact, her deep, harsh breaths spurring him on.
He withdrew his tongue from her mouth and slid his lips down the column of her neck as he turned and walked toward the bed. The sheets were twisted, and he could see the imprint of where she’d lain.
“We’re you lying here thinking of me, nebesa? Touching yourself and hoping I’d come over and fuck you?” At her soft whimper, he chuckled and laid her on the bed, her legs still open from being around his waist.
“No, don’t move,” he barked as she started to close them.
Then he stalked toward her, placing a hand on either thigh and spreading her open even more. The sweet scent of her wafted up to his nose, beckoning him, so he leaned forward and buried his face between her thighs, tongue questing for her flavor. She was wet already, practically dripping for him, and he felt a moan expanding in his chest. Lapping at her juices, he rolled his tongue up and down her slit, purposefully avoiding the protruding bundle of nerves. She’d come if he licked her there, and he didn’t want that to happen until he was buried balls-deep inside her.
He traced her lips one last time and then leaned back on his haunches as he frantically unbuckled his belt and withdrew his cock. Precum glittered in the moonlight, gathered at his angry-red crown. Julie reached out for him, but he stopped her with a low-toned “No!” She jerked her hand back, and, despite the lust burning through him like an uncontrollable inferno, he said, “If you touch me, Julie, I’m gonna blow right here. Need to be inside you first.”
The only sane part of him left remembered that he needed to protect Julie, so he reached into his pocket and retrieved a condom, quickly sheathing himself. He pushed Julie back flat and covered her with his still-clothed body. She lifted her legs, welcoming him, and he accepted the invitation, his cock practically iron. Prodding her entrance with the head of his cock, he crooked his arms under her knees and latched his hands on the top of her thighs.
Then he plunged, fully seating himself in one unbroken stroke. Both he and Julie moaned at the sensation, and her tight walls, scorching even through the latex, pulsed around him, spiking his lust even higher, which he hadn’t thought was possible. Powerless to do anything else, he begin thrusting, hard, punishing, methodical thrusts, almost machinelike in their rhythm and precision.
“S…sorry, nebesa… Can’t…”
He faltered as a wave of pleasure crested over him, smaller, but no less potent tendrils of pleasure spiraling out from where Julie stroked his shoulders, ran her fingers through his hair, planted sweet kisses more appropriate for a sweeter, softer encounter, not his animal rutting, but for which he was grateful, along his neck. Her last kiss, along with the rake of her nails across his shoulders, was his undoing. He came hard, thrusting into Julie one last time, as deep as he possibly could, holding her there until the waves passed and he regained some of his senses.
As he pulled out of her, she groaned, but he stroked a thumb across her lips to silence her. He’d never leave her unsatisfied.
He pushed her nightgown up and over her breasts as he slid down her body. Moonlight hit the pebbled beads of her nipples, the dark brown points standing prominent in the creamy rise of her breasts. He captured one of the points between his fingers and twisted, and Julie’s broken moan made it clear she appreciated the attention. He continued twisting the beaded nub even as he gathered more of the full, firm flesh in his hand, molding it with his fingers and lifting his other hand to give the neglected partner the same attention as he continued to move down her body.
Now face-to-face with her freshly fucked cunt, he took in the beautiful sight, smiling with masculine pride at the knowledge that his touch had made her so wet that her lips were slick with her juices, her hair matted with the same. That his cock had opened her, her inner lips puffy and dark red, the tissue engorged and swollen because of his pounding. That his breath on her clit was making her squirm and keen, making her spread her legs in begging request.
Tongue as flat and stiff as he could make it, he eased the tip of it into her hole and then swiped one side, then the other, back and forth and up down until her hips raised off the bed and she fisted the sheets in her hands. He exhaled, and the puff of air across her clit made her moan again and grip the sheets tighter. To his amazement, he felt himself hardening again, the sweet taste of her, the feel of her puffy lips against his tongue making him want to feel her squeezing his cock again.
But he’d take care of her first.
He captured her clit between his lips and rasped his tongue across the sensitive nub over and over and over again, each stroke rewarding him with a fresh release of cream. Then he pressed back, trapping her clit between his lips and tongue, and after five rapid strokes, she came apart, back arcing, pussy flooding with her cream, her climax called out on a breathless, broken wail.
The tortured pleasure on her face called to him, so now, cock fully hard, he straddled her again and sandwiched his cock between her lips, the warm stickiness of her cream causing that terrible hollow of pleasure and desire that had settled at the pit of his stomach to intensify. He slid back and forth, groaning as the clenching and unclenching of her womb vibrated through her body and to his cock. He wanted to bury himself inside her, come inside her, but he wasn’t that far gone. Instead he sawed back and forth, bumping her clit with the head of his cock, sending tremors of pleasure through them both, swirling his cock along her slit until he finally went over the edge, painting her belly and the top of her mound with his cum, which stood stark against her skin.
Worn out and satiated in a way he never had been before, he managed to kick off his shoes, slide out of his pants, and toss his shirt off over his head. Skin against skin, that was what he craved, so he quickly removed Julie’s nightgown and pressed her body against his, her soft breasts and belly crushed against his chest. Sweat mingled with cum now cooled on both their bodies, but he didn’t care.
Nothing else mattered as long as she was in his arms.
••••
The moon cast an eerie glow over th
e plains and ridges of his body, the play of light and shadow fascinating Julie as she lay there trying to catch her breath. The languid ease in her bones and the slight tingle in her pussy were reminders that she’d been thoroughly and skillfully taken. But he’d had an intensity tonight that she’d never seen before, like he’d been running away from something. Julie had no illusions. She’d bet everything that he was a good person, doubted she could have given him access to her home and her body if she thought otherwise, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think him an innocent. He was too hard, too patient, and that glint in his ice-blue eyes that she caught from time to time were all testaments to that.
A fact belied by the softness of his face now. Arm carelessly tossed around her waist, he lay facing her, both the tension in his forehead and the hard set of his lips both relaxed, giving him the appearance of a boy, carefree and untethered. Tentatively, she reached out and lightly traced those features, the thrill of examining him up close and unobserved almost as exciting as his earlier passion. He’d taken her countless times, and she’d seen myriad expressions cross his face, intensity, focus, pleasure, on occasion anger, but she’d never seen him unguarded, so exposed, and that he was so with her, insignificant Julie, buoyed her with an emotion that she quickly suppressed.
Nothing good and certainly nothing permanent could come of this, and if she had any chance of making it out unscathed, she couldn’t ever, ever, forget that.