Beyond Surrender (Beyond #9)

by Kit Rocha

  But the rewards for patience had been so good last time.

  She exhaled shakily and squeezed her eyes shut. "I want to try."

  "Good." He lay back on the pillows again, grasped her hips, and moved her back until her pussy ground over his shaft, and that was so much better than wiggling against his stomach. His cock was hard and hot and rubbed all the perfect places, even though it wasn't inside her.

  She braced her hands on his chest and fought the temptation to fight his grip and rock against him. Instead she held his gaze, trusting he'd read her as easily as he'd been doing from day one, and know when she couldn't take it anymore.

  He moved her hips, back and forth, until the grinding turned slick, hot. Until she was gasping every time he worked over her clit, and her fingernails dug into his chest. Until the bright little pulses turned to sharp bursts of pleasure, like the sparks when you tried to start a fire. Frustration surged every time it slipped away, only to vanish with the next roll of her hips, because she was so close, so close—

  He gripped her hips harder, enhancing the pressure on the final rock, and the spark roared into flames.

  It was deeper this time, her body still primed from the first orgasm. She shuddered above him, trusting his grip to keep her steady in a world that seemed unmoored. But the world shifted anyway as he lifted her hips and thrust into her.

  He was everything she'd known he'd be—perfect, hard, filling her up until she wondered hazily if he'd be too much. And she didn't care. The stretch twisted with the pleasure into something intense enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  She needed more, all of him. Maybe if he fucked her deep enough, he'd break through the noise in her head and she could be like everyone else for a few seconds.

  Peaceful.

  "Look at me." He drove the last few inches with the command. "Nessa."

  She forced her gaze to his, still trembling as she tried to lock her arms to keep herself upright. "I'm okay."

  He barked out a rough laugh and flexed his hips. "Just okay?"

  Oh God, he stroked everything when he did that. Her pussy clenched, and she didn't know if she was still caught in the aftershocks of orgasm or headed there again way too fast. "I'm dying. And I'm perfect. I'm—" She rocked experimentally and shuddered. "I'm never letting you out of this bed."

  "Shh." Another quick rock. "Focus, remember?"

  "Focus." He made it sound so easy, but her mind couldn't incorporate it all. She could focus on the warm skin under her hands and the way his muscles flexed when he moved—but only until he finished moving. Then it was the friction of his cock inside her, the ever-present fullness contrasting with the jolts every time he rubbed across someplace sensitive. Or his eyes, brown and intent, always there to catch her gaze when she dragged it back to him.

  "Help me," she whispered. "Don't let me feel anything else."

  He held her gaze, his eyes locked with hers, as he dug his nails into her skin.

  The touch grounded her. Slowly at first, she lifted up just far enough to feel the loss of him before grinding back down. "Like this?"

  "Like—" The word cut off with a groan, and he nodded. "Like that."

  She liked that sound. She loved how it broke his careful, controlled words in pieces. Spreading her fingers wide across his chest, she rolled her hips again, adjusting the speed and angle based on the way his jaw tightened and his muscles clenched beneath her fingers.

  This was her kind of focus. The same surety she felt in the distillery, when a hundred little details no one else saw coalesced into knowledge that seemed like magic to everyone else. But she could become an expert in Ryder. She could study all of his miniscule reactions, coax his secrets from him bit by bit, and understand how to make magic happen.

  "Yes," he hissed. He gripped her ass with one hand, then pressed his other against her stomach, tilting her hips in a way that felt awkward until their bodies met again and something desperate sparked deep inside her.

  Gasping, she sat upright, gripping his arms for balance as the angle sharpened even more. Every thrust felt twice as intense like this, even if she didn't have the same leverage.

  Then both of his hands drifted lower, until he was touching her clit and her asshole at the same time, teasing both with the same slow, firm circles.

  Too much. It was just too damn much. She lost the rhythm, and whimpered in loss. But then he moved, thrusting up into her, touching her everywhere, and she scratched at his arms, begging in broken words for just a little more, a little harder, right there, right—

  Fuck.

  Orgasm hit her hard, and it was so much better with him filling her up. She shuddered as her body clenched around his dick, shuddered until she wanted to laugh at the sheer joy of it.

  Ryder didn't let her come down this time. He flipped her onto her back and drove into her, his arms flexing as he braced himself above her, watching. Watching as she slammed into that peak again, pleasure flooding her body. She tangled her arms around him and clung to his shoulders, helpless to do anything but ride a second orgasm.

  And a third.

  And then, as he shifted his angle, went deeper and harder, a fourth that built and built until she was half-sobbing at the immensity of the pressure, sure she'd die if he worked her all the way up this impossible hill and didn't manage to tip her over. Her body strained with need, but she was wrung out, hypersensitive, so terrified it would end before this frustration broke.

  "Michael—" Her voice broke on his name, but she whimpered it again and again. "Michael, Michael, Mich—"

  He buried his face in her neck, whispered her name against her skin, and bit her.

  Maybe the sharp sting of his teeth was what tipped her over the edge, but it was her name rasped in that hoarse, desperate voice that followed her into hazy pleasure and kindled sweet warmth in her chest. She tightened her grip around him as his control finally slipped and he shuddered above her.

  When Ryder stilled, he didn't move. He lay above her, covering her, cradling her. "No," he murmured, his breath blowing hot over her flushed skin.

  Maybe her brain was shot, because it didn't make any sense. "No?"

  He heaved himself up, rolling away with a noise that was half-groan, half-sigh. "Definitely more fun than knitting."

  It startled her into a giggle—an actual fucking giggle, and then before she knew it she was laughing. "Oh God, knitting sucks now. Knitting is the fucking worst."

  His laughter joined hers. "Don't hate. It's not supposed to compare."

  Still breathless, she curled into his side and rested her cheek on his shoulder. "Holy shit. I hope you're gonna stay in my bed on your own, because I don't think I can move my arms and legs right now."

  He cupped her shoulder and pulled her closer. "I'm not going anywhere."

  "Oh, good." She hadn't been worried he would roll out of bed and leave—not really—but it was still a relief to relax into him. She slid her hand to his chest, resting it over the place where his heart still beat fast and strong. "Full disclosure, the scarves might not have held you anyway. I wasn't very good at knitting. Too many tiny stitches to count, and when you miss the wrong one everything unravels."

  His brows drew together, and he opened one eye to peer over at her. "But you don't mind some things like that, obviously."

  "I know." She'd never tried to explain it before, but lazing in his arms made self-consciousness a distant memory. "I was into it while I was trying to figure it out. Counting those stitches was fascinating because I wanted to beat it. But then once I had it figured out, it was just tedious. The yarn never did anything new. But making liquor is always exciting. I never know when we get a grain shipment if it's going to be high quality or total trash, but I have to figure out how to make it work. And just when I think I've got it conquered, it changes. New tools, new suppliers, new options…"

  "So it's the challenge?"

  "Partly." She traced a circle on his chest. "I mean, I don't like it when things go wrong. But I fuckin
g love it when I figure out how to make it work anyway. Maybe it's just the adrenaline rush."

  "Or maybe it's your connection to it." He covered her hand with his, holding it to his skin. "Your grandfather?"

  "Yeah." A tiny icicle of sadness stabbed through her contentment. "Every year, there are fewer of his barrels down there. I'm so proud of what I made of this place, but I'm not looking forward to having to decide when to uncask the last one he barreled."

  They fell silent, with only their breathing cutting through the stillness of the room. Finally, Ryder huffed out a quiet, self-conscious laugh. "I think that probably has a lot to do with why I plan to build that cabin. It's not just about seeing my father's wishes come to fruition. It's also a way to hold on to him."

  Put that way, she understood. Some things weren't about rational thinking or even wanting. She knew in her heart that there would always be at least one cask down there with her grandfather's illegible scrawl on it, long after she should have let go. "How old were you? When you lost him?"

  "Three. Sometimes, I almost think I remember things—his laugh, stuff like that."

  She twined their fingers together and closed her eyes. "I was fifteen when my grandfather died. He'd already taken a hard turn, but Dallas scraped together money to get him meds from Five. Something to help with the pain. He took too much by mistake one night and never woke up." She swallowed. "Except I don't think it was a mistake. I think Pop knew Dallas would bankrupt himself to keep him alive, even if he was in so much pain it barely mattered. Dallas was never good at being ruthless when it came to Pop."

  Ryder shifted beside her, and when she opened her eyes, he was watching her closely. "There are worse things than going out on your own terms. I know it doesn't make it hurt less, nothing can do that. But it's something."

  "I know." Her eyes stung, but she didn't look away. "If he'd hung on, it would have been for me. And I didn't want him hurting. I was okay. I was—" The tears spilled over. "He couldn't have made a safer world for me. It's not his fault I got stupid from missing him."

  "What do you mean?"

  She trailed her fingers down to the thin scar on his ribs. "That guy you asked about the night I sewed up your ribs. That's how he got to me. I was so lonely, and he made me feel...special. Loved. Like I was the center of someone's world again. And I fell for it so fucking hard."

  He didn't speak, simply combed his fingers through her hair—and waited.

  Even after years, shame still burned in her gut as she forced out the next words. "He came to meet me one night, and he played the slow seduction just right. I was so ready to climb into his pants."

  But then the smell had hit her—nearly masked by too much cologne, but unmistakable. Corn mash reeked so hard it gave most people headaches, but to Nessa it had always smelled like home.

  "I was stupid about guys, but I've never been stupid about liquor," she continued in a wavering voice. "He had the operation all set up. All he needed was someone to tell him why the shit he was churning out tasted like gasoline mixed with piss. But they'd had a spill before he came to meet me and he got mash all over his boots. I could smell it on him, and I knew. I fucking knew. And I have never in my damn life felt so fucking ridiculous before or since."

  Ryder took a deep breath. "Did you kill him, or let Dallas do it?"

  She almost laughed. It was watery and weak, but still cathartic. "Bren hadn't taught me how to shoot yet. I was already humiliated, and I didn't want to tell Dallas, but I had to. I don't think he told the other guys what had happened, just that someone was making a move. The asshole vanished, and it was years before I let another guy get his mouth near me without having Bren try to scare him off first. And Bren's pretty scary."

  "Sounds reasonable." He touched her chin, guiding her to meet his gaze again. "So why do you feel ridiculous?"

  "Because I fell for it." God, it was so hard to stare into his eyes and say this. Especially with her heart beating so fast. "I let some asshole with a pretty smile convince me that he wanted me for me instead of what I could do for him. And that's all anyone ever seemed to want. To use me for something."

  "The guy was an asshole," Ryder agreed. "Got that? The guy was an asshole. You didn't do anything wrong or stupid." He snorted. "Jesus, you didn't even let him pull it off before you figured it out. Why aren't you proud of yourself instead?"

  "Because too many people depend on me. If it was just me or my heart, whatever. But what if I had let him pull it off? My fuckups have repercussions for so many people." Her eyes burned. "A few months before that, I had a bad day. Pop was feeling shitty and I couldn't focus and I got distracted and scorched the hell out of the mash. A whole fucking shipment ruined, and Pop had to drag his aching body out of bed to try and salvage it. We took a huge hit. People didn't get paid, and Dallas had to make the next deal on credit. I don't get to make mistakes."

  Ryder's eyes were dark—sympathetic, but that sympathy lay over something hard. Immovable. "That's too bad, because you're human. And humans fuck up. We're pretty much known for it."

  It hurt a little, those blunt words. The sharpness of reality smashing through the castle she'd built out of her cross-checks and redundancies, all the ways she'd compensated for her impulsive tendencies. It would have felt better if he'd cuddled her and stroked her hair and told her she could do it. That he believed in her so hard, he knew she could be perfect.

  It would have felt amazing—until she fucked up again. And then failing him would have broken her.

  She exhaled shakily and shifted closer to him. "It's way too easy to forget you're human when you grow up around Dallas and Lex. They're a little larger-than-life."

  "But not perfect."

  A smile tugged at her lips. "Blasphemy. You take that back."

  "Never."

  A loyal O'Kane couldn't let it stand. She tugged her hand free and attacked his ribs, looking for vulnerable ticklish spots. As soon as her fingers slid over the scar on his side, Ryder grimaced and shrank back.

  She jerked her fingers away. "I'm sorry—"

  Her words cut off as he grabbed her wrists. He flipped her onto her back, then loomed over her, grinning. "Too easy."

  Shocked laughter escaped, and she groaned and rolled her eyes, trying and utterly failing to glare at him. "You're such an asshole."

  "Whatever." He tightened his grip and bent his head until his lips barely brushed hers.

  Kissing him was inevitable. Natural. Beautiful. She fell into the sweetness of his lips moving tenderly over hers, feeling safe beneath the shelter of his body.

  He was as strong as Dallas and Lex, strong enough to make decisions about war that would lead to people being hurt, maybe even dying. Decisions that might turn out to be mistakes, because he was human, too.

  Dallas had avoided those decisions for a long time. He sat on his throne in the Broken Circle, cozy and content. He fought battles with no stakes and fucked women who didn't make him feel too much. He counted his money and shared it generously with the people who helped him make it, but he'd never reached for more. For a notorious criminal with a bloodthirsty reputation, Dallas had led a safe life. Because Dallas felt his mistakes and the hurt that came with them, perhaps more deeply than anyone but those closest to him realized.

  Ten years ago, this war would have killed him. Ten years ago, he hadn't had Lex to help carry the burden.

  Maybe that was the secret. The reason people groped through the darkness for someone else to cling to. The O'Kanes fucked freely and gleefully, but that wasn't why they fell in love. They found the people who carried them through the fuckups and cherished them even though they were flawed, fallible humans.

  Nessa wasn't perfect. Her mistakes rippled out and touched lives, and she always had to be aware of it. That was the price of power.

  Maybe, if they survived this war, she wouldn't always have to do it alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Being back in Sector Five was disconcerting.

  It had nev
er really felt like home to Ryder, no more than Four or even Eight had. It wasn't that any of those places were flawed, it was just his nature. For him, the concept of home was nebulous, unformed. Something he could almost see, not quite reach. Never touch.

  At least, not until this fucking war was over.

  Still, something about Five was different. Here, he reigned. When people spoke to him, they did so quietly, and they kept their eyes lowered—though he could never figure out whether they did so out of respect or fear. In Four, no one treated him with deference. He could have been anyone, just another guy—

  Just another O'Kane.

  He snorted at the thought and lifted the binoculars once again. He had an excellent vantage point from the top of the tallest tower on the western side of Five, but the view into Sector Six was dark, still. "I don't see anything. They must be taking their light discipline seriously."

  "They are." Hector was grim as he handed over a pair of night-vision goggles in exchange for the binoculars.

  The moment Ryder lifted the lenses to his eyes, his blood chilled. Under the shield of darkness, troops were moving into position for an attack, creeping across the burned, fallow plains of Six like locusts. "Jesus Christ."

  Dallas grunted next to him. "I don't like the sound of that."

  "You shouldn't." Ryder offered him the goggles and stepped back.

  After only a moment staring through them, Dallas began to curse. "Jas is bringing the militia over, but even with your men, this is gonna be a close fight."

  "At least we won't be bored." Ryder turned to Hector. "You've initiated emergency shutdown?"

  Hector nodded.

  "Good. Hold off on the final command as long as you can. I want them on top of us before they realize we saw them coming." He glanced back toward Six, but all he saw was inky darkness, and it made his skin crawl. "I'll brief the men."

  He headed back down the stairs, keeping one hand on the flashlight on his belt as Dallas's boots thumped behind him. "Your guys are used to brawls and gang shootouts. Are they ready for a large-scale battle?"