by Anne Marsh
I want him to tell me he likes me, but then he swirls his tongue around my clit, and it’s almost two much. I dig my fingers into the wooden headboard, twisting, seeking more. And he gives it to me, pushing a finger deep inside me. I tighten around him, bearing down, clenching with everything I have. He tunnels deeper into my body, pulls back. His finger curls against a secret, hidden spot and the pleasure detonates through me. I’m coming apart. I can’t hold myself together.
So good. So dirty, so bad.
His tongue swirls harder around my throbbing clit, pressing, pushing. I hang onto the bed and ride his wicked, wicked mouth. My Angel. The tension builds fast and painfully sweet, tiny shocks rippling through my pussy. I’m coming for him.
“Now,” I groan, and that one word sounds like a plea and not a command. He twists, jackknifing upright, and I hear the welcome sound of a foil packet ripping open. He places the broad, condom-covered head of his dick at my opening.
The grin he gives me is downright feral. “You taste sweet.”
There’s nothing sweet about me. Not really. The sweet is all on the outside, like the honey you daub on a fly trap before you lure the unwanted insects in and squash them. Men like me, but they don’t know me. They just want to fuck me, and I’m fine with that. When you’re the one who owns the orgasms, who says when and where and how the other person comes, you’re the one with all the power. My pussy ripples, clenching on nothing.
“Take me,” I tell him. “Don’t talk. Move.”
My dirty-talking, domineering Angel would be even better if he came with a mute button. He just laughs, not done playing with me.
“You’re gonna wait for me,” he promises darkly, shoving himself inside me. I’m tight, he’s large, and it’s a stretch. From the satisfied look on his face, he knows all these things, and he’s such an asshole because he likes it. Likes knowing I’ll be sore tomorrow and won’t go a minute without thinking of him pounding me good. God, he’s so big, and so there. When I let go of the headboard, he retaliates, threading his fingers through mine and pinning them to the pillow as he thrusts home in one hard, fast stroke.
Oh. God.
My hips speak for me, slapping up to meet his, making demands. “Faster.”
“Ask nicely, darling.” The smile that twists his gorgeous mouth isn’t pretty. He’s thinking about making me beg—and I just might do it. He has me right on the edge, ready to come. He gives me what I need. He drives his dick into me, his gaze sliding over my body as he takes me. The tension builds in me, my pussy tightening on him, taking him all the way.
I think I whisper please.
“Now,” he orders, slamming into me and finding my clit with his fingers. “Give it up.”
I come, white-knuckling the pillow and his grip. It’s so good and there’s no holding back. I arch up into him, hips pumping, and he gives it to me as well. My gaze locks onto his face helplessly, my body riding the wave of pleasure he controls. His gaze is fiercely possessive. I’m his right now and we both know it.
But he’s mine, too. I clench down on him, holding him to me deep inside my body, and he comes too. He’s lost in me, his hips pounding mine as he thrusts harder and faster. When he loses control, I’m watching, my breath tearing from me in harsh pants, but I’m watching. I see him come, his orgasm making him shake and press against me. And for just a moment, he softens. I feel it, see it.
Angel does have a soft side, and it’s for me.
I drift awake hours later. The sheets on Angel’s bed are tangled around our legs, and shadows fill up the bedroom. If I listen carefully, I can hear Angel breathing, a steady in-out close by, but he’s moved away from me. We’re not entwined anymore. Somewhere, not so far away, other people move around the house. Angel’s brothers, probably. Maybe his housekeeper. Being caught by Axel and J.J. would be awkward, but I should get out of here.
Sex isn’t about love. It’s about getting off.
Angel’s even more dangerous than I thought, though, because he’s made me feel emotions I didn’t think I could. He makes me feel more. More passion, more need, more… caring. And that’s a recipe for disaster.
It’s cooler now, the overhead fan beating out a steady stream of cooler air. Or maybe the heat’s gone down in both of us. It doesn’t matter. The part of me that yearns to wear Angel on my body like my own personal fur coat is sated. Or that’s what I tell myself.
Getting up shouldn’t be difficult. I’ve played this game dozens of times before. We’ve had sex and it was great, but it’s still only the bridge to the magic land of Orgasm. Any other, longer term destination is crazy, even if we did talk about relationships, because a man like Angel could swallow me up, and I stand on my own two feet. No exceptions. That’s always been rule numero uno in my playbook. I don’t do keeper men.
Angel may be a possessive bastard and a prick, but he’s got rules of his own. I doubt I’d like his rules now any more than I did at sixteen. He’s black and white, certain his way is right, while I need more gray in my life. I’ve always colored outside the lines other people draw.
I sit up carefully. I’ll find my clothes. I’ll go. I’m sore between my legs, and I’ll remember this afternoon for more reasons than one. Part of me wants to roll over, ride Angel like a cowgirl, and make the evening memorable, too. That part of me is a hussy, and she knows better. The longer I stay, the greater the chance Angel makes me feel something besides an orgasm.
That wonderful, horrible, dangerous something more.
He looks softer asleep, his mouth relaxed, that fierce gaze temporarily shut down. Watching him feels even more intimate than the sex. I don’t think too many people have seen him sleep. When he shifts, I can see the tattoo on his bicep. That ink has a story, I’m sure. It’s part military trident, part something else that looks like curling black script. His eyes open and he meets my gaze.
The thought comes out of nowhere and has to be orgasm-induced. I could love this man.
“Stay,” he says, his fingers curling around my wrist. He’s holding on, and part of me doesn’t like that. Part of me needs to push him away, to make room to run.
Not everything about me is pretty. If he knows, he won’t want me to say.
“Stay,” he repeats and something in my heart breaks open.
This has to end before I get hurt and he needs to know. Once he has the truth, once my secrets are out there, there’s not going to be any question of staying.
Put it out there. “I need to tell you something.”
Angel tugs me down. I should pull away, should put some distance between us. All of his considerable attention is focused on me.
“When I was a girl, my momma did the best she could, but she had times when she fell into a depression and she self-medicated. Drugs, alcohol, men—she used them all.”
Angel’s fingers tug gently through my hair. “Tell me she left you somewhere safe.”
“We lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of Los Angeles.” I don’t need to need to connect the dots for him about the flimsy walls and flimsier doors. There wasn’t much security in a pre-fab.
“Sometimes, she hooked up with a guy for more than a weekend, and then he’d move in or come by more regular.” There’d been a revolving stepdaddy door in our beat up, worn down trailer. We’d only had one bedroom, so when my mom had a guy in her life, I’d slept on the fold-out couch in the tiny living room. Nothing had been able to block out the sounds, though, or the smell of sex. “The guys got darker, kinkier, and at some point she crossed the line between sex games and violence. She sported bruises, and I started leaving the trailer when she came home with one of them.”
“Jesus. Tell me you had somewhere to go.”
My list of options had been short. “I hung out at school, the library, the Catholic church that was open twenty four/seven. It could have been worse. I attended a lot of funeral masses. When I was fifteen, though, she got really bad and she disappeared for a few weeks.”
He curses. Some day
, when Angel meets the right woman and settles down, he’s going to be an amazing daddy. “She left you alone?”
I really didn’t want to tell him this, but he needed to know. “My latest stepdaddy came over. He said she’d sent him and I didn’t know what to do. He had a key, so I couldn’t keep him out. He said that since my mom wasn’t there, I’d do.”
Angel rolls, coming to his feet so swiftly he’s a blur.
“Angel?”
He makes a rough gesture with his hand. My own are shaking, but I need to finish this.
“He raped me. Then he rented me out to his friends on the weekends. It was three months before my mom came home and she’d met your dad while she’d been gone. She told me were leaving LA and moving to Lonesome.”
“Did she know, Rose?”
I stared at him. His face has gone cold and distant, his fists bunching on his thighs.
I suck in a breath. Finish it. “I don’t know. I suspect she had to have figured it out when she came back. She got us out of there. She tried, Angel.”
She hadn’t tried one hundred percent, and her efforts had been ineffective, but she’d done what she could. Her own head had been in a bad place, and she couldn’t give me what she didn’t have. Angel, however, isn’t buying it. I’ve never seen a man hold himself so still.
“I’ll kill them for you.”
Angel’s words aren’t lip service. They’re a vow. A promise. He’d walk out of this room right now and commit murder for me.
“I got out. My mom got us out and we came here. I was angry, sixteen, and scared. The Mendoza money meant security, and my mom earned it by having sex with your dad. I was grateful to her, Angel. She was making sure we never had to go back there, that I never had to whore myself out again.”
“That was not your fault,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m gonna repeat my offer. Give me their names, and I’ll kill them. Fuck, give me the address of the trailer park, and I’ll take it apart and find them. They’re dead.”
His body radiates lethal intent. He’d kill for me, and he wouldn’t hesitate. He’s a scary-ass bastard when he’s mad.
“It’s over,” I tell him. “But I don’t like being held down or tied up.”
His fist slams into the wall with lethal force. “They’re out there. That’s unacceptable.”
Four men took three months of my life from me. I won’t give them anything more, but for the first time I wonder about Angel. He spent four years serving in the military. He’s probably killed. Probably seen far worse things. How much do I know about him?
“Would you really hunt them down and kill them?”
He crouches before me, his hands on my knees beneath the sheet. “Don’t fucking doubt it. Tell me to do it.”
I almost wish I could, but I’m not that girl who was locked up inside a trailer like some kind of dog. That girl changed. She moved on, inked over the bad shit, and now I’ve got a chance at a new life.
I pat the empty space beside me. “Come back to bed?”
“Rose—”
I know. He doesn’t do emotions. He dominates. This after-sex snuggling crap isn’t part of his playbook. “I want five minutes,” I tell him. I’d like his secrets and his love, but I’ll settle for what I can have.
He gets on the bed with me. I’ll give him that. And then when he wraps his arms around me and holds me, I let myself go.
ANGEL
Rose curls against me, her hand parked possessively on my chest, and the sound of her steady, sleepy breathing shouldn’t make me want to scream. But it fucking does, that’s the fucking truth, and she’ll have to fucking get over it. Since it’s summer, it stays light until almost eight at night, and that’s the only saving grace. If the room was dark… not thinking about it. Not going there.
At least she’s in front of me and not behind. I count in my head, because she’s asked for five minutes and that’s the least I can do. I must be doing something right, because she’s asleep before I hit three hundred.
I should have Rose tattoo the word bastard on my forehead. Or my dick. I bet she’d do it too, because as soon as she falls asleep, I get out of bed and I leave. It’s not like I sleep that much anyhow. My body’s learned to get by on a couple hours a night, whatever I can grab. I’m not the type to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon, or collapse into a happy post-orgasm stupor. Rose’s breath shudders out of her in a weird sound that’s part snort, part sigh. It’s cute.
I stand by the side of the bed and mostly I’m itching to go. I swipe my clothes from the floor and yank on my stuff. Jeans. Socks. Boots. Once I’m covered up, ready to run or fight if I have to, I can take a deep breath. Slow things down and find my T-shirt and my belt. The cotton still smells like her. It’s also still damp, but I like the idea of wearing what she wore, my skin touching where hers did. It can be one more guilty secret I add to my collection.
I fold Rose’s panties and set them on the pillow by her head. Everything else is still in my truck, so I go over to my closet and grab a clean flannel shirt. When the sun goes down, it gets cold. I take one last look at her and I leave.
Axel and J.J. are waiting in the great room for me. Axel leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, while J.J. slouches on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Guess my sins are coming home to roost even sooner than I thought. My brothers are a pain in my ass sometimes, and it looks like this is gonna be one of those times.
“How long have you and Rose been a thing?” J.J. is the one to speak up first. No surprise. Axel likes to take his time, think things through before he puts the words out there. J.J., however, tackles like he would a bull in the chute at the rodeo. He jumps on, hangs on, and dares you to buck him off. The thing is, people get hurt bull-riding. Good cowboys have accidents, take spills they never saw coming. J.J.’s been banged up and tossed around more times than I like to remember, but he’s always gone back for me. He’s stubborn, and one look at his face and I know he’s going after me the same way he rides for the grand prize buckle.
“None of your business. This is between Rose and me. I’ve got stuff to do, so I’m headed out.”
Liar. The only shit on my agenda is finding something inanimate to punch. And space. I need space right now, need to do some running of my own because she’s not the only one with baggage and worse memories.
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” J.J. volunteers.
“I’d appreciate it.” Liar.
ROSE
When I make it down the stairs, Angel is gone and J.J. is waiting for me. He waves at me, and I nod. I want to get out of here, so I head out the door. He follows and actually manages to keep his mouth shut for five whole seconds. He spends that time, however, shooting me sidelong glances.
“I’m not one to judge,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yard and the RV.
“Good plan.” I estimate it will take less than two minutes to reach the RV, but then he reaches out and tugs me to a halt.
“But I gotta say something,” he continues, and I fight the urge to thunk my head into the nearest wall.
“Life’s all about choices,” I say dryly and he nods.
“So help me out here. Tell me when you chose my brother.”
The words hang in the air between us, the distant low of cattle the only punctuation.
Shit. Did J.J. hear us? Does he know for certain, or is he guessing? I sneak a sidelong peek at him and catch him staring at me. Probably all my dirty secrets are on display.
J.J.’s face hardens. “Did he fuck you when you were sixteen?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He shakes his head. “It sure as fuck is, baby girl. You lived with us for six months. You were like my little sister.”
“Six months doesn’t count for much.” I contemplate making a jailbreak for Lonesome. I could walk it if I had to, but I’m not that stupid.
J.J. curses. “Let’s talk.”
“Let’s not.” Talking doesn’t actually make things less complica
ted—it just makes them wordier.
“Tell me you’re okay,” he says softly, turning to me. He knows something happened today. He knows I’m not entirely okay, because he reaches up and brushes his thumb over my lower lip. Fuck. I’ll bet my lips are swollen from Angel’s kisses. There are other marks on me too, the red burn of his stubble on my throat, my breasts. The rest is secret, hidden beneath my clothes.
“If he had sex with you when you were sixteen, I’ll kill him.” J.J. makes the threat matter-of-factly. He looks one hundred percent naughty cowboy, his hair tousled where he ran a hand through it, his Stetson tossed on the seat beside him. His legs stretch out for miles, wrapped in denim and ending with worn-in cowboy boots. J.J. may look pretty, but I think he’d do it. J.J. has his own set of rules and he may be the family pretty boy and the rodeo star who makes bank endorsing various products, but he’s got a steel core not everyone gets to see. If he thinks Angel hurt me, he’ll hurt Angel.
“We’re never having this conversation again,” I tell him. “So I’ll tell you one more time and then? You. Let. It. Go. Angel’s not some fucking pervert. He never touched me when I was sixteen. He also never touched me before this week. He’d never hurt me. Those are two things you should already know about him. This thing between us is new and you don’t have to worry. I don’t need you to worry for me, okay?”
Angel may be a possessive asshole, but he doesn’t deliberately break his toys.
J.J.’s hand falls away. He’s such a pretty boy on the outside. I know he’s got a wild side and that he treats women like they’re his own personal box of chocolates and he’s never met a flavor he didn’t like. Unlike his older brother, he doesn’t need to be in control all the time, so he starts walking again.
“You sure you’re okay?” He waits until we’re standing in front of my RV and I’m reaching for the door to ask his question.
“Yes.” I might not even be lying.
“Shit, Rose.”
That sums up my past, but I’m not letting it be my future. I’ve got a chance here in Lonesome to make some of my dreams come true, and that’s more than most people get. Angel’s actions hurt me, making it hard to breathe if I think too much about what happened in his bedroom. He blows hot and cold, and clearly I like the hot part way too much.