by Callie Hart
His fingers work over my clit, teasing me, driving me crazy. I’m completely absorbed in the sensation, wanting to beg him, plead with him for more, but there’s no rushing this man. He’ll give me what he wants to give me and when. And besides, the pure torture of it is delicious.
Zeth gathers my right wrist in his free hand, and then the left, lifting both up over my head. He slides off me to one side so he doesn’t crush me, and then he pushes my legs apart, opening me to him. I don’t fight against him. My legs fall open, and then he has access to all of me. He makes good use of that access, his fingers tracing up and down over my pussy, setting me on fire as he teases my clit, gently dipping his index finger inside me, and then moving further down to lightly stroke an area of my body I never thought I’d allow anyone to touch. Ever.
With him, there are no taboos, though. No area of me off limits. No part of me I’ll ever deny to him. Especially when he makes me feel this good.
“You gonna come for me, angry girl?” he says into my ear. He’s breathless; I can feel his heart thumping in his chest, where his skin is pressed up against me.
“Yes.”
“You want to come hard?”
“Yes.”
“I want to feel you all over my fingers, okay? I want to know exactly when you’re about to explode.”
“Oh my god. Fuck, oh my god.” But he is my god. He’s the sun and I’m the earth, orbiting him always, unable to escape his gravity. Unwilling to try.
“Come for me, Sloane. Come on. Do it.”
I’ve never been able to hold back with him. I have this overwhelming need to do what he wants me to, despite how much I fought against that idea when we first met. And right now, he wants me to come. He makes this pretty damn easy for me when he slides his fingers all the way inside, twisting them toward him and making a beckoning motion that tips me right over the edge.
I’m incapable of making a sound as my body locks up, gripped by the sheer force of the orgasm that hits me. It feels like I’m slamming into a brick wall.
Zeth growls deep in his throat as I writhe against him; he holds onto my wrists, stopping me from reaching out to touch him. I want to so badly, but I can tell by the firm grip of his hand that he doesn’t want me to.
“Fuck, your body looks incredible like that. All stretched out and long, with your arms over your head, ” he says, his voice deep and filled with promises. I’m still coming, synapses snapping and firing blindly in my head as he stoops to take one of my nipples in his mouth. He licks and sucks at me, squeezing my nipple in-between his teeth as I squirm, trying to catch my breath.
“Are you ready for me, angry girl? Do you want me inside you? Is that what you want?”
I nod my head, burying my face in his shoulder as he continues to work his fingers inside me. Zeth doesn’t wait for me to regain my voice; he accepts my nodding as all the permission he needs. He’s inside me a second later, strong, hard body between my legs, his hands pulling my thighs up and around his waist. This is normally where he would fuck me until I can’t see straight. I’m expecting it, holding my breath, waiting for it, and yet it doesn’t happen. Opening my eyes, my heart still charging beneath my ribcage, I find Zeth staring down at me with a look akin to complete awe on his face. He just shakes his head, half smiling as he begins to move inside me.
It’s torturous. Slow. Purposeful and intense. I’ve never experienced anything like it. And the whole time, Zeth doesn’t look away. He holds me in his gaze as he fills me, carefully bringing me back to the point of frenzy. My body is crying out for him to sink himself deeper, harder, faster inside me, but my head knows that’s not what this moment is right now. I’m too scared to even admit what this moment is.
Zeth’s hands stroke my body as we move together, and it’s almost as if I can feel it happening. This is more than just our bodies connecting. This is something else entirely.
When we come, we come together, and it’s silent. Zeth wraps his arms around me and I cling to him, and it feels like he’s absorbed me into him. I have the most insane, obscene urge to cry. Why the fuck do I want to cry? I can’t let it happen. If I do, he’ll think I’m one of those crazy bitches who start sobbing after sex in the movies, and that is the very last thing I want. Instead, I press my face into the skin of his chest, eyes closed, trying to remember what my life looked like before he was in it. All I can remember is darkness.
Zeth slowly rolls us over, still inside me, so that he’s lying on his back and I’m lying on top of him. There isn’t a second where he removes his arms from around me. He holds on tight, like he’s afraid I’m about to vanish into thin air. I can hardly breathe around the burning in my throat as his huge hands, used for so many years for violence, for inflicting pain, carefully stroke my hair.
Chapter Eight
Zeth
Something is really fucking wrong with me. When I left the house this morning, Sloane was sniffing and coughing, and all I wanted to do was stay home and take care of her. I had no idea how to do that, though, so I left instead. Feeling fucking useless is not my wheelhouse. My wheelhouse is smashing shit up and making people feel decidedly worse than before they met me. I don’t have the first clue how to make someone feel better.
And the sex?
I don’t even want to think about the sex. It was fucking insane in the very best way. Six months ago I’d have laughed hysterically at the very prospect of being intimate like that with someone. Sex has always been an outlet for some of my more exotic proclivities; it sure as shit has never been an outlet for affection. Or a display of love.
As I drive toward the gym, I bite the bullet. I let the guy from before, the guy I was for years, have free rein. What the fuck are you doing, asshole? She’s just some piece of ass. She’s going to ruin you if you let her. Women come and go. They don’t sleep in your bed. They don’t make you coffee in the morning. And you don’t fucking make love to them! You fuck. You fight. You flee. That’s always been the rule, man. What the hell is wrong with you?
What would Charlie think?
My stomach feels like it’s full of ice-cold water at that last thought. For years, what Charlie thought or wanted or cared about was all that concerned me. The fucker tried to kill me repeatedly. He stole into my room every night for years, playing his fucked-up mind games with me, and yet still some desire to please him is ingrained deep within my bones. The guy’s dead and even now I can’t escape him. How fucked up is that?
I’m almost at the gym when my cell starts ringing. Assuming it’s Michael, I almost answer it without thinking. The out-of-state number on the display catches my eye, though. I stare at the screen for a moment, debating whether to answer. On the sixth ring, I make up my mind. This had better be fucking good.
I pick up, and I don’t say a motherfucking word.
I’m met with silence, and then¸ “What’s up, asshole? Roberto Barbieri asked us to call you.”
Barbieri? What the fuck? The name has instant alarm bells ringing in my head. Barbieri and Charlie used to have some dealings back in the day. The Italians are based out of New York, but they’re always looking to move in on new territory. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m hearing from them now. Seattle has been a largely unclaimed territory for months. In fact, this probably should have happened much sooner.
“Roberto Barbieri shouldn’t even have this number,” I growl into the phone. There are sounds of a scuffle on the other end of the line, and then another voice speaks. These are the brothers, Theo and Sal. Barbieri’s sons. Their reputations precede them, just like mine does. And from the calm tone and the fierce intelligence I can hear in this guy’s voice, I’m talking to the older brother right now—Theo.
“Mr. Mayfair, we met back in Seattle a couple of months ago. I believe we had a common enemy. The Monterellis? You took care of one brother. We took care of the other.”
Huh. I’d had my suspicions about that. I did end Frankie Monterelli, yes. He was the last person I killed, and
the fucker had been going for his gun. When his younger brother, Archie Monterelli, was killed at St. Peter’s Hospital, things really started to get complicated for me. “I remember,” I say. “The cops pinned me for that one, too. Made life very difficult for me and my girl.”
“We’re sorry about that. The method of execution’s usually enough to tip the cops off over here in New York.” The method of execution being a Columbian Necktie. I remember Sloane telling me the blood had hit the damn ceiling. Not my style at all.
“Seattle cops don’t know shit about Roberto Barbieri. And they don’t care, either. You guys made a mess.”
“Irrespective of what happened, Roberto wants to hire you. He’s offering big money for you to fly out to New York.”
“I don’t work for other people, Theo.” I throw in the name just to let him know I’m aware of exactly who he is. I can almost feel the fucker squirming on the other end of the line.
“You’d be a contractor. My father would give you free rein to handle the job however you pleased. You’d be here for a couple of days, do the work and then you’d be flying home again. Simple.”
Well that’s fucking strange. I thought for sure this would be about claiming the city that Charlie Holsan left behind. And now it looks like Barbieri wants me to do a job for him in New York? That’s bullshit. He has plenty of morons on hand to pull the trigger of a gun. His sons, for instance. No, this is about Seattle. The bastard’s just being sneaky about it.
“The kind of jobs your father hires men like me for are never simple. I’m west coast these days, Theo. And I don’t kill people for money anymore. Tell your father thanks but no thanks. Don’t call this number again.”
I hang up before he has chance to say anything else. There isn’t a single thing he could say to me to change my damn mind. I have a very clear vision of how I want my life to be in the future, and getting caught up in this shit does not feature whatsoever.
No, you’re all about the white picket fence now, huh, motherfucker?
I’ve forgotten to shove the old me back into the vault. He thinks all of this is highly fucking entertaining. I brush the thought aside, determined not to let my jacked-up past dictate how I think and feel now. I won’t let what’s gone before ruin what could be. If I did, that would make for a really shitty life indeed. I wonder what Pippa, Sloane’s sometimes best friend and my sometimes therapist would make of me torturing myself like this. She hates me, but she’d probably try and talk me down. Try and make me cut myself some slack. Fuck. I’m probably due an appointment with the woman, but damned if I wouldn’t rather shove burning-hot pokers into my eyes right now.
Michael’s waiting for me outside the gym when I pull up and park the Camaro. His grim expression matches my own. I take one look at him and I know something is wrong.
I sigh, jamming my hands in my pockets, letting my chin drop to my chest. “What? What the fuck is it now?”
Michael’s mouth pulls into a flat line; I do not like the concerned look in his eyes. “Lowell,” he says. “Detective Lowell’s back in town. And she’s got a fucking army of DEA agents with her.”
Chapter Nine
Sloane
One of the benefits of being a doctor is that you can get your friends to write you a prescription whenever you need one without too much hassle. Pippa, my best friend, gave me a script for Valium once when I really needed it, and she didn’t ask a single question. Oliver Massey doesn’t ask me any questions either, as he writes me out a script for antibiotics. He doesn’t need to. I have my own pad out and I’m writing him the same script. We’re both sick as dogs.
“Seemed like such a good idea at the time, huh?” he groans. So far he’s pretended that he didn’t say anything to make our lives really awkward the other night, even though he really did. “My mom used to tell me sitting out in the rain would give me hyperthermia. I never believed her.”
“Stop being so melodramatic. You’ve seen hypothermia. This is not hyperthermia. This is the flu, and it really sucks, but these,” I wave the two pieces of paper bearing our signatures in the air, “are going to fix us right up. You ready?”
He nods gravely. We head down to the pharmacy and collect our medication, grumbling the entire way. I cough and sneeze, while he holds his palm against the side of his head and takes very deep breaths, complaining about the room spinning. I feel like I already went through that stage this morning. He’s still got the congestion and the rattling lungs to look forward to.
“What in god’s name is wrong with you two?” The voice—it takes a while to spin around and see who’s standing behind us—belongs to Rebecca Allison, the Chief of Medicine at St Peter’s Hospital.
“Oh, it’s nothing. We’re fine. We’re good to go,” Oliver says quickly. He only grimaces a little as he stands up straight.
Chief Allison pulls a face—her don’t-try-and-pull-that-shit-with-me face. She darts forward and holds the back of her hand against Oliver’s forehead. There might have been a time when she would have checked me first, but the woman still hasn’t forgiven me for the crazy stuff that went down here recently. Crazy stuff that I was heavily involved in, and nearly got people killed.
She prods Oliver in the chest, apparently not liking what she finds when she tests his temperature. “You are already on my shit list for that stunt you pulled treating your own brother. And now you’re both recklessly endangering the entire medical staff by being here right now. What’s wrong with you?” she hisses.
“It’s really noth—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Romera. Go home. Go to bed. Hell, I don’t care where either of you go so long as you don’t come back until you’re fit and healthy. Get the hell out of my hospital. Now!”
Chapter Ten
Mason
I’m covered in shit and grease and I’m sweating like I’ve just run ten miles when she comes into the shop. Short, with cropped blonde hair that barely grazes her jawline, and stellar blue eyes that are exactly cornflower blue. I feel fucking ridiculous that I even know what color cornflower blue is. Can’t say I’ve ever even thought about that color, but as soon as I look up and see her standing there, it’s the first damn thing that pops into my head. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a huge parka with fur trim around the hood, hands shoved into her pockets, smoke pluming on her breath. Beautiful. Seriously, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. A smile pulls at her mouth when those blue eyes see me watching her as she talks to Mac, and I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to bury my head in the car engine I’m working on and not look up again until she’s gone. No such luck, though.
“Mason, get your ass over here,” Mac calls. I shoot the bastard an evil glare as I wipe my hands on an oily rag, doing as I’m told. He doesn’t even notice that I’m drilling holes into his head as I make my way over to them. “Mason, this young lady has a problem with her car. She’s running late to her…wait, what did you say you were studying again?”
The blonde with the huge coat and the cold-reddened cheeks smiles, flashing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. Up this close, she looks like a little porcelain doll. Or a pixie. Yeah, that’s more appropriate. She looks like something out of one of the books I read to Millie before she goes to bed. There’s something ethereal about her.
“I’m doing social studies,” the girl says. “I’m in my final year at Seattle University.” Her voice is high and clear, confident, yet with a hint of nerves. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye—direct eye contact seems like a horrific idea—and I can see she’s smiling at me.
“Yeah, that’s right. Social studies, whatever that is,” Mac says gruffly. “She’s gonna leave her car with me while you run her over to her class.”
“What? I thought you wanted the Firebird finished by midday?” I don’t want to drive this beautiful, frightening creature the whole way across the city. Eye contact would be completely unavoidable. As would small talk, and I’m no fucking good at small talk.
> Mac just raises his eyebrows at me. “Faster you get going, faster you get back, right?” He tosses the keys to the shop’s run around at me; Mac bought a very sensible, reliable Volvo for this very purpose. It’s an extra service people travel specifically to the shop for, since they know they can get a ride while their own cars are being worked on. Normally I’d be jumping at the chance to get the hell out of here for an hour, but for some reason my heart feels like a clenched fist rising up in my throat.
“Come on. I’ll let you choose the radio station,” the girl says, heading toward the Volvo.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Mac thumps me really fucking hard on the arm and grins. “You can thank me later, kid.”
“Fucking thank you with my fist, asshole,” I grumble under my breath. The girl tosses her bag onto the backseat and then gets in the passenger side, and I climb into the driver’s side, dreading the next thirty minutes.
As I pull out of the shop, I see Zeth on the other side of the street, standing outside the gym with that friend of his. They both look seriously pissed, lost in conversation as I pull out and drive by with the midget blonde sitting beside me. If they see me, they don’t acknowledge me. A good thing right now, I think; I wouldn’t want those stern expressions directed toward me. No way, no how.
“So you’re a mechanic, huh?”
I grip the steering wheel with both hands. Millie would be rolling her eyes at me right now. For a five-year-old, the kid sure does have attitude. “Yeah. Apparently.”
The girl beside me nods. “Apparently.” She pulls a face, like she’s pretending to be mulling this over. She turns her head toward me and places her cheek against the headrest, her attention solely fixated on me. “I’m Kaya.” I steal another sideways glance at her, and there it is: eye contact. Damn. She blinks at me in a rather owlish fashion. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”