Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel)

by Leighton, M.

  And then I stop.

  I move my hand from her breast to my jeans, unzipping them, then placing my palm in the center of her back to push her forward. She braces herself on the granite countertop as I move one knee between her legs, urging them farther apart.

  “I want you to beg me,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Beg me to put my cock in you and come inside your wet body. Beg me or I’ll walk right out that door.”

  I’m holding nothing back now. This is the real me. This is all there is now. Fury. Rage. And blistering heat.

  “Please. I want you inside me. Please,” she breathes.

  “Tell me to put my cock in you.”

  “Please, put your cock in me.”

  Moving both hands to her hips, I thrust into her, deep and rough. She’s so wet, I’m exploding within three strokes. I hear a loud, angry roar. It’s me, the sound ripped from my body as I pump forcefully into her.

  As I spill hot fluid into her body, I feel the spasms of her muscles get tighter and tighter. Her breath comes in deep, heavy moans as the waves of her orgasm flood her body. “You like that, don’t you? You like the feel of me coming inside you, don’t you, baby?”

  I pull her tight against me, grinding into her. I look down and see my thumbs biting into the perfect round globes of her ass. Saliva gushes into my mouth. I want to sink my teeth into it. I want to see the red mark that I make on her and then I want to soothe that ass with my lips and my tongue.

  The desire to lose myself in her is stronger than ever. Lose myself in her body, in her taste, in her scent. Impulsively, I withdraw from her and drop to my knees, giving in to the urge to bite her ass cheek. I hear her yelp, so I lick the spot, caressing the other cheek with my hand.

  I move my hands to her hips and turn her around, facing me. With my palms against her skin, I move up the inside of her thighs and part her legs. I run my tongue between the crease of her lips, sucking her clit into my mouth while I delve into her wet body with one finger. The tunnel is slippery with our combined fluids and still spasming gently, her orgasm beginning to ebb.

  Straightening, I bring my wet finger to her shocked and parted lips and I slip it into her mouth.

  “This is us together. Taste it.”

  Obediently, she takes my finger into her mouth and closes her lips around it, sucking, her smoldering eyes locked on mine.

  When my finger is clean, I reach behind her and grab her toothbrush and toothpaste, handing them to her. Automatically, she takes them from my grasp.

  Without a word, I zip my pants, turn around, and walk back out the way I came.

  * * *

  I rub my stinging eyes, the interstate in front of my headlights blurring for an instant before my focus comes back. I glance down at the dashboard clock. It’s nearly two a.m. I don’t know exactly what time it was when I left Marissa’s, but I know I’ve been driving for hours. I knew it was time to turn around when I crossed over into Tennessee.

  After I left her standing in her bathroom, I went out to the car. As soon as I started it up, I wanted to shut it off again and go back inside. That’s the only reason I didn’t—because I wanted to. And wanting to is not a good sign.

  I was already feeling guilty about taking her in such anger, and that didn’t leave a good taste in my mouth. Guilt and I don’t get along, much less guilt over a woman. That’s exactly why I avoid emotional entanglements with the opposite sex. In the last few years, I haven’t been in one spot long enough for it to be an issue, but I remember all too clearly from life before exile what it feels like to get involved with a girl. Thanks, but no thanks.

  It irks me that I’m anxious to get back to her condo. I keep telling myself it’s because I’m tired. But it’s not the bed I keep picturing. Well, at least not an empty bed.

  I texted her a few minutes after eleven, just to make sure she was okay. I don’t think she’s in any danger, but I’d be an idiot not to at least be cautious. My question was the same simple question I’ve asked before.

  U ok?

  And her answer was the same simple word it’s been each time I’ve asked.

  Yes.

  But that was a while ago. Surely she’ll be asleep when I get back. That ought to make things a little less . . . messy.

  I’m relieved when I see the familiar curb come into sight, and even more so when I see that all the windows are dark. I make my way to the door and slip the key Cash told me belonged to her door into the lock. I guess they haven’t really had time to sort out all that his-shit, her-shit stuff. Quietly, I creep through to her bedroom door. It’s open and I can see her form beneath the covers. It’s illuminated by a shaft of moonlight peeking between the curtains.

  I realize the considerate thing to do would be to crash on the couch. Luckily, I’m not the considerate type, so she would expect nothing less than for me to come to bed. To her bed. At least she should expect that from me.

  Silently kicking off my boots and stripping out of my clothes, I ease onto the bed and slide under the sheet. She’s rolled up in a ball on her side, facing me. I watch for her eyes to open and listen for her to speak or stir, but she doesn’t, so I close my eyes and relax into the pillow.

  A couple of minutes later, just before I drift off to sleep, I hear her voice. It’s quiet in the darkness, but still it startles me. And the touch of her soft fingers gives me chills.

  “What does this mean?” she asks, tracing part of the tattoo on my arm.

  “You scared the piss out of me. I thought you were asleep.”

  “I couldn’t sleep until I knew you were back.”

  I don’t know if that means she was afraid of being alone or she was worried about me. I like the thought of her worrying about me, but at the same time it irritates me because I like it.

  “Well, I’m back, so go to sleep.”

  “I can’t yet. I’m too keyed up. Talk to me. Tell me about your tattoo.”

  “I don’t talk about it. Ever.”

  “But you can tonight, can’t you? Please.”

  Something in her voice, in the vague glint from her eyes that I can see in the darkness, pricks me, pricks my thick scar tissue.

  I sigh and close my eyes again, going back in time to places and people and events I’d rather forget. Only I can’t. I’ll never be able to.

  “When I first started on the boat, I had no idea what kind of business those guys were into. I thought it was just a cargo ship. I figured we’d haul merchandise from point A to point B and then go back for more. It wasn’t big enough to haul very many containers, and all the ones I got to see the inside of were full of tires. There was no reason for me to think there was anything foul going on.” I pause as I remember the day I first witnessed a deal for something other than tires. “Until we made our first trip into the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea.”

  Marissa moves in closer to snuggle against my side and lay her head on my shoulder, her fingers continually tracing the swirling patterns on my bicep.

  “The first time, I was more an observer than anything. I stayed on the ship while some of the crew loaded crates that were buried behind the tires onto a smaller boat and took them to shore. It was broad daylight and we could see everything that happened on the beach. I thought it was strange that we were meeting on a near-deserted island, anyway. When I heard the gunshots and saw two of the guys from our ship fall, I knew why. I knew something illegal was going on.

  “That night, Dmitry, the one my father put me in contact with, came to my room and told me that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut, he couldn’t protect me and there was nowhere on earth I could hide. He was very matter-of-fact about it, but I knew he was serious. I didn’t ask questions, but I tried to stay out of anyone’s notice as much as I could. It was one day a couple months later that I heard Dmitry arguing with Alexandroff, the ship’s captain I was telling you about.

  “As I
mentioned, Yusuf had taught me some Russian, so I knew enough to piece together the conversation, especially when I kept hearing Nikolai come up. That was what Dmitry called me, and I was the only one on the ship that went by that name.

  “I asked Dmitry about it later. He told me that Alexandroff had become suspicious of me and that I needed to take part in the next deal or he’d put me off the ship, which was code for shoot me in the head and dump my body in the sea.”

  Marissa’s gasp is soft. I keep my eyes closed, but I imagine the look of horror on her pretty face. I don’t want to see it because it will change if I tell her the whole story. But it might be best. Maybe she’ll realize I’m a terrible person to get mixed up with. Maybe she’ll demand that I stay the hell away from her.

  I don’t know if I would, or if I even could. But she could try.

  “What did you do?” she asks softly.

  “I had no choice but to agree, so Dmitry made arrangements for me to accompany him on the next exchange. He said he’d do everything he could to protect me, to keep me out of it as much as possible. I just had to go, just to show I wasn’t some kind of rat.

  “It was with a different group of bastards, some Dmitry knew to be a little more reasonable, and he thought it might be a safe way to prove myself to Alexandroff. So he gave me a gun, showed me how to shoot it two days before the trade, and then I went ashore with him to sell guns to terrorists.”

  Marissa says nothing for a few minutes. I wonder if she’s planning an exit strategy even as she lies next to me with her body pressed against mine.

  Her question surprises me. She’s pretty intuitive, it seems.

  “Did you have to use your gun?”

  I know my answer will likely cement the decision she’s already toying with, but she needs to know. She needs to know I’m toxic. It’s better for both of us this way.

  “Yes.”

  “Is . . . is that what the tattoos are for? For people you’ve . . . for every time you’ve had to use your gun?”

  “No,” I reply. “There’s one band for every trade I lived through. Sometimes my gun wasn’t necessary.” I pause before I add, “But a lot of times it was.”

  I feel her shift beside me. Her warmth disappears. Her reaction, her decision stings more than I thought it would, more than I’d like to admit. I figure it’s better now than later, though. I can’t afford to get attached. And it’s better for her if she doesn’t get attached, either.

  I keep my eyes closed, ready to give her the cold, silent indifference that comes second nature to me. If she’s gonna leave, she won’t know that I give a shit. I won’t let her see.

  But then she surprises me. I first feel the tickle of her hair as it dangles over my chest. Then the light touch of her lips on my cheek as she bends to kiss it.

  “I’m so sorry for the life you had to lead. You were so young,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  Her hand splays across my chest as she scatters kisses all over my face and neck. I feel drops of warm wetness every so often. I don’t realize they’re tears until one hits my lips and I taste the salt.

  She makes her way to my stomach, then down my right leg and back up again, dragging her lips and tongue along the inside of my thigh.

  It’s not often I see the goodness in people. Or that they surprise me with compassion. Yet Marissa has. I just told her I’m a criminal and a killer, and rather than running the other direction, she cried for me.

  Something burns deep inside my chest. I don’t have time to think about it or deny it, or devise a plan to rid myself of it. Marissa sees to that when her lips close over my engorged head. She makes it so that she’s all I can think about. She erases all other thoughts with the first swipe of her tongue. And I’m happy to let them go.

  TWENTY

  Marissa

  I could watch Nash sleep for hours. In rest, the stern set of his mouth is more relaxed and the anger that seems to burn perpetually in the dark pits of his eyes is absent, leaving him just incredibly handsome. Not complicated.

  There’s no denying he’s a twin. He looks nearly identical to his brother, so his features aren’t unfamiliar to me. But in a way they are. There are subtle things that I see right away that set him apart from his brother, things like a small scar that disrupts the smooth line of his right eyebrow, the lighter streaks in his hair from time spent under the sun at sea, and the bronze sheen to his skin. In my opinion, he’s ten times more handsome, more rugged than Cash. And certainly far more dangerous.

  I realize what I’m doing as I stare at him.

  Stop staring! You’re like the creepy watch-him-while-he-sleeps, obsessed girlfriend.

  I make myself roll away from him and get out of bed. I’m as quiet as I can be. Nash is such a strong force, it’s easy to forget that he was stabbed not so long ago. No doubt his body needs the rest.

  I head for the bathroom and a much-needed shower. As I lather and rinse my hair, I let my mind wander back to the conversation Nash and I had last night, to the things he told me. My heart aches at the thought of what he’s had to endure, at the thought of what he’s probably seen and done as a result of someone else’s mistakes. It’s no wonder he’s angry and bitter. And the loss of his mother— essentially his entire family—on top of that is horrific. I decide it’s a testament to his strength of character that he survived as well as he did.

  But I think parts of him might be forever damaged, if they, in fact, survived at all.

  I shake off the depressing thoughts. I don’t like to think about the very real possibility that he’ll never feel anything more for me than what he does right now, that he’ll never be capable of a more meaningful relationship.

  But I knew that going in. He himself told me that he would hurt me. I guess I was either stupid enough or arrogant enough to think that I might be different, that he might change for me.

  As water sluices down my body, I come to the harsh and disturbing realization that if anyone can help Nash feel again, it’s likely going to be someone a lot nicer than me. Someone more like Olivia. Someone with less baggage, someone who isn’t just as broken as he is. Together, our pieces might make one whole person. But I doubt it.

  My morose thoughts only worsen when I get out of the bathroom to find not only an empty bed, but an empty condo. There’s no note, no indication of where he went or when he might be back. No nothing. Just an echo of my earlier worries, an echo that says Nash is inconsiderate because he just doesn’t care. And that he never will.

  I feel a twinge of pain somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. For once in my life, my feelings for a man have nothing to do with my ego. I wish that were the case. Wounded pride is much easier to deal with than this increasing feeling of hopelessness.

  As I walk back to the bedroom, I hear the bleep of an incoming text. I detour to the table by the door where my purse, and, therefore, my phone rests. I plugged it in last night to charge it and never went back to get it. Nash distracted me.

  I’ll say.

  A warm flutter dances in my belly just thinking about him standing behind me in the mirror last night. I’m sure I shouldn’t have liked him being so rough and angry. I’m sure I should’ve objected, both as a woman with some self-respect and as a human being. But I don’t regret that I let it go on. For some reason, it felt like one of the most honest exchanges we’ve had thus far. He wasn’t holding anything back. He wasn’t pretending to be anyone or anything. He was just Nash. Raw, angry, sexual Nash, taking what he wanted and needed. And he took it from me.

  I know I shouldn’t read so much into him coming to me for it, but I can’t seem to help it. Just as quickly as the hopelessness set in, a tiny seed of hope grows to overwhelm it.

  I’m sure it will be the reverse in a few minutes or a few hours. I seem to have become emotionally bipolar since meeting Nash.

 
As I reach for my phone, I chastise myself for seeing and feeling things that aren’t there and setting myself up for a devastating letdown. What I find only gives my foolish heart more reason to hope.

  I’m with Cash. Call if you need me. I can be home in a few minutes.

  I text my short reply and try not to smile too broadly.

  Okay.

  Home?

  My optimism returns tenfold. For a moment, I don’t think about anything but the fact that he’s being considerate of me, caring. Feeling. And that he referred to this as home.

  But at the same time all this hope is filling me, rational thought is arguing with it from somewhere far in the back of my mind. It’s warning me that I’ve fallen for Nash, that I’ve fallen hard. And the thing is, I’m smart enough to know that a fall like this could break me.

  Permanently.

  * * *

  The caller ID makes me sigh. It reads Deliane Pruitt. My secretary. And the fourth person from work to call me in the last two hours.

  What happened this morning? Did the floodgates of gossip open up?

  “Good morning, Del. How are you?” I greet her pleasantly.

  “Good morning. Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay. Good. The word is out about your return, and I’m getting calls from people wanting to set up lunches and meetings and fund-raisers. Are you coming in today?”

  Her question irritates me, as does everyone’s assumption that I’m working, just because I’m back in the country. Of course, I know they’re just doing what they’ve always done. I’m always available for those things. Lunches and fund-raisers have always been more play than anything, and a “meeting” is just another name for a social gathering for drinks at a posh restaurant.

  A thought occurs to me, striking me momentarily speechless.

  “Marissa?” Del’s voice brings me back to the conversation.

  “What? Oh, sorry. Um, no, don’t put anything on my schedule yet. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in the office. Or back to work, for that matter. I’ve got some things I need to tend to first.” I pause before I ask Del a question, a question related to the thought I had. A question I’m not entirely certain I want the answer to. “Um, Del, has anyone called about the Peachburg accounts? It’s about time for them to follow up.”