She thrashed as she came, even as he and Killian pinned her hands and body to the bed.
He wanted her in sensory overload, her nerves pulled taut between their two mouths, each tug winding her tighter and tighter and tighter.
He wanted her on the edge. He wanted it to hurt as he ripped that edge away.
He wanted her raw.
Just like him.
He jerked back, her flesh popping from his mouth. Grabbing Killian’s hair, he pulled the man up and toward his mouth. Lips smashing, he drove his tongue to chase the mingled taste of the two of them. So fucking sweet.
We fit.
This was what he could have.
This was what he had to leave.
Just as rough, he let Killian go, eyes blazing as he wiped his mouth and listened to the three of them breathing. A ragged panting, all three of them teetering on a ledge.
Unsaid needs and desires sat heavy in the room.
Jerricho dragged his hand over Scarlet’s torso, a loving, lingering touch that ran up her center until his warm hand settled on her throat.
Scarlet reached back and caught the fabric of his pants. Blindly, she tugged and pulled at the zip and crotch as he helped her free his cock.
Her hand curled around his shaft and she raised her head to trace her tongue along the vein up to the head. She tickled and nudged that sensitive spot just under the rim, the spot that made his hips jerk.
He so desperately wanted to sink into her mouth, her throat.
But if he did, he’d be lost.
He needed … distance.
He looked up at Killian stroking his cock as he watched.
He needed Killian.
Distance.
***
Killian watched Black brush Scar’s cheek as she teased him with her mouth.
There was an allure to watching that some people never got—the people who’d never drowned in a lover. He sank into Scarlet. So deeply immersed that edges blurred—him, her, they became one. He didn’t get to see her when they were like that, couldn’t separate long enough to simply look. Maybe it was preference or deviance that made him bring other people to their bed; maybe it was simply a chance to witness—a study of her ecstasy.
There had been so few lovers who ever competed for his gaze. His gaze traveled up Black’s body all the way until he met the man’s eyes. Eyes that were now watching him with intent.
Black untangled himself from Scar
The muscles on Killian’s back rippled.
Watching Black was different from the others.
Being watched by Black was different.
He wanted Black.
But this was not about want.
This was about control.
Killian’s cock throbbed as Black’s hand curled around the shaft, pulling him closer. Cheek brushing cheek as the man leaned toward him.
The brush of a wet tongue licked up Killian’s throat.
He closed his eyes and groaned. Despite himself, he offered his neck.
Black’s teeth grazed the skin as he slid behind him.
Killian felt the bed dip under his knees, moving as Scar’s weight inched toward them.
He looked down into her beautiful face, watched as Black reached from behind and sank his fingers into her mouth. Slow thrusts as she laved them with her tongue until his skin was shiny and slick.
Slick enough to glide.
Black stroked those wet fingers over the sensitive nerves on Killian’s perineum, the air chilling the painted wet skin.
Killian drew a sharp breath between his teeth. The hiss swallowed by a moan as Scar’s hot mouth engulfed his cock.
Fuck.
Black’s finger trailed up between Killian’s cheeks, pushed passed his resistance and entered him.
His body locked as muscle tensed, small hairs rising at the presence behind his back. Vulnerable.
He tried to shake it off. Had Black noticed? Of course he had.
Black’s arm hugged Killian against him, his hand resting on tight stomach muscles. He would have felt Killian’s flinch.
They’d never finished the conversation after Black had given him head. Killian bottomed but not with someone on his back. Not with someone on top of him. Not without keeping absolute control.
In his vocabulary, bottom was an act, not a position.
Penetration was so different to a hand job.
Black would make it feel like surrender. Killian didn’t know if he could do that without a fight.
The weight of Black’s forehead leaned against the back of Killian’s head, as if both of them were held there by the same awareness.
The short, puffs of breath curled against the back of his neck. A cool breeze over hot skin.
Killian didn’t know if the shiver was pleasure.
He couldn’t do this.
Black’s lips touched the top of his spine. The shock of it stung, but Black’s kiss was tender, sensuality without force.
Another kiss.
And another.
An entreaty of soft kisses as if begging him not to move, as if branding a need into his skin.
He closed his eyes, wrestling with desire and vulnerability.
He’d invited Black, what had he expected?
That Scar would always be between them?
That hand jobs and blowjobs would be all there was?
Scar’s hand slipped under his balls, cupping them. He was still hard in her mouth. Still full of desire.
Still stretched by Black’s finger.
Still beguiled by Black’s soft lips and Scar’s softer tongue.
Electricity danced over his skin, tingling sparks that promised to short the thinking in his brain.
Black’s finger moved inside him, friction with a sweet stinging burn. Killian sank his fingers into the red mess of Scar’s curls, something to hold onto.
She took his cue, swallowed his cock so deep she nuzzled up against his groin.
His cock twitched deep in her throat as Black pushed another finger in him.
Black’s fingers thrust as Scar’s throat convulsed.
He’d expected to take it slowly—there was nobody in this room who fit that bill.
Killian blew out a tortured breath, his muscles easing as he shut down his brain.
Black’s arm around his waist tightened; the man seemed to curl himself around Killian as his fingers fucked, his mouth seduced.
Killian let himself be guided forward as Scar lay back on the bed. Let Black’s hand on his waist keep him from thrusting into Scar as he covered her with his body. Let Black put a condom on before he felt the pressure of the man’s cock.
It was better this way. Not thinking. Letting the waves of pleasure lap at him.
Scar smiled up at him as he held himself over her body. She ran her hands up his body between them and over his chest.
The tip of his cock nudged her entrance, not even in her and so aware of her wet inviting heat.
Killian dipped his head, his tongue plunging into Scar’s mouth determined to thrust a part of him inside her.
And then Black was pushing inside him, stretching him wide as filled him. The force of the thrust pushed his own cock into Scar. Her pussy stretched around him, a tight erotic glove.
Penetrating and penetrated.
This was drowning.
Heaven above and below him.
Caged in ecstasy.
He broke the kiss, breathless and panting.
Black pulled back and thrust again, the angle of his cock hitting Killian’s prostate.
It was impossible not to move with Black’s hips, not to follow the rhythm, not to let Black fuck them both.
Scarlet gasped as Black snapped his hips again, rocking the bed with him. Her pussy squeezed Killian’s cock as her eyes closed and her neck arched.
Black thrust again, rocking them. There was no coaxing left, just hard, determined fucking—a resolute statement of strength as if the earlier softness had been a weakness.
And at that moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the bliss.
The violent passion driving them to ecstasy.
Each thrust a rough nudge to the edge.
Scar reached up and grabbed Killian’s hair, gripping so tightly, as if it was only the strength of her fist that was holding her together.
The tingling started all the way from Killian’s scalp and traveled down his spine, warmth flushing across his lower back.
The last bit of his awareness caught the movement of Scar’s free hand reached toward Black.
Killian’s orgasm hit with such force, it seemed to wind him. Breathless, speechless, senseless. Only the firing of synapses and nerves as Scar trembled and broke under him with a scream.
Black stiffened on top of him even as his cock jerked inside him. A pained sound before ‘fuck’ fell softly from Black’s lips.
Thirty-Four
It was closer to morning than midnight by the time Jerricho stood and looked around his room. No, the room, not his. Nothing was his except some clothes, the book of poems, and the bag of money on the bed.
He was going to leave the book behind for Scarlet. Maybe she’d burn it. Maybe she’d keep it in the library near his photo and sometimes think of him.
There was nothing he could leave for Killian, what was between them was more complicated.
It was what it was.
Jerricho was going to do what was needed. He knew that meant they would each have their own reasons for hating him.
He was practiced at burning bridges.
He looked down at the rope, the last thing on the bed. He’d found it in the garage when he’d lifted a spare set of car keys. He needed Killian’s four-wheel drive.
On the way out of the room, he switched off the bedside lamp. The darkest hour had already passed. Shadows crept into the room, breaking up the pitch of the night, a complex interplay of light and dark shadow while the world slept.
The door to the old farmhouse creaked as Jerricho opened it, a thin sound that seemed louder in the early morning.
Romeo stirred on the narrow bed and groaned. The pain meds from the previous evening would’ve worn off by now. Pain might make the man more agreeable to considering his options. He could choose to die by Killian’s hand, slow and painful, the ritualistic destruction over days taking his sanity long before it took his body.
Or he could choose what Jerricho offered.
The prisoner swung his feet to the floor and pulled himself upright. He looked at Jerricho, the swelling under his eye from the broken nose still almost closing the one eye.
He walked up to the bar and stuck out his hand. “Meds?”
Jerricho shook his head. Stopping just out of reach, he dropped his bag and reached for the rope and tossed it.
Romeo looked confused as his hand snapped the noose out of the air. “What’s this?”
“I’m not going to be here to fix you up next time.”
Romeo’s head tilted then his eyes flared wide. He threw the rope down, recoiling. It landed by his feet, strewn across the floor like a snake.
“The choice is yours,” Jerricho said.
“You can let me go.”
He shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. There were things he couldn’t live with, but this wasn’t one of them.
Romeo’s face pulled tight. “So what? You expect me to just hang myself? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers as he spat the words.
“Your choice.” Jerricho shrugged. “It’ll be a clean break. I’m good with knots.”
The sound Romeo made was half laugh, half cry. Despair had a language of its own.
Behind Romeo, the dark blue sky of morning told Jerricho he was running out of time to get a head start. He reached down for his bag.
“Wait!” Romeo shook the bars.
“I don’t have time. Neither do you.” The rope would be taken when breakfast was brought in.
“Wait.” Romeo gazed darted around as if he was going to find a miracle. “Can you, at least, give me the pen and paper off the table?” He gestured with his chin.
Someone, probably a guard, had left pen and paper on the corner desk. Jerricho was lucky they left Romeo on his own overnight when all they expected him to do was sleep.
Romeo sensed Jerricho’s hesitation. “I want to write something.”
“Why?”
“There is no priest for my last rites.” Confession.
Maybe that’s what he could leave Killian. A confession might give the man some closure.
He nodded and fetched the pen and paper, which he slid with a kick of his foot toward the cell door. Romeo stared transfixed as he watched the items stop within his reach.
Jerricho turned and left the man to his dying.
Thirty-Five
Somewhere in the distance, Jerricho could hear the crow of a rooster as he turned off the small country road onto the regional thoroughfare. Although the area consisted predominantly of hobby farms, there was still some livestock.
He switched on the radio, but the perky breakfast host jarred with the reality of the day. Instead, he rolled down the window. Unlike the city, here the morning air was still bracing.
Another night of no sleep, but he didn’t have time to stop. Besides, he’d just lie in some motel, drained and staring at the ceiling.
When tired was more than physical, it kept you wide awake.
Better not to stop. He needed to keep the momentum to get through the leaving.
He’d been here before. He had to keep on rolling.
By the time he reached Kangaroo Valley, the road had begun to head up the escarpment toward the Southern Highlands. He wound up the old narrow road, the vegetation dense and cool—more rainforest than temperate, like Berry. He’d taken the back road instead of the newer coastal road, slinking away like the picture of guilt he felt.
Guilt that wasn’t about Romeo.
He’d done the right thing. In the end, that betrayal would save all three men’s souls. Killian wouldn’t see it that way—maybe not even Scarlet.
Betrayal.
He was finally guilty of what he’d been accused of.
He’d looked Killian in the eye the previous night and accepted the invitation into the man’s bed, knowing what he was going to do.
And because that wasn’t fucked up enough, as if he didn’t feel dirty enough, there was Scarlet.
He knew she thought he had decided to stay.
He’d knowingly let her think it because it was easier that way.
In time, she’d come to understand he’d done her a favor. She was better off without him.
He didn’t deserve her love if this was how he treated it.
He shivered, but the cold wasn’t blowing in from the window, it was growing out of the hollow inside.
A sign up ahead signaled a rest stop. He should refuel, the tank was less than a quarter full, but he didn’t know how far he was going to go. How far would be far enough before he felt there was some distance?
It was unlikely Killian would call in his car. Flagging the attention of the law would be the last thing he wanted with a body swinging from the rafters.
He parked the car, got out, and closed the door. There was a fast food chain serving breakfast. His stomach churned at the thought of food, but he could do with the bitter comfort of coffee.
Inside, the restaurant was filled with truckers and a few random travelers; the rest of the world would still be sleeping.
He pictured Scarlet and Killian as he’d left them in bed, all limbs tangled and deep breathing. If he kept this up, he would go insane.
He wiped his face with his hands, the heaviness in his limbs making him feel slow and clumsy. Sighing, he stared blindly at the limited menu before ordering a long black.
Outside, he watched a blue car pull up and a couple climb out. Idly, he followed their path up to the door for no real reason. The sliding doors p
arted as they stepped inside and the woman looked up. Watery blue eyes stared at him.
***
The worn blue eyes stared at him. Not the piercing blue he remembered from his childhood, these were the eyes of a stranger. The stranger was his mother.
He’d traced her to the women’s shelter through a cousin.
It had been eleven years since he’d seen her, but she’d aged more than twenty. Alcoholism and depression had ravaged her. She looked tired. Worse, she looked abandoned. That was what he’d done, hadn’t he? He’d discarded his own mother.
He wanted to take her out of there, put her somewhere nice, but he was only a medical student. Besides, she didn’t want his help. She didn’t even want to see him. He’d been coming round every Sunday since he’d found her. Six months of being sent away at her request.
The only reason she sat staring at him today was because he’d insisted he had urgent news of her husband.
They sat there in awkward silence in a rundown lounge. She with a sneer of distaste, with him searching for the mother he knew.
Her finger worried her lip before she took a puff of her cigarette, blowing smoke between them.
“What about Iman?” There was gravel in her voice he didn’t remember.
She’d never written a reply to any of the letters he’d sent. At the age of thirteen, he’d stopped writing. He wanted to talk about that.
Instead, he cleared his throat. “Iman is dead. I’m sorry.” In the end, he’d failed them both.
She shrugged. “He’s been dead to me for a long time ago. All I want to know is did he leave me any money?”
“Mama—”
She spat in his face. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “My son is dead too.”
The spittle sat heavy on his cheek.
She pushed her chair back and stood up. “They’re all dead. Even my daughter.”
He looked at her puzzled.
“I was pregnant when I came back to France, but I miscarried. The doctor said it was stress.” She laughed bitterly. “That’s what a broken heart gives you, stress.” She turned her back on him and stared out the window. “In the end, I had nothing. All I could do was mourn.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Say it if it makes you feel better. It doesn’t change anything.”
Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) Page 24