Cannon (Carolina Reapers Book 5)

by Samantha Whiskey

  Me: Is Nixon all right?

  Asher Silas: Physically he’s in peak shape. It’s a media issue. Nothing too terrible.

  Relief hit me upon hearing he was physically fine. Funny how being accepted into this Reaper family also afforded me an extended family as well. Sure, I didn’t know Nixon Noble as well as his brother Nathan, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about him.

  Me: Glad to hear it. You think you can rope Ethan Berkley in on this too?

  I unabashedly sent the text—having the owner of the Charleston Hurricane’s support would be just as invaluable. Plus, Hudson Porter’s little brother played for the MLB team, so the connection had a family tie as well.

  Asher Silas: I’m already working on him. I don’t see an issue. Simply hard to get much business done between the gossip and cards.

  Me: LOL. Have fun. Leave them some money to donate!

  Asher Silas: I’ll do my best.

  I blew out a breath and settled into the plush chair situated in Cannon’s library. I had decided to wrap up a little work from here after dress shopping, and he was due home any minute. I had one phone call left to make, and I’d been putting it off for a good while.

  Time to put my big-girl panties on.

  I swallowed the nerves twisting my stomach, and dialed the number.

  “Hello?” Lillian answered after a couple of rings. I could hear her son giggling in the background.

  “Hello, Lillian, it’s Persephone.” My voice cracked slightly.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” I hurried to answer. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “You sound kind of nervous. Just wanted to make sure.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to ask you something.” I took a deep breath. “There is absolutely no pressure at all, and I will totally understand if you don’t feel comfortable…I know we don’t know each other that well. But, you see, I’d be so honored if you’d stand with me at the altar when I re-marry your brother.” The words came out in one long stream of consciousness. Normally I had the grace and poise strong and smooth enough to wrangle billionaires and their contributions, but speaking to Cannon’s sister? The most important person in his life? Not so much.

  “Oh, wow,” she said. “Is that all? I’d love to.”

  A breath rushed from my lungs. “Thank you. And, if it’s not too much trouble, we’d love Owen to be the ring bearer.”

  “I’m sure we can handle that,” she said, but there was a hesitance in her tone that gave me pause.

  “If you’re not comfortable with him in the wedding, it’s absolutely fine,” I said.

  “That’s not it at all,” she said. “It’s just…”

  I waited a few heartbeats, but she didn’t continue. “What is it, Lillian?”

  “Well, you know I have to give you the sister speech now, right?”

  My stomach tightened, but I nodded like she could see me. “Hit me with it,” I finally said.

  “Don’t hurt my brother,” she said, her tone switching from friendly to fierce in the span of a breath. “All those tattoos aren’t armor. He may seem like the strongest, toughest asshole in the world, but he isn’t.” She sighed. “I’m not sure how much you know about our history, I’m assuming a great deal since you’re…well, whatever you are…but Cannon is a self-sacrificer to a fault. He took on the brunt of everything to protect me. And it’s my turn to protect him.”

  I held my breath, my heart aching. I knew this about Cannon, but I didn’t know him like she did, and I wanted to so badly. I wanted him to let me in. To help shoulder some of his past burdens. Sure, he’d let me in physically—our time spent between, above, and beyond the sheets kept a permanent and pleasurable ache between my thighs. But emotionally? Just pieces. I wanted all of him.

  “Be patient with him,” she continued. “He’s never truly dealt with some of the issues from our past, and to some, that makes him this closed-off jerk, but truly? He’s the most kind, compassionate person I know.”

  “I see him,” I said, my voice clogged with emotion. “I’m trying, but he still keeps me at a distance in some things. I promise you, Lillian, I have no intention of hurting him. Ever. I want to be there for him in the way he’s been there for others.”

  “Good,” she said, back to friendly. “It’s about time he let someone help him for a change. I just hope he doesn’t scare you off.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “I like you, Sephie,” she said. “And I can’t wait to stand up there with you.”

  “That means the world to me,” I said, and I heard the front door open and close. “I’ll send you all the details. I just heard your brother walk in, have to run!”

  “Take care of him,” she said before hanging up.

  And I silently vowed to her that I would do my best.

  I left my phone on the desk, needing to disconnect for the night, and hurried down the hallway. I found Cannon in the kitchen, shirtless near the sink and holding a paper towel over his right pec. The center soaked in red.

  “Cannon!” I hurried over to him, and my sudden presence made him flinch.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You scared the hell out of me.” He eyed my bare feet. “It’s impossible to hear you without your heels on.”

  I rolled my eyes and reached for his hand. “What happened?”

  He backed away from my touch. “Got into a knife fight.”

  I gaped at him, and he laughed.

  “Cannon Price.”

  He sighed. “Wasn’t watching where I was going. Ran into Logan’s skate in the locker room, which he had over his shoulder. Not a big deal,” he said, but he winced when he removed the paper towel.

  I shook my head at the poor use of the towel. “Follow me. Now.” I didn’t bother looking behind me as I made my way to our room and into the bathroom. “Sit.” I snapped my fingers at the edge of his giant, marble encased tub, and bit back a smile when he obeyed.

  I bent over, rummaging through the cabinets until I’d found the first aid kit.

  “This isn’t necessary,” he grumbled. “It’s a scratch. I don’t need to be fawned over.”

  “Like that would be so bad,” I said. “To have someone heal you for a change.”

  I fingered through the products until I’d found the alcohol and gauze and bandages. I carried everything over to him, sitting it all down next to him on the marble. I reached for the paper towel he held over the wound, and he flinched away, again.

  My heart ached, the earlier conversation with his sister coming back to the forefront of my mind. How many times had he had to clean up wounds on his own? And then hide them? Bury the source of the pain?

  “Cannon,” I pled, sinking to my knees before him. “Please, let me help you.”

  His eyes shuttered—at the sight of me or at the desperation in my tone, I didn’t know—but he dropped his hand, exposing the small cut over his pec. The blood welled once he dropped it, the red marring the beautiful whorls of black decorated there, but it was small. I dabbed a cotton ball with the alcohol and eyed him as I held it toward the cut.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  I wiped the wound clean. He barely hissed. Then I took extra care in pressing a small square of gauze over the cut, using clear surgical tape to secure it. He’d rarely let me this close to his bare chest—not unless we were in the throes of passion—like that one time in the shower when he’d let me wash him, and he’d explained some of the scars—but since then, he’d always taken the reins on what I could and couldn’t touch. Which was absolutely his right, I just wanted him to trust me enough to help him.

  My fingers traced the edges of the tape, double-checking the tightness, and then lower.

  I felt him tense beneath my touch as I ran my fingertips over the patterns of ink, over his strong abdomen, and then I paused at some puckered flesh now invisible due to the ink. Some old scar.

  His hand tightened around my wrist, stopping me fr
om moving.

  I flicked my gaze up to his, my heart breaking at the fear in his eyes, the shame.

  “Cannon—”

  “Don’t,” he said, his normal response, and one I would respect. I didn’t try to move or break his grasp, but he didn’t push me away either. I took that as a small crack in the door Cannon kept parts of himself locked inside.

  “This doesn’t scare me,” I whispered, my hand still in his brushing against the scar. “You know it doesn’t.”

  He sighed, his muscles relaxing underneath my touch, his grip loosening enough that my hand fell.

  “You’re beautiful,” I said, running my fingers freely over his body, catching on all the hard pieces of old scars. “Every.” I kissed one scar. “Single.” Then another. “Inch.”

  “Persephone.” My name was a broken whisper.

  I tucked my fingers into his athletic pants, tugging them free of his feet and tossing them behind me. Leaving him in nothing but his boxer-briefs.

  “Let me in,” I said. “Please, let me help heal you.” He knew I meant so much more than the cut I’d just tended to.

  I continued my exploration of his skin, stopping on a four-inch-long piece of hardened skin, my gaze on his, questioning, open. Just like we’d done that day in the shower. All he had to do was make the choice to walk through the door and come to me.

  “Razorblade,” he said, his voice rough. “Dad had come home drunk. Lillian had left her toy car—my old one—near the dining room table.” He shrugged. “She was three.”

  I swallowed hard, that would only make him four.

  I kissed that scar and moved on to another.

  “Broken arm,” he said. “Thrown down the stairs.”

  Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I kissed that one and moved to the next, a peppering of raised slashes.

  “Kitchen knife,” he explained. “To prevent Mom from ever trying to leave again.”

  I kissed each one, tasting salt from the warm tears I couldn’t hold back that splashed upon his skin. He’d told me before about the stove burner and the cigarette burns…but, God, there were so many stories here. So many dark pieces of his past.

  Over and over again, I worshiped his body, kissing and caressing those broken pieces of himself hidden beneath the ink, giving those jagged edges more time and care. Silently listening to his story, my heart shattering with each reason behind every scar.

  And after what felt like an eternity, a slow-torturous journey through Cannon’s dark past, I kissed my way up to his lips and cradled his face in my hands.

  “I see you, Cannon,” I said, not bothering to wipe the tears from my eyes. “And you’re not only the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen but the best man I’ve ever known.”

  Something dark and broken shuttered in his eyes before he clenched them shut and pressed his forehead against mine. His arms came around my back, clutching me to him, holding me as he trembled, as those raw, exposed moments from his past lay open and bare between us. And I clung to him, held him silently, pouring every ounce of light and love I had into him until I couldn’t take the small distance one second longer. Until I knew I needed to give him something else entirely.

  My heart.

  My soul.

  I fingered his hair, gripping the strands a bit tighter and tugging until his face was level with mine. I held his dark gaze for a few heartbeats before gently kissing him. He opened for me, and I claimed his mouth, giving and taking and relishing in the taste of him. His hands clenched on my hips as he hefted me up to straddle his lap without breaking our kiss. But I didn’t stay there for long—no, we’d had passionate, wild sex in many places in this house. Now wasn’t the time for that.

  I stepped off of him and reached for his hand. He looked up at me questioningly but took my hand. I led him out of the bathroom and to the bed where I gently nudged him until he lay on his back. Slowly, I peeled off my clothes, and his remaining underwear until we were bare before each other. My blood thrumming and thrashing, begging me to go hard and fast with this man. Just like he liked, how I liked. But I hushed the consuming need. Tonight was about Cannon, about him letting me in.

  Tonight, he needed to learn what it felt like to be worshipped.

  To be adored.

  To be the sole focus of another person. Someone he could trust to take care of him.

  So, I crawled on the bed, hovering over him, and continued my slow, sizzling kisses over his scars. So many damn scars. I kissed the ones on his thighs while I gripped his hard length in my hand, pumping and stroking the silken heat.

  A low growl and he reached for me, his fingers hurried, needy, but I flashed my eyes up to his.

  “Let me take care of you, Cannon,” I said, my warm breath hitting his cock in my hand. “Just, tell me if I do something wrong, okay?” He’d taught me so much, but there was a ton I didn’t know.

  “You could never do anything wrong,” he hissed as I teased him, but his hands relaxed at his sides. His hips jutted upward as I set my mouth on him, taking him inside me in a slow, tortuous sweep of my mouth. Up and down, I sucked and pumped and hummed around his cock until his entire body was coiled with need, and he growled my name.

  I smiled around his flesh, pulling him out of my mouth with a satisfying popping sound. Then I settled myself atop him, taking him in and in, his heat sliding inside me, filling me until I could barely breathe. I threaded our fingers and pulled him upward until we were chest to chest, eye to eye.

  And then I moved on him.

  Slow, so agonizingly slow.

  Each roll of my hips a tortuous raking of internal heat that thrashed and shuttered and pleaded.

  An ache so deep I didn’t think I could ever soothe it.

  “Goddamn,” Cannon hissed, his lips brushing mine. “You’re gorgeous,” he said as he watched me move on him, as his hands explored my skin with electric caresses.

  I cupped his cheeks, keeping pace as I trembled around him, and kissed him. Drank in his sounds as if they could fill that spot in my soul he’d claimed. I kissed him deep and long, in time to the rhythm I’d adapted, riding him in long waves of heat and need and hunger. Dragging out the moment as long as either of us could physically take, drawing us right to that sweet, sharp edge, only to pull us back again.

  And just as I felt Cannon harden more inside me, just as my own rising orgasm built and coiled and tightened, just as he clenched his eyes shut and threw his head back, I gripped his hair and drew back his focus.

  Caught that dark gaze as I upped my pace, as I sank harder atop him, taking him fast and deep.

  “Stay with me,” I pled, needing his eyes on me. Needing him to come with me. Needing him, all of him.

  “Always,” he whispered against my lips as I sank atop him again, rolling my hips until I couldn’t hold myself together one second longer.

  Cannon gripped me tighter against him as I shattered into a million tiny pieces. He devoured my moans, drinking them in as he found his own release inside me.

  And I didn’t stop kissing him.

  Didn’t stop breathing him in.

  Not until we were forced to pull apart to catch our breath.

  And even then, I wanted more.

  13

  Cannon

  “Three, two, one!” The crowd counted down my penalty. Two minutes for roughing had been worth it. Then again, since we were up four to one against Detroit with only three minutes left in the third period, it was fair to note that it hadn’t been my first time in the box tonight.

  I flew out onto the ice and positioned myself near the blue line as Briggs and Noble fought to get the puck out of our zone.

  One of the Red Wings rubbed a little close on me as I maneuvered forward, so I gave him a little bump. The guy lost his balance and ran into the boards. Whoops.

  Briggs drove through two of the forwards, moving the puck so quickly I had to focus, then shot it my direction when the Red Wings’ center took him on. I caught the puck and sent it flying to
ward Axel, then took off, careful not to pass the blue line until he brought the puck over it.

  They backchecked, naturally, but Axel fired the puck at me just before they caught him. I caught the puck and took off toward the goal, beating the first defenseman with pure speed and faking out the second with a quick stop and change of direction. My heart pounded, and the roar of the crowd faded as I honed in on the goalie.

  I’d played with this asshole for years, which meant I knew his moves, but it also meant that he knew mine. I drove glove-side, knowing his upper right pocket was his most vulnerable spot. When he moved to cover, I flipped to backhand and shot the puck stick-side.

  It sailed just under his arm and hit the back of the net.

  The lamp lit, the crowd thundered, and I shouted in victory as Axel pounded on my back in congratulations.

  “Nice goal!” he shouted.

  “Nice assist!” I countered.

  I skated toward the family seats and noted with a grin that Persephone sat in the front row, not up in the box seats some of the others favorited. My girl liked to be close to the action. I pointed straight at her, and she smiled, shaking her head and clapping for me.

  She looked every bit the part of an NHL wife, from her designer jeans to her tailored Reapers Jersey that fit her like a fucking glove. Her hair was down, framing her incredible breasts, but I knew the best part was the fact that my name was on the back of the jersey. I hadn’t even seen it before I left for the game this afternoon, but I would have bet my bonus on it.

  I halted just in front of her and twirled my finger with a smirk.

  She cocked an eyebrow at me, but turned around, no doubt thinking about how much it turned me on to see Price on her back.

  But it was her turn to surprise me. She’d had it custom made with my number, but it read, “Mrs. Price.” She turned back around and threw my own smirk back at me.

  “So fucking hot,” I said toward the glass, knowing she would read my lips.

  Her grin was heart-stopping, and I pounded at my chest to let her know it.