His tongue flicked into her mouth, a sly flexing, and her knees gave out. She let her legs go until the edge of the desk caught her, and she was sitting on it, head tipped all the way back as he cradled her face in his hands and launched an all-out assault against her mouth.
She grabbed at his cut to steady herself, and then her hands slipped inside it, flattening over the hard stretch of his stomach.
It wasn’t enough.
She had no idea how long this stolen moment could last, or how she’d even have the strength to stand afterward, the way he kept kissing her, but she had to have more, had to have skin. She slipped her hands beneath his shirt, rewarded with the hot, damp, soft skin of his belly, the hard steel of muscle, the coarse line of dark hair that was his treasure trail. She clawed upward, over the ridges of his abs, toward his ribs; she wanted his chest. Wanted him shirtless.
He nipped at her lip, pulled it hard between his teeth, and then his hands dropped down to her chest, the V of skin at the neck of her shirt, the pearl buttons. The fabric was wet and difficult to manage, the buttons tugging.
“Don’t rip it,” she gasped as he broke away from her mouth. She tried to withdraw her hands, but she wasn’t fast enough.
He thumbed open the top three buttons and spread the halves, down to the waistband of her skirt where it was still tucked in. There was her skin, pale and clammy from the rainwater, her drenched black bra with the little light blue flowers.
Her head spun, the longing and the want in her making her dizzy, turning her pulse into an awful, percussive force in her ears. She was breathless.
Mercy reached for her bra straps, and she said, “Wait, it opens in the front.”
He was fractious, panicked. “Thank Christ.” With a rough tug, he sprung the clasp and the cups fell to the side, her breasts spilling into his hands, the centers tight, cold, and aching, seeking out the warmth in his palms.
“God,” she breathed. She was covered in gooseflesh, and his fevered skin was delicious as he touched her, cupped her breasts and squeezed.
“Yeah, fillette.” He breathed a thin laugh. “I’ll be your god.”
He put his hand against her sternum and pushed her back, lowered her over the desk. Papers crackled under her shoulders, the desk was rock-hard, but she didn’t care. She lifted her spine and offered her chest to him as he bent to kiss her nipples, draw them into his warm mouth.
He touched her, soothed away the goose bumps with steady passes of his hands, across her belly, her collarbone, her breasts. He smoothed her skirt across the tender flesh of her lower belly, down her thighs, like he was trying to decide the fastest way to get the damn thing off her.
“Mercy,” she whispered, feeling helpless, needing him so badly she wanted to cry.
He hooked both hands behind her knees and lifted her legs up, pushed her skirt up, bundling it roughly, shoving it up to her hips. Then he passed his hands up and down her smooth, bare thighs, all the way up, to her hips, into the lace of her panties so he could palm her ass and squeeze. He was enjoying the feel of her, and the knowledge made her shiver.
“It’s been too long,” he murmured. “Too damn long…shit, I don’t have a condom…”
“I’m on the pill; I don’t care.”
He skimmed her panties down to her knees, calves, ripped them over her high heels. And then he was between her legs, stroking her, passing his hands up the insides of her thighs, sliding his fingers through the wetness at her sex.
“Mercy, please.”
She heard him get his jeans open, and then he pushed her knees up, leaned over her, sank inside her.
She’d forgotten, just a little, how large he was, and her breath caught a moment as he filled her. That little twinge of discomfort; that ungodly stretching. She felt that first slow stroke all the way up at the base of her throat, his contained power moving through her entire prone body.
And then she pulled in a deep breath that was more of a sob, because it had been five years, and he was inside her again. She had no grace for this moment. She was nothing but raw nerves and bleeding heart, and she didn’t ever want to let go of him.
When she caught his face in her hands and pulled him down, so their foreheads touched, he acquiesced with such gentleness. His warm breath feathered across her lips and his eyelashes flickered against hers and he held so still while she traced his jaw and cheekbones with her fingertips, holding him to her.
“Felix,” she murmured, desperate and terrified, a plea and a claim of ownership.
“I’m right here,” he said, voice the low, heavy purr she only heard now in her memories. “Hold on to me, baby.”
And then she felt the first great thrusting of his hips, and his face pulled away from her, and he braced a hand on the desk beside her head and reached under the small of her back with the other to draw her hips up tightly against his. She felt the tremors in him, the energy under his skin, the powerful muscles flexing and clenching.
And then she understood. Hold on to him, because even if he wanted to cradle her and take her gently, he just couldn’t. It had been five years, and she’d yelled at him, and this was too overwhelming. He needed to make a statement; he needed to fuck her. And she needed it, too.
He drove into her again and again, so deep, with such force the desk creaked in protest. Ava couldn’t breathe; she dug her nails into his forearms and prayed for it not to end, though she could already feel her climax coming, crashing through her like the storm that raged against the window.
She didn’t know if she screamed, or if it was the thunder, or the sirens; she thought she might have blacked out.
Mercy shuddered hard, and then dropped down over her, muttering nonsense into her neck between slow, open-mouthed kisses against her damp skin.
Her hands were like lead, but she lifted them to his shoulders, crept inward until she massaged the back of his neck. He was crushing her. His cock was still inside her and he had at least one more round in him. Ava wanted to lay like this forever, even if she couldn’t take a deep breath, even if there was a telephone cord digging into her spine. The thought of separating from him brought fresh tears to her eyes. Because once he pulled back, this moment would shatter, and they’d be back to square one, tense and hating one another.
Mercy pushed up on his hands, so his face hovered over hers. His eyes had that soft, post-coital liquid look to them, almost awestruck. “Break up with your boyfriend.”
Relaxed now, exhausted as the adrenaline drained away, Ava laughed. “Say what?”
He put his elbows on the desk and smoothed her hair back from her face with both hands, cradling her scalp like it was an eggshell he was afraid of breaking. He was still breathing hard, his chest pressing against hers, his t-shirt rubbing at her sensitized nipples. His face gleamed with a healthy sheen of perspiration. “Break up with your boyfriend. That’s not a request.”
She pushed at his shoulders but he wouldn’t budge. “It’s bad enough I just cheated on the poor guy. Now I’m supposed to drop him like a hot rock because you say so?”
There was no hostility, just words, the sense they were too raw for them not to mean anything.
“It doesn’t count as cheating if it’s with me.”
Her heart fluttered hard at that.
“And yeah. Drop him. I won’t share you.”
She pushed harder. “Get up, please.”
He sighed dramatically, but climbed off of her, zipped up his jeans and folded his arms, stared at her.
Ava sat up and tugged her skirt down. Stepped into her panties.
“Leave the shirt open,” he said.
“No.”
“I want to look at you.”
She pulled her bra cups back in place and fastened them with a decisive snap. She gave him a pointed look as she started doing up the buttons. “If I break up with someone who’s willing to be my boyfriend, you’ll just hurt me again.”
A complex series of expressions moved across his face. “Break up with h
im anyway.”
“Mercy.” She was getting exasperated. “I’m not a teenager anymore, and you never wanted to be my old man; you can’t order me around,” she said, gently, filled with a sense that she was hurting him somehow, and still weak enough to care if she did.
He unfolded his arms, and she saw the blood on them, the deep gouges she’d dug with her nails.
“Shit. Someone’s going to see that.”
He cocked one black brow. “Now who’s worried about being secret?”
The rain had softened, just a gentle pattering against the window. She couldn’t hear the sirens anymore, and the thunder was only a low growl, growing more distant.
She had no idea what to say to him, how to fast forward beyond this. Sneaking around held none of its old thrill. And as the warmth faded, the anxiety came rushing back, her anger at her parents, at Ronnie, at both Mason Stephens, at Mercy – life in general.
She pushed her damp hair back and realized all the bobby pins were gone. Whatever.
“I’ll go back first,” she said, easing to her feet, her legs feeling like half-cooked spaghetti noodles. “You’ll have to come in after. And do something about your arms.”
He caught her around the waist as she moved toward the door, spun her around so she faced him, locked tight in his embrace. “My arms?” He smirked. “You’re gonna walk away and not even apologize. I’m bleeding.”
She sighed. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying – you cut a guy up like a mountain lion, you should say sorry.”
She managed a thin smile. “Sorry.” Her eyes were burning again. “God, what are we–”
He ducked his head and kissed her, cutting her off. The kind of rough, wet kiss that would go somewhere, if she let it.
Ava pulled back, the breath trembling in her lungs.
“Break up with him,” he said softly, “or I’ll put his head through a window.”
She shoved away from him, hard, and he let her go. “Leave me alone.” And she rushed out the door before he had a chance to catch hold of her again.
It was still misting, the clouds still gray and angry. Steam licked up off the pavement, thick as dry ice vapors. Her heels rapping the asphalt echoed strangely in the damp atmosphere, sounding too-conspicuous. Her legs wobbled, and she was afraid she’d trip and go sprawling. She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked a bedraggled mess. She could smell the sex on herself.
Damn, she was stupid.
The guys were elbow-deep in sandwiches and beer when she walked back into the clubhouse. Maggie glanced up at her entrance, and her laser-guided mother-gaze took Ava’s appearance in in less than a second, and her eyes flashed because she knew exactly what had happened.
Ava grabbed her purse and keys off the bar and said, “I’m going home. I don’t feel well,” without glancing full-on at her mom.
“Were you out there in that?” Nell asked. “You’re dripping wet, girl.”
“I’m fine.” She couldn’t look any of them in the eye; she was too full to bursting with shame.
She ground to a halt in the parking lot when she found Littlejohn waiting beside her truck.
Something like panic rippled through her. She’d forgotten all about her constant shadow; he had begun to fade into the background; she didn’t notice him as she drove, walked down sidewalks, shopped and strolled with Ronnie. She hadn’t even noticed him move, but he must have followed her before, and judging by the rain in his hair, he hadn’t managed to get to shelter soon enough. He’d seen her go into the office with Mercy. He was loyal to her father, above all else; if he thought it relevant, he’d rat her out.
She snapped. “Listen to me, prospect,” she said, charging toward him, her finger out in a threatening gesture so like her mother she would have laughed if she hadn’t been so desperate. “Whatever you saw, whatever you thought happened, you wipe it out of your mind right now, or I swear to God, I’ll put a bullet in you.”
Unfazed, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared with open curiosity at her stabbing finger, where it wavered just under his nose. “My job is to make sure you’re safe; that no one in a Carpathians cut tries to jump you.” He shrugged. “Ghost never said anything about keeping tabs on your love life.”
She fumed silently, biting her lip. When she was sure she wouldn’t scream at him, she said, “I will not stir up a bunch of shit for the club right now with my personal drama. I will not. Do you understand me?”
He nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”
“There is nothing going on with Mercy and me.”
“I didn’t figure there was, ma’am.”
“It’s really damn hard to rant at you when you keep saying ‘yes, ma’am.’ ”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fucking men,” she muttered to herself as she climbed into the truck.
Mercy used the coiled garden hose on the side of the bike shop to rinse the deep scratches on his arms. They were vivid, angry marks, and there would be no hiding them without sleeves. Seeing them made him feel victorious: she could glare at him all she wanted, but when he got up under her clothes, she was still liquid and soft for him, melting and whimpering and clinging to him.
He could find no shame, no guilt, no remorse. He was too past rational thought for that. He was like a junkie who’d finally fallen off the wagon. He needed, badly, in his world of knife-points and gun-muzzles, to have something sweet and yielding, something that was all his, something that embraced his sharp edges, without fear or recrimination. He needed Ava, just like he always had.
She needed him, too, she was just fighting it right now.
Mercy entered the clubhouse through the back, popping into the dorm he was using to change clothes, finding a black long-sleeve to cover the claw marks. For a little girl, she scratched deep, when she was in the throes like that.
He wondered if her little boyfriend had had his back shredded. He wanted to search the boy for scars…and press a hot branding iron to them if he found any.
He made it all the way to the bar, and had half a roast beef sandwich shoved in his mouth, when Michael appeared at his elbow like a fucking ghost materializing out of thin air. He didn’t say anything, just stared, unblinking. A mannequin from hell.
“Hey,” Mercy said while he chewed, and figured his ironic tone was lost on the robot.
“We need to go over our plan for tonight,” Michael said.
“Yeah, well, planning’s not really my thing. I’ll leave that to you and Rottie.” He turned his shoulder toward him, taking another huge bite of sandwich. He didn’t have the patience for this weirdo right now.
Michael might have frowned; it was hard to tell with him. He said, “If you won’t take this seriously, then you can stay behind. I don’t need your help.”
“No, you need the muscle,” Ghost said, rearing up on Mercy’s other side. “This is at least a three-man job.” To Michael, he said, “You set everything up, and tell Merc what you need him to do.”
Michael nodded and left them, something almost like resignation tweaking his blank face.
“I’m like a missile,” Mercy said with a half-smile, reaching for another sandwich. “Aim me where you want me, and deploy, right, boss?”
Ghost wasn’t smiling. “Why are you so damn wet? What were you doing outside in the middle of that shit?”
He shrugged. “I got homesick for the swamp. Thought I’d go jump around in some puddles.” When he glanced over and down, he found Ghost’s stare to be too-knowing, his expression tight.
“You didn’t happen to see Ava out there, did you? She disappeared too.”
Mercy didn’t hold eye contact, because that felt like challenging, so he glanced away and said, “I figure she’s smarter than me; she probably knows to get in out of the rain.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
But Ghost knew. He knew, and at this point, Mercy didn’t care.
“Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. Wanted to know if you’d like to grab dinner. Ca
ll me back.” Ava disconnected the call and tossed her phone into her purse. Ronnie hadn’t answered, and she figured it wasn’t because he was busy.
She’d come home, she’d showered, and under the hot pounding jets, she’d felt the guilt begin to spread, plucking at her tattered nerves, making her feel like an absolute bitch. She didn’t want to be a cheater, a liar, a girl who had secret desktop sex.
She toweled her hair and resolved to let it air dry. She went into the kitchen and dug a box of Famous Amos from the back of the pantry, was eating one tiny cookie after the other standing up against the counter when Maggie came in through the back door in an agitated rush.
“What in the hell were you thinking?” she demanded, throwing her purse onto the counter.
“I thought Jackie or Nell could give you a ride home. I’m sorry.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” Her eyes were flashing, bright hazel shards, pulse fluttering in the little hollow at the base of her throat. “You are a smart girl, Ava,” she said, advancing on her a step, hands going to her hips, hair beginning to slip from its up-‘do. “You are too smart to let this happen again, and you know it!”
“Let what happen?” Ava squirmed inwardly. She set the box aside and the cookie on her tongue turned to cardboard.
“How, in the middle of all the shit going on” – big, wide gesture to the world around them – “could you be thinking about Mercy right now?”
It was too late for lying at this point. Bag open, cat out. She drew herself up, folded her arms across her middle. “Because I always think about Mercy when things go to shit,” she said. “Because I spent years and years trusting that he would be there when things were awful and scary. It’s instinct, Mom, and I can’t change that, no matter how bad I want to. When Carpathians are after us and the demonic mayor has leverage over me, and members are dying and I’m being tailed by prospects, then, yeah, I think of Mercy. Sometimes…” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sometimes I just need to feel like I used to, when everything was right. I don’t expect you to understand that.”
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