by Kit Rocha
Bren gave in, driving into her mouth, far enough to bump the back of her throat but not choke her. Over and over, until his hands were shaking and a sheen of sweat covered his chest, his forehead.
So close, but still restrained. She freed one hand from the tangle of bed sheets and slid it up his hip, over tense muscles. He liked pain, so she gave him a taste of it, raking her nails down his chest with almost enough pressure to break the skin.
"Fuck, yes." He covered her hand with his, forcing her nails harder against his flesh. His eyes lost focus, and his hips jerked. "Hurt me."
She did, even if hurt seemed like the wrong word for something that dragged a groan of pleasure from him. Just like pain was the wrong word for the sensation of his fingers tightening in her hair, pulling until her eyes watered. His other hand pressed tight over hers, urging her to pierce his skin.
Her next scratch left four furrows across his chest. He choked out her name and drove deep, clutching the back of her head with sharp desperation. One heartbeat, two--then he came with a groan and a shudder, his cock pulsing on her tongue.
He was so deep she didn't need to swallow, so deep she couldn't breathe. Panic clawed at her, but she closed her eyes and clung to him. Trusting him wasn't easy, not yet, but there was enough of it there to keep her from struggling against his grip.
He didn't release her when he stilled. He was as controlling as ever, hauling her head back by her hair as he lifted her hand to his mouth for a lingering kiss.
The ache inside her exploded into something desperate and vulnerable, but she didn't know how to ask for relief. She wasn't supposed to need it, because letting him fuck her mouth wasn't supposed to leave her wet and squirming restlessly on his bed.
And it hadn't, not really. But getting him off had, and opening her eyes to meet his lazy, satisfied gaze only intensified the ache.
He held on to her hair as he dropped to his knees, running his fingers through the strands all the way to the ends, and he tickled them over her nipples with a grin. "Are you wet? The truth."
She swallowed, but her voice still came out hoarse. "Yes."
He dragged her pants--and her underwear--down her legs, stripping her completely bare in one smooth movement. "How wet?"
Smug fucking bastard. He had to know she was panting for him, but she wasn't going to admit it twice. She pressed her knees together and steadied her voice. "Guess you'll have to find out, huh?"
"Guess so," he agreed easily--but there was nothing easy about his iron hands on her legs, urging them apart. Nothing easy about him cupping his hands behind her knees and pushing them up, up, until her back hit the bed.
She was wide open, exposed.
It was too much.
Nervous anticipation veered straight toward panic, and she closed her eyes and gripped the blankets, fighting the urge to twist away.
"Shh." He didn't release her, only brushed a kiss across the back of one thigh. "Remember. Nothing you don't want."
She hadn't whispered a word of protest, but he still knew. He always knew, and the unfairness of it all made her laugh shakily. "I don't know what I want. And half the stuff I do know scares the hell out of me."
"Then trust me, if you can."
"I do. It's just..."
Another kiss, to the inside of her calf. "What?"
How to describe the feeling of floating in the darkness, cut off from anything familiar, exposed and vulnerable with nothing but the touch of his hands and the occasional brush of his lips to ground her? "I'm lost."
"Do I scare you?"
"No." She freed one hand and slid it into his short hair, her nails scoring his scalp. She wanted to drag him up, feel him crushing her into the bed, cutting off the world. "You just feel so far away."
His tongue grazed her exposed clit, but only for an electric moment. He kept moving, up and over her, until he was stretched out, his elbows on either side of her head. "Better?"
His weight settled on her, familiar and not, because it was skin on skin with a bed at her back. But she knew how it felt to be pinned by him, to have him between her thighs.
Safe.
The tension melted out of her body, muscle by muscle, even as instinct had her studying the set of his jaw and the angle of his brow, searching for evidence of irritation or impatience. "Better."
"Mmm." He licked her jawline, up to the spot beneath her ear.
She shuddered and squirmed, rubbing her hips against his. "I'm not scared of you. You know that, right?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he shifted so that the hair on his chest chafed her nipples. Her breath caught, then rushed out on a moan as she clutched at his back.
His teeth closed on her ear. "Do I still feel far away?"
She'd probably feel the heat of him lingering on her skin for days. "No."
His voice was a low, teasing whisper, shivering in her ear. "Even if I slide back down and fuck you with my tongue?"
Oh, God. The nervousness was still there, but now it was wrapped in the faith that he'd come back if she needed him. Her tongue tangled on the words, so she pushed on his shoulders, urging him down her body as she let her legs fall open.
Bren touched her first, the rough pads of his fingertips gliding through the wetness of her arousal, gentling when he circled her clit. Even that brought her hips up, chasing after his touch.
So light. So sweet. And so not enough. It made her cheeks burn to ask, but she was needy enough not to care. "I want your fingers inside me again. Please."
He gave her one, a long thrust all the way into her as he lowered his mouth and licked her clit. She tensed, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily around his finger, and now that she'd had her hands around his dick, she knew how much bigger it would feel. "More," she whispered. "Like you're getting me ready for your cock."
He lingered long enough to make one thing clear--she could issue orders, but he'd do as he damn well pleased. As soon as the thought fluttered through her mind, he pulled his finger free and returned not with two, but three.
Moaning, she jerked her hips back, torn by indecision. The stretch was almost too much, overwhelming, but every sweep of his tongue helped to melt that pressure into something warmer, forbidden but so delicious. She clutched his head and whimpered his name.
Bren kept stroking, kept licking, as if she wasn't wordlessly begging him to give her more. He'd shoved her to the very brink, but now he let her hover there, twisting into ever tighter knots until she was biting her lip bloody to keep from pleading with him.
The pressure edged past anticipation, and she groaned and tried to wrench away. He held her still, closed his mouth on her clit--and sucked hard.
It was too much and then not enough and then too much again, reeling back and forth as she yanked his hair and bucked, struggling to get closer in one heartbeat and to writhe away in the next. Pleasure swelled up, crashing through the tension, and she froze, back arched, toes clenched, the word please falling from her lips over and over, so tiny and needy and helpless.
And then it was just right. She sobbed out a moan of pure relief as she came.
He guided her through the shudders, his fingers moving, slick and easy, inside her. He trembled, as if he wanted to press her further, but finally his touch eased.
If he'd pushed her up again, it might have killed her. As it was, her limbs felt boneless. Only her fingers had any strength left, but she couldn't seem to unclench them from his hair. "Bren."
He leaned up just far enough to rest his forehead on her stomach. "Yeah?"
She relaxed her hand enough to stroke her fingertips along the edge of his ear. "Are you stopping for me?"
"Mmm." He turned his face to her touch. "For now."
She almost told him he didn't have to, but the words would have been hollow. Sheer habit, telling some guy to take what she wasn't ready to give, because it was the only way to pretend she was in control when it inevitably happened.
Bren didn't need her permission. He knew he could d
o whatever the fuck he wanted to her, and she should be thanking him for knowing when to stop, not trying to goad him on until he hurt her.
So she brushed her thumb over his lips and savored the tiny hitch in her chest at the intimacy of the contact. "Thanks for taking care of me."
Instead of responding, he crawled up to lean over her. He dropped a kiss to the corner of her mouth, gentle and quick, then stretched out and drew her to his chest.
It shook her more deeply than the orgasm had. "You want me to stay?"
He combed his fingers through her hair. "Unless you have someplace to be, yeah. I want you to stay."
This was what she'd never known enough to crave before, the thing the O'Kanes exchanged as casually as words. Affection and warmth, the quiet sensual pleasure of warm skin and his hand in her hair. She could rub her cheek against Bren's chest and close her eyes, and every touch would be a reminder that she wasn't alone. "Okay."
He tilted her face up to his. "Is it?"
Probably not. If she twisted logic enough, she could pretend this was just an extension of trusting him with her body. He'd rest better knowing she was safe. It didn't have to mean more. "I might kick you. And hog the covers."
The corner of his mouth curved up in a slow smile. "I'll manage, sweetness."
Her pulse had finally settled, but that damn smile kicked it up again. She covered by burying her face in his shoulder. "And I'm grumpy in the morning."
"Then it's a good thing I already frisked you for weapons."
Could he feel her lips pulling up into an unwilling grin? Funny that she didn't care. "I'd tell you to say that when I'm biting you, but I think you'd like it."
"You catch on quick." His chuckle warmed her temple. "Sleep. It'll be all right."
I know. But that didn't stop her from staying awake long after Bren had drifted off. His heartbeat thumped beneath her ear, steady and soothing, and the warmth of his body wrapped around her, but she couldn't stop trying to memorize the details. The weight of his arm over her, the press of his thigh, the way the hair on his chest felt under her palm as she spread her fingers wide. Maybe if she filled her head with enough good things, the bad ones would topple out the back.
Either way, she wasn't going to take one damn moment for granted.
The single grated window in his room was still dark when Bren woke up. Six curled against him, warm and naked, and he seriously considered ignoring whatever had awakened him.
A soft noise, barely there but rough, like something gliding over carpet. He glanced over at the door and, sure enough, a folded note had been pushed beneath it. He slid slowly from the bed, careful not to disturb Six, and picked up the note.
Meeting at ten, Dallas's office. And I want to see that woman of yours this afternoon.
It was signed with a flourish. Lex, entirely too pleased with herself for figuring out where Six would be this morning.
Bren tossed aside the note and sat at his table, his back to the wall. He'd already broken down and laid out his oldest rifle, his favorite, the one Cooper had lifted off an Eden MP and given him to train with, years before Bren had ever worn the uniform himself. When he picked up the barrel, it slid into his hand like it had been crafted for him. He could break it down in seconds and put it back together just as quickly--in the dark, if he had to.
He knew this weapon like nothing else, and it knew him.
He began to clean it, working silently, his gaze drifting to the woman still sleeping under his blanket. In time, he could learn her like he'd learned this rifle. The only question was whether she'd let him.
The sun had begun to rise, and soft purple light filtered in through the window. On the bed, Six muttered something and rolled over. The covers slipped away, baring her back in the near darkness.
The shadows only highlighted the scars on her back, rough and raised, marring what should have been smooth skin. He'd known about them already--even if Six had never talked about what had happened to her at Trent's hands, Bren would have known. A woman like her didn't last long without some asshole trying to beat the fight out of her, leaving behind fear and grudging obedience.
No, he'd known about her scars. But seeing them was different, somehow. Worse.
The metal pieces in his hands clinked together, so he set them aside and lit a cigarette.
It took two for his hands to stop shaking.
Six stirred again as he was finishing the second, rolling onto her stomach to bury her face in his pillow. She stretched with a sigh before turning her head to squint at him. "Did I sleep too long?"
"No, it's still early."
Her eyes drifted shut as she smiled sleepily. "Did I drive you out of bed? I told you I kick."
She hadn't, not once all night. "Got a summons. I have a meeting this morning, and you've got one this afternoon."
That brought her eyes open fully. Clutching the blanket to her chest, she twisted into a seated position. "What kind of meeting?"
"To talk about Sector Three, I suppose." He finished assembling his rifle and nestled it into its case. "Debriefing."
Her gaze was fixed on his hands. "Huh?"
"A meeting." Her distraction was blatant--and adorable. "I have other guns I can clean, if you want to watch."
She slipped from the bed and crossed the room, his blanket still crushed to her chest and trailing the floor behind her. "You put it together without even looking."
"Mmm. It was my first. Had it close to twenty years now."
Her finger brushed the edge of the case, but her hair had spilled over her shoulder, hiding her expression. "It fits you. Graceful and deadly."
He pulled her around the edge of the table and into his lap, spinning her so that the blanket wrapped around her first. "Sounds scary when you say it like that."
"Not to me." After a moment of awkward stiffness, she leaned into him, resting her forehead on his jaw. "Because you've got my back."
"Yeah." It helped to soothe him. This was a place of power, of control. He couldn't change the past, but she'd invited him to protect her now.
She turned her face to his neck, and her breath tickled his skin. "You saw my back."
"I did."
"Some of it's old. It wasn't all Trent."
"No?"
He felt her shake her head, take a breath, and let it out again. Then she changed the subject. "How many guns do you have left to clean?"
"Fourteen." But he made no move toward any of them. "I was born in Eden, but not in the city proper. In the underground. I don't have a number, the barcode on my wrist was faked, and my name isn't Brendan Donnelly. I don't know what it is, or if I ever had one, really."
"Oh." Six slipped a hand from the blankets and ghosted a finger over the black box on his wrist, where Ace had filled in his barcode all those years ago. "I thought there weren't slums in Eden."
If only. "There are slums everywhere, sweetness. Even in Eden. Another dirty little secret."
She touched the tattoo again. "My father had seven wives. He learned my brothers' names, but he mostly called us girls by whatever order we came out. Some of my little sisters never got real names at all."
"I'm sorry." His own story couldn't compare to that. At least it wasn't his family who'd left him nameless, but the loose network of outcasts beneath the city. "It worked out for me. I survived, and then Cooper plucked me up."
"Cooper?"
"Neal Cooper, retired military police. He--" Words didn't exist to explain Coop's unwavering honesty to people used to lies. The matter-of-fact kindness where only cruelty was expected. "He takes care of lost things, people who've been thrown away."
Six twined her fingers with his. "I'm sorry you were thrown away. Whoever did it was stupid."
"Desperate," he corrected. "And it doesn't matter. The hardest shit in my life came early, and I didn't know any better. It just was, and I got through it."
"Everyone's desperate," she whispered. "Everywhere but here. You don't understand how stupid I am. All this tech
you have? The running water, the electricity? This is what I imagined Eden was like."
There were places in the sectors that defined wasteland, where the land beyond the borders, out in the wilderness, was a less forbidding place to live. "You aren't stupid. Life here in Sector Four's pretty damn posh. Dallas keeps it that way."
She huffed in amusement. "No, I'm a little stupid. Girls don't need to read on the farms in Six and Seven. I was just gonna be some old guy's eighth or ninth wife."
"Uneducated is one thing. It means you can learn. Stupid means you can't, even when someone gives you the chance."
"I guess." Her lips brushed his throat, over his pulse. "I know I'm not really stupid, but sometimes I feel that way. Like it doesn't matter if I can learn, I'll never do it fast enough to catch up with everyone else."
Bren had seen burly men--tough men--reduced to tears at the prospect of trials and changes smaller than the ones she'd endured. "You'll be all right, that's a promise. Have I ever lied to you?"
"No."
"And I won't. Even if what I have to say is hard."
"I know." Her laughter tickled his skin. "You're my favorite of all the people who've ever kidnapped me."
It was sweet, in a sad, twisted sort of way--which pretty much described both of them perfectly. "You're absolutely my favorite person I've ever kidnapped."
Six eased her hand from his, only to slide it up his arm and over his shoulder. Her nails pricked his skin. "You're good at fucking, aren't you?"
Bren had never been one for conversational niceties like graceful segues, but her subject change was so abrupt he blinked. "I don't suck at it. People come."
When she lifted her head, the early morning light revealed her flushed cheeks. "I don't know how to do this. I've never wanted to encourage someone to try to fuck me before."
She was so nervous he couldn't tease her. Instead, he brushed her tangled hair out of her face. "We fucked last night. I didn't put my dick in your pussy, but trust me. We fucked."
That tiny furrow appeared as she processed the words, adding the information to whatever mental file she was building. "Then how do I tell you that I want that? Your dick inside me? There should be a word."