by Kit Rocha
Maybe she was right--but he didn't have all that self-control for nothing. "You might," he allowed in a rumble, then licked a path up the delicate line of her spine, from her shoulder blades to the base of her neck.
Her whole body was shaking by the time his tongue swiped across her vulnerable nape, but she dug her fingernails into the couch and fought back with words. "I know how turned on you are. I had your cock in my mouth, in my fucking throat. Tell me you weren't thinking about grabbing the back of my head and making me swallow all of you."
"Dirty words, sweetness." Her hair was soft and heavy as he wrapped it around his hand, and he relished the stifled moan that vibrated in the back of her throat when he jerked her head back. "I was hard before that, when you were coming on my fingers. I can wait."
She sucked in an unsteady breath. Another. A shudder, and the tension melted from her body as she closed her eyes. "Make me feel good?"
He guided his cock until the head barely pushed between the inner lips of her pussy. "It won't be soft or easy."
"Nothing good ever is."
Soft and easy. That wasn't him, and he was starting to understand that it wasn't her, either. She didn't need it, only him. Like this.
He plunged into her, releasing her hair to grip her hips instead. She moaned her approval and pushed back, never passive even after she'd given in. "Like this," she said hoarsely. "Rough. I'm not fragile, damn it."
"Shh." One more kiss to the center of her back, just under the shallow network of scars that crisscrossed her skin, and he straightened. Her hips arched in his hands, enough delicious friction to send shivers through them both.
And her voice came, soft and shaking. "Please."
Slow and deep, every thrust harder than the last. The rhythm did little to distract him from her choked noises, especially when they grew into moans, into pleas. Pleas to make her feel good, to make her feel everything.
But she didn't fight his grip. She didn't ask for more or faster or rougher, even though he knew she wanted it.
She gave him something far more fragile than her body. Her trust.
So he sped his thrusts, his hips slapping against her ass, and let his own words come. "Take it deep, baby. So fucking deep."
She grabbed on to the back of the couch, gripping hard to brace herself, to make it easier for him to drive home. "I can--" She moaned with his next thrust, throwing her head back. "I can take more."
He caught her shoulders in an iron grip, arching her back. "Harder?"
"Yes. Always."
His next pounding thrust drove her feet off the floor, and she moaned his name as her pussy clenched. "Only once," she gasped. "I can't--God, I don't know if I can--"
"You can," he ground out between gritted teeth. "You will."
And she did, even though he had to ride her G-spot hard to get her there. After an endless climb, she slammed into orgasm, gasping his name again and again in a raw voice almost as impossible to ignore as the tight clasp of her pussy.
It went on and on, until nothing could have kept him from coming. The helpless clutch of her inner muscles dragged him straight up to that trembling edge, and one last desperate plunge sent him tumbling over it. He pulled her to him, an arm locked across her chest, as they shuddered together.
She stilled long before she spoke. "Are my feet on the floor? I can't tell."
Bren couldn't tell where his own goddamn feet were. He loosened his grip, and she slid down his body. "Better?"
"I don't know." She exhaled shakily. "I think you turned me into a sex junkie or something. Fucking hell."
A far cry from the first time, when she'd insisted she didn't need to come and it probably wouldn't happen, anyway. "This is Sector Four, sweetness. No such thing as too much sex."
"So you say now." She tilted her head back enough to grin at him. "Think you can keep up with me, old man?"
She'd spent her first night in the sector chained to a chair, and nearly every night since in varying stages of fear and healing. Now, here she was, open and trusting--
His.
Bren returned her grin, lazy and confident. "Don't worry. I've got a few secrets left. I might surprise you."
Just like she'd surprised him.
Ace
Emma had painted her ceiling blue.
Ace tucked a hand behind his head and studied it as he listened to her crash around in her bathroom. "When'd you have time to decorate, junior?"
"When?" She emerged, still naked, and grabbed a half-empty bottle of whiskey on her way back to the bed. "First chance I got. The color helps me sleep."
It wasn't a bad choice. Not ultramarine or navy, but a little more vibrant than denim. Cobalt, maybe, though God knew the colors you could get now weren't anything like the pre-Flare bounty. The mouth-breathers slogging away in Sector Eight's factories wouldn't know cyan from cerulean, and the snobs in Eden contented themselves with art made from pixels and code.
Emma sank onto the mattress, and he shifted to give her space. "It's nice. Where'd you get the paint? Walt's place?"
"Yeah. He likes to pretend he's a hard-ass, but he's fair enough with his prices."
Ace lifted her wrist with his free hand and admired the cuff he'd laid there barely a month ago. "This doesn't hurt," he reminded her, rubbing his thumb along the intricate framing. He'd been plenty smug the day he'd tattooed it onto her skin, pleased that he'd finally talked her into signing on as his apprentice, pleased he'd avoided having Cruz flatten his face in the cage, and really damn pleased that Lex and Dallas had worked out their shit.
Everything had been looking up.
Emma turned her wrist--and wrapped her fingers around his. "What's wrong, Ace?"
"Not a goddamn thing," he replied easily. "I just got a dirty-hot show followed by an enthusiastic fuck, and you brought me whiskey in bed."
"Liar." She uncapped the bottle and took a drink before offering it to him. "You heard the rumors, I guess."
His gut tightened, and he almost told her he didn't want to know. It didn't matter that he'd had some hazy, half-cocked plan to throw Cruz and Rachel back together. That had fizzled the second he'd walked into the storeroom and seen them--
Christ, he hadn't seen anything, just Cruz, shirtless with his belt hanging open. Then again, Cruz was the next best thing to a fucking prude. Ace had had an easier time getting into the pants of city virgins.
Not that he was trying to get into the man's pants. No, he was trying to get someone else into them, someone who could shake a few of those Eden hang-ups--
"The other night, after the fights? Word is that Rachel hooked up with Dallas and Lex. I don't know if it was a one-time thing or what, but that's what I heard."
His mind shuddered to a halt, and he stared at Emma. "She did what?"
"Yeah, that's what I said." Emma tilted her head. "Shit, you really didn't know?"
"No." But there was no way Rachel would lead Cruz on if she'd been jumping in between Dallas and Lex. Which meant whatever he'd walked in on couldn't have been the two of them scrambling to hide sexual evidence.
"If that's not why you're brooding in my bed, what gives?"
He took the whiskey and downed a healthy swig, letting the familiar burn settle him. "I'm an artist, Em. We brood. It's why all the chicks wanna fuck us. You should know, since Jas has to pry Noelle off you with a crowbar."
"Or I'm just that good." Emma shrugged. "I don't know, you're taking this awfully well. I thought Rachel was your big unrequited, deathless love. Your favorite thing that was never gonna happen."
The word unrequited stung, but not as much as the word never. Combined, they pissed him off. "What, so she fucked Dallas and Lex. Who hasn't?"
"Well, I haven't. That doesn't seem fair."
Her sincere irritation was adorable enough to slice through his, and any opportunity to change the damn subject was a gift. "Next time you're playing grab-ass with Noelle, tell her that. You haven't lived until you've gotten all up in between those four."
<
br /> "Really?" Emma leaned closer and flashed him an impish, knowing smile. "Who ends up on top?"
Ace laughed and tugged at her hair. "You've been around long enough to know the answer to that, kid. Whoever the ladies decide they want on top."
"In a pile like that? I'd be hard-pressed to choose."
"You already did." He nodded to her wrist. "O'Kane for life, eh?"
"For life," she agreed, then smiled softly and snuggled down into the crook of his arm. "You're not going to tell me what's got you so down tonight, are you?"
"You're talking like I even know," he said lightly, leaning over to set the whiskey bottle on the floor. "Maybe it's just weird, seeing Bren act like he's in love. You have no idea what he was like when he first showed up. Concrete was more sentimental."
Emma laughed. "I think it's sweet. Like there's someone for everyone, and it's Fate they both wound up here."
The hell of it was, it had been sweet. Intense. That moment after they'd driven Six over the edge, when Bren's gaze had met his--that was always Ace's favorite part. The shared sense of accomplishment, the feeling of working together to bring a woman outside herself. He got off on it almost as much as the sex.
All of the intimacy, with none of the responsibility.
But today Six had lifted her face to nuzzle into Bren's neck, totally possessive and totally possessed, and Ace had felt...
Envy. Longing. Something.
Emma stroked a soothing hand over his chest. Finally, she spoke, quiet and serious. "You don't have to listen to me, but I think maybe wanting something isn't enough sometimes. You have to wait until you need it so bad nothing else matters, and that's when you're ready for it."
Until he needed what? To try to shoehorn himself in between Jas and Noelle? Or Bren and Six?
Or Cruz and Rachel?
Fuck his imagination, anyway, because the image didn't even form. It was just there, fully realized, hot enough to stir his cock. Cruz, all those fine-as-fuck muscles flexing as he held Rachel in place and told Ace how hard the next stroke should fall, both of them reveling in her cries, her writhing. Or Christ, pumping his fingers into her pussy while he watched her blow Cruz.
Helped her.
No.
He shoved away the thought and forced himself to laugh. "Don't you go getting all philosophical on me, junior. You're my apprentice, and that means you have to live up to my reputation. We're hot, we're shallow, and everyone wants to fuck us because we know all the best tricks."
"Right." She stretched across him, reaching for a sketchpad on the nightstand. "Want to take a look at some drawings before you split?"
Okay, maybe that had been too defensive. He let his hair fall over his brow and gave her big eyes. "You kickin' me out?"
"Oh, please. You're not gonna stay." She gave him a pointed look over the top of the sketchpad. "I might get my feelings all over you."
So much for that. He slapped a hand over his eyes and groaned. "Why did saddling myself with a smartass sidekick seem like a good idea?"
"Because I keep you humble, and Lord knows you need it?"
Even better, she kept him distracted. Slamming the door on fantasy, he flung his arm wide. "Yeah, yeah. Fine, show me the sketches."
It'd do. For now.
Chapter Fifteen
"Christ, did this twitchy bastard pick the creepiest place in the Sector to meet?"
Bren grinned. The railyard was a mess of ripped-up steel and graffiti-riddled train cars, but it was open, with plenty of spots to take cover--just in case. "You should have been here last time, Dallas. I had to chat with him under Wilson Trent's murder bridge."
"Someone's been watching too many old movies." Dallas checked his watch and sighed. "Not much for punctuality, either, is he?"
"He has a flair for the dramatic."
"Great. He and Ace can start a club."
"I don't think--" A barely audible crunch on the gravel behind them interrupted the words. Bren spun, one hand already on the pistol beneath his jacket. "That's a good way to get shot in the fucking face, Lennox."
Noah stopped, both hands held out to his side. "Bad habit. I'll work on breaking it."
Bren relaxed, his heart still racing, and waved in introduction. "Dallas O'Kane, Noah Lennox."
"Lennox."
"O'Kane."
The two men sized each other up, both careful to keep their expressions bland. The silence grew heavy, until Noah broke it by running a hand nervously through his hair. "Scarlet tells me you're trying to clean house in Three."
"He is. We are," Bren corrected, edging closer. "She sent us a message, said you had information about something going down. Something big?"
"The what is bad enough. It's the who that I think you'll be real interested in."
"So spit it the hell out," Dallas growled. "I don't have time for games."
Noah's gaze flicked to Bren. "Russell Miller."
The name sent chills down Bren's spine and raised the hair on his arms--and, judging from the look on Noah's face, he'd already made the connection. "My commanding officer from Special Tasks."
Dallas's head whipped around. "The bastard who burned you?"
"Yeah." Bren took another step forward. "What's Miller up to out here?"
Noah reached inside his jacket, moving slowly, and pulled out a small tablet. "Dealing in the kind of merchandise you'd better put a stop to," he said seriously, holding the tech out to Dallas. "People."
Dallas's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me some MP big shot is engaging in human trafficking in Three?"
Lennox shrugged. "Ask him if Miller's capable of it."
After claiming the tablet, Dallas slanted a look toward Bren. "Is he?"
Russell Miller was capable of torture, rape, murder--any goddamn thing you could think of, and probably a good handful of things a decent person couldn't imagine. "A hundred and ten percent."
Dallas's face hardened. "Is everything on here?"
"Everything I could find."
"And how much is it gonna cost us?"
Noah waved a hand. "The information is free. The price is dealing with it."
"All right." Dallas handed the tablet to Bren without looking away from Noah. "Bren?"
"Watch yourself," he found himself saying. "Miller's not just another asshole out to make a buck. He's Eden-trained. He knows better than to run an operation without proper intel, which means he's got someone local. Someone who probably knows your face."
"Oh, I'm taking care." Noah met Bren's eyes, serious and a little wary. "I know the sorts of things an Eden-trained soldier is capable of doing."
For once, Bren welcomed the condemnation. "Good. Then you might stay alive."
As much as she was starting to enjoy waking up with Bren, Six still loved having her own room with a door that locked, even if it was full of furniture someone else had picked out for her.
No, especially because of that.
She never would have chosen a bed with a solid, elegant headboard carved from real wood. She wouldn't have dared go for all the shit that had come with it, either. A dresser and mirror, table and chairs, solid pieces that had been dusted and shined, any one item worth more credits than she'd seen in a year as a teenager.
At first, every damn thing an O'Kane had given her had felt like a weight around her neck, a debt she'd have to repay before she could begin squirreling away enough money to build a new life. Now, they felt like something else. Gestures of good faith.
Or gifts from family.
Her favorite gift was on the couch. She kicked her boots into the corner and swept up the tablet, activating it with a quick swipe across the screen as she curled up on the couch, ready to continue the latest book Noelle had helped her download.
But her book didn't open. Instead, a message appeared, one the tablet began to read in its friendly, feminine voice. As the words rolled out of the tiny speakers, her stomach sank.
Six--
Maybe the good's worth the bad, but everyone
deserves full disclosure. Watch it all before you make any choices you can't take back.
Noah
Before she had a chance to wonder what she was supposed to watch, a video popped up, filling the screen. Bren's face stared up at her, at least a decade younger. Some of the rough angles and scars she'd traced with her fingertips were gone, and his nose looked a little straighter.
A man behind the camera's field of view spoke. "What was your mission objective?"
"To stop the trafficking, sir," Bren answered immediately.
The unseen man cleared his throat and repeated the question. "What was your mission objective?"
Bren shifted in his chair. "Sorry, sir. Our objective was to find the subjects wanted for trafficking and eliminate them."
"Did you?"
"I terminated one of the targets. My team took care of the other three."
"And yet you fired..." paper rustled, "...twenty-two rounds. For four targets? That sounds like a sloppy operation, soldier."
"It was--" Bren swallowed hard and looked away from the camera for the first time. "They had captives, sir. Lieutenant Miller told us we had to leave them."
"So you executed them."
"He told us we had to leave them."
Six slapped at the tablet. The video paused, leaving Bren frozen, his gaze fixed somewhere off camera, his face turned away.
Her gut churned. The air in the room felt stale, stuffy. She rasped in a breath and then another, forcing herself to breathe slowly, forcing herself to think.
She barely knew how to operate tech, but she'd seen Noelle and Nessa run enough movies. Placing her finger on the slider along the bottom, she dragged it backwards, until it was flush against the left side of the tablet.
When she lifted her finger, the video started again.
It was no easier to watch the second time. The word trafficking echoed inside her skull, banging against her temples and scraping at mental doors she'd bolted firmly shut. Bren's voice came again. "They had captives, sir. Lieutenant Miller told us we had to leave them."
Shuddering, she silenced the screaming in her head and dragged the marker back to the beginning, as if listening a third time would change the content.