by Naima Simone
And it would have to be enough.
She was returning to L.A. and the life she’d built for herself out west in three days. Boston had once been home, but not anymore. And she’d placed down roots in California. Had started over where no one knew her as the daughter of Colleen James, the local hooker. In L.A., no one assumed that when she served drinks, she was also on the menu. Even being Killian Vincent’s girlfriend hadn’t shed her of that stigma. Now, she stood on her own, didn’t lean on her uncle. Now, for the first time in her life, she hovered on the cusp of owning something that was all hers. Even Killian hadn’t been all hers—she’d shared him with the O’Bannons. This bar symbolized her independence, her victory over all the shit and shitty people who’d expected her to be slinging drinks and ass for her life. She’d won.
And then, of course, there remained her secret. The one she hadn’t been able to reveal to Killian before he’d rushed out the night their lives had imploded.
After her numerous attempts to visit him in the jail and his refusals to see her, cutting her out of his life, she hadn’t been able to reveal the identity of the person she’d overheard conspiring with the First Street Gang members at her uncle’s bar.
Michael Hughes, the son of Jamie, the O’Bannon gang’s boss. The man had turned against his own father, had been willing to cut him and other members down for his own gain. She or her uncle wouldn’t have been anything but a footnote in his personal murder book. And, she had no doubt, Michael would have threatened Uncle Garrett to get to her…or worse. So, she’d left, to protect her and her uncle’s life, taking her secret with her.
And now, staring into Killian’s face, she made the decision to keep that information to herself.
This club, his new life…he’d escaped the mob and their world that had revolved on an axis of violence, despair, and slavery masked as loyalty. Revealing Michael Hughes had planned that hit could possibly send Killian reeling back into the filth he’d washed off. Send him back to the hell that had ruined his voice and two years of his life. It was possible, but could she say for certain? No. This Killian seemed harder, harsher, fiercer, and more controlled than the man she knew. Which made him more unpredictable. Which meant she wasn’t risking it or him.
Which meant tonight really was all she would have with him.
“Well, Killian?” she pressed, slipping her fingertips along his waistband. Dipping between his shirt and pants, caressing his taut flesh for the first time in… She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, biting back a groan. He was hot to the touch, like a furnace burned within him.
Hard, firm fingers wrapped around her hand and removed it from him. Disappointment flashed within her, heavy and dark. No. His answer was still no, and he was sending her away…
“You know what I need. What I want.” His hold tightened, not hurting her. God, no. That firm grasp reminded her of what it’d been like between them. Hard. Pressing the limit. Blending the lines between pleasure and the bite of pain. “Do I want you tied up and spread wide? Do I want to spank that pretty ass? Hell yeah. Spank it. Take it. Your mouth. Your tight little body. No part of you would remain untouched. Unfucked. Do you remember how I’d hold you down and tongue you until you screamed, begged me to stop? Did I stop?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. Why? They both knew the answer. Hell no. Not until she’d come against in his mouth at least three times. “And I’m not going to stop. Not when I have your mouth full of me. Not when I’m so deep inside you, you’ll forget what it is to not have my cock tattooing your pussy. Have you gotten soft in five years, Gabriella? Can you handle it? Whatever I want. No matter how hard or filthy?”
Oh God, yes.
She nodded.
“I need the words,” he insisted.
“Yes.”
“Then, yeah,” he said, lowering his head until their faces were less than an inch apart. All she had to do was slick her tongue across her own mouth to touch his full, lush bottom lip. “One night. Whatever I want and need to get you out of my head once and for all. I haven’t been able to push you out, so I’ll fuck you out.”
His statement vibrated through her like a discordant cord. I’ll fuck you out…I’ll fuck you out. Painful and sweet. He was giving in, but only to be rid of her, then he would forget her, go on living without her as he’d been doing for the last five years. And she had no one to blame for that but herself. Yet, she was willing to pay the price.
His eyes narrowed, and lust rippled through her, beading her nipples, spilling moisture from her sex. She clenched her thighs against the sweet ache. Careful, a voice warned. But as if she could feel the seconds of the night ticking by, she shut down that voice with a resounding slam. She could exercise caution when she was back on the west coast. Now, she needed him to brand and be branded.
Slowly, she sank to her knees, her hands lowering to his belt buckle. “Do your worst,” she invited, tilting her head back.
Except for a slight flexing of his fingers, he didn’t move. She stared up the towering length of his body, lingering on the rock hard line of his jaw, the stern line of his carnal mouth, the slashes of cheekbone, and the faint purple mark above the right one. A bruise, she noted before lifting her regard to his hooded, hazel gaze. That hawk’s stare ensnared her, and she paused, waited. But when he didn’t speak, didn’t stop her, she slid smooth leather through the buckle, unfastened his pants, and lowered his zipper.
Only then did she break the visual entrapment and shift her attention to the body she was exposing. The air in her lungs stuttered, then stalled. Black boxer briefs filled the space between his opened pants. And underneath the cotton… Oh God. Arousal threatened to crush her under its weight. The long, impossibly thick ridge of his cock pressed against the material, the blunt club of his column, the bulbous, flared tip clearly outlined. Goddamn, her mouth watered. It’d been so long. So long since he’d filled her. Since the drag of his heavy length had abraded her tongue. Since the swollen, almost brutish head had penetrated her throat.
With a small groan she couldn’t contain, she leaned forward, nuzzled his flesh. Inhaled his musky, earthy scent. Above her he stiffened, and an instant before his hand thrust in her hair, pulling her head back, a thought skittered through her head: You crossed a line.
The caress had been sentimental, personal, not sexual. It’d been a tender greeting, a soft welcoming. She knew it, and from the grip tugging on her hair, raising tiny stings along her scalp, Killian knew it. Soft. Tender. That wasn’t what this whole thing was about.
“Hands behind your back,” he growled.
She complied, locking the fingers of her left hand around her right wrist and lifting her eyes to his face. Lust blazed down at her, but she didn’t flinch from it. She embraced it.
With economic movements, he shoved down his boxers and freed his cock. And holy shit. A freaking apadravya—or happydravya as she’d heard the horizontal piercing that passed through his cockhead called because of the happy times a woman received when the little balls on either side of the bar rubbed her G-spot. Biting back a whimper, she studied the horizontal piercing. She whimpered, a rapt audience as his hand slowly pumped his flesh. He drew his fingers down, down, down the rigid length to the wide base, then retraced his path up, up, up, his fist swallowing the meaty head and the silver jewelry. When the tip reappeared, it glistened with pre-cum. Salty, a hint of spice, and addictive as hell, her sensory memory reminded her. And she craved feeling that bit of silver on her tongue and becoming reacquainted with his flavor.
“What are you waiting for?” she taunted, needing him inside her after so long, even if it was just her mouth. “Give it to me. Hard. I can take it hard,” she rasped. She was pushing him, goading him. That part of her that she’d buried this past half decade reared its head again. “Use me. Dirty me. Fuck me so hard that three days from now, the ache will let me know you’ve been inside me,” she half demanded, half pleaded. So when she was back in L.A., she could still feel his possession.
Twin fl
ags of color darkened his sharp cheekbones, and the corner of his mouth curled, twisting his mouth into a snarl that had another rush of liquid heat dampening her panties.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he murmured as he continued stroking his flesh. Damn, she hurt for just that small sample of him. “You’re trying to top from the bottom. Trying to control how this night is going to proceed. And you know what that’ll get you, don’t you?” He reached out with his free hand, cupped her cheek, the gentle caress and tone completely belying the hardness of his words. “Answer me,” he said, a hint of steel entering his voice. “What will it get you, baby?”
“Fucked,” she breathed, her heart thudding against her rib cage like a primitive drum, the same primal beat throbbing in her sex. “It’ll get me fucked.”
“That’s right. Is that what you want from me? Tell me, Gabriella.” The hoarse order practically reverberated with lust and impatience, and it was as seductive as his touch. He didn’t move, waiting for her answer, granting her a choice even though he’d just said he would determine how their night would go.
Silent, she studied the stark planes of his face, the burning heat in his eyes, the almost cruel sensuality of his wide mouth. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s what I want.”
A rough growl rolled from his chest as his big hand curled under her arm and guided her to her feet. She stumbled, her legs weak from the arousal coursing through her, but that same hand steadied her, and led her across the room to the couch.
He didn’t give her instructions, instead positioned her how he desired…how she desired. Firm, but surprisingly gentle hands bent her over the couch’s arm, and she curled her fingers around it. With quick, economical motions, he removed her ankle boots and tossed them aside. He repeated the actions with her pants, stripping them down her legs, and leaving her clothed only in her blue shirt. When he pushed her legs wider with a nudge to her feet, she moaned as cool air brushed the soaked folds of her sex, teased the bared flesh of her ass and the damp skin of her upper thighs.
A hard chest covered her back, and she loosed a long, needy groan at the sensation of Killian’s weight, finally, crushing into her, of his hard, unforgiving cock riding the cleft of her ass. Again, his hand encircled her neck, and crying out, she arched into the hold.
“Killian, please,” she said on a moan. “It’s been so long…”
Her voice trailed off, and like when she’d nuzzled his cock, Killian stiffened behind her. Once more, she’d made the mistake of making this…personal.
“Bend over.” His weight disappeared except for the palm planted in the middle of her back. Except for that hand, he didn’t touch her. But as fantastical as it sounded, she could feel his scrutiny like a visual stroke over her ass, her spread thighs, her drenched flesh.
She glanced over her shoulder and peered at him through the strands of hair falling over her eyes. A shudder worked its way through her. Raw, intense lust darkened his face as he stared at her exposed flesh. Golden skin pulled taut over his sculpted facial features, emphasizing the full, sexual curves of his mouth. Tension vibrated from him, and the hand not on her spine was curled into a big fist at his side. Underneath the need, something else seemed to be warring inside him. Probably the same battle she’d waged. Reason against insanity. Caution against recklessness. Self-preservation against I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass.
As if sensing her study, his hazel gaze lifted and met hers. Shadows shifted in the bright depths, and she tensed. Waited. Both of them could ease back from the precarious, trembling edge they stood on at this moment. They hadn’t gone so far that nothing couldn’t be taken back. She could grab her clothes and walk out of this room. They could return to their lives—his here in Boston, continuing to run his successful club, and hers in L.A., opening her new bar.
It was possible…
Killian dropped to his knees, his hands palmed her inner thighs…and he put his mouth on her.
“Oh God.” Her head dropped forward as fire barreled through her veins, setting them ablaze, before culminating in the core of her where Killian stabbed his tongue.
She sobbed, her knees buckling at the erotic contact, only the strength of his hands holding her up. So long, so long. The litany replayed in her head like a song stuck on repeat. And the melody…the melody of that song was his greedy growls as he ate her like a man served a buffet after dining on bread and water for years. He thrust inside her pussy in a carnal parody of a kiss, tasting her, torturing her. She clutched the arm of the couch, holding on, seeking some sort of purchase in this sensual storm battering her, tossing her around like a piece of driftwood.
Humming, he licked a path up her sex, his tongue parting her folds with his broad stroke, and found her clit. A cry ripped from her as he lapped at the small bundle, then sucked it. Hard. No mercy. No quarter. Pleasure pounded at her like relentless waves with slivers of pain surfing the crests. She could do nothing but take it, a prisoner to his mouth and her lust. And when his big, blunt finger penetrated her, spreading her in a way his tongue couldn’t, touching her in places his tongue couldn’t reach, she surrendered. Eagerly. With abandon.
Jerking her hips, she rode his fingers and his face. He added another finger. Then another. Gritting her teeth against the fire-laced stretch, she opened her legs wider, accepting him. Accepting whatever he gave her. And as his low rumble vibrated over her flesh, adding another level of stimulation, she knew she had his approval. A glow flickered in her chest at the knowledge, and she rolled her hips harder, wanting—needing—another of those signs of praise.
“Please, Killian,” she pleaded, not caring that she begged him for that ecstasy only he had ever given her. His answer was to curl his tongue tighter around her clit, suck with a power that had her rising to her toes to escape…make him chase her. God, she didn’t know. Everything in her life had narrowed down to one thing: release.
Darkness crept in, blurring the edges of her vision like flames licking and slowly eating away at paper. Electrical currents sizzled down her spine, gathering at the small of her back, tingling in the soles of her feet. Almost there. Oh God, almost there.
One more stroke of his tongue. One more thrust of his fingers, and she would finally…
His mouth and hands disappeared from her body.
Shock pummeled her, and she remained crouched over the couch’s arm, certain he would return to her. Finish her. But seconds passed, and though she could still sense his presence behind her, only the cool air over her hot, throbbing flesh caressed her. Confusion careened through her, and underneath, pain from her overly sensitive sex pounded. She still teetered on that slender ledge of orgasm, but she didn’t fall—couldn’t fall, when only moments ago she’d been set to tumble headfirst over it.
Understanding was slow to come, but it eventually did.
Punishment.
This was her punishment for goading Killian, for trying to wrestle the upper hand away from him.
Straightening, she turned, tugging the hem of her shirt down so it covered her aching flesh and the very tops of her thighs.
“Bastard,” she whispered, the unfulfilled pleasure serrating her voice.
He arched an eyebrow and casually wiped his hand over his chin glistening with the evidence of her lust. Never breaking eye contact with her, he slowly licked his fingers clean. And God, if she didn’t feel every stroke over her sex, her quivering inner thighs that still bore the phantom imprints of his possessive grip.
“Did you think it would be that quick? That easy?” he asked, the newly roughened tone lending an ominous quality to the question, instead of the gloating she’d expected. He cupped her chin, and swept his thumb over her lower lip, pressing until the tender flesh inside grazed her teeth. “Last chance, Gabriella.”
If she told him right now that she intended to leave this room, that she refused to let him touch her, he would let her go. She knew that with every cell of her being. But she didn’t head toward the door. She didn’t lea
ve. She wanted this—wanted him—too badly.
“I said, do your worst,” she whispered.
Heat flared in his eyes, and he dropped his hand away from her face. “Then let’s go,” he said.
“What about my cousin and sister-in-law?” Turning, she knelt to pick up her pants and boots. “I came here with them. I can’t just abandon them or have them wondering what happened to me.”
“They’ve already been taken care of. Leave those.”
She whipped around, gaping at him, a boot in one hand and pants in the other. “Excuse me?”
“Leave the clothes,” he reiterated.
She shook her head, her grasp on her jeans tightening. “Humiliation wasn’t part of this bargain. I’m not walking out of here without any pants on.”
A shadow crossed his face even as his lips firmed into a straight line. “Humiliate you? You think I want to give every motherfucker out there material to go home and fuck their fist to? Let them look at those thighs and imagine them wrapped around their waist? Their head? No, Gabriella, my intention isn’t to humiliate you,” he murmured, the silken tone all the more dangerous. “My sole focus is hustling your pretty little ass next door and upstairs as fast as possible. Whatever you think about me, I’d never place you in harm’s way, and that includes exposing you. Now,” he lowered his face until she could easily detect the green flecks in his golden eyes. Something flickered in those eyes. The same thing that, for just a moment, softened his mouth so he appeared almost…vulnerable. Hungry. No, no. Need. Like he needed her to walk out of this room with him. But in the next instant, the emotion disappeared behind a shuttered mask. “Are you in…or out?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she dropped the clothes and walked to the door, that brief flash of…whatever accomplishing what the “pretty little ass” and the possessive tone he’d uttered it in couldn’t.