by Katie May
Because I’ve always been his.
He slides into me slowly, inch by excruciating inch, but I don’t want slow. Not now. Not by him.
With a thrust of my hips, I impale myself on his cock, relishing in the pain of our hurried connection.
“Fucking hell!” he grunts, his arm dropping from my chest. It’s only gone for a moment, though, before both of his hands crawl up my shirt, push my bra out of the way, and pinch my nipples.
He begins to fuck me harshly, brutally, as if he wants me to suffer. As if he wants to punish me. I take it all—every thrust of his hips, every slap of his balls against my ass, every demanding twist of my nipples. He slaps at my breasts, the sound reverberating through the park, and I cry out at the contact.
“Fuck. You,” I hiss as he continues to rut into me like a man possessed.
Still tugging on my tits, he forces my body further to the ground, until my cheek is resting against the decaying, russet leaves. I drop my arms and knees to the ground as Tate continues to fuck me. Own me. Use me.
And I let him.
His body is practically draped over mine, this new angle allowing his cock to hit my bundle of nerves with every desperate jerk of his hips.
“Fuck.” Thrust. “You.”
His cock twitches inside of me, getting impossibly bigger, and I finally lose myself to the euphoria that has been tempting me since I first saw Tate on the path. It courses through me again and again, running rampant through my veins. Stars dance across my vision as I scream my release to the heavens—to anyone who might be fucking listening. In that moment, the entire world is witness to the mere fact that Tate owns me and I own him.
He roars his own release, his sticky cum filling me. The noise he makes—a combination between a snarl, a moan, and a cry—causes another tidal wave of pleasure to rush over me. Tears spring to my eyes as I fall apart beneath this warm body. No, I don’t just fall. I fucking shatter, losing pieces of myself to Tate in the process.
With another grunt, he pulls out of me, and I feel oddly bereft at the absence of his cock.
I don’t wait for him to clean me up. Instead, I pull my panties and leggings back up, our shared release sticking to my skin. When I turn towards him, I see his eyes dark with banked fire. The crazy asshole likes the idea of me wearing his cum on my skin like a badge of honor. He’s probably already hard again.
One glance at his shorts confirms that, yes, the kinky shit is erect.
“Tate,” I begin, but before I can finish my sentence, a gunshot rings out. I jerk backwards, pain immediately unfurling on my right shoulder, and I turn towards the bloodstain rapidly growing on my tan skin.
Tate’s eyes are wide with panic and fear as he throws himself in front of me, catching me just before I can fall.
“Tate?” This time, my voice is soft, a mere breath of words. He’s not looking at me, however, but at the same hill he just arrived from. An unfamiliar figure stands there, aiming his gun.
“Fuck!” Immediately, Tate heaves me into his arms, twisting his body so his back is to the shooter, and begins to run.
Someone is shooting at us, at me. A-fucking-gain.
And this time, I’ve been shot.
CHAPTER 19
Tate hurries through the forest, his arms wrapped around my shaky body in an iron vise. He glances over his shoulder, curses, and then picks up speed, veering off the main trail and into a densely populated thicket of trees. Branches snag at my clothing and hair, and I whimper slightly as a particularly sharp one rubs against my wound.
“Fuck!” Despite running at full speed with me in his arms, my God of Deception hasn’t even broken a sweat. His eyes, however, are crazed as they flicker to the rapidly bleeding gunshot wound on my shoulder. “Why aren’t you healing, baby?”
“I don’t fucking know,” I manage to bite out through clenched teeth. In the Realm of the Gods, I would be healed by now, especially with the pain running rampant through my body. It’s understandable, in a demented sort of way, that pain amplifies my healing capabilities.
“It’s this fucking realm,” Tate seethes, obviously coming to the same conclusion as me. “You’re more human than goddess at the moment.”
“Great,” I drawl, twisting my face so I can inhale his pine scent.
We’re both silent as Tate continues to run through the woods, stopping periodically to glance over his shoulder at the eerily silent and still woods. There’s no one in sight, but I don’t allow myself to relax. Tension continues to thrum through me like a palpable entity that’s sitting on my shoulders. My heart ricochets in my ribcage as I listen for the assassin. Because I have no doubt that’s what he is—an assassin sent to kill me.
Honestly, he’s a pretty shitty one if he couldn’t hit one measly heart when I was unaware of his presence.
We must’ve been running for over an hour when we break through the forest, stopping in front of what appears to be a corrugated iron warehouse. Tate wastes no time racing forward and wrenching the metal door open. He doesn’t bother to look if there’s anyone inside, using his foot to kick the door shut behind us with an audible clank.
I stare around the derelict room, practically gagging over the noxious smell—stale piss, coppery blood, and something I would almost describe as shit. When Tate gently sets me on my own two feet, I accidentally step in a puddle, and I pray to whoever’s listening that it’s only water.
There are a few blankets and pillows pushed against the far wall, and I reckon that this warehouse has been used by numerous homeless men and women throughout the years. Fortunately, it appears to be deserted at the moment.
“Let me look, baby.” Tate’s voice is far gentler than I’ve ever heard it before, and his eyes are wide with panic and desperation as he slowly removes my jacket. He reaches into his back pocket and procures a knife, slicing easily through my shirt until I’m left in only my sports bra. Tenderly, he pushes down the sleeve until the wound is bared to his assessing eyes currently spewing vitriol. “Fuck!”
“Who the hell was that?” I demand, wincing as Tate touches at the tender flesh. Anger rampages through me. Some fucker shot at me. He could’ve hurt Tate! As soon as I find this son of a bitch, I’m going to hang him from the rafters, stick a knife in both of his wrists, and watch him bleed.
“Does it look like I know?” Some of Tate’s original ire returns as he shoots me an annoyed look. “I’m not some assassin expert.”
“But you are an assassin. And a cop. Maybe you know him,” I insist, followed immediately by, “Stop touching that, you shithead!”
“I need to get the bullet out, brat,” he grumbles. “And for the record, not all assassins hang out and go to the bar after work. Stop being stupid and hold still.”
“I’ll show you stupid—” I break off as pain once more unfurls across my shoulder, and I just barely hold in my gasp. The pain quickly transitions into something else, something almost pleasurable, and the embers of power in my stomach begin to flicker errantly. “Wait, Tate!”
“What now?” He grants me an irritated look, but even his annoyance does little to conceal the fear in his eyes. Tate is scared. For me. The delicate wings of dozens of butterflies begin to flutter in my chest.
“Press down,” I instruct, and when he simply raises an eyebrow, uncomprehending, I elaborate, “On the wound, jackass. Press down until I’m screaming in pain.”
His mouth opens, closes, and then immediately opens once more. He looks confused, and honestly, a little terrified, as if he’s questioning my mental stability.
“I need more pain,” I explain in a prolonged exhale. “I think I’ll be able to heal myself.”
“Fuck no!” He holds both hands up in the air, still coated with my blood, as he stares at me with barely veiled disgust and horror. “I’m not going to hurt you!”
“You love hurting me,” I argue with an eye roll.
Anger flares to life briefly in his dark gaze, and his hands, still raised, clench into fists.
“I never like hurting you.” The vow vibrates through me, almost like an intense burst of electricity, and a flurry of shivers skip through my veins. His eyes lock on mine, ensnaring my own like a trap laid artfully beneath debris and leaves in a forest. Fucking Tate. And fuck the way he makes me feel.
“You hurt me all the damn time.” I mentally berate myself when my voice shakes, when pain flays me open like a whip repeatedly raining down on my spine.
Tentatively, I bring my hand to the bloody wound and stick one finger into the hole. I’m sure there’s a perverted joke somewhere in there, but I’m too lost in the agony to think of one.
“Fucking stop it!” Tate bellows, his pain as thick and cloying as my own. He scrubs a hand through his messy dark hair as I press down harder, biting my lip to hold in the anguished sob that wants to escape. I can feel my power festering in the pit of my stomach. It’s still small, now a flame instead of an ember, but I know I can feed it until it grows into a blazing inferno, capable of setting this entire fucking world on fire.
And maybe that’s what this world deserves for what it did to me.
“Emily!” Tate lunges forward, but I stealthily dance away from him.
“Stop acting like you care!”
“You don’t think I care?” He laughs, but the sound is dry and humorless. It cuts at my skin like a blunt-edged razor blade. “All I fucking do is care!” With wild, desperate eyes, he towers over me. “You’re all I fucking care about!”
“Then why do you push me away?” I demand. And fuck…the pain in my shoulder is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. “All we do is fight and fuck and then fight some more. That’s not healthy, Tate.”
Tears blur my vision as my fingers caress something hard and metallic. The bullet. The fucking bullet. Wincing against the inevitable pain this will bring, I begin to dig it out. Already, my head spins wildly as I struggle against the encroaching darkness threatening to drag me under. If I pass out, I’ll be so freaking pissed.
Tate’s face contorts with unbridled rage. He reminds me of a bomb ready to explode with only the slightest provocation. “You don’t need me,” he states at last, voice brimming with anguish. “You have the others. You don’t need someone like me, someone as fucked up and as angry as me.” He begins to pace, repeatedly scratching at his tan arms, and I watch him warily. When he spins abruptly to face me once more, there’s something manic in his expression, something that rivals even Sin. “You have Desmond as your best friend and confidant. Helio as your protector. Avery as the one you can turn to when you need comfort. Hell, even Sin is able to make you laugh, and that fiery bastard protects you with everything inside of him. What can I offer you? What can I give you?”
“Tate—”
Slowly, the pain from my shoulder begins to recede as my emotional pain amplifies. I can feel my flesh stitching itself back together, but it’s barely a blip on my radar. All I can see is Tate—the hurt, anguish, and fear in his eyes, as if at any second, I’ll run away from him and never look back.
“You’re going to leave me,” he whispers brokenly as he collapses onto the ground. He lowers his head into his hands as his shoulders begin to shake.
“Tate.” Very carefully, I perch on the floor beside him. “You stupid fucking asshole. You’re the God of Deception, and right now, you’re deceiving yourself.” His head snaps up as he blinks at me through watery eyes.
“What the hell are you going on about, woman?” he rasps.
“You’re delusional if you think I’ll ever leave you.” Ignoring the blood coating both of us, I cup his stubbly cheek, and he twists his face so he can nuzzle against my palm. “Fuck, I love you, Tate. I thought you knew that. You’re the person I can always count on to tell me the truth, no matter how much it hurts. You’re stubborn and an asshole, yes, but don’t think for a second that those traits don’t make me love you even more. I love every piece of your prickly self.”
He seems to barely be breathing, his chest still, before he lunges forward and captures my lips between his own. This time, there’s no pain. It’s not a battle or a fight or a war. Our lips connect as if they were never meant to be separated in the first place, each press of his lips against my own heartbreakingly tender.
When he removes my clothes, it’s with the same tenderness and reverence he kissed me only seconds before. And when I tug his shirt over his head and pull his shorts down, there’s no anger in my movements. No hatred.
Just love.
Our bodies join together like two souls adrift at sea, somehow finding each other once again in the dissonant chaos of the rolling ocean. He doesn’t fuck me. No, not this time. As his cock slides through my slick folds and his hand rubs at the now healed wound on my shoulder, he makes love to me. It doesn’t matter that we were just shot at, that the assassin could walk in at any moment, that the floor is covered in grit and other unsavory substances—none of that matters in the moment. All I can focus on is him.
As his sweat-slick body moves over mine, maintaining eye contact, I feel myself climbing higher and higher, the need to fall nearly overwhelming. And when I allow myself to finally give in, one of the best orgasms of my life crashes through me with all the serenity of a cool spring rain. I clutch at Tate’s shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, as I tumble head over heels through wave after endless wave of pleasure. He lowers his head and bites at my skin as his cock twitches and swells, spilling his seed inside of me.
Tate and I…we’ll never be perfect. We’ll never have a fairy tale love that you read about in books and see on television. But that’s okay. I know it is. Our relationship is as unique as our story—a clashing of two entirely separate beings that have somehow found each other. Found each other and never let go. I think that’s what makes our love real and pure—we hate each other just as much as we love each other. He’s the only person capable of getting under my skin, but because of that, he irreparably embedded himself in my heart. We’re too tangled together for anyone to ever unwind, and that’s okay. Our love is as infinite as our hate.
“Fucking hell,” he curses as he plants a gentle kiss to first my neck, then both of my cheeks, and finally, my awaiting lips.
“You’re still an asshole,” I murmur as my tongue licks at his pillowy bottom lip.
“And you’re still a bitch,” he replies easily, but his face is more relaxed than I ever remembered seeing it before. The furrow that’s constantly between his eyebrows is nowhere to be seen.
I hear the barely audible sound of the door of the warehouse opening.
My muscles clench, unintentionally squeezing around Tate’s half-erect cock, and he swears.
“Not the time,” he hisses as he pulls himself out of me.
“Not my fault, dumbass,” I retort back. “It’s your fault you started getting hard again.”
He merely rolls his eyes as he gracefully jumps to his feet, still ass naked, and walks in the direction we heard the noise, his cock bobbing with every step.
I have no doubt that if it’s the assassin attempting to finish what he started, he’ll find himself in a world of hurt.
And I’m so damn ready for that.
CHAPTER 20
TATE
This fucking woman.
This fucking, perfect, insufferable woman.
I can feel my cock already becoming hard again as I press myself flush against the warehouse wall, awaiting the damn shooter.
From the first moment I met Emily—when I was pretending to be a measly soldier—I knew she would change my life irrevocably. She’s a snake that slithers through the grass, fangs elongated, as she prepares to bite down and poison the unsuspecting fool who dares to trespass into her domain. Never in a million years would I compare myself to an innocent gazelle, but there’s no denying that’s what I am. From the first moment she injected me with her venom, I became hers. Completely and undeniably hers.
“DON’T BE SUCH A FUCKING PUSSY!” Arnold bellows as he levels another pun
ch at my face. I sidestep his fist, dancing around his scrawny body until I’m directly behind him. Then, I wrap my arm around his throat and tighten.
The rest of the soldiers holler and whoop as Arnold’s face turns a hideous shade of blue. Still, I don’t release my vise-like grip until he’s unconscious on the ground.
Pumping my fists in the air at my victory, I catch stock of my reflection in one of the windows of the barracks. I’ve held this illusion for over two months now, pretending to be Tate Lief, nothing but a lowly and humble servant. Instead of dark brown hair grazing my forehead, I see vibrant orange locks. Numerous freckles dot my cheeks and nose, somehow making me appear boyish.
But no one who’s seen me fight could ever mistake me for a young lad.
My bare chest is shirtless and covered in a myriad of bruises and scratches. I won’t lie—Arnold was able to deliver a few painful blows before I rendered him unconscious.
Now, I need to go into town and find a girl to fuck the rest of my aggression out on. You would think a power like mine—the power of deception—would make me relatively calm, but you couldn’t be more wrong. The need to deceive people, to lie and steal and hurt, is like an itch under my skin that I know I shouldn’t scratch.
I’m not a good guy. I never said I was, and I won’t start lying to you now. There’s a darkness inside of me, an anger and rage, that demands an outlet. Usually, I’m able to unleash the monster inside of me either on the battlefield or in the bed of a cheap fuck. It appeases the constant craving I have.
The soldiers immediately quiet down, and the two men helping Arnold stand, dropping him unceremoniously. All eyes are fixed on the entrance of the palace nestled snugly between a forest and a clearing.
