by Pam Godwin
The impulse to hit something simmered beneath his skin. The next best thing would’ve been a cigarette, but he couldn’t smoke here and risk the smell alerting the guards.
He pulled away from her and paced.
“He visited me every day,” she said. “Always ate with me. Dinner was our thing. Still is. It’s like he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, no one he trusts anyway, and I was a safe ear since I was locked in a room with no contact with the outside world.”
“When did you get sick?”
“During my isolation in that room. After the accident, the abdominal pain never went away. Then it spread, and new symptoms emerged. The headaches, nausea, muscle paralysis… It started happening about once a month. Increased to once a week. Then daily. Some days were better than others. It took his doctors months to diagnose me and develop a treatment. When Tiago eventually freed me from that room, I was sick every day and… Well, I was never free. Not with the guards.” She gestured at the door. “I’ve made several attempts to escape, only to get hauled back and deprived of medicine until the only thing that could save me was a ventilator.”
His nostrils widened with the force of his seething breaths. “Lucia…”
“I made contact with a doctor once, someone who didn’t have his hands in Tiago’s pockets. I met him at his house outside of the neighborhood. A gentle, kind man—he was willing to help me for free. But we didn’t get past the medical questions before Tiago’s men showed up and…” She clutched the hem of her shirt and stretched it to her knees, covering her thighs. “They cut off his arms and made me watch as he bled to death.”
His heart ached for her. She’d endured so much and had done it alone. How could she not be defeated and despondent and at the end of her limit? Her luck was in the red, her strife ceaseless. She had a never-ending shortage of anything good in her life.
Yet here she was, asking him about us and the future. She hadn’t given up, and it left him awestruck and overwrought with admiration.
“I think the antidote is derived from Amazon plants.” She told him Badell’s father had been a pharmacist and what little she knew about the team of indigenous doctors. “They’re experts in medicinal botany.”
“They’re also surgeons?” He stepped toward her and touched her shirt over the scar.
“Yes. Tiago won’t tell me what organs were damaged or removed, or how the sickness is related to the injury, or if—” She sucked in a hard breath, her expression blank. “Or if I can bear children. But hey, at least I don’t have periods.”
Her smile was hapless and heartbreaking, so utterly void of humor it tore him apart.
“I want you to do something for me.” He held her face in his hands and forced her to look at him.
She sawed her teeth together, and a glimmer of fight lit her eyes.
“Tonight,” he said, “I want you to not be so damn tough. Let it go. Give it to me. Let me be your strength.”
“Tate—”
“One night, Lucia. Everyone needs someone. Even me. Tonight, I’m yours. Your someone.”
“My person?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
It was a sluggish, circumspect unraveling, her entire body shuddering, fighting the turmoil that rose behind her eyes. She visibly wrestled with it, battling an inner storm he couldn’t comprehend. But when she finally gave in, he was there, his arms around her, his lips in her hair, and his whispered words swaddling her in truths. You’re resilient and brave. I respect you. You’re not alone. I’m here for you.
She wept quietly, gracefully, and with every tear, he felt her muscles loosen and her joints give until she was pliable and spent and maybe even relieved.
As her tears slowed, he chased them with his lips, kissing them away one by one. He’d never been so moved, so absorbed in the emotions of a woman. He loved Camila, but she didn’t need him. She’d never needed him. Not like this.
And that wasn’t all. The taste of Lucia’s tears, the provocative scent of her skin, the directness in her questions, the glimpse of vulnerability beneath her strong exterior—it turned him on like nothing else. This woman was everything he never knew he was attracted to.
When her eyes dried, he leaned back and inspected her exquisite face for signs of pain. “How do you feel?”
“Better.” She placed a hand on his bare chest and idly stroked the muscle there. “Thank you.”
“Your stomach?”
“Settled.”
“Eat.” He placed the sandwich in her hand and stepped back.
She nibbled on the bread, ate a strawberry, and after a few more bites, she tore into the pork with voracity.
Satisfied, he rested his fingers in his pockets and caught her gaze. “You have questions about Camila and me. Ask them.”
CHAPTER 16
The last bite of the sandwich stuck in Lucia’s throat under the force of Tate’s stare. The intensity in his ice blue eyes, assertive growl in his voice, stillness in his confident posture—everything about his pushy, take-charge style made her blood throb and heat in places that had no business reacting at all.
He towered over her, a head taller and shoulders twice as wide. His expression was that of a man restraining his need, one who seemed to have everlasting patience. He adjusted his fingers in his pockets, shifting the front of his jeans to accommodate that huge, relentless erection—an erection that had been tenting his zipper since she removed her clothes.
Chemistry was an effortless thing between them. Last night at the club left no doubt in her mind about that. But this was more than sex.
He’d washed her panties.
Kissed her tears.
Held her as she’d cried.
Offered to be her person for one night.
And he loved her sister.
Her gaze faltered, bouncing around the room until it collided with his once again.
You have questions about Camila and me. Ask them.
“Does Matias know?” She swallowed down the last of the tea and slid off the counter.
“Know what?” He caught her arm, steadying her.
“That you love her?”
“Yes.”
And Tate was still alive? Maybe Matias wasn’t threatened by him, though that seemed impossible. Tate would have a shameless effect on any woman he set his sights on, including her lovesick sister.
Lucia was thoroughly intimidated in the shadow of his powerful body and plundering gaze, but she also felt protected. And lucky. Without him here, she would’ve spent tonight like every other night—starving, homesick, heartsick, sick sick, and so terribly alone.
His hair was a sexy mess of short blond spikes. Black roses tattooed one muscled arm, the rest of his upper body a landscape of unmarked skin and ripples of definition. Though he wore a deep scowl and seemed to enjoy staring her down in a condescending way, he was also tender and possessive.
He was a man to love. If Camila hadn’t already belonged to Matias, she would’ve given her heart to Tate without hesitation.
“Was it hard to…?” Did she want to ask this? She sat on the mattress on the floor and pulled the shirt down to cover her thighs. “Was it hard to have sex with Camila then let her go?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You mean…?” Her heart thundered. “You haven’t…?”
“I’ve never so much as kissed her.” With a sigh, he sat beside her and stretched his legs along the floor in front of them. “When I met your sister, I’d just spent ten weeks with Van. I wanted her instantly, but I was…” He wiped a hand down his mouth, his fingers lingering on his barely-there beard, his expression pensive. “I needed time to come to terms with what happened in that attic. We both did. I lived like a monk for the next two years, waiting for her and… Maybe I was waiting for myself. To feel worthy of her. To feel like a man again.” He dropped his hand on his lap. “When I was finished waiting, the very night I decided to go after her, Matias showed up.” He laughed a sharp sound that wasn’t a lau
gh at all. “I knew then that I didn’t have a chance in hell with her.”
He must’ve had superhuman staying power. To wait for Camila like that only to lose her in the end? Lucia commended his patience.
“You haven’t tried to move on?” she asked. “With another woman?”
“For the last four years, I’ve fucked everything that moved.”
An ice-cold jolt knifed straight through her chest. Is that what she was to him? Something that moved? “How’s that working for you?”
“It’s…” He stared at his dusty brown boots, his brows knitting. Then he huffed another non-laugh. “It’s been utterly joyless.” He turned toward her, head cocked and eyes squinting. “You asked if it was hard to have sex then let her go. Are you worried about that? With us?”
Us.
She looked away, an involuntary reflex she immediately regretted and forced her gaze back to his. “Am I worried because we had sex? Because I might not want to let go of something you found utterly joyless?”
“We didn’t just have sex. We had great fucking sex.” His perfect lips formed the words with natural seduction, making her shiver all over. “You enjoyed it as much as I did.”
Her nipples hardened beneath the shirt. He zeroed in on her chest, and something flickered in his eyes.
“If I could make you happy…” He unlaced his boots and pulled them off. Then his socks. “Even if it’s just a fleeting happiness…” His hands went to his jeans, unzipping and shucking them off. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“A pity fuck won’t make me—”
She was pinned beneath him on the mattress before her next breath. He was so heavy and solidly built his weight was alarming.
“Does this feel like pity?” He grabbed her hand and shoved it between them, molding her fingers around his cock.
Trapped in his tight briefs, his swollen length angled toward his hip, so damn thick and long the cotton barely contained it. It definitely didn’t feel like pity. He felt ruthless.
“Don’t ever mistake my desire for you as a mercy.” He ground himself against her hand. “I don’t care if you’re sick, sweetheart. I intend to exhaust my need for you until you forget where you are and how many breaths you have left. How’s that for a nice guy?”
It was arousing, electrifying, stimulating and lubricating the deepest, hungriest part of her.
“I’ve never come as hard as I did when I was inside you.” His breathing sped up, his lips parting and brushing against hers as he rocked his hips in the V of her thighs. “I know you felt it—the crazy consuming shock of it. I’m going to take you there again and again, until you never want to let go.”
“Never let go of you?”
“If that makes you happy.”
His response confused her, and given the creases on his forehead, it confused him, as well.
“Be careful, Tate.” She stroked the line of his sculpted jaw. “It’s just sex, remember? We’ll have to let go eventually.”
Considering the state of her health, it would be sooner rather than later. But for now, she wrapped her arms around him and held tight.
“We’ll see about that.” He took her mouth in a kiss that stole her thoughts and bowed her spine.
The instant his tongue met hers, sparks of energy flashed through her body. He must’ve felt something similar, because he gasped against her lips and leaned back. His eye contact was brief yet poignant before he tangled a fist in her hair and returned to her mouth with an explosion of passion.
It was a full-body fusion—legs entwining, hips grinding, chests heaving, and hands groping and clutching. He shaped her to him, like heat melting glass, and she softened, liquefied, inhaling when he exhaled, moaning when he groaned. It was the best kiss she’d ever experienced, and he kept it going for a lifetime, letting her feast, savor, and soar.
When he pulled back, she blinked at him, dizzy with hunger.
His lips were wet and swollen, his pupils huge and breaths careening out of control. Knowing he was as affected as she was only made her want him more.
“Arms up.” He shoved her shirt toward her head and yanked it off.
Then he was on the move, his chiseled torso and hard cock shifting out of reach as he settled his shoulders between her legs.
“I fucking love your cunt.” His fingers slipped through her wet heat and circled her opening. “You’re dripping.”
“Tate…” She wriggled beneath him, hating and loving the way he spread her flesh open and bared her to his eyes.
“God, I can smell you.” He buried his nose in her pussy and inhaled. “The sweetness of your skin mixed with your arousal… You’re a goddamn sinful temptation.”
He pushed a finger inside her and turned his head to nip at her inner thigh. His strokes kissed along her inner walls, rubbing with wicked precision and setting her on fire. Her hand fisted the blanket, the other flying to the silken strands of his hair.
As he fingered her cunt and licked along her thigh, his thumb danced over her clit, swiveling and whisking and making it hum.
With his long digit curling inside her, he rested his lips against her mound and captured her gaze. “Did you use a condom this morning?”
Shame punched her in the gut. During her delirious puking episode, she’d told him she raped a man. I’ve raped so many innocent, married men.
The reminder swelled a sob in her throat and sent her scrambling to get away from him. She was humiliated, so fucking disgusted with herself, she couldn’t bear his touch or whatever look was on his face.
“Stop.” He caught her swinging arms and restrained them above her head.
She fought him for a useless moment before falling still. The struggle had shifted her fully beneath him with his legs straddling her hips and his huge body bent over her.
“Why are you doing this?” She glared up at him through a sheen of tears. “You can have your pick of untainted, clean women.”
“I’m not asking for me.” Holding her wrists in one hand, he removed three condoms from the jeans on the floor and tossed them on the mattress. “I need to know if you’re protecting yourself.”
“When I can.” Her voice broke into a flat, dead sound. “Sometimes I’m not given a choice.”
His eyes clouded, darkening with understanding. Like her, he’d been forced by a man. He didn’t just grasp the ruin. He’d lived it. But unlike her, he’d never inflicted that ugliness on another. Her crimes were hypocritical and heinous.
“How can you stand to look at me?” she asked. “Let alone touch me?”
“Do you enjoy raping them?”
“No!” A flood of misery crumpled her face. “I’m hurting them, and I don’t want to. I thought…” Guilt spilled from her eyes and down her temples, tickling along the curves of her ears. “I thought it would be better this way, but it’s not. It’s insidious, disgusting abuse, and when they…” She gulped down a sob and evened her voice. “When they come, I see the destruction in their eyes. They hate themselves as much as they hate me. I’m doing that. I’m—”
“Listen to me.” He gripped her chin and held her head immobile. “You didn’t do it for yourself. You did it for them, and doing so hurt you. Dammit, Lucia. I know you know that.”
“I’m not a martyr.” She clenched her teeth. “Not even close.”
“Doesn’t matter. It stops now.”
Her breath hitched. “What? I can’t—”
“You’re dying, right? So be sick. Fake the symptoms if you have to. Vomit. Pass out. Do whatever you need to do to avoid that torture room.”
“He’ll hurt them! He has this…this razor thing he puts on his finger, and he…” Her stomach rolled with nausea, thickening her words. “He cuts and mutilates their bodies.”
“We can’t save them.” His fingers tightened against her jaw. “But I can save you. You’re my only concern, and I want you out of that room. Understand?”
She swallowed, and swallowed again. “Yes.”
�
��I’m waiting on a medical test kit. It should be here in a couple days.” He released her and propped his elbows on either side of her shoulders. “I’ll draw your blood and test for STDs.”
“I’m clean.” She averted her eyes. “No STDs. Tiago’s doctors test me regularly.”
“Okay. Good.” He lifted up and gazed down the length of her nude body, chewing on his lip. “I don’t know if the blood test will tell us anything. But while we wait for the results, no more torturing. And I’ll be here every night…”
He dragged a knuckle over her breast and down her trembling stomach, pausing on the short hairs above her pussy. He had that look in his eyes, the prowling predator look that told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t finished with her.
But the conversation they’d just had left her feeling raw and loathsome. She killed a rapist today only to turn around and inflict the same evil on someone else. Yet Tate stared at her as if she were the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. It was appalling.
“I can’t do this.” She shoved at his chest with enough force to knock him off balance.
Then she fled. Off the mattress, across the floor, she didn’t make it to her feet before he seized her ankle and yanked her back to the bed.
“You’re a fighter.” He shackled her wrists in the unbending clamps of his fingers, holding her down on the mattress. “But you want me to fight back. You want me to punish you and use your body to get myself off. Because that’s what gets you off.”
“That’s not—”
“I saw you with that man at the club last night. The pleasure on your face while he caned you was undeniable.” He spread her legs wider with his knees and brought his mouth to her ear. “You’re a dirty, kinky girl. Tell me I’m wrong.”
The protest stuck in her throat. He wasn’t wrong. Punishment and capitulation balanced her horribly unstable world, and she needed that now—the liberation that came with pain and pleasure and willing surrender.
“You’re right,” she whispered.
He hauled in a rough breath and blew out slowly.
“If you move your arms,” he said, pressing her wrists to the mattress above her head, “I’ll flip you over and fuck your ass.”
