by Pam Godwin
CHAPTER 17
I’ll flip you over and fuck your ass.
Heat flushed through Lucia’s core, and her legs fell open, unbidden.
“Ah, fuck, baby.” Tate’s hand shot to her pussy, stroking the soaked flesh. “You like that, don’t you? You want me inside your ass.”
She’d never had a pleasant experience with anal. It had always been forced and blindingly painful. But she ached to feel him there, knew he would do it with care, and nodded her consent.
“You’re killing me.” He stole a deep, heart-pumping kiss. Then he gathered the condoms and lined up the three foil wrappers along her breastbone. “I’m going to use all of these tonight and wish I’d brought more.”
Instead of sheathing his cock, he slid his hands beneath her butt and lifted her pussy to his mouth.
The first lick followed her seam from bottom to top. She throbbed against the hot greeting of his tongue, fighting to keep her arms above her head. He buried his face, and she moaned, jerked, and choked on her own breath.
As he sucked and licked with ferocity, his scratchy jaw burned a trail of fire along her thighs. His lips covered every thrumming nerve between her legs as he gripped her ass cheeks and spread them so he could roll his tongue around her rim. She bucked against his unyielding mouth, drenching his whiskers with her arousal.
At some point, the condoms tumbled away, and her hands moved on their own, pulling at his hair and clawing his scalp.
He knocked her fingers away. “Your ass is mine.”
Tossing her to the side, he flipped her to her stomach and covered her back with his body.
She panted in response, wanting him to fuck her there but also scared shitless. “It’s going to hurt.”
“Probably.” His mouth teased her ear, his breaths hot and shallow. “If it’s not the good kind of hurt, I’ll stop. Trust me to take care of you.”
Trust. That was a thing she gave no one. But as he tore open a foil packet with his teeth, she found herself relaxing beneath him, savoring the heat of his body on her back and the flex of his hand rolling on the condom.
“Breathe.” He notched himself against her pussy.
Not her ass?
When she exhaled, he clamped a hand over her mouth and thrust.
Everything inside her stretched as he slammed against the back of her cunt. She screamed against his palm, sucking hard through her nose and writhing against the invasion. His cock was impossibly huge and vicious and oh my fucking fuck fuck fuck, he pounded her into the mattress, breaking her open and stabbing her darkest depths.
He grunted with the exertion of his hammering hips, his fingers digging into her cheek and his other hand chasing the lines of her body, squeezing and kneading and scratching her skin.
But there was pleasure amid the savagery, an unlocking sensation that set her breaths free and her skin ablaze. When her cries turned to moans, his hand slid from her mouth to her throat, pressing lightly and turning her neck. His lips were there, feeding from hers, licking and biting with the voracious tempo of his breaths.
She was so turned on she felt it in her veins—that wild, erratic, reckless thrill she hadn’t experienced since she was a teenager. She’d forgotten what that was like, to just live and play and love. Tate had returned that feeling to her. With his cock ramming brutally, powerfully inside her, he treated her like a desirable woman instead of a dying invalid. He reminded her how to be herself again.
“Is that all you got?” She arched her back and wriggled her ass against him.
He let go of what little restraint he’d held back, thrusting harder, deeper, faster, as if trying to drive himself right into her heart. With the hug of his arms around her and the caress of his lips on her neck, maybe he’d already buried himself deep within her existence and left his mark. Fuck it, she didn’t care. He felt too damn good, too perfect.
He fucked without mercy, working himself in and out with brute force. But the caress of his hands on her body was an intimate communication. Each touch made her feel sexy and loved. Every stroke thrummed with appreciation.
It didn’t take long for her to shoot off with a gasping, electrifying, body-tingling release that fired her nerve-endings from her hair to her toes. She was still groaning when he pulled out, and she missed the stretch of him instantly.
He slid his fingers inside her, lubing them up before slipping them out and back, right into her forbidden hole.
“Christ, you’re horny.” His breathing was tight, bursting sharp gasps past his lips. “You’re opening right up for me.”
She didn’t feel the usual pain. Not even a pinch. Just a tingling swirl of desire and warmth. She was so sated and drugged on pleasure maybe she didn’t have the wherewithal to tense. “Can’t believe how good that feels.”
“You’re nice and relaxed.” He thrust his fingers in and out of her ass.
“Only with you.”
His touch vanished. “When you say things like that…” He leaned down and spit on her clenching ring of muscle. Then he pressed the wide flare of his cock against the moisture. “Makes me really fucking possessive, Lucia.”
“You’re already possessive.”
“Not like this.” He pushed, just enough to stimulate her nerves. “Can you keep quiet?”
“Yeah.” She breathed deeply. “Fuck me, Tate.”
He grabbed her waist with both hands and kicked his hips, tunneling his massive shaft straight through her.
She choked on the sudden burn, but it only lasted a second. The incredible fullness that followed was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Intense. Consuming. It stunned her how much she welcomed the dark thrilling feel of him inside her like this.
A groan vibrated in his chest as he buried his length and thrust slowly. Bending over her, he trailed a shaky hand up her spine and rubbed her back. If he was trying to soothe her, she didn’t need it. Maybe he was calming himself.
His hands roamed, teasing every exposed inch of her before clutching a fistful of her hair.
“I’m not going to last long.” Using that grip, he yanked her up until her back hit his chest.
On their knees with him seated fully in her ass, he wrapped a hand around her throat while the other slid up her thigh and sank three fingers in her pussy.
Then he fucked her, plunging and retreating with the speed and stamina of a machine. He held her tight to his body and pumped his fingers as his cock drove viciously, greedily in her ass.
His grunting, erotic breaths revved her up and made her insane with need. He was a beast, untamed and wild, as he shoved himself deeper and deeper. She felt every ridge and bump of his cock, and his muscled physique generated so much heat she was certain he would reduce her to ashes.
She couldn’t move or meet his thrusts, but she could put her hands on him. As he slammed into her tirelessly, she reached back and palmed the flexing brawn of his butt. He continued to thrust, burning red-hot aftershocks through her body, and she held on, moaning, panting, and taking exquisite pleasure in the ride.
When his fingers slipped from her pussy to work her clit, she knew she would climax like this. And she did moments later, anchored by his cock and the hand around her throat. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she came and came until white flashes blotted her vision. It was ecstasy. Nirvana. Total attainment of everything right in the world.
“Fuck, Lucia. I’m coming.” He jerked his hips and released a long, deep groan that penetrated her chest. “Oh goddamn, fuck!”
His hand slipped from her neck, and his head dropped to her back. He stayed that way for several heaving breaths before smacking a stinging palm against her ass.
“You wore me out.” He fell to his back and gasped at the ceiling. “Go drink some water and eat more of that fruit.”
“Bossy.” With a grin, she removed the rubber from his softening cock and obeyed his orders.
A few minutes later, she stood at the counter, eating strawberries and tingling all over with a rhapsody of se
nsations. She felt full and glowy and utterly ravished.
His footsteps approached from behind, stretching her mouth into a smile. Then his hands were on her, cruising her hips, slinking around to her abs and cupping her breasts.
“Still hungry?” He kissed a trail of electricity from her shoulder to her neck.
“Not for food.” Molten heat curled through her belly, burning hotter with each stroke of his hand and brush of his lips.
The sound of a foil packet caught her ear—the only warning she got before he pushed himself inside her from behind.
“I can’t get enough of you.” He rocked into her and nibbled on her neck.
“We have all night.”
“I need more than a night, baby.”
He fucked her against the counter. Then the wall, the floor, in the shower, and back on the bed. Over the next few hours, he made good on his promise to use all three condoms before collapsing on top of her, winded and spent.
“I think you broke my dick.” He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, his chest rising and falling, and his cock softening inside her.
When he lifted to move away, she hugged him to her.
“Don’t pull out.”
“I’d stay here forever if the damn rubber wasn’t strangling me.” He kissed her lips and left the bed to dispose of the condom.
“Those things don’t fit you.”
“It’s fine.” He strode back to the mattress, unabashed with his nudity.
Even flaccid, he hung longer and thicker than the average erection. God, he had a glorious cock. It should never be covered in latex.
“Feels like I’m chapped.” He stood above her and ran a hand along the length, glancing at it.
“Maybe I can help.” She lifted onto her knees and gently kissed along the soft, warm skin of his thick shaft.
“I wasn’t complaining, but…” He released a happy breath and twitched against her lips. “That’s nice.”
His hand went to her hair, sliding through the strands from the roots to the tips. His cock filled with blood, but he seemed content to just let her nuzzle and tease with chaste kisses.
Without an inch of fat on his body, every sinew and vein stood out in stark relief beneath his taut skin. She traced the lines of his narrow hips and the sexy cuts and ridges that formed the V of his abs. He was beautifully formed. So powerful and manly, and if she touched him much more she might beg him to fuck her without a condom.
She sat on her heels, and he knelt beside her, nudging her to her back.
“How are you feeling?” He guided her legs apart and probed his thumbs around her swollen tissues. “Sore?”
“I’m good.”
She brushed his hands away, but he was relentless, inspecting and touching and shifting down to examine her rectum.
“Tate, stop.” She twisted away from him. “I’m better than good, okay? Better than I’ve been in years.”
“Yeah?” He flashed her a grin.
“Yeah.”
He reached up and flicked off the light switch, leaving the dim illumination of the night light in the wall outlet. Then he prowled toward her on hands and knees, his blue eyes glinting. Unsure of his intent, she didn’t know whether to sigh or tense up.
His arm caught her waist, and he dragged her against him. She clung to his shoulders as he rolled and adjusted until they were on their sides, chest to chest, snug under the blanket.
“We’re going to sleep?” She slid her fingers through his hair, stroking.
“Yep.”
He was so close she smelled all his distinctive aromas—salty skin and warm sex and musky masculinity.
She felt high on his scent, the deep sounds of his breaths, and the euphoric heat of his body tucked against hers. “Are you still awake?”
He laughed, a rumbling delightful sound. “I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.”
“Why?”
“I want to enjoy this.” He twined his legs around hers and rubbed her back. “Feels too good.”
Her chest fluttered and stretched with his words. “Tell me about you. Your full name. Age. Childhood. Anything.”
“Tate Anthony Vades. Twenty-five. I grew up in a whorehouse.”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
His gravelly voice drifted around her as he told her about The Velvet Den, the traumatic way he lost his virginity, and his admiration for the woman who raised him.
She talked about the citrus grove and her favorite memories of Matias and Camila.
He spoke about the roses inked on his arm and the whores he spent his childhood with.
Then she explained how Tiago administered her injections—in his room, without her clothes and weapons, with the safe only a few feet away. Locked. Inaccessible. She’d never seen inside it.
As the night crept by, they got to know each other through words. And kissing. He kissed her often. Lazy, unassuming kisses without urgency or intention. Kissing for the sole purpose of expressing affection.
He told her about his house and his roommates—four men and a woman. Then he kissed her again, his hands never leaving her body and his arms tightly wound around her back.
“I want to call Matias,” he breathed against her lips.
She knew why. In just a couple short hours, she would be back with Tiago where Tate couldn’t protect her, couldn’t control what happened to her, and that didn’t sit well with a man like him. But if he made that call, Matias would come to Caracas and risk his life and that of his men to extract her from Tiago’s world. And for what purpose? To free a dying woman?
She couldn’t even consider threatening Camila’s happiness until she knew there was a chance of survival.
“Wait for the blood test,” she said. “If it reveals a diagnosis and treatment, I’ll go wherever you tell me to go. How long will it take to get the results back?”
“Several days.” His jaw flexed against hers. “I don’t like this.”
“I know.” She snuggled closer, burrowing against his chest. “But I like this. I’ve never slept in a bed with a man.”
He hummed a growly sigh and squeezed her butt. “I’ll be your first and your last.”
What did that mean? She lifted her head. “Why?”
“As long as I’m alive, I’ll be the only man in your bed.”
She stared at him, lips parting, and blinked.
“Close your mouth and go to sleep.” He gripped her neck and pressed her cheek to his chest.
“You’re a Neanderthal.”
“I’ve been called worse. Now sleep.”
And she did. It was the best sleep she’d ever had, and so was the next night, and the next.
For the next five nights, it was just him and her and the protective bubble he built around them.
She went to the compound for her injections in the mornings and the mandatory dinners in the evenings. While in Tiago’s presence, she exaggerated her illness, moaning and stumbling and feigning vertigo until he sent her home.
And Tate was always there, waiting for her.
He stocked her apartment with food and necessities, added discreet bolts on the insides of the doors, and drew her blood when the test kit arrived.
Now it was a waiting game, a delay of action until the results came back. They bided their time in her tiny windowless space, talking, eating, sleeping, and exploring each other emotionally and physically.
His hunger for her was insatiable. They fucked daily and nightly, in every manner of motion, mood, and position. And holy hell, the man loved to kiss. She was kissed more in those five days than in the previous thirty years of her life.
It was five days of intoxicating, Tate-induced bliss. She never wanted it to end.
But like all good things…
The old adage got it right.
Except her good thing didn’t just come to an end. It ripped open and bled out in a devastation of pain.
CHAPTER 18
“Feeling better tonight?” Tiago st
udied Lucia from across the table in his private dining room.
She let him see the trembling in her hand as she pushed away her empty plate. “No.”
It was the truth. Tonight was going to be a bad night. She felt it simmering inside her—the queasiness, the tremors, and the pinpricks numbing her lower body.
The last time she lost mobility, he left her on the floor in the common area of the compound, paralyzed, vulnerable, unable to move her legs to walk home.
“I don’t feel well at all.” She shifted to the edge of the seat and craned her neck for a better view of the hall outside the dining room. “I’m ready to go home.”
Armed guards lined the corridor. Three times more men than usual. Restless energy buzzed through them as they fidgeted and whispered to one another. Something was wrong.
“Did something happen?” Dread curled in her gut, aggravating the nausea.
“There’s a spy in my neighborhood.” Tiago set his utensils down, casually dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and imprisoned her gaze. “Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
It took every ounce of discipline she could muster to moderate her expression. Meanwhile, her heart clambered the rungs of her ribs and pounded a terrified howl in her throat.
Did he capture Tate? Was he holding him in the basement chamber to await an unspeakable night of torture?
Saliva rushed over her tongue, bringing with it the urgent need to throw up. Her sickness, nerves, fear—all of it rose up and contorted her face.
But Tiago didn’t notice, his attention locked on the man striding into the room.
Armando, her fellow torturer, paused beside Tiago’s chair and said in Spanish, “We have him.”
Her stomach bottomed out, and her blood turned to ice.
No, please, God. This can’t be happening.
The guns holstered in her waistband grew hot and heavy, begging her to reach for them. But a guard stood at her back, and two more bracketed the door.
“Muy bien.” Tiago stood and offered her his hand. “Shall we?”
Terror held her frozen in the chair. She could fight, but they were physically stronger. She had weapons, but they had more. If she died in this room, Tate would die, too.
