by Pam Godwin
“Give it to me, Lucia.”
She quivered, ignited, and combusted on his hand, drenching his fingers and throbbing rhythmically. Her tits bounced with the heave of her chest, and her pupils dilated as she stared up at him, burned into him.
“You’re so getting fucked right now.” He unzipped and pulled himself out while fingering her and holding her on that euphoric edge.
She kicked her panties away and reached between her legs, sliding her fingers over his where they sank in and out of her.
“Hold on.” He lifted her, pinned her back against the wall, and pushed inside her silky cunt in one motion.
“Fuck.” He groaned, shaking with the deep-reaching flood of sensations. “Christ, your pussy… So fucking tight. Every bump and ridge is gripping me.”
“There’s nothing between us.” She cupped his face, smiling as she searched his eyes.
No condom. He’d never had consensual sex without one. And as he kicked his hips to meet her body, he vowed to never wear one again.
Nothing felt like this. Nothing. It wasn’t just the bareness between them. It was her. The staccato of her hungry whimpers, the submissive give of her body, and the love shining in her honey-brown eyes.
He pressed tighter against her chest and worked his mouth frantically against hers, his movements unhinged and desperate. It had been too long, and they’d been through too much to put restraints on this. He let his desire take over, driving his thrusts, drinking in her kisses, and digging his fingers into her beautiful skin.
The caress of her hand traveled over his ass, squeezing and kneading before dipping beneath the waistband to finger the cleft of his cheeks. Then it rose, slipping under his shirt to trace the scars he neither loved nor hated. They made her sad when she looked at them, but they’d brought them back together. They meant nothing to him. And everything.
Their lips slicked together, his tongue sliding over and around hers in a kiss that amplified every physical and emotional sensation vibrating through him. He was lost to her, a crazed and starving goner with everything he ever wanted in his arms.
His muscles were whipcord taut, his lungs pumping with the speed of his thrusts. Each stroke invigorated his body and nourished his heart. He couldn’t get close enough to her, deep enough. He wanted to fuck her soul.
With his hands beneath her knees, he hitched them higher, wider, opening her to him as he pistoned between her legs, pounded her against the wall, and devoured her every gasp.
Then he broke the kiss to look deep into her eyes, gazing at her beautiful, healthy face. Her skin sheened under the dim lighting. Her lips parted, plump and wet, and her hair tousled around her graceful neck and shoulders. What a glorious sight.
Arousal loved her.
“Tate.” A throaty, greedy whisper. The most seductive sound he’d ever heard.
“I love you.” He drew his hips back and surged again and again, filling her, stretching her with an urgency that chopped his words into grunts. “Love you so damn much.”
There was a natural rhythm between them, a pace and angle that had a way of bringing them to climax together. He didn’t know how many times they’d had sex during their five days together, but he’d found their rhythm then and rediscovered it now.
His hips moved instinctively, impulsively, as he savored the slow build of yearning low in his back. Just the possibility of it, the relief of being inside her, and the knowledge that he would be here, in her, every day for the rest of his life—it was more than he could ever hope for.
He sensed the surge of pleasure inside her, the promise, the moment they reached for it at the same time.
Then he rode them over the edge, staring into her eyes and coming with her in powerful spurts that pounded his heart into a mold around hers. A unified heartbeat. It was the song in his ears and the barometer of their future.
She stared up at him, dazed and breathless. “We needed that.”
Lowering her feet to the floor, he kissed her lips. “I won’t ever deny us again. I’m sorry I—”
“Whatever you’re about to say, stop.” Her eyes flashed. She snatched her panties from the floor and pulled them on. “You endured things most men can’t even think about, and you’re apologizing for taking four days to heal?” She framed his face with her hands. “Take as long as you need, Tate. I’m not going anywhere.”
He knew that, but hearing it from her lips freed something in his mind, un-sticking the final pieces of his mental baggage.
“What I need is you,” he said, brushing a knuckle across her cheek, “and we’ve only just begun.”
Ten minutes later, he stood by the bed in their room and ordered her to strip. Then he spread her gorgeous nude body across the mattress and worshiped every sensual inch of her skin. He kissed and licked until she bucked her hips, offering up his journey’s end.
His body vibrated with need as he shifted between her legs. But he took his time, drawing out her panting breaths, making her wait for it. Her head snapped up, and when her eyes found his, he ran the tip of his finger with taunting slowness up the seam of her soaked pussy.
He teased her with his touch, stroking, rubbing, plunging in and out, all while imprisoning her with his eyes. She orgasmed on his hand. Then she orgasmed on his tongue. And he was nowhere near finished with her.
Kneeling between her thighs, he slid the head of his cock up and down her slit, torturing them both in the best way possible. He controlled her pleasure, and he didn’t need chains or belts or any kind of physical restraint to do it.
She surrendered to him as he sank inside her. She yielded to the demands of his body. She relinquished her heart in connection of their lips.
He spent hours inside her, trying to slack a need that would never burn out. When they finally collapsed in a tangle of limbs, she laughed. She rolled to her back and laughed deep belly laughter with her knees pulled up and her arms around her waist.
He laughed with her, because fuck him, her smile. It was a huge, bursting, mystical entity inside him—an energetic, unpredictable live wire of happiness stretching out beneath his skin.
Snuggling up against her side, he tossed a leg over hers and cupped the side of her face. “What is it?”
“Joy.” She met and held his gaze, glowing with life. “This feeling, you, us… It’s laughter and soul-deep joy.”
Her answer was everything. No matter where the future took them, he would make sure she never stopped laughing.
“Tell me about your dreams.” He circled a finger around the luscious curve of her breast. “Your fantasies, your hopes and aspirations.”
Rolling toward him, she gave him a heart-melting smile. “It starts with you, a bottle of wine, and a Netflix subscription…”
CHAPTER 34
One month later…
Lucia reclined on the couch in Tate’s house in Austin, flipping through the movie selections on Netflix. She smiled as the sounds of shuffling footsteps and heavy grunts drifted from the kitchen.
“Fucking hold still,” Tate growled from around the corner.
Maybe she should go in there and help him, but it would only frustrate him more. The man loved to be in control.
When they left Colombia a few weeks ago, they made a stop in California wine country. The threat of Tiago lingered, and they kept their wits about them always, but deep down, she believed he’d moved on from Tate and her. He’d played out his mind games and got his revenge.
Whether she and Tate went after him was still up for discussion.
Tate’s roommates had stayed in Colombia, working with Camila on her war against slavery. Cole was still searching for Kate.
Cole Hartman, as it turned out, was an interesting man. She’d learned a lot about him during their three months on the road together. Hardworking and highly motivated, he lugged around a tragically broken heart. It gave him a perspective that few people could appreciate.
He never collected on the money Tate owed him, and she doubted he intended
to bill Van and Matias. Cole had become part of their family, part of the Freedom Fighters.
The scamper of skidding feet tore out of the kitchen, and in the blink of an eye, her lap was filled with the long, awkward legs and huge muscled frame of an eight-year-old rescued greyhound.
Kingo stumbled and staggered like a newborn deer on her thighs, his feet slipping and tripping between the cushions, until he hopped off and collapsed onto his side on the floor.
“He got mud all over the kitchen.” Tate stepped into the room and gave her a once-over. “And you.”
She glanced down at her muddy clothes and shrugged. “He’s still learning how to be a house dog.”
They were fostering Kingo, until they were ready to make some permanent decisions. Stay in Texas, return to Colombia, search for Tiago Badell, explore the Venezuelan rainforest—all of it was on the table.
Tate disappeared in the kitchen and returned a second later with two glasses of wine from their trip. He set them on the coffee table and motioned for her to stand.
She did so with a smile, holding still as he removed her muddy shirt and jeans. Clad in a bra and panties, she sighed as he kissed her. His seeking tongue, his greedy hands on her body, and his clean, heady breath against her lips, he was so familiar and intoxicating and hers.
He was her everything.
He lowered her to the couch and positioned her where he wanted her. Then he stretched out behind her, tucking her backside against his groin and stroking his fingers through her hair.
Heaven.
As she sipped from her wine and cued up an action movie on Netflix, she felt a depth of joy that could only be earned through blood and tears.
There was a tilting, cracking, end-of-the-world transformation that happened inside of people who experienced extreme terror and hardship, abuse and tragedy, shame and forgiveness. Those who suffered the most held the greatest appreciation for movie subscriptions, rescued dogs, and a glass of red from wine country.
Maybe she and Tate would give up those things to pursue new quests together and reunite with old friends. But they would always remember what they’d endured and how they fell in love. They would always find solace in the dark and the pain, in a hand around the throat, or a last request in a shack, or a seedy sex club, or a ransom payment, as well as antivenom injections, scarification, Venezuelan prisons, monastery ruins, and tragic love stories.
Without the bad stuff—the trauma, the fall, and the crash—joy wouldn’t exist. Maybe something like it would be in the background, like an echo of the real thing. But it wouldn’t have strength and impact. It wouldn’t be felt in every bone, tissue, and organ.
It was the bad stuff that breathed vivid life into the good.
Sorrow existed to breed happiness.
Pain gave rise to pleasure.
Loss brought about exploration.
Through a story of suicidal lovers and a gate carved into skin, it was grief that had led her to Tate.
They found each other in tragedy.
A silent, unified heartbeat in the midst of devastation.
———————————————————
The DELIVER series continues with Kate’s story:
TAKE (#5)
BOOK 5
CHAPTER 1
Kate had been watching the storm gather strength for two days. Turbulent clouds collided beyond the barred window, howling and banging against the concrete walls of her prison.
The wind wanted in as violently as she wanted out.
She’d been here before. Not in this dingy stone building or in these exact restraints. This place was utterly foreign, the scratchy rope on her wrists too primitive to be real.
But dammit, it was real. And intimately familiar. So much so it hadn’t taken her long to shake off the shock of being kidnapped. Again.
The last time she found herself in shackles was four years ago. Back then, she was just a clueless eighteen-year-old girl. She hadn’t understood who had taken her, what they wanted, or how she—a nobody from nowhere Texas—could be of interest to anyone.
But this time was different.
When two men captured her at gunpoint behind the diner where she worked, she’d guessed why, how, and who was behind it.
That was a month ago.
She’d been locked in this room for a goddamn month and still hadn’t glimpsed her captor. Not once had she heard his name whispered on the guards’ lips.
That didn’t stop her from shouting her assumptions from the rafters.
“Tiago Badell!” Her hoarse roar echoed down the dark corridor, aimed at the door that remained closed at the end. “I know you can hear me!”
She’d grown bold in her isolation. Impatient. Desperate. And reckless.
“Show yourself, you fucking coward!” She yanked at the rope on her arms and glared at the end where it secured to the steel beam overhead and out of reach.
With her hands bound together in front of her, she couldn’t loosen the knot between her wrists. God knows, she’d tried. Weeks of gnawing on the rope shredded her lips, her fingernails broken and jagged from useless clawing.
She was being held in a second-floor antechamber to another room. Beyond the reach of her leash were two doors. One at the end of the hall. The other led down to the main level and the armed guards who patrolled the property.
The rope allowed her access to a mattress and a doorless bathroom with no mirrors. There was no furniture. No objects that could be fashioned into a weapon.
Hygiene, clothes, and food—the basics were granted and nothing more.
She ached for fresh air, exercise, her friends, human contact… The list was inconsolably long. But what consumed her thoughts more than all else was the dark, elusive door to the other room.
Someone lived in there, and she was certain that someone was Tiago Badell.
Three times a day, an elderly man delivered two servings of food. With skin the color of midnight, he floated through her chamber like a shadow, never speaking, never meeting her eyes. He always set one serving before her, just within reach. The other he carried to the room down the hall.
He wasn’t mute. Sometimes, voices drifted from beneath the door in a language she couldn’t decipher—the old man’s raspy accent and a deeper, richer timbre.
When she first arrived, the old man would linger in that room for hours. Lately, his visits had grown shorter. He would slip behind the mysterious door and emerge shortly after with empty platters.
He was in there now, having just dropped off her dinner.
Steam rose from the tin plate on the floor. Rice, chickpeas, and grilled meat—the spicy aroma made her mouth water, but she was too focused on the corridor to eat.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the window and strobing the stone walls of her prison. She strained to hear voices from the other room but couldn’t detect a word amid the thunder.
“Tiago!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Come out, goddammit! Tell me why I’m here!”
Didn’t matter how often or how loud she yelled. He never came out.
Was he sick? Hiding? Protecting his identity? She still didn’t know what he looked like.
A few weeks before she was taken, her close friend, Tate Vades, left for Venezuela’s Kidnap Alley to penetrate Tiago’s compound. It was an insane undertaking, but not unexpected. All her roommates—Tate, Ricky, Martin, Luke, and Tomas—had a habit of running headlong into danger. After escaping Van Quiso’s shackles, they banded together to take down as many human sex traffickers as possible.
Camila Dias had been the first to escape. Although she no longer lived with them, she continued to lead their vigilante group of Freedom Fighters.
Tate’s latest mission focused on rescuing Camila’s missing sister, Lucia, who allegedly worked for Tiago Badell. As if Tate’s endeavor wasn’t risky enough, he took Van Quiso along as his backup.
How the hell could Tate trust the man who had enslaved and raped him? Sure, Van expre
ssed regret for the hell he rained down on her and her friends, but it was too little, too late. Kate would never forgive him, and she sure as fuck didn’t trust him with Tate’s life.
The fear she had for Tate before he left was nothing compared to what she felt now.
Now, she was petrified.
Tiago wouldn’t have taken her unless Tate’s mission was compromised. How else would Tiago know she existed?
That left some devastating questions.
What happened to Tate? Was he still alive? Was he imprisoned within these very walls, gagged and forced to listen to her screams?
Despair crushed her heart in a suffocating vise.
She never mentioned Tate, just in case she was wrong about his connection to her kidnapping. Instead, she spent the past month telling herself he successfully rescued Lucia and escaped unscathed. If he’d bested Tiago, it made sense that Tiago would go after Tate’s loved ones in retaliation.
Of all the people in Tate’s life, she was the most vulnerable. The loner. The weakest fighter. The only woman without a companion. Of course, she would be the one to get snatched.
That must’ve been it, but she needed to know for sure.
“Tiago!” She faced the corridor and raised her voice. “I want answers, and I won’t shut up until I have them!”
The door held still.
Restlessness twitched her muscles, reaching into her bones and rattling her sanity.
She paced toward the window and halted a foot short from the glass. It was as close as the rope would allow, but the angle supplied a view of the dusty, barren landscape.
Two stories up, she couldn’t see the exterior of the building or any other structure in the vicinity. Two cars sat off to the side, where a burly man loitered, smoking a cigarette with a rifle strapped to his back. Farther out, a dirt road meandered around woody shrubs and cacti before fading into the sandy horizon of nothingness.
