Ruled

by Angel Payne

  It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

  But damn it, damn it, it did.

  And just like that, the tears she’d reined back through the last hour took two seconds to prick her eyes.

  She sniffed hard, ordering them back to the insecure corners they came from, but they assaulted again as another epiphany hit. A whopper this time.

  She wanted to burn this bed down before thinking of anyone else in it with John.

  Put it away. Put it away!

  “Ku`uipo.” His utterance, though coarse as gravel, was a salvation in her grief. “Fuck.” He leaned in from behind, soaking up several of her tears with his lips. “You’re crying. It already hurts?”

  “Yes.” It was pathetic and weepy, but she couldn’t give the man a Rodgers and Hammerstein score right now. She refused to lie. Not to him. Not ever to him—about any of it. “Yes, it does—and damn it, don’t you dare stop.”

  She needed the pain now more than ever.

  Pain only he could give.

  Agony only he could assuage.

  With his sexy economy of motion, Franz nodded. With his perfect infusion of understanding, he grunted. With his wordless way of knowing exactly what she needed, he pushed her shorts to her thighs…

  Then plunged two fingers into her ass.

  “Oh!” There was one way of forgetting the self-pity. The word shot out again as the man anchored his digits and then spread them out. Turned into a whimper as he twisted his hand, opening her in painfully erotic new ways. Mellowed to a moan when he soothed the sting by pouring a generous amount of lube into the aperture he’d just created. Then the torment began all over again. His spiraling motions. His widening fingers. He was stretching her in impossible new ways, though she knew it was still just a prelude of what his cock would do to her.

  How he’d decimate her.

  Dominate the most illicit part of her body.

  So she could, for just one blessed moment, forget the anguish of her heart.

  “Ahhhh!” She gasped it as he drove his fingers in to the hilt. And damn, did the man have long fingers.

  “Still hurts, kitten?” His lips returned to her ear, heating its shell with grating force.

  “Y-Yes, Sir.”

  “That shouldn’t turn me on.” He bit into her lobe as he plunged in deep again. “But gods help me, it does.”

  If she needed any fuel for the fire of her next sharp mewl, that was sure as hell it. “Damn!”

  “Tell me it hurts.”

  “It—it hurts, Sir.”

  “But you want to take it, don’t you?”

  “I—I want to take all of it, Sir.”

  “So you want me to hurt you more…by fucking my cock into this sweet hole instead?”

  “God.” She choked as his voice worked its wicked dark magic and his fingers plunged to newer, naughtier depths. “Ohhhh God…”

  “Not what I asked, woman.” His free hand backed up his crossbow of a tone, digging into her hip. He only let go once he’d scooted his own body closer, hurriedly jerking down his zipper once more. As his erection worked between her ass cheeks, he dictated, “I asked if you wanted this. Right here.”

  “Yes.” It spilled with all the unthinking force of her lust…and the unmitigated magic of her surrender. “Yesssss.”

  “Then tell me.” His command was even darker and dirtier, heating the column of her neck. “Tell me exactly what you want, kitten.”

  Her mind spiraled. Her senses swam. And her sex…Mack fucking truck, her sex…

  Throbbing. Craving. Needing to let him take her…to claim her as no other man had before…

  “I want your cock,” she finally got out. “There. Right there. In my ass.”

  Another sound, rough as a grizzly but ruthless as a dragon, vibrated through him. He withdrew his fingers from her hole, using them to position the hot, wet crown of his length at the trembling rim of her entrance…

  And there, he paused.

  Stopping her heart.

  Seizing her nerves.

  Closing up her throat.

  As she waited. Waited…

  “Kitten?”

  She swallowed hard. Focused on breathing. Like that was happening. “Y-Yes, Sir?”

  “Am I the first one to fuck you like this?”

  “Yes.” At last a breath came. Shook like a damn raindrop on the wind, but it was there. “Yes, you are.”

  “Good.”

  And then…he did.

  His thrusts were sharp and short at first. Every motion wasted nothing, as always. But soon, he took more savoring stabs, spending more time with each stroke. He rolled and flowed, learning the secrets of her back grotto. Teaching himself what made her soften for him…moan for him…and soon, unbelievably, writhe and push back at him.

  It hurt. There was no denying that. But the stretch was so wicked and the invasion so complete, she had no room for anything other than the truth of what he brought.

  That in the pain he delivered, there was freedom.

  A flight to vistas she couldn’t describe. An escape to a nothingness where she didn’t have a persona to consider, a face to put on, or an act to take part in. She wasn’t a symbol of anything or a spokesperson for anyone.

  She was just woman.

  She was simply his.

  Opening for him. Gasping for him. Taking every inch of him, pushing even deeper, until his guttural groan filled her ears and his balls caressed the sensitive tissues between her ass and pussy…

  Making her so aware…

  So on fire…

  Her folds weeping…

  Her clit needing…

  “Yeah.” His growl morphed into an actual word in her ear, making her realize where her own fingers had strayed of their own instinct. “That’s good, kitten. Stroke your clit. We’re going to do it together.”

  For the first time since she’d balked on him outside the kink theater, a frisson of hesitation sneaked in. No. Worse. She was…embarrassed. Franz surely felt that too, since her blush did its usual global takeover from her neck up, but the cadence of his heated breaths didn’t falter by one beat. Instead, the wicked, wicked man slipped his long, long fingers down, pressing them atop hers…and then helping her circle them in and up, massaging her most tender button with brazen surety…

  “Together.”

  His echo was a rasp of lightning in her senses.

  His fingers were the masters of lightning on her clit.

  His cock was the bearer of lightning inside her body.

  Her senses could no longer fight the storm. She let it jolt her. Singe her. Claim her.

  Incinerate her.

  “Fuck. Fuck!”

  “Yeah, kitten. Yeah.”

  “No,” she protested. “No. I—this—I’ll never…”

  Survive this.

  Survive you.

  I’ll never survive you, John Franzen.

  Especially if the orgasm was what his fingers already promised…

  “You can, wildcat. And you will.”

  “I—I—”

  “Let it come, Tracy. Fuck, how I want to go off inside you, ku`uipo. You feel me? That come already at the tip of my dick? There’s more than that. So much more…I promise. I’m going to give it to you…right here, in your naughtiest hole, kitten. I’m going to fuck my come into your ass, and you’re going to take it, and you’re going to love it…and you’re going to scream…”

  And she did.

  As she’d never screamed before.

  As she’d never come before.

  Taking all of him, just as he’d promised. Loving it, also just as he’d promised.

  But still not certain he’d made good on the other part.

  Had she survived?

  Did she even want to?

  Or was surviving John Franzen just another one of the delusions she kept feeding herself lately? Yeah, like the one about returning to DC as the same woman who’d left last week. Or the real crackerjack, where she tried to determine
the exact moment he started rewiring every circuit in her soul—only to realize it was a trick puzzle, because the answer was too damn simple.

  From the moment he first laid eyes on her, the damn dragon started changing her.

  In another life, she’d have called it destiny. Fate. Whatever.

  Not in this one.

  In this one, she could only long for the one wish she couldn’t have.

  Walking away from him and not regretting it.

  No. Freaking. Luck.

  The weight of it crashed over her as the girth of him slipped out of her. It made her grip the pillow like a life ring in a typhoon, grateful John wasn’t looking as he lithely rolled from the bed and headed for a small attached bathroom. But even if he noticed, the pillow survival grip was better than succumbing to the tears again—no matter how badly they scalded everything behind her eyes.

  She wouldn’t set them free again. What was the damn point? None of this was a news flash. She’d known it, like an extra weight on her psyche, even from that soul-changing moment back in Vegas. But that was the thing about soul changes. They altered one’s entire world—until the world forgot to read the memo. So it was up to someone to write the memo for themselves, as many times as they possibly could, praying the ink would seep in and the memories would last forever…

  God, the memories.

  And the lessons.

  Ohhhh, yeah. Those too.

  Perhaps…especially those.

  It wasn’t the world’s funniest joke, but it led her brain back to a mindset that wouldn’t have her bawling into the pillow. As the mirth grew, so did the smile quirking her lips as she turned, gazing up at the panels of the stamped metal ceiling…

  At least until John slid back next to her.

  “Do I dare ask what has the kitten looking like she swallowed the canary?”

  “Wha—huh?” Her head hadn’t hit the clouds, but one newly naked, hot-as-hell warrior had just gamboled onto her mattress. Same difference. He’d just have to understand.

  Franz snickered. Leaned down, softly suckling her lips, while dipping the damp cloth in his hand into the space between her thighs. Tracy opened, giving him better access for the care. For a Dominant who knew how to screw a woman’s ears off her head, he was stunningly incredible at the afterglow shit too. Just didn’t seem fair that he’d hogged all the good genes in the Dom pool, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to lodge a complaint.

  “So what’s going on, my little canary binger?”

  She gave up a brief laugh while snuggling tighter back against him. “I was just realizing…how a joint session of Congress is going to be a cake walk compared to your crowd.”

  This time, Franzen beat her to the laughter. His full-throated version was as smooth and rich as the toffee his skin resembled, coating her in sensations just as warm and delicious, especially as he compelled her to roll over and face him again. Wasn’t a horrid request to meet. A new sigh spilled out just from the sight of his face again, so exotic yet noble. She let a huskier sound interrupt it as she tucked a hand under his T-shirt. Holy gravy train, the man was well-made. From the defined slant of muscle bordering his hip to the sleek ridges of his abs to the broad beauty of his pecs, she’d never get tired of exploring his sculpted glory. He was like a relief map for the land of oh-my-fucking-God. If so, then she’d happily be his Lewis and Clark expedition. To the west! Though at this point, she wouldn’t mind even staying in the east. Or the central valley. Really, anywhere on the grid was fine by her.

  “Well.” His gaze grew hooded as she kept exploring. A thoroughly male growl unfurled from him. “My work here is done.”

  He could have slammed an iceberg on her chest and impacted her less. But maybe that was exactly what she needed. This could never be their reality; he was just sucking shit up and accepting it faster than she. It was time to follow that lead. Put her big-girl panties on—or in this case, hike her latex shorts back up—and be grateful for the magic he had chosen to give her.

  So much more than she’d ever dreamed of. Hoped for.

  And it had to be enough.

  Because no way could she ever offer him enough.

  It was laughable, but so damn true. The White House? Sure—but what was a man like him going to do in an environment like that? Sit around and oil paint while she finished eighteen-hour work days? Get in putting practice on the East Lawn while she made trade policy and signed shit into law? Squirm in a tuxedo from time to time, as her “arm candy” at formal dinners?

  He’d hate every second of it.

  Then he’d hate her too.

  “Tracy.” His voice was rough as a rusted penny, betraying the million-dollar hit he’d landed on her thoughts. She lifted a hand to his face, spreading fingers into his dark stubble, grateful the hard part had already been said though sensing he still fought to dig deep for the prose. Why? She pressed the word into him with the force of her gaze. Why are you doing this? Why are you making this harder?

  “John,” she finally uttered, slowly shaking her head. “It’s—it’s all right. We both knew, going into this—”

  “No.” He all but snarled it. His gaze turned to flames as his fingers clawed into hers. “Don’t you get it? I didn’t know.” His dimple became a violent tick. “I didn’t know I’d…”

  And just like that, the glacier was a waterfall. A flood of burning, blazing awakening…

  Of realization…

  Of hope…

  For what, she had no damn idea. She only knew that if she didn’t dive into the water, she’d never forgive herself.

  Even if she ended up on a rock somewhere downstream, drowned by her own stupidity…

  The jump was everything.

  The jump was now.

  “You didn’t know you’d what, John?”

  A hard breath entered and then left him. He closed his eyes…and when he opened the sienna depths to her again, the honesty in them was more stark, raw, and real than she’d ever seen or felt from him before. He was bared to her, far beyond the bronze magnificence of his body. His soul was naked now.

  And his heart…

  For one exquisite, perfect moment.

  Right before the door back to the club was nearly pounded off its hinges.

  Alarm crashed over Franz’s face. He pushed up, instantly throwing his body in front of hers. “What the hell?”

  “Franz!” The voice, deep and booming, wasn’t Zeke’s. Max? No. Not enough snark. Even after knowing the guy for all of a minute, Tracy knew Max Brickham had been born with a taunt in his eyes and a sneer on his lips. “Are you in here? Franz!”

  Tracy’s hands, now on his shoulders as she crouched behind him, were suddenly filled with rigid muscle—for the two seconds he stayed on the bed. As he cleared three strides to the door, one word spilled from him, just as urgent and ferocious.

  “Shit.”

  Some versions of the word were easier to hear than others. This wasn’t one of them. The waterfall gained new ice floes as Tracy scrambled, throwing a pillow around her middle, before John flung open the door. It was the best she could do since the man had obviously changed gears. The last time she’d seen him like this was five days ago, in the back of a speeding Escalade, with smoke billowing in the sky behind them. The same heat roared through his body now. Defined every terse move he made.

  He was back in full battle mode.

  Without repeating the word, he unlocked and then jerked open the door. At once a man stalked in, dressed in similar black cargo pants—though from the waist up, his look was radically different. A sand-colored T-shirt was mostly covered by a bulletproof vest, two loaded gun harnesses, and a small backpack with other paraphernalia worthy of a GI Joe plot. Looks-wise, the man was also Franz’s polar opposite. With hay-colored hair, summer sky eyes, and even a few light freckles across his nose, the guy was an older, hunkier Tom Sawyer. In special ops gear. With a bad-ass swagger.

  “Nessa Rose and the fucking red shoes.” Every word dripped with Joh
n’s shock.

  Tom Sawyer smirked. “Great to see you too, Dragon.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here, fucker. Thailand—”

  “Shock of shocks, the op went easier than we anticipated. And maybe, I…errmm…texted Z to let him know.”

  “And maybe he texted back that we might be having some fun of our own up here,” Franz growled.

  “Maybe.”

  “Hell.”

  “Shit.” That one blurted from Tracy. Dots finally connected in her brain. “Hawk,” she stammered when the two men snapped their attention over. “For Hawkins, right? Garrett Hawkins? It took me a second to recognize you.” But now she sure as hell had. Hawkins was the dashing SOF soldier the media couldn’t get enough of a few years back, rocketing to fame when rescuing white slavery victims in an East Asia jungle, only to discover one of them was the fiancée he’d presumed dead. They’d planned a gorgeous wedding only to have it become the scene of more drama, if she remembered right. Something about twin bad guys and a quest for revenge taking ugly turns…

  Not worth going into, especially as Hawkins returned her interested stare with riveted intensity. “Holy fuck. It’s really—I mean, Zeke told me you and she were really—” He colored and then composed himself. “I mean—holy shit—it’s, errr, really nice to meet you, Madam Vice President, and I’m sorry about this, but—”

  “Hawkins.”

  It was the only charge John needed to issue. The younger man snapped back to attention for the man who’d been his commanding officer for so long, reverting to all-business focus. With a nod of his own, all but confirming this wasn’t the first time he’d seen the inside of this club, the soldier gave an answer that served as the second iceberg her bloodstream hit tonight.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  What was he hoping to accomplish by saying it for the hundredth time? To turn it into some kind of abra cadabra, making Hawk’s announcement less true? To rub it in like chafe balm, expecting it to erase the stab wounds altogether?