by Kati Wilde
And stupid me. Until Bull told me that I had to call in sick, I almost forgot why I was here.
I’m here so the Hellfire Riders can buy twenty thousand dollars worth of crystal meth.
I’m here because it’s either this or they’ll hurt me.
Except I’m already hurting. And I’m angry, the rage and pain swelling hot and hard in my throat and chest.
Because sitting at that table through dinner? It was everything I wanted to have with Bull. It was everything I hoped for when I asked him to kiss me this morning and when I agreed to go out with him.
It was even better than I hoped for. The way Bull teased me into a squirming, needy mess with nothing more than his eyes. The way he and Pop have such a deep and easy relationship. Even the way I could talk to them about my family and, despite the pain and grief, feel safe and cared for. The way they both promised to give me anything I needed—and how I believed them.
I sat at that table and saw a future—a family—that I would love to be a part of.
But I can’t be. And although I want to scream and cry and rage, I just stand silently, looking at the toiletries that say I’m a guest in this house. But really, I’m just a girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
There’s a fist-sized lump in my throat when Bull arrives with the unregistered cell. He’s a giant presence in the room but I can’t even look at him as I take the flip phone with nerveless fingers, and I don’t have to pretend to sound sick when Minerva answers. My voice is hoarse and my chest tight.
Her immediate concern constricts everything even tighter. “Don’t worry about it at all, honey. I’ll cover you. Just get some rest and I’ll see you on Friday, okay?”
I nod and rasp out an “Okay,” in return, my shoulders hunched and my back to Bull. But I can still feel him there, standing at the entrance to the hallway, his big body as solid as any cage door.
“All right,” Minerva says as if she’s about to hang up, but after a slight hesitation adds, “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re at home, right? Because I didn’t recognize the number you’re calling from.”
“I’m home.” I press my fingers to my burning eyes. “I got one of those pay-as-you-go phones. For emergencies. This emergency was not wanting to get out of bed.”
Her laugh seems a little forced. “Good. But if you’re in trouble just say ‘Okay’ again, all right?”
My throat almost closes. We’ve talked about this before—about Raphael coming for me and how to signal that I need help. The weirdness of this call must have sent her alarm bells ringing. “I’m not in trouble.”
“Phew.” Her laugh sounds more genuine now. “Okay. Get better and I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Talk to you soon,” I say and flip the phone closed.
Unregistered. With no GPS. No SIM card. No way to trace it back to Bull—especially after he takes the device from me, removes the battery, and snaps the phone in half.
I flinch as the case cracks in his big hands, then wait for him to go.
He doesn’t. Instead he says gruffly, “You’ll sleep in my room.”
My heart thumps against my ribs. My gaze flies to his.
He’s watching me from beneath lowered brows, his eyes shadowed, his body tense. And he’s just so huge, packed with solid muscle and built like a tree. Wearing a T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest and jeans that emphasize the thick strength of his thighs, he’s a bearded and inked sexual fantasy come to life.
But he’s not a fantasy. He’s another nightmare.
And I’ve had enough sleepless nights.
“No,” I tell him. “I did what you wanted. I agreed to keep my mouth closed, not to spread my legs. Me screwing you wasn’t part of the deal.”
His jaw clenches. “I won’t touch you.”
“Then you can not touch me from another room.”
He shakes his head, blue eyes holding mine. “It’s my responsibility to make sure you stay quiet. I don’t think you’ll run while I’m sleeping but there’s only one way to be sure, and that’s if you’re in the same bed with me—and my bed’s bigger than that one.” He nods toward the queen bed behind me. “If you’re in a different room, you can take off without me knowing and be in town before dawn.”
The rage and hurt are like razors in my throat. “I’m not going to run.”
Bull just spreads his big hands, like he’s got no other options. Like he doesn’t have a choice.
But he does.
I’m the one who doesn’t have a choice. Rage clouds my vision as I turn and scoop up my clothes from the bed, then head down the hall to the next door.
His room is big and uncluttered, with thick rugs scattered over the wood floors and a window overlooking the creek, but I barely see anything ahead of me. I toss my clothes onto a bench at the end of the bed—which is bigger, maybe big enough for both of us to fit without touching him, despite his size—and I’m aware of him following me in, aware of the bed and how I’m so bare beneath this big shirt, aware of the slick heat building between my legs and the boiling in my blood, aware of the anger and need and pain swelling and swelling and filling my heart to bursting.
Seeing the telephone on his nightstand is like the pinprick that starts letting all of that swelling emotion out. Because it strikes me all at once—that there are landlines throughout the house, even in the kitchen, and Bull didn’t watch to make sure I didn’t call anyone.
And this is all such bullshit.
The Riders’ president said that Bull vouched for me. That Bull claimed I could be trusted, that I would be silent.
He was right, wasn’t he? I’ve been a good girl. I meekly agreed to everything they wanted.
I don’t feel so fucking meek now.
“You know what?” I tell him. “I’m not sleeping here. You’re going to take me home. I’ll go to work tomorrow and keep my mouth shut. You know I will.”
“I know you will,” Bull says but it’s not agreement. He doesn’t even add that he’s not taking me anywhere. As if the rest was just me screaming into the wind.
Well, I can scream into something else.
Stalking around the bed, I pick the phone’s receiver up out of the cradle. And yep, there’s a dial tone.
“Sara?” It’s a question and a warning, all at once.
A warning for what? What’s he going to do?
Hurt me?
I don’t think so. Despite everything, I really don’t think so.
But I wonder what he will do.
Beige and clunky, the phone is one of those ancient, heavy ones with a rotary face. Something this old, I doubt he ever even uses it. Trembling from all the stress and emotions ripping through me, I stick my finger into the ‘9’ and dial the number.
His quick, heavy tread crosses the room, softened by the rug beside the bed.
He’s right behind me as I dial a ‘1’.
“The fuck?” Hard fingers stab the pegs in the receiver cradle, disconnecting the line. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I agreed not to say a word about you and your precious drug deal,” I spit out. “You know I won’t. There’s no reason for me to be here. So take me home or I’ll call 9-1-1 and get a ride back home with whoever comes. But don’t worry—I’ll tell them there’s no real emergency, that this was a mistake.”
Gently, he tries to pry the receiver from my left hand. When my grip only tightens, his heavy sigh stirs the back of my hair. “Dammit, Sara. Why are you making this harder than it already is?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” A bitter laugh rips through me. “Why should I make it easy for you?”
His voice suddenly hardens, roughened with frustration. “You think this is easy?” Abruptly his hand wraps around the back of the phone base and he jerks it away from the wall, ripping out the line. A dull clang echoes around the room as he grits out, “I didn’t fucking want any of this.”
And he’s angry now, too? Good. I toss the useless receiver and spin around to shove a
t his chest, which is a stupid joke. My head doesn’t even reach his shoulders and his pectorals are like slabs of stone. I might as well be a mouse pushing at him.
I might as well be nothing at all to him.
“Well, what the hell do you want?” My voice rises with each word, anger and pain leaking out fast, but I’m not deflating. Instead the hurt and the rage and the need just keep growing. “I agreed to keep my mouth shut! And you know I won’t risk putting my name out there and that your fucking meth is safe! Me sleeping in here is completely unnecessary—so what the hell more do you want from me?”
“Just you, Sara,” he says hoarsely. “I just want you.”
The tortured response scrapes across my heart. My gaze shoots up to meet his.
The bleak torment I see in the dark blue of his eyes steals my breath and my reply.
“Just you,” he says again and palms the back of my neck, his callused thumb stroking the corner of my jaw. “I figure I’ve got three days before you take off running again—scared of me, scared of the Riders. I’ve got three days to pretend everything between us didn’t get so fucked up. Three days to pretend you’re in my bed because you want to be.”
Pretending there’s a future for us. The ache in my chest is suddenly vast. So vast, swallowing up everything else.
“Bull,” I whisper on a ragged breath.
“And I’m sorry,” he continues gruffly, his strong fingers pushing into my hair, tipping my head back. “I said I wouldn’t touch you. But I’m a fucking liar.”
The last word is growled against my skin just before his hard mouth captures mine—taking my lips as if he owns them, not slow like this morning, no testing or waiting to see if I’ll push him away.
If I had any doubts about whether he’d back off, I would push him away. But despite everything, I don’t have a single doubt about that.
Bull won’t hurt me. He won’t force me.
So maybe I can pretend, too. For a little while, I can pretend this will last. I can pretend there’s a future for us.
But the way Bull’s kiss makes me feel? There’s no need to pretend. I want him so much. I want this impossible combination of security and wild, out-of-control need when I’m in his arms. I want it more than anything.
And I’m terrified that he’s the only man I’ll ever find it with.
Because it’s never been like this. He kisses me and it’s as if my next breath and the next beat of my heart depend upon the stroke of his tongue across mine. I cling to him, my arms wreathing his neck as I rise onto my tiptoes and press closer, opening my lips for a deeper taste, chasing down that incredible pulse-pounding sensation as if I’m chasing down life itself. As if I’ll die without it.
My eager response is answered by a deep groan that rumbles through his chest, teasing my hardened nipples. A shiver of pleasure races over my skin.
Fingers tightening in my hair, he angles his head, deepening the kiss. Luscious peach still lingers on his lips, his tongue, but with every lick into my mouth I only taste his increasing hunger. Ravenously he feasts from my lips, as if he’s starving for my touch and instead of sating his arousal, the kiss sharpens the craving.
Sharpens it like a knife’s edge, a blade that’s flaying me open until there’s nothing left but bone-deep need, nothing left but his mouth fused to mine and the desire slicing through me.
I can’t stop my soft whimper of distress when his mouth leaves mine, or my reaction when his teeth pinch my sensitive earlobe. An exquisite shudder wracks my body when he raggedly breathes my name against my ear. My blood seems molten, my nerves like fire.
Muscles suddenly liquid, my head falls back. His mouth lowers and his heated tongue slicks up the column of my neck.
I feel that lick everywhere. My inner muscles clench as if his tongue slicked through my pussy lips. I press harder against him, trying to ease the empty ache inside me but the need only builds the closer I am. Constrained by his jeans, his cock is a thick pressure against my stomach. Desperately climbing his big frame, I wrap my legs around his waist and writhe against that steely shaft, seeking relief—and the need simply worsens.
“Ah, fuck.” As if I’m torturing him, Bull groans against my throat. “You feel so damn good, Sara.”
So good. But it’s not enough. Rocking against him, I plead, “Don’t stop.”
His entire body goes utterly still, his fingers fisted in my hair, his face buried against my neck.
That’s…the opposite of what I asked for. And he’s tense. So tense, his muscles locked so tight that I can feel the taut strain quivering through him.
Suddenly uncertain, I whisper, “Bull?”
A violent quake rocks through his big body and all at once he’s in motion again, his left hand gripping my ass and grinding my bare pussy against his solid, denim-covered length.
“I won’t stop, baby,” he growls against my mouth. “Gonna give you everything you need.”
He delivers the rough promise before catching my lips in another deep kiss. And I was wrong. I thought he’d been hungry. I thought he’d been starving for me.
But he’d been holding back.
Now he consumes me with this kiss, until there’s nothing but his tongue, his lips, and his big body bearing me down to his bed. Moaning into his mouth, I tighten my arms around his neck, clinging as my back hits the mattress and the weight and pressure between my thighs rub against my clitoris just right, my spine arching as each rock of his hips takes me higher and higher.
Then I plummet when he breaks the kiss and lifts away. Dark hair wild, eyes savage, he looks down at me lying across his bed, my ass almost hanging off the edge and my legs trapping his waist.
My chest heaves with ragged breaths. “Bull?”
“I’m not stopping.” His big hands grip my thighs just above my knees, his thumbs sweeping across the sensitive inner skin. “But I don’t have any condoms. So I’m just deciding whether to get you pregnant with a big hairy baby.”
My eyes fly wide. “What?”
His grin is quick and feral. “Just fucking with you. Mostly.”
“It’s not funny,” I say despite the laugh that’s shaking through me. Because it’s really not funny, except that it’s exactly the kind of crazy thing he’d say. It’s exactly the kind of thing that made me so crazy about him in the first place.
Why I’m still crazy about him. Even if I have to pretend it will last.
Huskily I ask, “Why ‘mostly’?”
His hands slide higher, pushing the long hem of my borrowed shirt upward. “I really don’t have condoms. You on birth control?”
I shake my head.
He groans like my answer just killed him and his fingers slip higher. “It’s all right, baby. I’ll just— I’ll…just…” His big body goes utterly still. “Oh fuck, you’re already wet.”
Wet and trembling. He hasn’t done anything except run his broad palms up the length of my legs, still locked around his hips. But his thumbs are sliding along the tendons of my inner thighs and the fragile skin is slick with my arousal.
Biting my lower lip, I tilt my hips upward. Inviting a deeper touch.
But touching apparently isn’t enough. He wants to see, too.
Eyes feral again, Bull grips the tails of the oversized shirt. Effortlessly he tears it apart, popping the buttons from bottom to top like ripping open a zipper. Gasping, I curl my fingers against the quilt, watching his hungry gaze take in the skin he’s exposed. I’m still wearing a thin cotton undershirt but I’m naked below my waist.
His possessive gaze lingers on my bare pussy. Except it’s not bare. I don’t have the Amazon rainforest growing down there but it’s not as tidy as it would have been if I’d had time to prepare for our date.
And…I don’t care. Because the way Bull’s looking at me, he obviously doesn’t care, either. Arousal flushes his skin and his throat works as he wets his bottom lip, like he’s already preparing to taste me.
His hot gaze lifts to mine. “You got
any objection to me eating your pussy?”
Breathlessly I shake my head.
“Good thing. But I’m saving dessert for last. This my pop’s undershirt?”
Bull doesn’t wait for my answer, just rips the cotton down the center like tissue. The shredded pieces fall to my sides and for an endless time he just stands there looking at me, and aside from a thick, low sound that he makes, doesn’t seem to have any intention of touching.
No problem. I’ve got hands.
Feeling sexier than I ever have, I cup my full breasts in my palms. “They’re all right?”
“Unnnh…” he says. Then swipes the back of his hand over his mouth as if he isn’t certain whether he’s drooling.
Back arching, I pinch my taut nipples. “Let me see you, too. Shirt off.”
Immediately he reaches back, gripping the neck of his T-shirt and dragging it off. This time I’m the one saying Unnnh and maybe drooling.
But he’s worth drooling over. Ink covers thick, mouthwatering muscle—but he’s not lean. Just so big and solid. He obviously works hard, laboring in the gym and on the job and here at the house, but his body says he plays hard, too. His body says he doesn’t follow up that labor with naked chicken and steamed broccoli but enjoys his beer and his food—especially the meals I’ve made for him. I’ve seen the pleasure he takes in my cooking. My touch was all over his incredible body long before my fingers ever got there.
“Now the jeans,” I tell him. Beg him.
I catch my breath when he lets me go to squeeze the bulge of his erection through denim. His hands are huge but thick ridge he’s palming overflows his grip. And Bull touching himself, even through his clothes?
Hottest thing I’ve ever seen. But he doesn’t show me what’s beneath and what I suspect is much hotter. Instead he shakes his head and strokes himself through his jeans. “My dick gets out, it’ll just end up filling your pussy.”
I’m trying to remember why that would be a bad thing. “It’ll just fall right in?”
“My dick’s a stupid, clumsy fucker.” With a rough groan, he stops stroking his big cock and grips my thighs again. “The truth is, I’d probably come the second you look at me. Or touch me. And I’d rather hold off on that because I’m not even close to done with you.”
