Sneak Attack

by Cari Quinn

  Then, slowly, oh so slowly, closed my palm until her moan caught in her throat and her eyes flew open. Her lips trembled apart and I crushed them under mine while I squeezed my fingers and swallowed her whimpers like breath.

  She wanted pain. I gave it to her. Even when it hurt me to harm her in any way, I gave her what she needed. It didn’t matter if I didn’t fully understand. I loved her.

  “You’re mine,” I growled, grabbing her hair again with my other hand. Pulling until I tasted the tears that spilled onto her cheeks. Sometimes she cried during sex. That was the only time she allowed her emotions out of the steel cage she’d shoved them into. Mine were there too, trapped with hers. She held my heart in her hands.

  I pulled harder on her hair, on her lips, my hand still flexing over her tender, hot skin. “Say it,” I demanded, grazing my teeth over her lower lip. “Fucking tell me who you belong to.”

  She shook her head, subtly fighting me even as she arched into my strokes like a kitten needing a scratch. Her side had to be screaming yet she moved into my caresses, seeking them every time I drew my hand away. She was a kinky little thing, more so than I’d ever realized when I’d taken her that first time against the rough brick wall next to the bar. Though she knew far too much in some ways, in others she’d been inexperienced.

  She wasn’t now. We’d lost a lot of our innocence together. Her about sex. Me about intimacy. Both of us about learning how to feel. We were still learning.

  I tightened my grip on her side. Her agonized moan triggered my cock to lurch against my sweats. My breaths shortened. The sound in my ears could’ve been my heartbeat or a tidal wave. She was quivering, and I knew if I drew her pants down she’d be one gush away from orgasm. I was hurting her, and her tears were flowing faster, but she kept rocking against me. Wordlessly asking for more. I didn’t believe in hurting women. Ever. With my background, doing so seemed like a sin. But I loved Mia so I much that I would do anything for her. Even make her bleed. So what if I couldn’t look at myself after? What the hell did it matter?

  She slammed her hands against my chest, forcing me backward until my spine hit the window. The coolness from the glass burst through the furnace of heat that still pumped through me from my workout and my fury. The anger hadn’t left me. I’d begun to think it never would. But the need for her burned through it all.

  When she yanked down my pants and cupped my cock, I threw back my head, centered by the blast of pain against my skull. Her palm worked me quick and hard. She was merciless in her pursuit of my orgasm. Only sheer will held it off. I hauled her up until our mouths clashed again. Her tongue pumped between my lips, and I sucked on it with equal fervor. Goddammit, I wanted to swallow her whole.

  Before I could process what had happened, she’d shed her jeans and scaled my body like a rope at the gym. Her nails sliced over the window casement next to my head as she struggled for the angle she sought. Then she wrapped herself around me and took my dick so deep that all I could release was an agonized groan.

  Words, thoughts, sanity failed me.

  Shouts echoed in my head with no outlet. I soaked myself in her, steeped myself in the sensations only she could bring. She stole the breath from my chest. Altered the beat of my heart. My gaze riveted on hers, though it took all I possessed to focus on the eye of my storm.

  “Yours,” she whispered, voice raw, eyes still streaming as she started to ride.

  3

  Mia

  I’d survived an earthquake.

  Slumped against the window, I brought my hand to my throbbing side, unsurprised when it came back wet with blood. Not a lot, just enough to prove we’d played rough. Again. I loved that he wasn’t afraid to take me there, every time.

  I wanted violence from him. He wanted romance from me. It shouldn’t have frightened me so much to wonder when that bill would come due.

  Pushing myself to my knees, I sucked in air and lifted my head. The room was empty. Tray never left me in this kind of shape—half naked, sweaty and bloody, with what we’d done still dampening my thighs—which meant one thing.

  He couldn’t stand the sight of me. Or worse, he couldn’t stand the sight of himself.

  I pulled up my panties and jeans, yanked down my shirt and barely bit back a scream. Good thing I’d loaded up on antibacterial wipes. Before I went to the bathroom to get cleaned up, I detoured to the table near the door. A little folded note from Carly sat on top.

  Be back late. Cute guy I work with asked me out. Think he’s a nerd, but he’s cute underneath the glasses. See ya soon.

  The smile lasted until I set the note aside. On the up side, she was going out with a cute guy who did not appear to be Giovanni Costas. Along with being older, jaded and an underground MMA fighter, Giovanni also had a sexual scorecard that would give any caring big sister nightmares. I’d tried to warn Carly away from him, but all of my impassioned speeches had been ineffective.

  Plus, talking about sex completely unnerved me. Still.

  With my background, that was kind of laughable, but there it was. Who said I didn’t have a finely honed sense of the ironic?

  For a couple of months, Carly and Giovanni had danced around each other so much that I’d begun to think it was inevitable. Then Giovanni had started seeing Vanity, another female fighter—seeing being an euphemism for feeling her up at every opportunity—and abruptly Carly had stopped coming to visit me and Tray at the gym where we worked and Giovanni trained.

  It was a good sign she’d gone out with one of her coworkers from the Salad Hut. Perhaps she was finally moving on. Maybe a little bit too much, since a quick glance at the phone I’d shoved in my front pocket showed it was after midnight.

  At eighteen, Carly didn’t have a curfew. She was an adult and could come and go as she pleased. That didn’t make me feel better about her being out so late with a new guy. Then again, if she hadn’t been, she would’ve walked in on me and Tray banging against the windows, and that wasn’t exactly kosher either.

  Sighing, I pushed my fingers through my knotted hair as I shuffled toward the bathroom. Tray always took down my hair from ponytails or braids as fast as possible. Tonight he’d just shoved his fingers through it, leaving snarls and dangling rubber bands in his wake.

  I came to a halt outside the bathroom, a lump rising in my throat. Tray stood in front of the mirror, head down, shoulders slumped, blood-streaked hands flexing as they gripped the edge of the sink.

  One guess who’d done that to him.

  “Tray,” I whispered.

  His shoulders braced but he didn’t look up.

  I stepped into the bathroom, squinting a little at the light, moving toward him without thought. I did have some iota how to offer comfort, even if I’d caused the hurt. I’d spent a long time learning how to comfort myself.

  I pressed my cheek to his bare back, unsurprised at the muscles that coiled beneath his skin. My touch now made this sweet, honest, beautiful man stiffen in preparation for an attack.

  Yeah, I was awesome in every way.

  Closing my eyes, I slid my arm around his waist and kissed his shoulder blade, trying to show him with that simple gesture that I was sorry. Sorry for asking him for more than he wanted to give. Sorry for being unable to be the woman he needed. Sorry that my past kept coming back to knock me on my ass. That was bad enough, but it wasn’t fair that I kept taking him to the ground with me.

  He gripped my hand, clasping it so tight that my fingers cramped. I didn’t ask him to let go. We needed this moment of connection, without words or sex. It had been so long since we’d just taken a minute to be.

  Eventually, he tugged me around until we stood facing the mirror with my back to his front. He tilted up my chin and met my eyes in the glass. Saying nothing, he forced me to look at the toll we’d taken on each other.

  My hair hung in sweaty clumps around my face. Mascara, tears and perspiration streaked my cheeks. My lipstick looked like it had been applied by a demented clown. And my eyes…my
eyes just looked exhausted. And sad.

  I didn’t dare look at him below the neck. Focusing on those Caribbean blue irises was all I could take. Somehow there was no judgment there. That, more than anything, made me want to weep. Again.

  Tray grabbed a couple of antibacterial wipes to clean my tattoo. Next he took the jar of Vaseline out of the medicine cabinet and rubbed some gently into the fresh ink, making me wince and also easing the sting. He had such incredible hands. That those long fingers and wide palms could be so tender constantly amazed me.

  After a moment, he reached for the brush I’d left on the back of the sink. Carefully, patiently, he worked out the rubber bands and dragged the bristles through my hair in slow sweeps, not stopping until the long length was smooth and shiny. By then I was swaying from fatigue, barely able to remain standing.

  Wordlessly, he undressed me and carried me into the bedroom. He didn’t kiss me, didn’t say goodnight. Just curved his body to mine in the bed that had become ours and shut off the light.

  He knew. He always just knew what I needed and gave it to me. I fell into sleep clutching my gratitude for him to my chest, even if for once he’d kept his hand to himself. Normally I cradled it between my breasts like an adult version of a teddy bear. I didn’t consider it spooning because usually I put distance between our bodies, as much as I could and still keep my hold on his hand. Tonight I had to settle for the warmth of his breath on my neck.

  The next morning, I woke alone.

  That shouldn’t have surprised me but it did. He had a training session with a new fighter later that morning and work at the bar in the afternoon, as did I, followed by class in the evening. Still, I hadn’t expected him to be out of bed by—I glanced at the bedside clock—seven-fifteen. Tray hated mornings.

  He’d been working out when I came home last night so he probably didn’t need to get in a session now. That didn’t mean he hadn’t gone to the gym. We were both compulsive about working out. In his case, he was as compulsive about eating junk food as he was about training.

  I just liked the burn. Nothing new there.

  I rolled out of bed and went straight in to take a shower. After a short, hot one, I came back out in yoga pants and a tank, threw my hair up in a messy knot and went to find either my man or my sister. I wasn’t choosy. I just didn’t feel like being alone.

  My progress, such as it was, came a lot more often in fits than spurts.

  The kitchen was empty, as was the living room. Carly’s couch looked untouched. She didn’t love sleeping on it but since Tray had moved in, we didn’t have a lot of options.

  My stomach clenched as I returned to my bedroom to search for my phone. Hopefully she’d texted while I was asleep. She never stayed out all night without sending word.

  Two texts from Carly waited for me, both sent twenty minutes ago. Twenty freaking minutes ago.

  Hey sorry, spent the night. Didn’t plan on it. Hope you didn’t worry.

  I rolled my eyes. Yeah, as if I wouldn’t. If I’d been the least bit myself, I would’ve sat up until morning waiting for her and obsessively calling her cell. I never panicked without reason.

  I always had reasons. History, for one.

  Since you didn’t call, I have to assume you got a lil sumthin sumthin yourself. You’re welcome and please don’t leave any underwear near the front door.

  “One freaking time,” I muttered as a flush heated my cheeks. If it had just been my panties, it would’ve been bad enough, but nope, Tray’s jock strap had topped off the undergarment sundae.

  We tended to have sex wherever, whenever. Clothes only got in the way.

  I blew out a breath and headed back into the living room. At least Carly was accounted for. Tray was not. He hadn’t left a note on the bedside table like he usually did, something I’d remembered to check once I knew Carly was still alive. Whether or not she would remain in that condition once she showed up remained to be seen.

  On my way to sit at the table by the door—my usual space to camp out when I was too agitated to veg on the sofa—I noticed the patches of spackle on the window frame. The flush in my cheeks returned. I’d scratched the paint last night while I was riding him.

  Enthusiastic, that was me. Vicious too, more often than not. His back had borne some scratches, but I’d been too tired after my session under the needle to offer him the same care as he’d given me.

  Same story, different day.

  There was another patch of spackled wall behind the heavy bag. That one wasn’t my fault, unless my arms stretched a lot farther than I thought.

  Tray whipping off his shirt flashed through my mind. Sweat pouring down his face and shoulders. He’d done that to the wall. And yeah, probably that one was on me too. I’d likely caused the anger and frustration that had led to him not checking his strength.

  Yet he’d been up early this morning, spackling. Where had he even gotten spackle at this time of day? Maybe he kept some on hand for emergencies. Vaseline, spackle and licorice cured most ills.

  I pulled out a chair from the table shoved against the wall and sat down, drawing one leg up to my chest. My stupid need to cry sure hadn’t abated when I’d seen that plaster job. He wasn’t here but his kindness remained. This wasn’t even his place. I’d made sure he knew that, because I was a fucking raging bitch. I was so scared of getting too used to him, of needing him beside me to sleep, to eat, just to breathe that I was forcing him away to make the heartache come sooner.

  If Tray dumped me, it was obvious who would be to blame. And this time, I couldn’t even pin it on my past. He’d accepted that part of me. I couldn’t accept it. That was the real issue. One of them anyway.

  I rested my cheek on my knee and pulled my leg closer. Singing to myself was a habit ingrained since childhood when I was lonely or scared. Today’s song of choice was my rendition of Johnny and June Cash’s “Jackson” sans someone to harmonize with. Instead of crying while I sang, I rocked. Possibly like a crazy person.

  If the strait jacket fits…

  Sometime later, the front door inched open and Carly poked her head inside the apartment. I’d stopped singing and rocking. Stopped moving entirely. I was sitting like a stealth bomber older sister in the almost dark of a gloomy rainy day, prepared to catch my nookie-pursuing sibling doing the walk of shame.

  But she caught me first.

  “Ame, what in the actual fuck.” She pulled up short just inside the door, stopping with her sneaker dangling off one socked foot. If she hadn’t noticed me, that sneaker would’ve been flung across the room and likely ended up in the base of the big plastic potted plant she’d bought to give the place “atmosphere.”

  All that plastic monstrosity did was give her a place to toss her shoes. Currently a pair of hot pink thongs—flip flops, not underwear—sat toe up in the fake dirt. Classy, we were not.

  “Why are you hiding in the dark?” she asked, evidently unaware that I’d become fixated on her thongs. They were bejeweled, like penis cakes of yore. My baby sis sure loved her bling.

  Speaking of bling, she was wearing one hell of a lot of makeup for someone who’d headed out on an impromptu date after a shift at the Salad Hut. Her mouth looked ripe, like an apple, and her cheeks had clearly been attacked by blush. Something shiny was on her eyelashes and the weak light caught on them every time she moved. I was tempted to reach out and investigate, but I knew she wouldn’t take kindly to me pawing her like a mother about to wash her child’s face with soap.

  I wasn’t her mother. I couldn’t keep smothering her or she would leave.

  Everyone would leave, goddammit.

  “It’s morning,” I said evenly. “Technically it’s not dark.”

  “It’s pouring outside and there’s no light in here, so yes, Einstein, it is dark. I can barely see you.” She pulled on the cord of the dancing hula girl lamp she’d gotten at the thrift. “Why are you all huddled up over there?”

  Even without looking at Carly, I knew she’d slapped her han
ds on her hips. She wore her bossiness well. “I didn’t want to miss one step of your walk of shame.” I dropped my leg while she sputtered. “And I’m not huddling. I was…doing yoga.”

  “Yeah. Okay. And I’m going to start fighting.”

  Shaking the pins and needles out of my foot, I glared in Carly’s direction. “Excuse me?”

  “Kidding, Ame. Jesus. Do you really think I want to look all busted up like you used to?”

  That was probably an insult. I didn’t take it as one, though, because I’d worn those marks and scars as badges of pride. I was a fighter. A survivor. Not a victim.

  Never a victim.

  “Next time, try to be funny, okay?” I asked, rubbing the heels of my hands over my cheeks just in case I’d sprung a leak. They were dry, thank God. Sometimes tears escaped when I didn’t expect them to, and in the mood I was in, anything was possible.

  Carly finished toeing off her sneaker and sent it flying. Her aim must’ve been off, because it bounced off the plant and landed sole down on the arm of the couch. “I thought the lack of sibling interference last night meant you were getting some. Sure doesn’t sound like it from that eau du bitchy wafting from your ass.”

  “My ass is freshly showered, thank you very much. And I resent your implication that if I’m being ‘bitchy’, it’s because I haven’t gotten sex. I’ll have you know that I get plenty, and it hasn’t improved my mood one bit.”

  Somehow that had sounded better in my head.

  “Speaking of sex,” I cleared my throat, “I’m assuming that’s what kept you out all night?”

  Off went the other shoe. This one ended up on its side next to the coffee table. At least it was next to it and not on top of it. “It sure as hell wasn’t doing crossword puzzles.” She flopped down on the chair opposite me. “Where’s Tray?”

  “He left.”

  “This early?”

  I jerked a shoulder.