by Eros, Marata
Thorn's eyes snap to mine. “You feel like you're cheating on Mick?”
My sigh sounds like a sob. “Hell yes, I do.”
None of my justifications work anymore. They're like needles of doubt, emotional acupuncture gone wrong.
“Then why are you doing the laps?”
“My mom,” I whisper.
“Why are you cheating him?”
“I owe him,” Thorn admits.
“Wait a second.” I step toward him, and now Thorn looks cornered. I point at him. “You're playing revolving lap dances behind his back because you owe him?” A disbelieving laugh erupts from my lips.
Thorn gives a stiff nod, as miserable as an emotionless bastard like him can be.
“How?” I ask.
“What's the story on your mom?” His face is neutral, but he clearly means to exchange information.
I look at my feet. “You know about my mom.”
I jerk my head up and see him nod. “Well, her care... it's—I owed fifty thousand.” Thorn whistles and I move on. “Now it's ten.”
He clears his throat, doing mental math. “So one more lap auction, and she's set.” He shrugs. “Why can't you just make payments? You didn't have to do the laps.”
I shake my head. “It doesn't work like that. If the debt gets over a certain magic number- they shuttle her to a state home.”
Thorn's face tightens. “I know about state run shit.”
More silence. “So you bail mom out, then you're done with laps.”
I nod. “I might have to keep up with some pole work.”
For as long as I can.
Thorn looks at my hand. “What about your fucked-up hand?”
I hiccup back a sob.
Thorn looks down, struggling to maintain his emotions but looking conflicted as hell. “Sorry, it's just...”
I don't even have the emotional latitude to be happy about his discomfort; I'm wound too tight. “I use my wrist and twirl with the dominant.”
I wait while he considers my words. Finally he opens his mouth. “Mick saved me.”
My wealth of reading hits me between the eyes, and suddenly I know his part in the whole miserable scenario.
Tyson Marius Simon.
“You're the one,” I say in a whisper, putting the pieces together.
Thorn nods. “I couldn't save her, but I tried.”
He scrapes a palm over his skull cap of hair. “After I got out of prison for manslaughter, Mick gave me Black Rose. It's been an honor.”
His dark eyes hold mine, and I don't look away.
“And you've been running it ever since,” I guess.
Thorn nods again. “I have, but I have my pride. Mick paid for everything I own. He threw expensive shit at me: the car, my pent, my clothes, the business degree.”
He sees my surprise and chuckles a little. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I talk rough... hell, I am rough.”
Yeah. I don't agree out loud. I never doubted he was smart. Not once. It's one of the most dangerous parts about him.
“I figure I owe Mick about five hundred grand, give or take. The girls get their cut of the laps, and I get mine.” He makes the money fingers together, his thumb brushing the inside of his fingers back and forth.
“So we're both cheating on Mick but for different reasons,” I say.
“I'm not cool with it, but once it's done, I'll pay him back. Even though he feels like he owes me.”
I look at Thorn and see someone different than the man who made me audition on his lap. He's got a weird code of honor.
If it's not mine, is it still honorable? I'm not in a position to judge.
“He does owe you,” I say.
Thorns brows rise.
“You killed his sister's murderer.”
Thorn’s face wrestles through many emotions and finally settles on resignation.
“I can't bring her back.” Despair edges in where indifference was moments before.
“No.” I shake my head, and my hair slithers over my shoulders. “But it's a kind of justice.” I think only of Ronnie.
Thorn shakes his head. “Vengeance.”
That too.
~ 12 ~
The other dancers are in their rooms, and I've narrowly escaped Ronnie again through a lesser evil.
But not this dance.
Jay's as handsome as they come, and it should be no chore for me to ride him.
But it is. His good looks and willingness to pay don't make it easier.
I admit he’s better than the other laps—old, tired men leading grim lives and seeking youth through the thighs of a woman less than half their age.
I smoothly straddle him. The twinge of pain high and inside my thigh summarily ignored, I insert myself between his legs and the arms of the chair.
His eyes look at mine through the mask. My flesh is hot, and the sharp outline cuts into my skin, making for an angry silhouette when I remove it after my night of grinds.
I put my hands on his bare shoulders. I unconsciously command my bad hand to cup where his muscular shoulder curves into his arm, but my other hand grips with perfect dexterity. I bob up and down like a cork in a sea without a current.
Jay gets hard as I arc against his cock, and he moans.
His hand travels to the V in my dress and moves it aside. My naked breast pours cooperatively into his palm.
I tip my head back as his thumb works my nipple into a pebble of hardened flesh. I think of Mick. I can do this if I pretend it’s him.
I can do anything for him.
That realization swims through my mind like a pulled thread, unraveling my brain.
I stop thinking about what Mick's doing in memory of his dead sister.
I quit all thoughts of how much more I want from him than just taking the last shred of my innocence.
My mind hurries past my faceless death, my mother's existence that is worst than the true absence of death.
I concentrate on Jay's hands on my body, pretending they're Mick's.
*
My dress rides at my waist like a slim inner tube of glittering material. It itches me as I rock deeply against Jay's erection, both his hands hold my breasts.
“Sit up,” Jay commands, eyes at half-mast.
I rise, no longer rocking.
“Lean forward.” He kicks my legs apart, and my lip trembles.
Do it, just do it.
My g-string offers nothing more than a suggestion of material as air grabs along my folds, whispering its freedom.
I hang open and exposed above him. Jay wraps my wrists with his big hands and jerks me forward. I cry out in surprise.
I fall forward, and he has his prick sprung that fast. He centers it below my entrance, and I can think of nothing except that he'll be in me before I can react, before I can do anything to stop him.
“Don't,” I whisper through instant tears of violation. The word sounds like the plea it is. I never anticipated him taking advantage of me.
My wrists strain against his hold, but he's so much bigger, stronger.
I don't want my virginity taken this way. I had a plan, and it isn't Jay.
It's Mick. It's always been him.
He presses one hand to the small of my back, his bare flesh against mine, and presses down. His penis splits my butt cheeks, and he slides against my back entrance without penetrating me.
I panic, my free wrist pressing against the back of the chair, and he clamps down harder, holding me captive.
He moves against my most intimate parts, and my fantasy about Mick from earlier aids him.
My slickness allows Jay's unbidden movement.
He does not enter me. He uses the tight recess of my ass to glide between my cheeks, a grueling friction ensuing.
I groan in disgust, clenching my eyes shut and struggling against him as he fucks me outside my body.
Jay releases my other wrist, and I lie against him like a corpse. His hands cup my ass, and the rhythm of his penis speeds up.
>
I feel as though I'm watching this happen to someone else. I’m on the outside looking in.
“Just a little more,” Jay grunts.
His hand's brutal hold tightens further, and I bite my lip in pain. His dick feels like a snake between the globes of my ass.
My gorge rises, but I hang onto the precipice of my will, my fingers white knuckling this final sin.
He gives a last vicious pump between my cheeks, and I cry instead of screaming as he releases against my back. Hot jets coat the beautiful dress, drying into a revolting gel as I lie in a listless pile against him.
“Fuck yeah,” Jay says, pressing into my body as his hips slow their rhythm.
We lie together for a few seconds as his breathing slows.
He pushes me away gently and studies my face.
I sway, fighting throwing up.
“Now the mask, Faren.”
Somehow, this is the worst extra of all.
I can pretend when I wear the mask.
I can't anymore. I tear it off and fling it aside. With unusual accuracy, it rims the trash can and drops inside.
Jay looks at my face, his eyes pouring over every detail as though he's memorizing it. He raises his hand to caress my jaw. “So beautiful.”
I flinch away, my eyes going anywhere but to him.
An exhale shudders out of me, expelling my disgust, guilt, and disgrace.
Noise disturbs the silence of the room where only our breaths had been.
Voices crash against the door. Jay's eyebrows tick up, pulling together and he gives me a sharp look.
There’s the sound of someone being struck.
Jay sits up.
“Don't fucking go in there, Mick!” Thorn says.
Mick.
My breath stalls. I’ve never felt adrenaline like I do in this moment.
I try to scramble off Jay's lap, but our clothes and limbs are too fused for a rapid untangle.
The door crashes open and hits the wall with a thundering crack.
I twist at the torso and take in a wild Mick, my bare ass facing the door.
His eyes widen. My half-naked body wears a dress he undoubtedly chose with himself in mind and is now defiled with another man's release.
Gone is his expensive suit and smooth demeanor.
In its place is a rage that borders on insanity. He launches himself at us.
“Faren!”
I don't move, the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.
Jay is the one who thinks, dumping me on the floor as the bull that is Mick rushes him.
I fall on my naked, sticky ass, limbs flung in an ungraceful mess.
Mick plows into Jay and the chair goes ass over tea kettle onto the floor. Mick hammers Jay's face and I meet Thorn's eyes.
His black eye is blacker than his skin, and he shrugs helplessly.
“Help him!”
Thorn shakes his head as if Jay deserves it.
Jay disgusts me, but Mick will kill him.
I see that now.
I jerk up like an awoken sleepwalker and lurch to Mick. My dress bunches in all the wrong places, and I grab his arm.
“Stop! Please, Mick,” I scream as Jay's bleeding face turns into tenderized meat.
Mick flings off my arm, shoves away from Jay, and comes at me.
I back up, pinwheeling my arms as he stalks toward me. His knuckles are bloody, the skin torn from pounding the flesh off Jay's face.
My ass hits the wall, and he slams against me, his hands caging me.
“Why?” he roars in my face.
His hot breath bathes me in his anger, and I feel stark terror. I pushed this man so badly that he doesn't sound like him anymore.
“I was going to tell you,” I whisper against his heaving chest.
His hand slams against the wall, and my head leaps from the force of it.
“No, you weren't,” he says in a quiet voice, so full of menace I taste it on my tongue.
My eyes unclench and look into his.
“Mick,” Thorn says.
“Shut the fuck up, Ty.” Mick spares him a venomous glance then swivels that poisonous gaze back to me.
“Why?” He sounds much softer now but no less livid.
I clam up. I can't speak to the anguish in his gaze. Caused by me.
He takes an escaped lock of my hair between his fingers.
Then his fingers plow through my hair, fisting it tightly. His mouth finds mine and punishes me with his kiss. His tongue spears me like it had in my core.
Deep and unyielding.
Final.
He tears away, untangling from me, and I follow each movement, burning it into my memory.
Mick looks at Thorn in disgust, and I watch Thorn swallow.
Mick’s dark eyes come back to me. Outraged accusation swims where tender passion had last night.
I hear Jay groan. Mick and I ignore it as if we're the only two people in the world.
“I think I loved you, Faren.”
Oh god.
I swear my heart stops beating. I take a shaky step toward him, reaching out with my good hand.
He puts a palm up, his gaze going to the beaten Jay just paces away.
No, Mick, no, no, no. You're so wrong.
He turns to me with hard eyes. “But I think you love other things more.”
His eyes sweep the room of sex paraphernalia, touch on Thorn briefly, and settle on me. “Good-bye.”
Mick wipes his mouth, as though erasing our last kiss, and walks out.
I sink to the ground, wishing it would swallow me.
I don't love other things, I realize too late.
Only him.
THE END
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Volume #4
Acknowledgments
I published both The Druid and Death Series , in 2011 with the encouragement of my husband, and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.
There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support.
I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.
You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~
Tamara
xoxo
Special Thanks:
You , my reader.
My husband , who is my biggest fan.
Cameren , without whom, there would be no books.
About the Author:
Tamara Rose Blodgett : happily married mother of four sons. Dark fiction writer. Reader. Gardner. Dreamer. Home restoration slave. Coffee addict. Bead Slut. Digs music.
She is also the New York Times Bestselling author of A Terrible Love, written under the pen name, Marata Eros , and over ninety other titles, to include the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial/African-American TOKEN serial and her #1 Amazon bestselling Dark Fantasy novel, Death Whispers . Tamara writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in the midwest with her family and three, disrespectful dogs.
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