Hard Truth (The Alpha Antihero Series Book 4)

by Sybil Bartel

  Kicking strong despite my soaked jeans, ignoring my protesting lungs, I lunged again.

  My hand caught her arm.

  Dragging her to me, I hoisted her head out of the water and above the next wave.

  Coughing, desperately sucking in for a clean breath, she kicked frantically in my arms.

  “I got you. I got you.” I snaked an arm under hers and brought her back to my chest as another wave came at us. “Hold your breath.” Twisting so she faced the shore, I took the brunt of the wave as I kept her head above water.

  “Tarquin,” she half cried, half coughed. “We’re gettin’ dragged out further.”

  “Save your breath,” I ordered, swimming with the current.

  Half a dozen more waves, twice as many hard strokes, my foot touched bottom. Lifting her in my arms, I walked us out of the ocean.

  Her arms snaked around my neck, and she started to shiver. “I-I didn’t know the wave would be that strong. I-I’m sorry.”

  Biting back anger, I didn’t say shit as I walked us toward the house.

  “Please,” she pleaded, halfway there. “Say somethin’.”

  “Don’t go in the fucking ocean again until I teach you to swim.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said even quieter. “I wasn’t expectin’ that wave. I just… I wanted to feel the water on my legs.”

  I was so angry, I wanted to spank the fuck out of her.

  Instead, I carried her to the outside shower on the side of the house. Setting her down, I turned on the water and stepped out of my jeans, throwing them over the privacy fence.

  Her arms around her middle, she watched me nervously.

  “Shirt,” I barked.

  She didn’t move. Her green eyes too big on her face with her hair plastered to her head, she stared at me.

  I reached for the hem of the goddamn T-shirt hanging down to her fucking knees.

  She stepped back. “You’re mad, and you aren’t sayin’ nothin’.”

  No shit. “Take the shirt off.” Not waiting to see if she listened, I stepped under the water and rinsed the fuck off. When I opened my eyes, she was still standing there.

  I walked inside.

  Aiming for my bathroom, I rubbed a towel over my body, stepped into dry jeans and went back outside.

  Naked under the shower, she tracked me with her eyes.

  Wanting to fuck her, spank her and kiss her in equal measure, I tossed a towel for her over the fence near my jeans and her borrowed T-shirt. “Breakfast in five.” I turned to go back inside.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she blurted.

  I glanced over my shoulder at her.

  “You don’t have to keep it in when I know you’re mad,” she amended, lowering her voice. “Just get mad at me and get it over with.”

  My eye twitched, and my fingers curled in on an empty palm. “You want me to spank the fuck out of you until you promise to never drown yourself again?”

  Her arms covered her breasts, and her voice went quiet as fuck. “If that’s what you wanna do.”

  Like a goddamn magnet, no mind of my own, I moved.

  My hands fisted, my jeans getting soaked, I loomed over her.

  I told myself not to touch her.

  I tried to make my hard-as-shit cock stand the fuck down.

  I knew I couldn’t rough fuck her every goddamn time I got angry.

  But I wanted to.

  Fuck, I wanted to.

  I was never the hero. I wasn’t even a good man.

  But I needed to learn to control my shit. I needed to learn to not be angry.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Talk to me.”

  As if she held the key, my mouth opened and shit bled out.

  “Every breath I take is for you.” My hand wrapped around her throat. “Every step I make is in your direction.” I pushed her into the fence. “Every word I speak is for your benefit.” My hand tightening, my leg shoved between hers. “I already watched you die once.” Anger-fueled need lowered my voice. “Do not make me watch you die again,” I warned. “Or I will pull you back from the brink and fuck you until I break you.” I got in her face. “Do you understand?”

  “Kiss me,” she pleaded.

  “Do not make me break you,” I growled.

  “Never,” she breathed, before determination filtered into her voice. “I was made for you.” Her hand covered my heart. “You were made for me.”

  I slammed my mouth over hers.

  Gripping my throat with one hand, he slammed his mouth over mine as the thick fingers of his other hand dug into the flesh of my hip.

  My knees buckled and desire raced through my veins as my body turned to liquid.

  This was what I craved.

  His thick tongue dominating my mouth. His leg between mine. His height, his strength, his body, all of him overwhelming every inch of my flesh, I wanted him to fuck me with control. I wanted that taken from me—the decisions, the thoughts, the worries, the fear. Like the unbearable taste for the high of a pain pill, but more. Because Tarquin was so much more consuming that any drug.

  Exactly what I knew him to be all those years ago, Tarquin Scott was the Everglades after every storm. He was every wish I never got. His touch, his control, his dominance, it was the promise of a new sunrise.

  I needed this.

  I needed him.

  But I needed more than a quick fuck in an outdoor shower.

  My fingers sifted through the wet, silky strands of his hair that were so soft, they didn’t belong to his body. Gripping hard, I begged. Submissively. “Please.” The whisper fell past my already swollen lips as the hot water from the shower stung my shoulders. “Take me inside.”

  His ice-blue gaze fierce with an intensity I’d never known in any other person, his chest heaving, he stared at me.

  His face so close to mine, the morning sun bright, his bare shoulders inked and sun-kissed—I stared back.

  Dirty blond stubble across his square jaw, full lips, high cheekbones, he was the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Please,” I begged again.

  His nostrils flared, and his hand left my throat.

  But he didn’t pick me up or step back.

  He undid his jeans.

  Heavy and wet, the thick material hit the concrete ground of the shower, and he stepped out of them. Fisting himself with one hand, his other arm snaked around my waist, and he lifted me.

  My body knowing instinctively what to do, my legs wrapped around his hips and my arms went around his neck.

  His gaze locked on mine, he pushed me against the fence and drove into me.

  My head fell back, and pure need crawled out of my throat on a moan.

  Gripping a handful of my wet hair and yanking, he forcefully brought my gaze back to his. His eyes piercing me as he held me captive in his relentless stare, he reared back and drove into me.

  Need burst out of my lungs on a cry.

  “Do not run from me again,” he ordered in a deep growl, grinding his hips.

  “Okay.” Thick and hard and pulsing and invasive, I wanted to weep with need at his intrusion.

  “Promise,” he ordered, slamming into me with a hard thrust.

  I didn’t want to promise.

  I wanted him to fuck me rough. I wanted him to take control and lead me to mindless bliss where nothing else mattered but him. I wanted to drown in his dominance.

  Rearing back, he slammed into me again. “I said promise.”

  Oh God. Oh God. I was going to come. “I-I can’t.” My legs started to shake.

  Grabbing my waist and stepping back from the fence, his angle changed, and the delicious friction of his body rubbing on my clit disappeared.

  “No!” I cried out.

  “Then give me the promise,” he demanded.

  “Don’t stop fucking me rough,” I practically yelled.

  “Promise.”

  “I promise, I promise!”

  Hard and forceful and so, so perfect
, he started pounding into me.

  My toes curled, my eyes closed, my head spun and an orgasm like none I’d ever felt before gripped my pussy with painful contractions so exquisite, I dug my nails into Tarquin’s flesh.

  Roaring out his release, he slammed his body into mine and stilled. Pulse after pulse, he filled me with his seed as my pussy greedily contracted around him as if begging for more.

  His chest heaving, he buried his face in my hair, and for a long moment, he simply held on to the fence.

  Then, without a word, he turned off the shower and snaked his arms under me.

  His hard length still buried deep, his seed leaking out, he carried me into the house and walked us into the bedroom. Gently laying me on the bed, not missing a beat, he started slowly thrusting into me again.

  “Oh, sweet mercy,” I rasped. I didn’t have words for how good he felt.

  Unlocking my arms from around his neck, he grasped my hands and brought them over my head. Pinning me in place, he gave me fair warning. “You’re going to come again.”

  His eyes holding a promise I knew he would keep, he thrust into me.

  I gave him a promise of my own. “I won’t ever run from you again.”

  “I know.” His hard length driving into me, he gave me exactly what I needed.

  My woman walked out of the bathroom in a towel and stepped right between my legs as I sat on the edge of the bed.

  Leaning back, I scanned her fuller hips and bigger tits. “I was putting my boots on.”

  The past four weeks had been good to her. More weight on her, less worry in her eyes, she smiled more. She also talked more. About everything. Including a house she wanted to look at. Which was why I was getting fucking dressed when all I wanted to do was sink inside her sweet cunt until she begged me to stop.

  “That can wait.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I want a tattoo.”

  “No.” Hell no.

  “I ain’t askin’. I’m tellin’ you.” She nervously fingered the pendant of the necklace I gave her last week. “I want a tattoo. Like this.” She dropped her towel.

  My gaze cut south, and I froze.

  Candle.

  In script.

  Written over her right hip bone.

  I hated the name I didn’t go by anymore, but I couldn’t deny the marking on her body looked sexy as fuck.

  “No,” I repeated, reaching out to brush my thumb over the offending letters.

  “Why not?”

  The name blurred, and black shit got on my thumb. “What the fuck did you write that with?”

  “Eyeliner. Why can’t I get a tattoo?”

  It wasn’t lost on me that she’d flipped from saying she wasn’t asking to actually asking. “Because you’re a female.” And needles weren’t getting near my woman’s flesh.

  “What kind of sexist bullshit is that?” she demanded. “Plenty of women have tattoos.”

  “Not my woman.” I stood and grabbed a handful of her hair. Bringing my mouth to hers, I lowered my voice. “You ink your perfect skin with a bad memory, and I will spank the fuck out of you, understand?”

  She shivered, and her nipples went hard. Then she repeated her earlier protest, but this time she whispered it. “I ain’t askin’.”

  “Candle’s not my name.”

  She rubbed her thighs together. “What if I got ‘Tarquin’?”

  “What if I never fucked you again?” It was an empty threat, but I used it anyway.

  “Tarquin Scott!” Despite being naked, her hands went to her hips, and she gave me full attitude. “You don’t get to say that kinda bullshit to me. And if I want to get a tattoo like you got tattoos and put somewhere on my body what you mean to me, then you don’t get to say nothin’ about that either, except yes, dear.”

  I suddenly got it and anger sparked. “That’s what this is about? A fucking memorial?”

  She blanched.

  I dropped my hold on her hair. “Because I got all my ink when I thought you were dead. Stay true, honor, love, strength—those were words we’d promised each other.”

  Her green eyes welled with tears.

  I pointed at the birds on my chest. “Sparrows mate for life.” I pointed at the words memories over materials on my right bicep. “Your memory was what kept me going.” I pointed at the butterfly on my forearm. “You saved that monarch that flew into our cabin.” I pointed at the seven stars on my shoulder. “I got a new one each year on the anniversary I walked away from your dead body.”

  “Stop,” she whispered.

  “No. Every damn tattoo was a memorial to you. I don’t want you inking your body with a fucking name I now hate.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” Tears slid down her cheeks.

  Goddamn it. “Come here.” I pulled her into my arms. “Don’t cry.” I hated that I made her cry, but no way in hell was she inking that name on her body.

  “I love that you took that name.” She sniffled. “It made me feel… special.”

  Fuck. “You are special.” I closed my eyes and inhaled for patience. “You know that. You know what you mean to me, but don’t fucking do that. Don’t put me on a pedestal, woman. I’ll only fall off.”

  Swiping at her face, she blinked. “Why do you do that? Why do you insist on playin’ the bad guy?”

  “I’m not having this conversation,” I warned.

  “Why? You worried I’ll say it out loud?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  In a move I hated, she took my face in both her hands. “Tarquin Scott. You are not the bad guy,” she said vehemently. “You never were. You’re a good man.”

  My chest constricted at the same time I fought the impotent rage that surfaced any time the past came up. “I’m a digger,” I ground out. “I’m no fucking hero, woman.” I pushed her off and stood. “Get dressed,” I ordered.

  “No.” She crossed her arms.

  I glared at her.

  She glared back.

  I walked out of the bedroom.

  “Won’t work,” she taunted, following me. “I know what you’re doin’. You can’t run away every time you don’t like what I have to say.”

  I spun. “Then say shit that’s based in reality.”

  She looked like I shocked the shit out of her. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve seen me pull the trigger, woman, and that was seven years ago. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about or what I’ve been doing since then. I don’t take any of it back, and I’ll never apologize. But good and man are not two words I need to have thrown together and spoon-fed to me like I’m some kind of fucking hero. I’m not.”

  She blinked. Then she gave me three words I didn’t want. “You’re my hero.”

  I fumed, but she wasn’t fucking finished.

  “You didn’t have to light all those candles.” Her voice turned reverent. “You were the candle.”

  “The kitchen could use a little updating, but the bones are perfect.” The realtor’s fancy heels clicked as she walked across the smooth floor she’d given some Italian-sounding name to. Glancing nervously at Tarquin for the hundredth time like she was looking for affirmation from him even though he hadn’t said two words to her, she quickly averted her gaze. “So, like I said, it’d make a great family home. What do you think?”

  I could’ve told her to save her breath.

  Tarquin wouldn’t give her his opinion no more than he’d give her the time of day.

  I’d noticed two things about Tarquin that I’d never had the opportunity to observe when I’d known him before. He didn’t look at other women. Not ever in my presence. He didn’t even acknowledge them. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t make my heart flutter every time I witnessed it. Especially last week when we were out getting food and I stopped to look in a jewelry store window. Without comment, he’d taken me inside and pointed at a beautiful gold necklace that had a pendant with red, orange and yellow
hues that looked like fire. He’d bought it on the spot and put it on me all without looking at the sales lady. It was the only piece of jewelry I’d ever had, and I fell in love with him all over again.

  The second thing I’d noticed about Tarquin was that he was quieter, in every way. He could move through the house without you hearing him, he talked less and he was usually still. Unless something woke him at night. Then he was a different man. If there was a noise in the house, or if I shifted in my sleep, he’d come awake with a start, but not just awake. He’d sit up and reach for a gun he used to keep on the nightstand in half a second flat. When his hand didn’t land on cold metal, he’d scan the room, expression locked, gaze vigilant. Looking like he was ready for battle at the drop of a hat, he’d carefully take another glance then slowly lie back down.

  I knew better than to say something to him when it happened. No one could take away what he was thinking in his head. I knew that because I had the same kind of nights. I just didn’t reach for a gun because I’d never had one. But I did mentally reach for another kind of weapon sometimes. A pharmaceutical one that’d have me falling into a dreamless sleep, but I didn’t do drugs no more, and I wasn’t ever gonna disrespect myself or Tarquin by using again.

  Sometimes, when we were quiet during the day, I’d bring up him being a Ranger. I’d even tried to ask him about his day-to-day life in the Army, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He’d just say it was nothing I needed to hear.

  It hurt my heart to think what he’d been through. He had more scars now than the knife wounds he’d had when I’d found him. He didn’t talk about those either, and I didn’t push.

  If there was one thing I’d learned about Tarquin Scott early on, it was that he was immovable when he made his mind up. I both loved that about him and was frustrated by it.

  Which brought me back to the present and the realtor glancing expectantly at Tarquin.

  I almost smiled.

  He wasn’t gonna say anything about the house, to me or the realtor. He’d told me it was my decision. But that didn’t mean I wanted to live somewhere he didn’t like.

  Ignoring the realtor lady, going on tiptoe, I wrapped my arms around my man’s neck. “What do you think?”