Deadline to Damnation: Sons of Templar #7

by Malcom, Anne

  I sipped my wine and considered his words.

  The men took care of the murdering. Or so they liked to think. Many of the women in the club had done their fair share. To protect themselves, obviously. Because as much as these men would protect us with their lives, we still had to protect ourselves too.

  But who was going to protect them?

  Amy

  “You’re not allowed to die,” I hissed, my hand tight around his throat, riding his cock hard and fast.

  My thighs burned with the force at which I was moving, but I considered sex my only form of workout, so it was fine. Plus, the fact I’d already had one orgasm from Brock’s mouth on my pussy and was working my way up to a second one was a good way to distract from the pain.

  Just not all of it.

  Brock’s body moved, flipping me onto my back, yanking my hand from around his neck and fastening it on mine instead.

  My core clenched.

  I was totally into a little bit of erotic asphyxiation.

  Brock knew this.

  Obviously.

  Since he’d known everything about my body since the first time he’d fucked me and he’d done it thousands of times since then.

  His eyes glowed with hunger, with intensity that hadn’t dimmed with years of marriage, a kid, with the extra couple of pounds I was carrying thanks to that kid. He was seriously lucky he was cute.

  “You’re telling me not to die while you’re tryin’ to choke me, Sparky,” he rasped, plunging into me hard and slow.

  My body shuddered as it built up for another orgasm. His muscles were taut, carved from marble, ink almost jumping from his skin, showing me he was close too. And showing me he liked a bit of erotic asphyxiation too.

  Though I knew this.

  My throat burned as he squeezed for the perfect amount of pleasure and pain.

  “You’re not gonna die during sex,” I croaked, my voice harsh and breathy. “The orgasm is just too good.”

  He thrust again. I let out a moan. His lips claimed mine. “No, Sparky, the place I end up leavin’ this world on my way to hell is inside heaven.”

  He thrust again.

  I was teetering on the edge of a cliff. My body wired, nerve endings beautifully raw.

  “I’m too far gone to talk about how disturbing it would be if you died inside me,” I breathed.

  He grinned, somehow in-between the tight, pre-orgasm face I liked so much. “Maybe I need to keep you here more often,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck as he stopped moving. “Keep you more agreeable.”

  I squirmed underneath him, needing friction. He weighed me down.

  “I’m not agreeable if you withhold an orgasm from me,” I hissed.

  His hands went to my wrists, forcing them above my head as if he sensed I was about to try and fight my way back on top.

  Maybe Gwen was right.

  Maybe these men had powers.

  Kind of weird to think of my best friend while I was in bed with my husband, seconds away from an orgasm—if he fucking moved—but that was us.

  I was about to curse at Brock, as I was prone to doing, command him to fuck me, also prone to doing, until something moved in his face. He showed something that was mirrored in my soul and my bones.

  “I’m not gonna die, Sparky,” he whispered.

  “I know,” I said, sounding more sure than I wanted to be. Needed to be. “I can’t do this without you,” I admitted.

  He looked between us with a grin.

  I rolled my eyes. “I can do this without you, though battery operated devices pale in comparison.”

  His hand squeezed my wrist. “Everything pales in comparison to the way I fuck my Old Lady,” he growled.

  My stomach flipped, despite the arrogance.

  There was a time when him calling me that caused a fight that almost broke us up. When I refused to be a title, a piece of property.

  But now I wore that title better than I wore Chanel Haute Couture.

  “I can’t do this, life,” I continued. “I can’t be a mom who doesn’t drink with breakfast and think about dropping her kid at the nearest fire station if you’re not there doing all the shitty parent stuff I don’t want to do. I exist in this sickly all American small town without you to make it beautifully bitter.” I paused, trying to grab onto the feeling of my husband inside me, on top of me. “I can’t breathe without you,” I admitted, feeling sick at showing my vulnerability. No matter the fact that Brock had spent years showing me I was safe with him, that I could be honest about my feelings, my weaknesses, it still burned.

  Old habits and all that.

  He clutched my neck, moving so his forehead pressed against mine, both of us let out ragged breaths as the movement brought us both closer to the edge.

  “You’re a good mom, even though you’ve barely changed a diaper in your life,” he said. “You’re strong and bitter enough to handle whatever sweet this town throws at you.” His hand moved to lay atop my chest. “And your ability to breathe through pain is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. So you can do it without me.” He kissed me, long and hard. “But you’re not going to.”

  Then he moved.

  Then we both went over the edge.

  Mia

  I found Zane in the garage, after wrangling the hellions I called children into bed, a task usually reserved for him, since he had all the muscles and strength needed to force two small humans hell-bent on staying up all night into going to bed.

  As it was, I’d had to tie Rocko to his bed frame.

  Not all night.

  I’d go in soon and untie him.

  But likely he would’ve already figured a way out by then.

  “You owe me big time,” I told Zane, from where he was sitting on the sofa in the garage that had once been Lexie’s jam space.

  Now my daughter was a big rock star getting Grammy’s and all that stuff, she didn’t exactly need our little garage, but we kept it for her.

  Not just because she and the boys had filmed a music video in here a few years ago and I could charge people to take photos, but because it meant something to Lexie. To all of us.

  It would always be here. Not as a reminder of where they came from or whatever crap people pulled about keeping humble. I wasn’t humble about my daughter being one of the most famous and talented people on the planet. But she was a total weirdo and she would’ve been humble with or without the garage reminder.

  “I’m thinking diamonds,” I said, moving toward my totally hunky, broody hubby. He was scary to everyone but me, our children and his grandchildren.

  His grandchildren.

  Not mine.

  No way was I a grandma.

  I was too young and beautiful.

  “Or a car,” I continued, taking him in for all of the things that the outside world saw. The muscles, the cut, the tattoos, the seemingly permanent hot guy death stare that communicated he ate puppies for protein or something.

  But as you got closer, metaphorically of course, if you didn’t know him and got up real close, he’d not only still look menacing and scary, he’d probably punch you or shoot you or something. Closer, in the metaphorical sense, showed Zane as a damaged, broken, beautiful man with a heart bigger than his biceps.

  The love of my life.

  And I didn’t even care if I sounded like a twat thinking that.

  I stopped in front of his motorcycle boots. His eyes were on me, as they had been since I walked into the garage, because my husband was obsessed with me. Even though I was wearing his tee—tied at the back because otherwise it would go to my ankles—and cutoffs, flipflops, and no makeup.

  I still looked great for my age and how many kids I popped out, but the way he looked at me was like I was J Lo or something.

  It was nice.

  Warm.

  Beautiful.

  Because a soft, reverent gaze from a hard, violent man was pretty much like crack. But more addictive.

  “I know,” I said as my lady par
ts responded to his gaze and general nearness and hotness. “A new kitchen.”

  Something moved in his face. Zane’s version of a smile. Way hotter than Colgate’s version. “A new kitchen?” he repeated, voice low masculine and delicious. I could eat it by the mouthful, like frosting.

  I nodded. “Yes, I already have a lot of design ideas on Pinterest.”

  “Babe, you don’t even use the kitchen.”

  I scowled at him. “I do so. I store snacks in there.”

  “You don’t cook in there,” he countered.

  “I do so,” I snapped back. “I make coffee.”

  He put his beer down with a grin and snatched my waist, yanking me into his lap. I immediately curled into his warmth, inhaled him in long and deep.

  “Still weird when you smell me like that, baby,” he murmured against my head.

  “It’s not weird,” I snapped. “It’s adorable.”

  “It’s how a serial killer smells their victims,” he replied dryly.

  Ugh. I was totally happy about Zane coming back to life, smiling more, yada yada yada, but too many of his jokes were being made at my expense. They needed to be made at other people’s expense.

  I leaned back, locking eyes with him. “You never know, I could be a serial killer.”

  To his credit, he didn’t laugh. Not with his mouth anyway. “Yes, baby, you could totally be a serial killer,” he placated, pushing hair from my face.

  I rolled my eyes. “You still owe me.”

  “Another victim?” he deadpanned.

  I smacked his arm.

  That only worked to break many small bones in my hand.

  Or at least bruise them.

  I swear he was like Wolverine, bones made from iron or whatever. I made a mental note to get a metal detector and run it over him while he was sleeping. Just in case.

  He took my bruised or broken hand into his own, bringing it to his lips and softly kissing.

  The pain disappeared.

  “Your sons will be looking for their next victim once they untie themselves from their beds.”

  He raised his brow in response.

  “Well, you weren’t here,” I said to his nonverbal reply. “I needed to get creative if I wanted any private time with my husband.” I waggled my eyebrows suggestively.

  “So you tied our children to their beds so you could fuck me?” he deduced.

  “No,” I argued. “So you could fuck me.”

  His eyes turned. “I approve,” he growled.

  In an instant, I was on my back on the sofa, Zane’s tee somehow over top of my head.

  He let out a feral hiss as the cold air hit my nipples. “No bra, Wildcat,” he growled, moving his head down to fasten his lips over my nipple.

  “Zane,” I moaned.

  Even after all these years, he was building me up to orgasm with just his fricking mouth on my nipple.

  His beautiful assault moved to the other before he kissed his way up my neck.

  I moved my hands beneath his tee, scratched at his skin with desperation as he kissed me. Despite the frenzied movements prior, despite the erotic danger in his eyes, he kissed me slow, tenderly.

  And I knew why.

  Because of what tomorrow was.

  What I had been trying to avoid thinking about and had been somewhat successful at doing because the demons I’d tied to their beds took up most of my attention, making sure they didn’t burn anything else down.

  But now, with Zane’s loving, reverent kiss, I couldn’t avoid it.

  He stopped kissing me. Rested his forehead on mine. He saw it all. All the things I didn’t say. Even to myself. “I know, baby,” he whispered.

  And that was all either of us spoke for the rest of the night.

  Until our boys found us naked in the garage.

  Then there were some words.

  But nothing about what tomorrow meant.

  Because we didn’t need to say anything at all.

  I knew Zane would destroy heaven, come back from hell if needed.

  I needed to trust him to get us through this. Trust the club I’d once been sure was too violent for me, for us. The club that was a part of us.

  Lily

  It was nearing two when I pulled my car into the drive.

  The light went on immediately and the door opened, a shape filled our doorway.

  A shape I knew well.

  A shape of the man I called my husband, best friend. My everything.

  And even though he was dealing with a baby, with everything that was happening tomorrow, he still waited up for me, still lit up the house for me, still walked over to open my car door like he did every single time I was on the night shift, which wasn’t often. My superiors knew I had only just come back from maternity leave and tried their best to be kind, but the life of a nurse wasn’t exactly kind.

  Apart from being able to put my son to bed, not being able to have dinner with my husband, I loved my job. I felt like I was doing something. I also felt strong, confident in a way I hadn’t felt without Asher’s help in forever.

  It hurt.

  A lot.

  Seeing people suffering from the same disease that took my mother from me. Watching families decay just like the person in the hospital bed. And I couldn’t offer help in these times.

  Only comfort.

  But then there were the other times. When the disease didn’t win the war. And I got to see people walk out of the hospital, with a little more death on their souls than before, but a lot more appreciation for life.

  I didn’t feel like the Lily who couldn’t even breathe when she was presented with a stranger or unfamiliar situation when I was at the hospital. I was Lily, the nurse. That stayed calm in the most chaotic situations. It was odd, really. It was an environment that might’ve triggered a lot of people to have panic attacks, but it cured mine.

  My door opened as I put the car into park.

  Asher reached over to unfasten my seatbelt and kiss me. “Flower,” he murmured against my mouth.

  I sank into my husband’s touch, still getting freaking butterflies after all this time.

  He was the original cure.

  “Hey,” I whispered against his mouth. “How’s the baby?”

  He pulled me out of the car, closing the door behind me and locking it. “He’s perfect, of course.”

  He tucked me into his side and walked us into the house.

  Asher was always affectionate. Always touching me, claiming me, whenever I was close enough for that. But this was different.

  I knew why.

  It had lurked at the back of my mind all shift. Caused me to fumble with IVs, drop needles, beginner stuff. Luckily they were minor.

  What wasn’t minor was the truth that was cloaked all over Asher’s touch.

  He closed and locked the door silently. I dropped my purse on the counter by the door.

  And I just stood there.

  Usually the first thing I did was shower and get out of my scrubs, they so weren’t the sexiest thing ever, or at all, but Asher seemed to like using them in a number of role plays.

  Asher was always waiting up, either to rip my scrubs off me, or to take a shower with me, or to make me a warm tea and hold me if the night had been bad.

  Asher, my lighthouse, my steadfast man.

  “I can’t believe I was away all night. With tomorrow,” I choked out. “I needed to be with you so I could—”

  “You don’t need to be with me tonight, Flower,” he murmured, interrupting me and grabbing me so I was flush with his hard body. “Because you’re gonna be with me tomorrow night.”

  “I’m scared,” I admitted.

  He stroked my jaw with his thumb. “Me too,” he said back, barely a whisper.

  My heart pulsated with the rawness of his tone, of his face. Of him. Asher was always real with me. He always shed the cut and the biker persona and was just him.

  But this was something different.

  This was a chance for
me to be his lighthouse, his steadfast woman.

  I went up on my tiptoes and brushed my lips against his.

  He responded immediately.

  I let the kiss go on, lazily, tenderly, like we had all the time in the world, like we had no outside worries. He let me take control.

  Or I don’t even think he let me. He didn’t have the strength to take control anymore. And that was sexier than anything else, a man that wasn’t afraid to let me be strong for him. And I was able to do it. He taught me how, after all.

  Bex

  “It’s sexist, you know.” I cut through my steak viciously. “All you men going out to fight while the little women are locked down in the clubhouse.” I chewed. Swallowed. Glared at my husband. “Again.” I cut at my steak with more aggression.

  “You know, baby, that cow is already dead,” Gabriel commented dryly.

  I moved my aggression from my steak. “Yeah, but you’re not,” I shot.

  He grinned and the truth came with his easy smile.

  My cutlery clattered onto my plate and I pushed my chair back with a screech.

  Gabriel had already turned his in preparation for me climbing onto his lap to straddle him. It was fucking infuriating how well he knew me. It was fucking terrifying. Because the man that knew me this well, who smiled when I threatened to kill him, who waited as I fought my way through my own battles, who adored me despite my many imperfections, he was not fucking dead.

  Yet.

  “I can’t do another lockdown,” I admitted, cupping his face, running my hands along his stubbled jaw, down his neck, covered in tattoos. Ink that I knew better than my own. “I can’t be stuck inside while you’re out there. It’s fucking—”

  “Misogynistic, sexist, and the definition of patriarchal control over women,” Gabriel finished for me before I could. His hands moved from my hips to cup my ass, pulling me closer to him so my pussy pressed right against the flesh of his cock.

  We were naked.

  Because Gabriel had instituted Naked Wednesdays.

  I had not complained.

  He moved his head down to fasten his mouth over my nipple. I reveled in the pleasure for a moment before I smacked his head.