Vanquish

by Pam Godwin

She wasn't normal.

  He released a long, conflicted breath. They would never be normal. It just wasn't in their blood. He gripped her thigh, hooking it over his, and coiled his fingers around her hair. Fuck normal.

  Her exhale warmed his neck, and the pad of her thumb traced his collarbone. “When was the last time you slept beside someone?”

  “More than a year ago.” Which didn't exactly conjure sweet memories. On those rare occasions when Liv actually stayed in his bed, he'd never felt so alone. “She was the only one. What about you?”

  “Brent was the first and last.” Her tits pushed against his ribs as she breathed in. “What was her name?”

  “Liv.”

  Her fingers jerked against his chest, but her lips pressed a soft peck on his shoulder, just beside the bullet wound. He'd tell her about that, about all of it, eventually. The idea of keeping anything from her was ludicrous. And so unlike his relationship with Liv, which had died at the hand of secrets.

  Tonight had been the first night he didn't drive to Liv's neighborhood in over six months, and he hadn't even thought about it till now. Thinking of her tended to stir up a turmoil of conflicting emotions. But at the moment, all he felt was a dim ache somewhere behind his heart.

  “Do you love her? Is that why you were on my porch?”

  There were no quick responses to that. “I'm going to delay the answer to your last question because we're both tired. As for the first, I like to think of it as a seven-year fever.” Which had burned into a hotheaded, delusion-inducing illness.

  His admission hovered in the darkness, smothering like a miasma he'd accidentally let in.

  Her quiet voice scattered the thick air. “My fever lasted fourteen years.”

  Fourteen years. That sleazy asshat didn't deserve fourteen seconds with her. “You know how to treat a fever?”

  “Mm. I'm too tired to think of something witty. Go ahead.”

  “Rest and lots of fluids.” He lowered his voice. “Obviously, not at the same time.”

  “Oh my God.” Her groan dissolved into a soft lullaby of laughter. As it whispered through him, he realized the reason his days felt so empty was because they hadn't been filled with that sound.

  He touched his lips to the top of her head, grinning. What a sentimental asshole.

  For the second time that night, he waited for her breaths to tumble into sleep. This time, they did, pulling him along with a smile on his face.

  The next morning, he woke wearing that same damned smile. But it didn't last. He was alone in the bed and the loft.

  He shot up, his feet tripping over the floor. Only he wasn't tripping on a goddamned thing. Not a shirt or a magazine or a discarded pack of cigarettes in sight.

  Fuuuuck. She'd been up for awhile.

  The bedside clock read 10:43. He released a relieved breath. It was still early. He raked his hands through his hair. That was early, right? Jesus, what time did she normally wake?

  He dug through the hamper, pulled out a pair of jeans, sniffed them, tossed them, and dug again until he found a fresher pair. Laundry was on the agenda at some point in the near future.

  Tugging on the jeans, half-walking, half-hopping, he didn't bother with the zipper or button as he sharpened his attention on the stifling quiet downstairs. Would she have left? Could she?

  A rush of blood heated his neck and face, his fingers curling into his palms. He plucked a toothpick from a holder on the dresser and sprinted down the stairs.

  Halfway down the stairs, the scent of lemon and bleach reached Van's nose. Damn, damn, damn. He quickened his descent on silent feet. At the bottom, his gaze landed on the shiny kitchen counters, small appliances and canisters sparkling in a neat row, and Amber's ass hanging out of the fridge in her bend to scrub the deepest corner.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and let his frustration wave off his back. As much as he loved the sight of her in those little shorts cleaning his house, he wanted her to do it for him, not for her illness.

  Shoulders back and chest out, he moved to the kitchen with heavy, wide steps. By the time he reached her, she was organizing condiments in the fridge door.

  She spun when his footfalls landed behind her. He held his head down, his hand casually rotating the toothpick in his mouth. When her toes flexed against the tiles, he removed the pick, slowly placing it on the counter, and gave her the full force of his eyes.

  She tensed, her pupils widening, her lips pinched in a line. The overhead light reflected a metallic glow around her, her dark hair freshly washed and dried. She drew in a lungful of air and grinned with overly bright eyes. “Morning. Sleep well?”

  Apparently, he'd slept too well. He hadn't even heard her shower or run the hairdryer. But did the little vixen really think her pleasantries would distract him from the hand that was adjusting the mustard label in the fridge door behind her?

  He stifled the laugh bubbling up inside him. Jesus, from the booty shorts and tit-hugging tank top to the fluttering eyelashes and saucy attitude, the whole package was cute as fuck. And defiant.

  “Best sleep of my life. You?” He turned away, feigning disinterest in his now spotless kitchen, and reached into the overhead cabinet. His bare feet didn't stick to the tiles like they usually did. She'd been awake for a long-ass time.

  “I slept well.” She hadn't moved from her position by the fridge. If she was wary of him, she had every right to be.

  He removed a box of Froot Loops and opened the package with intentional slowness as his mind sped through the next ten steps. “Have you eaten?”

  “Nope.” A casual response, yet it vibrated with caginess.

  He kept his back to her but could feel the heat of her eyes stroking the muscles he'd worked hard to maintain. “How about some cereal?” Froot Loops was a midnight snack. No way would he feed her that junk. Nutritious meals only. Eggs and bacon, fucking protein and shit.

  “Uhm. Sure.”

  Without turning around, he held the open box over the floor and dumped it upside down. Colorful O's tumbled around his feet. He stepped side-to-side, crunching them into a satisfying dust of sugar.

  Her breathing grew loud and rushed behind him. “Oh my God.” Then louder. “Why?” She released an ear-splitting shriek. “I just mopped the floor!”

  And he would clean it later. He wasn't a damned slob. Sure, he slacked on the laundry and didn't give a fuck which shelves the cups went on. But she wouldn't find moldy food or mouse droppings or hoarding stashes of crap falling out of the closets. He pivoted slowly to check on her.

  Pressed into the gap of the open fridge door, arms wrapped around her rib cage, shoulders curled in, and eyes wildly darting over the floor, she definitely struggled to hold it together. He was about to make it worse.

  He emptied the last of the box, tossed it on the mess, and strode toward her with an air of calm and focus. His unyielding grip on her elbow shuffled her sideways as he closed the fridge. Then he backed her into the counter and put his face into hers. “You will not clean up after me.”

  Her strong-willed chin appeared, jutting up and out, ready to fight. “I can't live like this. This” —she thrust a trembling finger at the floor— “is not okay.”

  “That's right. So here's how it's going to be.” He clutched the counter on either side of her hips, arms straight, with two feet of tension rotating between them. “As long as you are obsessively clean, I'm going to be obsessively not clean. For every inch you give, I'll match it. We'll eventually meet in the middle.” He lowered his head so she could see his eyes. “Got me?”

  She didn't look at him, her gaze locked-and-loaded on the floor as if waiting for the crumbs to sprout hundreds of tiny stingers and attack. He knew what was coming, tipped off by the slow deep inhale and the twitch below her eye, and he let it happen.

  Her knees bent fast, her body dropping to the floor. Free from the corral of his arms, she scrambled to the mess, sweeping and scooping, her breaths rushing in her frenzy to shove tiny handfuls
into the box.

  With an even pulse and loose muscles, he lowered to sit beside the huffing tornado. Cereal crumbled beneath his ass and legs as he leaned his back against the cabinet. She didn't seem to notice him, too consumed with black and white, linear numbers, and clean floors...her tragic need to perfect everything.

  He'd had enough. She didn't weigh more than a buck-ten soaking wet, so it didn't take much effort to drag her, chest-down, across his thighs. With his forearms braced on her back and legs, she was effectively pinned.

  Furious eyes flashed over her shoulder, and her legs kicked uselessly against the floor. “Let me go,” she snarled, her fists still clutching handfuls of cereal.

  Without moving the arm on her back, he yanked her shorts to her knees. Beautiful, bare, and blotched with tiny pink bruises, her ass flexed and prickled with goose bumps. The arnica gel he'd rubbed into her muscles the previous night would've reduced a lot of the swelling and stiffness. But he caressed a palm over the silky skin to make sure.

  Her glutes didn't flinch, her fight still concentrated in the thrashing of her arms and legs. And what a fight, all muscle and soft skin and seductive curves writhing on his lap, her ass right there for the taking.

  He was already hard—it was inevitable. He shifted her hips so that her clit lay directly over the swell of his erection through the open zipper, ensuring that every wriggle would stimulate her. And him. Then he waited for the next buck of her ass.

  It rose. Fell. She gasped as her clit hit his dick. Fuck.

  He swung his arm, laying into her round cheek with a solid, stinging smack. She writhed, the movement grinding her bundle of nerves against him, tormenting him. He spanked her again, over and over. Her flesh heated beneath his hand, her breathing catching and releasing, growing louder, and staggering into a chorus of moans, hers and his.

  After the fifth whack of his hand, he trailed the tips of his fingers over the glowing burn. “Who am I, Amber?”

  Her arms slid across the floor, the cereal evidently forgotten beneath them, as she snarled with a thick voice, “Van Quiso. Filthy spawn of the devil.”

  He gave her five more fiery strokes of his palm, harder and more concentrated than the first five. Then he pinched the heated sore flesh. “Try again.”

  She released a hiccupping wail, her attempt to squirm away from his grip fruitless. “Mm-m-master.”

  “Good girl.” He glided a finger between her legs, slipping through her slick heat and thrusting to the knuckle. Tight, pulsating muscles gripped him, sucking him in, speeding his pulse.

  Bound by his arm on her back, she could only kick her legs and accept the pleasure he allowed her. In turn, her responsive cries propelled him to a euphoric state of lust.

  He added another finger and banged her cunt, twisting his wrist and massaging her G-spot as she groaned and rubbed her clit against the sensitive ridges of his cock.

  Christ in heaven, the need to fuck her was a raging thing inside him, tearing him to shreds in its attempt to rip out and shove in her. But he couldn't force her.

  He bit down on his lip, tasting blood, and dropped his hands to the floor.

  Panting, she lifted her head, looked up into his face with heated eyes, then at his hands, back at his face. Her expression fell, and she slid off his lap. “Why?”

  Why did he spank her? Or why did he stop? He grabbed her shorts, halting her attempt to pull them up. “I control this.” He gripped his dick with his free hand, squeezing hard to dull the ache, and lowered his voice. “And this.” He released his cock and gestured around them, encompassing the cereal, the covered windows, the overhead lights, and her gorgeously flushed body. “I control all of it.”

  She studied him for a silent moment then slipped her legs out of the shorts in his grip and rose. His muscles stiffened to chase, but she didn't run. She backed up until her ass hit the fridge, nude from the waist down, nipples pressing against her tank top. Her heavy-lidded eyes locked with his, her jaw lowered and closed with a whispering inhale. A wordless Yes. An undeniable plea.

  Climbing to his feet, he tucked himself into his jeans and pulled up the zipper. Then he stalked toward her, mirroring the tilt of her head, knees and shoulders loose, and his gaze holding her prisoner. A breath away, he paused, soaking in the subtleties of her tipped-up chin, parted lips, and glossy but resolute eyes.

  With the next breath, he lunged, hands on her jaw, fingers spread around the back of her head. His elbows dropped, shoulders raised, and he yanked her to him, lifting her on tiptoes, guiding her mouth, taking it. His grip twisted through her hair as he drew in her upper lip and shoved her against the fridge, following her with the weight of his body.

  The kiss went fucking wild, their lips mashing in a frantic battle. His tongue plunged her mouth, attacking, thrusting in and out, possessing her movements, owning her. Breath for breath, lick after lick, he ate at her mouth, tasting, devouring.

  He dropped his hands to her breasts, squeezing ruthlessly as he rolled his cock against her cunt. His tongue tingled, his skin burned, and his head swam. God, she was a drug, and he was so fucking high.

  She gripped his biceps, bit at his lips, and threw her arms over his shoulders, her fingers scratching the fuck out of his back. He shuddered, loving it, but he was in control.

  Reaching back, he grabbed her wrists and slammed them above her head. Their bodies ground together, his forearms pressing hers to the fridge, their tongues dancing and clashing. Chest-to-chest, hips fused together, he flexed his ass, dry humping her like a horny teenager.

  Jesus, fuck, he didn't care. He wanted her.

  He leaned back to study her face and found strong smoldering eyes, sharp breaths, and swollen wet lips. Whatever she saw in his expression made her mouth chase his and her fingers curl around his hands. They kissed endlessly, fueling the fire and pushing his control long past the point of discomfort before pulling back and starting all over again.

  When he broke the kiss with a hand on her jaw, they panted as one, mouths open and so close their bottom lips brushed. She peered at him through lowered lashes, and he stared back in awe. What trembled between them wasn't an if? Or even a how hard? Those were foregone. The question they shared was simple.

  Ready?

  With his body holding her weight against the fridge and her arms restrained by his hand overhead, she lifted her calves, sliding them up his legs. Her feet dug into the back of his thighs, pulling him impossibly closer and trapping his cock between them.

  She kissed his lips and leaned back as her gaze caught on the overhead light and froze. Along with her breath.

  The goddamned lights. How could she not be over that?

  His fingers fell from her rigid face. Fuck him, he was in hell.

  Amber squeezed her eyes shut, stomach tightening with nausea, and tried to pull free of Van's grip. Her hands wouldn't budge, held by one of his above her head. “The lights.”

  “Jesus, Amber. I've seen every gorgeous inch of you.” His breath was so close, heating her cheek and vibrating with frustration. “Open your fucking eyes.”

  She stared up at his striking face and attempted a confident expression. But his gaze immobilized her much more effectively than she could pin him. His pillowy lips semi-puckered with sulkiness, and his intense eyes creased at the corners. Irritation? Uncertainty, too, given the grooves in his forehead and the twitch in his jaw. It was a raw look for him, one that ripped at the places she was already torn and stitched her back up with stronger seams.

  Too many terrifying possibilities bounced between them, tingling over her scalp. She could give him a physical connection in the dark, her method of maneuvering through lovers. It would keep her heart safe and her mind focused on the real dynamic of their relationship. She might've decided to stay, but she was still his captive.

  As she dropped her toes from his thighs to the floor, he crowded in, melding their bodies together, his feet on the outside of hers.

  He gripped her jaw roughly. “You've been
in the dark too damned long. The lights. Stay. On. Why does that scare you?”

  Her heart cramped in its thundering torment against her ribs. As he glanced down at her most intimate places, he didn't seem disgusted. But her filter questioned it. He would get halfway through fucking her and see a flaw he hadn't noticed, an unsavory part of her body brought to light. “It's...I don't...God, this is hard.” She breathed in deeply. “I feel exposed. I can't...I don't handle rejection well.”

  His eyes flashed, and his nostrils flared. He released her and backed away, but his gaze stayed with her. “Your piece of shit ex abused that beautifully unique part of you that needs to be accepted.”

  Said the former sex trafficker. She shook her head, unsure how to respond to that.

  He gripped the zipper on his jeans and dragged it down, slowly, torturingly, his eyes heated and locked on hers. Without looking away, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband, shoved them down, and kicked the pants to the side. His cock stood hard and swollen between his legs. A curl of heat twitched through her, and her pussy clenched.

  He reclined on his back amidst the destruction of Froot Loops and propped up on his elbows. “Now I'm exposed, too. Waiting for your acceptance.”

  There was something changing inside him. She couldn't name it, but she could see it creeping to the surface in the stiffness of his muscles and the clench of his fists as he lay on the floor. It seemed to be feeding on feelings that gravitated around her. Was he aware of it? She wanted him to know she could see him, that she wanted to accept him.

  “You look uncomfortable.” She cringed at the stupidity of her statement.

  “Yeah, well, this position doesn't bring out the best in me. I'm not a bottom, babe.” His eyes darted away as he blew out a long ripple of air then looked back at her. “And you're not the only one susceptible to rejection.”

  Who would've rejected him? She wouldn't, not anymore, but he was covered in cereal. It stuck all over his skin in multicolored crumbs. Who knew what other nooks and crannies it was finding its way into? Just looking at it made her itchy and sweaty.