Take

by Pam Godwin

  “I’m a bad man, Kate. Never confuse that.”

  She should’ve nodded her head emphatically. But she could only stare at the stunning paradox of beauty and atrocity that embodied Tiago Badell.

  Was he really as terrible as he claimed? Did true evil admit to being evil?

  What was she thinking? He was the absolute worst. He’d poisoned Lucia, mutilated Tate’s back, kicked Kate in the stomach, locked her in a room for a month, tied her to the dinner table. Raped her.

  But he raped her gently.

  Gently?

  Could that word even be used in this situation?

  She was losing her goddamn mind.

  “Hate is a feeling.” The warm wetness of his mouth brushed against hers. “As long as you feel something, you’re with me. I need you with me.”

  “Fuck what you need.” She gnashed her teeth, aiming to bite off his tongue. “Go talk about your needs with someone who cares.”

  His cock jerked inside her, triggering an unwelcome clench in her pussy. He lowered his head, and her pulse jumped through her veins. She tasted his minty breath before his mouth closed over hers.

  She tried to fight, lips pinched and neck arching away. But the hands in her hair held her to the pillow, trapping her face exactly where he wanted her.

  Then he plundered. Just like when he put his mouth between her legs, this assault wielded the same skill, potency, and seduction. Demanding full lips coaxed and pried until they caught her bottom lip between them, tugged roughly, sucked deeply.

  His teeth joined in, nipping in warning, biting when she tried to pull back. The longer she refused to kiss him, the harder his hips plowed against hers. He wouldn’t allow her to escape his gaze, his kiss, or the toxicity of his presence.

  “Give me your mouth.” His voice dropped low, his heavy cock sliding in and out, faster, deeper, scrambling her mind.

  She searched for a breath, unable to catch it through her nose. When her lungs burned, she had no choice. She gulped, gasping, and he dove in.

  Sweeping past her lips, his tongue hunted hers, lashing, curling, claiming in a vigorous ambush of breathy kisses. He moaned into her mouth, and rumbling vibrations spiked through her, annihilating her pleasure zones.

  Her body yielded. Melted. Sighed.

  Because the man knew how to kiss. Sweet hell, he knew exactly how to own her.

  Every nibble and lick carried just the right tickle, taunt, and floaty, languorous pull. The stubble on his jaw inflicted just the right burn. The firmness of his lips created just the right cushion to caress and bruise. And his taste… Oh God, his mouth burst with flavors that were uniquely him. A fusion of sharp mint, warm caramel, and dark, bold decadence. He tasted like sin.

  He didn’t just kiss her. He devoured her with his entire body. His hands were everywhere, kneading her ass, coasting up and down her thighs, palming her chest, her neck, her face, and tangling in her hair. All the while, his hips never stopped moving, a constant piston of endless energy and forbidden pleasure.

  Frenzied ripples of sensation swallowed her resistance as he stroked his length along her walls, digging in, reaching deep, jerking, and stirring. Tongues locked, hands trailing, cock stabbing, he meant to own her. And in that moment, he did.

  It was the kiss. His fucking kiss had the power to crash walls, fuck minds, and bleed souls. It threaded between vulnerable and arrogant, selfless and greedy, polished and primal, silken and brutal, and she sucked it from him helplessly, needfully, knowing it was wrong, which only made her want it more.

  He didn’t dominate with just one technique. He mastered them all, licking the corner of her mouth, sinking his teeth into her lips, sipping at the seam, sweeping deep into the recesses, quick pecks, long deep perusals, and everything in between.

  He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her until she couldn’t feel her tongue, couldn’t unlock her jaw, and couldn’t taste anything but him.

  When he finally came up for air, she floated in a fog that smelled only of him—his breath, the swollen flesh of his lips, the skin on his masculine face. Even his whiskers had a warm, rough, comforting scent.

  Comforting? No, it was…

  Familiar.

  She’d been naked with him for hours, with him in ways she’d never been with anyone else. He was the most familiar thing she’d ever known. The kind of familiarity that cultivated a sense of safety and attachment.

  A vein of fear ran through her, sharp enough to shake her from his spell. “This isn’t real.”

  “It feels good and ugly, painful and fucking extraordinary. That’s life, Kate. That’s real.” Lines formed between his dark eyes as he searched her face. “It doesn’t get more real than this. I know you feel it.”

  “It’s Stockholm syndrome.”

  “Don’t give a shit what you call it.” His accent thickened, sliding across her skin. “Doesn’t change what it is.”

  The frantic wallop of her heart rang in her ears. “What do you call it, then?”

  “Ours.” He drifted closer and stabbed his hands in her hair, holding her lips to his. “You and me. Wide awake. Alive. This is all we have left, and it’s the only real we’ll ever need.”

  He captured her mouth in a brutal attack, sucking her in, commanding her heart rate, possessing, always taking. His tongue controlled hers, hot and strong, feral and unstoppable. His terrifying power curled around her, summoning her darkest shame. Promising to fulfill every depraved fantasy. Vowing to hurt and cherish her in equal measures.

  Diabolical hands found the flesh of her ass and squeezed aggressively, achingly. Palms inched over her hips, fingers splaying as they skimmed up her ribs to her chest and continued along her arms.

  The kiss didn’t slow as he reached the rope around her wrists, tugging at it.

  He was untying her?

  The restraints loosened and fell away, and her breath caught.

  She stared into his eyes, her hands lowering, free to grip the first thing she encountered—the hard bulges of his shoulders. She meant to push him away, but he was too big, too heavy, too overwhelming.

  She held on, sinking fingernails into puckered scars.

  Yanking one of her legs around his hip, he pressed his weight into her body and effectively trapped her against the mattress.

  His eyes narrowed, and ruthlessness strewed across his handsome face. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

  “What? You already—”

  “Don’t let go.”

  Then he went off the rails.

  The moment Tiago relinquished his self-control, Kate realized just how much he’d been holding back.

  She lost track of time as he fucked, kissed, and tumbled her over every inch of the bed. It was nothing like before. This was a rebellion of chaos and mastery, thunder and liquid smoke.

  His thrusts trailed fire. Fingers bruised flesh. Teeth caught lips, and his sounds lost all traces of strangled vulnerability. He growled and grunted from some deep chasm in hell, roaring like a majestic beast in battle, pounding his cock inside her, fighting to get closer, raging, rabid, and petrifying.

  Shredded muscles rippled and pumped beneath her hands. Sweat squelched in the creases of their bodies. Her arousal leaked to her legs and spread between their grinding hips. His, hers, they were drenched in wetness, sliding together and burning up.

  His broad torso blocked her view of the room, the lamp light, the entire world as he bowed over her, pommeling into her body with the stamina of a fully-charged machine. Ramming. Heaving. Groaning. Kissing.

  His kiss owned her soft parts, her compassion and humanity. But this… This brutal, unruly savage of a man owned something darker, something innately carnal and animalistic inside her. He’d woken her from dormancy, ripped her away from shelter and safety, and preyed on the hunger she couldn’t hide from him.

  A turbulence of conflict tore through her gut. She feared him down to the marrow of her bones. Desired him with every fiber of her sexuality. Cursed him to the ends of
her pride and back.

  She shouldn’t have to remind herself this wasn’t consensual, yet as he took her mouth with those fierce, unapologetic lips, she fell in, aching for more, drowning in the overload of his terrible beauty and passion.

  “Fucking goddamn.” His huge hand cupped the side of her face, stealing her breath and pieces of her soul. “Feels so good, Kate. So fucking honest and real. I need to come. I need…” He pushed deep inside and choked. “I can’t hold off much longer.”

  Hold off? He’d been fucking her all night.

  He shoved up just enough to reach between them and rub her clit. His fingers had gravitated there countless times since he began, constantly focused on that overly-sensitive nub. He’d loved it so hard it hurt to the touch.

  Then it dawned on her. “You’ve been waiting for me to come?”

  Stormy, hungry eyes hardened and flared, as if he had the right to be offended by her ignorance.

  “Well, don’t!” She slapped his hand away from her abused clit. “In case you forgot, I was a virgin, and I don’t want this. I’m not willing. You’ve pounded my insides into hamburger. I’m sore, raw, and bruised, and I will not come for you.”

  “You came on my tongue.”

  Shame. It crashed in from all sides and collided in her gut.

  “No more.” She pushed at his shoulders, unable to move his bulk. “Please, just stop. Or finish. I don’t care. Just do it without me.”

  “Only with you.” His hoarse, gravelly voice brooked no argument.

  “I’m with you in all my hatred and venom.”

  A huff released from his throat, and she heard the relief in it, the smile.

  She didn’t expect him to relent so easily, but as he folded his arms beneath her back and pulled her deeper into the heat of his body, she felt the twitchy, fiery fatigue in his muscles.

  With a hand flattening on her spine and the other cradling the back of her head, he rested his brow against hers and began to drive into her with purpose.

  Flexing his hips, he caught a fast, steady rhythm. The warm softness of his tongue traced her lips. His heartbeat thundered against her chest. Breaths heavy, grunts deepening, eyes locked on hers, he chased his release.

  She hadn’t moved her hands from his shoulders since he’d freed her, but his unguarded expression compelled her to move them now.

  Feathering fingertips along curves of biceps and brawny ribs, she suppressed the moan that rose in her throat. Feeling brave, she sought out his hip bones, and around to his lower back, marveling at the sinewy strips of muscle and sculpted grooves she would never find on her own body.

  Dipping lower, her fingers bumped the cleft of his ass. Tentatively, she explored the tight divide between rock-hard glutes. Hot and sweaty, his buttocks squeezed with the smack of his hips. Each cheek formed a globe of steel wrapped in silky satin skin.

  What a magnificently built man, all bold lines and chiseled strength. And so responsive. He groaned and shivered as she caressed his backside. She knew it was wrong, stroking such a private part of him, especially since she didn’t want this.

  But she reveled in the feel of his body, feasted on his reactions.

  How incredible that her fingertips could alter the tempo of his breathing and spread goosebumps across his flesh. It felt powerful and strangely addictive.

  Four years ago, she’d learn how to touch and please a man in every way. Van Quiso had seen to that. But he’d never responded to her hands, and she’d never responded to him.

  Why was this so different? The circumstances were the same. Captor and captive. Abuser and victim.

  The difference was the man behind the sins. The soul beneath the skin.

  The heart of Tiago Badell lay hidden under blood, teeth, and vicious threats, but it was there, calling to her, beating for her. She felt it every time their eyes connected.

  Like now.

  “Kate.” He clutched her neck and tilted up her chin, his thumb stroking the hollow of her throat as he stared, pupils wide, his pelvis slamming her into the bed. “I’m going to blow my load. Fucking fill you up with my come. Tear up that pussy.” His accented English stumbled into Spanish, rolling together syllables that sounded like a vulgar plea to God. “Fucking fuck, fuuuuuuck!”

  His hips lost rhythm, jerking wildly, and his jaw turned to stone. He pushed up, his gaze dropping to where they were joined as he pumped, coming without sound or breath, the length of his body shuddering, stiffening, strung like a bow.

  Then he groaned, long and deep, his eyes finding hers and his lungs releasing in a guttural whoosh. “Jesus, fuck.”

  She’d never experienced anything like that and didn’t know what to expect or how to react. So she just lay there, motionless, quiet, and invisible.

  He pulled out and stared at his flagging erection soaked in their combined fluids. Her first glimpse of his cock didn’t leave her gasping at the generous length and thickness, because she already knew it so well. She’d felt every fat inch inside her.

  Sitting back on his heels, he dragged his gaze over her flushed body, probing, scrutinizing, heating her skin anew. Hadn’t he seen enough?

  The only blanket had been tossed out of reach. With nothing to cover herself with, she pressed her arms to her sides and met his hooded eyes.

  Without looking away, he cupped a hand between her legs. Placing his other over the juncture between her shoulder and neck, he curled his fingers around her nape. A covetous hold. Possessive and weighty.

  Neither of them spoke. There were only the sounds of their breaths, the slam of a door downstairs, the wind whistling across the thin roof. And something else. The stillness between them. It swelled with hurtful words, conflicting thoughts, and promises she didn’t want him to make.

  With his hands at her throat and pussy, he held her there for a long moment as his gaze made a vow he didn’t need to voice.

  He would never let her go.

  Then his face blanked. He pulled away and shifted to the foot of the mattress. There, he lowered to the floor beside his clothes but didn’t pull them on.

  He sat with his back to her, unabashedly nude, with his legs bent and his arms dangling over his knees. He seemed to be finished with her. At least, for tonight.

  What now?

  She wasn’t restrained, didn’t have anything to wear or cover up with. Every part of her ached and burned from hours of his brutal attention. She just wanted to curl up in bed by herself and escape into sleep.

  Staring longingly at the door, she started to climb to her feet.

  Until his low, creaky rasp shuddered the air.

  “My wife was murdered twelve years ago.” His voice lapsed to a monotone, and every word pulled his shoulders down, slumping his powerful body. “I walked in while it was happening. Too late. Too slow. Couldn’t put her back together. Didn’t save her. I failed her in every way.”

  Ice trickled down the base of her skull, and her throat tightened around a hot ember.

  His wife.

  He was married.

  She couldn’t wrap her mind around it, even as she’d known there was something. Something horrendous that had left a bleeding scar on his life.

  Tucking her thighs to her bare chest, she hugged her legs and watched the painfully slow break down in his posture.

  An elbow wobbled on one knee, his head sinking toward his chest with a hand over his eyes. She guessed they were closed, his expression lost in memory. Or maybe his face was as tortured as his body language.

  She hated that she couldn’t see his eyes, but she didn’t dare move.

  He was quiet for so long she didn’t think he’d speak again. When he finally stirred, it was a jerky movement. His arm moved out to the side, sifting through the pile of clothes and disappearing in front of him again. He shifted, shoulders twitching, his hands fidgeting or doing something out of view.

  His silence loaded the space between them, a roaring freight of heaviness, too loud in her ears.

  She swallo
wed. “What was her name?”

  His back tensed, relaxed, and he raked a hand through his hair. “Semira. She was a doctor, like her father. Grew up in a small village in…” He cleared his throat, his tone strained with pain. “In a faraway place.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone I trusted turned on me. An assassin came. Gutted her from hip to hip. Let her insides just…spill out. He made sure I saw her bowels hit the floor as I walked in the door.”

  “Why?” An outcry of emotions tangled in her chest, and she pressed a fist against her mouth to keep it all in.

  “Why does anyone rape and butcher innocent women? Why am I hurting you? Everyone has their reasons. Pain is constant and everywhere. All you can do is endure and fucking accept it.”

  God, that was heavy. Some of it echoed her own sentiments, slicing like hot knives in her chest. But he didn’t just accept the pain in the world. He added to it, made it worse. She couldn’t reconcile that.

  “Before Semira died…” He hunched forward, further hiding his expression from her line of sight. “I was what society considered a good man. I had a lawful job, paid my taxes, and followed all the fucking rules. But there were conversations I should’ve had with my wife. I should’ve asked her if she was conflicted about the things I did and the man I was.”

  So many questions piled up, most of which she knew he wouldn’t answer. “Why would you become like the man who had her killed?”

  “I didn’t. He was my colleague. When he betrayed me, I became the opposite of him. I became his enemy.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. What was your job?”

  “This isn’t about the job. It’s always been about her.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His arms twitched with movement, his torso blocking her view. What was he doing with his hands?

  “When she looked at me,” he said, “she saw what I was. What I am. I didn’t even know it was there, this egregious thing inside me. But she saw it.”

  Had his wife seen the rapist, the murderer, the gruesome artist who carved images into living victims?

  She squinted at the back of his head. “You said you were a good man.”