by Zoe Hill
“Oh, oh, oh,” I moan when Spenser increases his pace. “Oh.”
My grip on his hair has to be turning painful, yet he says nothing. In complete silence, he works me into a frenzy. I’m close. Closer than I’ve ever been without someone hurting me. Without someone holding a gun on me or restraining me. Without the choice to climax being forced onto me.
As my vision fills with black spots of ecstasy, memories that I don’t want to acknowledge begin to spring from their vault in my mind. My eyebrows draw together, and I screw my eyes shut to block out the monster who lives in my head. I’m on the cusp of pushing Spenser away, so I can hide from the feelings he’s pulling free when he presses his face against my mound and laves his flattened tongue over my clit. As my orgasm rockets through me, Spenser thrusts a second finger inside my heat and fucks me fast with his hand.
“Spenser. God. Fuck. Spenser!” I scream as my pussy detonates. Delicious warmth flows through me like lava. The flames of my climax ignite my mind and blazes across my skin. “Oh. God.”
Once I’ve finished spasming around his fingers, Spenser sweeps me into his arms and deposits me on the bed. He crawls over me, and I finally open my eyes to look at the man who just took me somewhere no one else ever has. The wonder that lightens his green gaze steals my breath. He is transfixed by my gaze, searching my face like he’s trying to read my mind. My lungs ache with the need to breathe, but my body refuses to cooperate.
I’ll let every atom of my body burn if it means I can remain in this moment forever.
“Spenser?” I rasp once I regain some semblance of control. Touching his forehead, I move a lock of his dark hair off his forehead. “Are you okay?”
“Who are you?”
My eyebrows pinch together. “Poppy. T-Tennyson. I’m Poppy Tennyson.”
Mind whirling, I struggle to find the words to ask him what his question means. Capturing my mouth with his, Spenser distracts me when he tangles his tongue with mine. His strong hands roam my body, pulling the cups of my bra down to expose my breasts. With a moan that rumbles through his chest, he sucks my nipple into his mouth and circles his tongue around the engorged flesh. The bruises that Seb left on me half a day ago are soothed with a quick kiss. He flicks the jewel that dangles from my belly button with his tongue, then circles my navel. Returning his attention to my mouth, Spenser pushes his hips between my legs and surges against me. I hook a leg over his waist and move with him as he dry-fucks me. Impossibly, my pussy starts to throb with renewed need almost immediately. My desire grows into an uncontrollable urge when he sucks on the side of my neck.
I’ve never been this turned on in my life.
Marveling at the miracle that is the man thrusting against me, I take hold of his face and dodge his kiss. Confusion clouds his gaze a moment before he frowns and asks, “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I just want to know your name too.”
“Spenser,” he replies in a blatantly reluctant tone. He rolls off me and props himself upright next to me. His well-developed muscles contract with every movement he makes. I notice that he has bruising over his torso, and the sight of it makes me angry at the person who inflicted it on him. I keep my mouth shut for two reasons. The first being that I don’t know him well enough to demand details and the second due to his lack of questioning about the marks covering me.
I guess, no expectations also means no deep questions.
Once his back is resting against the headboard, I run my eyes over his smooth, lightly tanned skin, cataloging the smattering of dark hair between his pecs. Equipped with an eight-pack that looks like it’s carved from marble, his happy trail draws my eyes down to his cock. Straining against the charcoal-gray Calvin’s that peek from his open zipper, Spenser’s hardness begs for my hand.
“Spenser, what?” I question as I nudge him onto his back then push my hand between his pants and his boxer briefs to cup his length. He’s hard as a rock. I squeeze gently and he freezes in the next instant. Fisting his hands on either side of his hips, Spenser breathes raggedly when I ask, “You must have a last name?”
With eyes that appear out of focus, he stares at me. He flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, then he stutters, “Spenser, uh... Trig... er. Spenser Stirling.”
“Okay, Spenser Stirling. I’m pleased to officially meet you.” Propping myself up on my elbow, I remove my hand from his bulge. My fingernails skate the peaks and ridges of his abdomen as I work my way back down to his cock. “Nice name, by the way. Very porn star-esque.”
He chuckles, and it emboldens me to continue, “This ‘no expectations’ night is quickly turning into a sexy morning, but how far do you think we should go?”
As I leave my unfinished question hanging suggestively in the air, I pluck the band of his boxers and peek beneath the material. The angry, dark-pink head of his very generous dick twitches when I lightly blow over him. Spenser groans. Encouraged by his reaction, I duck closer and part my lips to take his length in my mouth. Instead of tasting him, I find myself heaved over Spenser’s lower body and settled on top of his hips with my thighs on either side of his legs.
“I told you, Poppy Tennyson,” Spenser grinds out with a dark rasp. He grips my upper arms with strong hands. “I don’t fuck.”
With complete seriousness in his expression, he shuts down my objections before I can voice them by pressing his mouth against mine. I’m too shocked to try to speak again and the strange man holding me capitalizes on my silence to lay down the law.
“What just happened was perfect. I’ll cherish it until the day I die.”
“Okay, but—”
“You need to leave.” Pulling the edges of my shirt back together, Spenser lifts his chin in the direction of the door. “I won’t let you get hurt.”
“I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?” Shame infiltrates my veins and turns my blood to ice when he begins re-buttoning my top. The jerky movements of his fingers match the skittering cadence of my heartbeat. My eyes burn with unshed tears that I will not let fall around this fickle man. I slap his hands away from my chest and scramble to my feet. “You know what? I don’t care what I did. I’ll leave.”
Re-dressing in my clothes with the speed of an octopus on meth, I grab heels and march out to the couch in the living room. I pick up my backpack then stomp over to the door. Upon hearing Spenser enter the room and trail behind me, the first tear slips from my eyes unbidden.
I whirl around to face him. “Fuck you.”
Spenser reaches up to hold the top of the doorframe. I avert my eyes from his straining muscles to concentrate on glaring at his expressionless face instead. Something that looks a lot like regret flickers in his eyes before his gaze hardens. “It’s for the best, Poppy. You’ll thank me one day.”
I shake my head. “The only thing I’m thankful for is not letting you inside me. God knows what I would’ve caught from a lying bastard like you.”
Once again, his tongue darts out, and he licks his bottom lip. “I didn’t lie to you about anything important. If I wanted to lie to you, I’d let you stay. That’s why I’m sending you away.”
“Whatever. My bad... I thought you were different. Special. Instead I’m a fool.” When he reaches out and touches my damp cheek, I slam my hands against his chest and push him backward. “Don’t! Just don’t. I hope you fucking die.”
Spenser’s eyes widen. His shoulders hunch and he presses his lips together until they’re a thin line. Once again, he’s toying with me. Hot and cold. Up and down. I’m over it. If I wanted to be treated like a doll, I could hunt down my ex. When Spenser doesn’t speak again, my heart sinks to my boots.
His silence is damning.
At least, I’m right about one thing... I am a fool.
Unable to look at him for a millisecond longer, I spin around. As I stalk off, his final words are barely audible. “Me, too. Me fucking too.”
SEVENTEEN
“You are mortal in everything you fear and im
mortal in everything you desire” ~Seneca~
SPENSER
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I throw my phone down on the bedside table and jam my hands on top of my head. After half a minute, I pick the device back up and look at the text message again. It hasn’t changed. It’s still as disappointing and infuriating as it was when I checked the first time.
EITAN: Sorry. I have nothing new to report.
Tossing my cell onto the bedside table, I storm into the bathroom. I brace my hands on the vanity and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes dart everywhere but at my reflection. The raging regret that has stalked me since I sent Poppy away pulses through my veins. It’s poisonous. Infecting my brain with regret. Making my body feel foreign without her touch. Reducing what’s left of my soul to ash.
The few hours of fitful sleep I managed were plagued by nightmares. The pain in her face as I kicked her out of the suite and the stark honesty in her declaration that she wished I would die haunt me. Even awake, it’s all I can think about.
My actions came from a place of honor at the time, yet my mind screams at me to go after her.
I feel lost in her absence. Stupid as it may be, I feel like I’m hemorrhaging on the inside without her, even though I’m the one who made us bleed.
The look in her eyes when she called herself a fool stabs me in the chest. It doesn’t matter that I sent her away because I want to save her from me because there’s no way to adequately explain the job I’ve been sent to do. Any way I look at it, the result is the same. Hurting her hurts me. Killing her kills my dreams. Keeping her, keeps me hostage to my past. Saving her is impossible.
“Snap out of it,” I mutter at my reflection. “You don’t even know her.”
The truth I don’t want to face hits me in the stomach. Breathtaking and ball breaking. It’s a gut punch that I refuse to acknowledge. Employing the obstinate streak that’s guided my life since I was eleven, I do my best to twist what happened last night into a revisionist version where I’m the good guy, and Poppy didn’t leave me shaking with shame when she left in tears.
Try as I might, my brain refuses to play ball, and every wrong move I made plays over and over in my head.
When I lied to Poppy about my last name, I knew we were doomed. I could still taste her on my tongue, yet I couldn’t tell her something as simple as my real identity. This woman—the tiniest, most trusting person I’ve ever encountered—has stripped me bare with her openness. For the first time, I’m feeling more than despair, yet I know that the only place for the connection we feel is downhill. I’m out of my depth... have been since the moment she danced her way over to me in the bar in New Haven and asked for my name. Whatever it was that made my psyche react differently to her is a weapon.
I’ve touched her, tasted her, been teased by her. It wasn’t enough and yet it was too much. Every second I spent with my fingers inside her and my tongue taking her over the edge, I was terrified.
Me. Spenser fucking Ingram. AKA Trigger Greaves. The executioner.
Truth be told, the man everyone connected to the Coalition fears is scared of a five-foot-tall dynamo who weeps for her family and allows a killer to hold her hand.
If you informed Roman Averell of my weakness, he wouldn’t believe you.
I can barely swallow the truth myself.
Poppy Tennyson balances me out more than counting to twelve, loud music, and personality disorders ever have. With her, I’m normal again. With just a smile and the barest graze of her fingertips, she glues me back together. Temporarily, of course. As I’m discovering this morning, her absence brings me undone straightaway.
Part of me wishes I’d never met her. If we were still strangers, I wouldn’t know that salvation is within reach. Poppy Tennyson wouldn’t be caught in the Coalition’s web, and killing Harrison would be nothing but a pipedream I’d almost resigned myself to never achieving.
I was fine until she was put in my way.
My downcast eyes meet my image in the glass above the basin. They quickly dart away, unable to face all the ways I’m lying to myself.
I haven’t been fine for a long time.
“Fuck this shit,” I yell at my reflection before I punch the glass over the sink until my traitorous visage is shattered. My left-hand drips blood onto the vanity. Opening and closing my fingers, I examine the damage I’ve done. My knuckles are cut, the wounds sting, but it’s the shallow cut on my trigger finger that hurts the most. Visions of Poppy kissing my fingertips last night invades my head. Screwing my eyes shut, I whisper, “Let me die. Please. I want to die.”
Less than a week ago, I was suicidal because I had nothing to live for but my cat.
Today, I find myself willing to die because I have something precious to lose.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Neither are the stakes.
Poppy’s family is dirty, but she’s not. She might be feeding them information, but I can tell that at her core, she’s good. Pure. Motivated by kindness. Innocent and naïve, despite the past horror I suspect we have in common. She’s a lot like the old me—the person that my uncle ruined with his craven desires, his secrets and threats, and master manipulations.
The similarities I share with the woman who’s haunted my every minute since I pushed her away from me are too many to ignore. We’re both trapped by our family’s choices. Beholden to greed bigger than either of us. The Samaritan’s Soldiers MC have forced their daughter into the same position the Coalition has placed me.
In this game of life and death, bad versus evil, there are no winners aside from the bad guys.
If I allow the bikers to live, someone else will be sent after them. They’ll die anyway, Poppy included, and I’ll lose my shot at Harrison.
If I wipe the MC and their associates from the face of the earth, I’ll get my shot at my evil uncle, but I’ll lose my one chance at living a normal life.
There isn’t a play that I can make to stop the inevitable from happening.
By virtue of our last names, Poppy and I are the villains in each other’s story.
As the complete reality of our predicament sets in, I drop to my knees and prop my back against the side of the bath. Pulling a towel from the rail, I wrap my bleeding hand with the fluffy, white fabric and tie it off tight with my teeth. Impending doom presses heavily against my shoulders. Perversely, I struggle into a straighter position.
I might be defeated, but I refuse to take the loss lying down.
As I fight to stoke my resolve into the flames of an impossible revolt, my cell rings in the bedroom. Pushing back to my feet, I take a moment to compose myself with deep breaths. The ringtone grows louder, but I ignore the urgency building within me to shake the tension out of my body before making my way over to the bedside table.
Before I snatch my phone off the nightstand, I pause and close my eyes. “God, I’m not sure if you exist... if you do, please help me find a way out of this mess.”
Blindly jabbing the screen, I bark, “What?”
“Do you need a ride to Oaklands?” my brother asks.
“No.”
Stirling exhales into the phone. “Are you sure? The shattering glass could be heard up here.”
“I’m sure.”
“All right,” he concedes after a drawn-out silence. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Yep.”
“Sabra?”
I grip the phone tight. My jaw refuses to move properly so my reply is a strangled garble. “What?”
“I hope you understand that I’m here for you if you need me. Whatever’s bothering you can be fixed... if you’d just trust me enough to help you.”
Pulling the cell phone from my ear, I glare at the screen before ending the call without saying another thing. My brother is deluded if he thinks that there’s any solution to this situation that doesn’t involve bloodshed and death. The only part of this problem that can be changed is who bleeds and who dies.
Me or Poppy?
***
“The Trick The Devil Did” by Sick Puppies blares from the speakers of my Bentley as I make my way through security at the gates of Roman Averell’s estate, Oaklands. His security precautions are over the top as usual, but I manage to make it through without killing anyone. It’s a close call when a guard at his main entrance forces me to put my hands against the wall so he can pat me down. The only thing that keeps me from losing my cool is my brother. He refuses to leave me alone until it’s over, intervening when the guard attempts to unbutton my trousers.
“If you touch him again, I’ll make sure that the next thing you see is the inside of the cooler,” Stirling threatens as he shoves the guard against the opposite wall and pins him in place with his forearm across the man’s throat. When the guard struggles, he presses harder until the man is wheezing. “Try me. You’ll learn rather quickly that I’m not in a lenient mood.”
Roman steps outside of the drawing room to inspect the hold up. The surprise that invades his expression when he sees that it’s Stirling causing the commotion and not me would be amusing if I wasn’t still fighting back the fire burning beneath my skin. He obviously set up this confrontation as retribution for my tardiness in arriving at the cooler yesterday.
If my head wasn’t filled with thoughts of Poppy, I would have anticipated a move like this.
He was too quick to forgive my indiscretion at the time.
“That’s enough,” Roman snaps. He gestures to my brother. “Let him go. I’m done waiting. Take your seat now, or I’ll consider the delay as your resignation.” Pinning me to the spot with a hard stare, he continues, “Both of you.”
Considering that resigning from the Coalition isn’t possible, his warning is a thinly veiled death threat. Stirling pushes the guard to the floor and steps over him. He rebuttons his wrinkled suit jacket and strides into the room. I trail behind and take my seat at the opposite end of the round table to Roman. My brother sits three chairs to my left with an empty chair on my other side, our father is perched at Roman’s right hand, and the other heads are clustered around them in order of importance—Anderson Zidane to the left of Roman then Damon Du Croix next to my dad. The Terror Twins, Edward and Gareth Averell come next, sitting facing each other. After that Stirling, Luca Zidane, Axel Zidane, another empty chair, then I round out the bottom half of the table.
