Fighter: The Devil's Highwaymen Nomads #4

by Claire C. Riley

  Double asshole.

  “That’s what my daddy thinks. That’s what he wants me to do. But I want to be a nurse like my mom used to be.”

  He stared at me in confusion like that was the strangest thing he’s ever heard. “A nurse?”

  I nodded firmly.

  I’d never told anyone that. I’d never been able to trust anyone enough to tell them the truth. My daddy controlled every part of my life—who my friends were, where I went, who I went with, how long I was there for, and what job I had. I couldn’t afford to trust anyone with my secrets, yet there I was spilling my secrets to a complete stranger. The man who had taken me and held me against my will.

  I didn’t trust anyone in the world, and yet I’d just trusted the Devil with my most precious secret. I was completely fucked in the head.

  He was still staring at me, disbelief and annoyance in his features. “Nurses don’t get paid as much as accountants,” he finally replied.

  It was my turn to laugh then. “It’s not always about the money.”

  “It’s always about the money,” he said, repeating my earlier words.

  “It’s not.”

  “Or the drugs.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Or the guns.”

  I shook my head.

  “Or the pussy,” he said, crudely raising an eyebrow at me.

  “You’re an asshole,” I sneered. “Do you want me to fix your head or not?”

  “Not,” he replied coldly.

  “Fine, get an infection and die. See if I care.”

  If I could have folded my arms over my chest and looked away, I would have. Instead I was forced to lie there and scowl at the wall.

  “You’re ridiculous, you know that!” I said with a shake of my head. God, he was so utterly pathetic. All men were. They always had to act so macho, like they didn’t care about getting hurt. I could see the pain he was in, and yet he wouldn’t back down because he didn’t want his masculinity affected.

  His hand reached out and gripped my jaw, squeezing and dragging my face to meet his in a move I’d quickly become accustomed to. My eyes narrowed at him and his narrowed right back at me.

  “You’re a real bitch, you know that.”

  “And you’re an asshole.” I shook my head from his grip and his hand fell to my collarbone.

  “So you’ve said,” he drolled, his gaze slipping to where his hand lay on my bare skin. His fingers took a lock of my hair in them and he twirled it in thought. “Fine. Stitch my head. You try and do anything stupid and I’ll cut your fucking fingers off.”

  I didn’t feel like I’d won, and yet I had.

  “Death by tiny needle?” I scoffed. “Whatever.”

  He stood up and left the room, coming back several minutes later. I watched as he limped back toward the bed. There were oil marks smeared down his jeans and dirt smeared across his torn T-shirt: all the signs of a bike accident. My gaze assessed him quickly, watching how he held his arm.

  “You crash your bike?” I asked, and his scowl deepened.

  “No talking.”

  “I was just asking—,”

  He glowered at me and I stopped talking and rolled my eyes. He sat down on the side of the bed and placed a small box of medical supplies next to me. He reached under his T-shirt, to the band of his jeans, and pulled a small knife out to cut away the rope on my wrists. I pushed myself up to sitting, rolling my shoulders and wrists a couple of times before reaching for the box and pulling out some antiseptic wipes. I reached up and dabbed one against the cut on his head. The cut was really deep, and it had to have hurt as the antiseptic cleaned it, but he didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed trained on me, watching my every move in case I tried to run.

  There was blood down his T-shirt, and a large stain seeped from near his rib cage. I nodded toward it. “Can I check that?”

  He grunted a response and I reached down with shaking hands and lifted up his T-shirt. He might have had a broken rib or two, by the looks of the purple bruising forming. Road rash covered most of his left side, and though it didn’t need stitches, it’d need cleaning or it’d get infected.

  “I need to clean this,” I said to him. I held the T-shirt up and started to clean the scrapes for him, pulling out gravel and dirt as carefully as I could. The T-shirt fell and with shaking hands I pulled it back up. He tutted and gripped the bottom of it in his hands before tearing it up the middle and sliding it off his shoulders.

  I glanced up at him, seeing his impassive stare watching me carefully. “Such a caveman,” I deadpanned.

  “Such an exhibitionist,” he retorted, and embarrassment flushed my features. He was talking about last night when I’d touched myself but I tried to ignore the heat in my cheeks and focus on the task in hand.

  My gaze moved to the door, seeing that he’d left it wide open. I could run. Dive over the bed and out the door, locking it behind me, and be out of there before he could do anything. I’d run track in school, and I’d kept myself in shape since then so I didn’t doubt that we were evenly matched if I tried. Not to mention that he was injured at the moment. It was fifty fifty on if I’d make it to the door before he did.

  “Don’t,” he warned, and I looked back at him.

  I swallowed and grabbed some more antiseptic wipes before continuing to clean his cuts. His body was beautiful, even beaten up and torn to shreds like it was. He was carved and chiseled to perfection. Tanned skin peppered with scars—slices and burns of all shapes and sizes that told hundreds of stories, stories I wanted to know but knew there was no point in asking about. His muscles were toned and alluded to not just his visible strength but strength that was hidden and rippled just beneath the surface. Jesus, he was perfect; why did he have to be one of my daddy’s enemies? Not that I’d be allowed to pick my own old man anyway. I’d learned that lesson the hard way. And so had every man that had ever looked my way.

  God, what was I even talking about?

  He wasn’t old man material.

  He was a brute.

  A kidnapper.

  A murderer.

  A psychopath.

  He was the fucking Devil, my dark angel, a monster!

  No one in their right mind had desires to seduce the Devil and then expect to stay alive.

  I glanced back to the door, my tongue darting out to dampen my lips. Freedom was only a couple of steps away, but my dark angel was in front of me, weakened, vulnerable, and beautiful. I should run. I should get the hell away from him while I could. Who knew what he planned on doing next. Death was only ever a heartbeat away in this life.

  “Lay down,” I said, my voice coming out stern when I felt anything but. Like him, I felt weakened and vulnerable.

  He raised a cocky eyebrow at me, his eyes blazing with desire.

  “I need to make sure I get everything out of it, so lay back and keep still.” I nodded to his road rash and I could have sworn that he smirked behind his mask.

  God, what I’d give to see his mouth.

  Or his lips, which I already knew would be full and perfect.

  Or his jaw, which I already knew would be strong and defined.

  I ran my hand up his chest, feeling the raised scars beneath my fingertips. I dabbed at the road rash, cleaning everything out of it. His nipples hardened the more I scrubbed at him, like the pain was his aphrodisiac, and there was no mistaking the way his jeans had tightened. When I was done, I threaded a needle and leaned closer to his face.

  “Keep still—this will hurt.” I held the needle in my right hand and his face gently rested against the palm of my left hand.

  I stared into his eyes, his dark ones swallowing all the light from my golden ones. I’d been told I had eyes like a wolf, something I got from my mom, yet right then I didn’t feel like a wolf—like a predator. Under his scrutiny, his intensity burning between us like molten lava, I felt like the prey.

  I leaned closer to him, the position uncomfortable but necessary, and then I pierced his skin, wait
ing for him to flinch or hiss in pain, but nothing. He was a solid rock, an unmovable mass. Nothing fazed him. Not when I pierced his skin. Not when fresh blood poured from the wound and I had to wipe it away. Not when the needle snagged on his skin and I had to snap the thread and pull it back out. Nothing.

  When I was done, I sat back on my haunches, admiring my work. It was the first time I’d performed on an actual person, and I was proud of myself. It had been harder than I’d expected, but I was sure I’d done a good job and he’d only have a small scar.

  “It’s done,” I said, still staring at him. Still waiting for him to say or do something.

  I was sitting next to him, his body stretched out on the bed, the needle still in one hand while the other one was on his hard chest. I could feel the thump of his heart underneath my palm, and something about it calmed me.

  “Does anywhere else hurt?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything, though his eyes told a thousand stories. Stories of pain and love, anger and rage, of death and family, and so much more. I swallowed at the intensity and was scooting back from him when his hand reached out and latched on to my hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

  I stared at him, and he stared at me, our gazes locked in a silent war. A war with ourselves, with each other, with the world that had put us in these opposing positions.

  He slowly sat upright, his callused hand still holding on to my hip, and when he leaned in close, practically stealing the air from my lungs, I panicked, wondering what he planned to do now. Would he hit me? Kiss me? And which would be worse? Which would hurt more?

  But instead, he grabbed the small mirror from the medical kit and held it up to his face, his gaze flitting between the mirror and me for several seconds.

  “You’re good at this,” he finally grunted like I should be thankful of his approval. “You should be a nurse.”

  I shrugged like it was no big deal, like his compliment didn’t do anything for me, when it in fact meant the world. “Whatever.”

  “You gotta do what you want, Penny. You only live once.”

  I frowned and looked down. “I don’t have a say in it.”

  God, what was wrong with me? I was acting like such a girl. Such a victim. And why was he being like this with me? Acting like he actually gave a shit.

  “Whatever, it doesn’t really matter,” I mumbled, and moved to put the kit away when he grabbed me by the shoulders forcing me to look at him.

  “It does matter. Life’s too fucking short not to do what we love. What we’re good at.” He stared at me like he wanted to say more. Like he wanted to do more.

  I frowned, wanting him to shut up now. He had no idea what it was like, how hard it was for someone like me. I didn’t get a choice in anything. Women in my family were owned by their daddies until they were married off, and then they were owned by their men. That was my life.

  “You tried tellin’ him,” he continued.

  I rolled my eyes. “Can you just drop it? It doesn’t even matter.”

  He huffed out an annoyed breath and I shook my head.

  “You’re acting so superior!” I snapped. “So you’re telling me that you’re doing what you love? That this is living the dream for you? Kidnapping women, torturing them? Killing people even? You’re just like me, taking orders and doing what needs to be done to survive,” I spat with a shake of my head.

  He pushed me suddenly and I fell sideways, and then he was on me, straddling my body, trapping me beneath him and taking my breath away.

  “You think I’ve been torturing you?” he sneered, his eyes filled with rage. “You ain’t got a fuckin’ clue what torture is, what I can do, what I will do to you if you don’t shut your mouth.”

  “You’re fucked up, you know that! The most fucked up man I’ve ever met and I’ve met some fucked up men.”

  He barked out a laugh. “You think I give a shit what you think about me?” I let out a growl of frustration and he laughed. “Temper temper, Penny.”

  “You’re a disgusting pig. You get off on hurting women, torturing them, kidnapping them. You have no self-control, no desire for anything good in your life. You just have this! This shit life where you get told what to do and you do it. You’re a lap dog,” I was ranting angrily, my words coming out like venom from a snake.

  I glared up at him defiantly, wondering how our sweet moment had transformed into this brutal one. I refused to back down though, to him or anyone else. Because he was right, life was too short, and I should have been doing what I loved, not what someone told me to do. I just didn’t know how to go about it.

  His black eyes, if possible, turned blacker, and because I was a glutton for punishment I smirked at him before letting out a little yip like a chihuahua. His eyes flared as rage filled him and his hands moved to the boxer shorts that I was wearing and he started to push them down my thighs.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled suddenly panicked, wriggling underneath him.

  He paid me no mind and continued to push away the material until I was naked to him. Pain or no pain, he gripped my wrists tight in his hands, pinning me to the bed as his mouth started to crawl down my body.

  “Get off me!” I screamed, feeling him chuckle against my belly. “Get the fuck off me!”

  He moved lower and I tried to squeeze my thighs together, but he pushed up his mask and nipped at my inner thigh, causing me to cry out and spread my legs. He wasted no time in clamping his mouth over my pussy and lapping at me like I was a fountain and he was a dying man.

  I continued to writhe underneath him, bucking my hips even as he sucked my clit and plundered my pussy with his tongue. My cheeks heated, my nipples hardened, and as I started to peak he suddenly stopped and looked up at me with hooded eyes that betrayed exactly how he was feeling in that moment. My chest heaved as I panted and looked down at him, my body electrified and over-sensitive.

  “You think you know me? You think I’ve tortured you? You ain’t got a fuckin’ clue, Penny,” he grunted, his mouth dropping down and his tongue sliding along my opening before splitting me open.

  One of his hands kept a firm grip of my small wrists together, holding them against the bed, while the other one moved over the curves of my body. He reached my thighs, pushing my legs wider apart so his mouth could latch on to me perfectly.

  “Oh my god,” I gasped, my head dropping back against the pillow as his tongue fucked me. Every third lick he would suck my clit until I was practically screaming into the air.

  I was so close.

  So fucking close.

  I hated him.

  I wanted him to stop.

  I wanted more.

  I wanted all of him.

  “Fuck!” I called, uncaring anymore. I wanted this, him. I wanted his mouth on me, his fingers rough against my skin. I wanted his cock, hard and eager, splitting me open and fucking me.

  I.

  Wanted.

  This.

  The realization was breathtaking and freeing as I climbed higher and higher, the peak just there and I readied myself to freefall to the other side.

  And then he was gone.

  The bed moved as he climbed off, leaving me panting and desperate for him. For all of him. Again. I hated that I wanted him, but it was pointless to deny that I did.

  “Where are you going?” I asked him breathlessly, not even trying to cover myself up. If I was a begging woman, I would have begged him to come and defile my body. To plunge his cock inside me and make me his. To stain me and make me as unclean as he was. So I kept my legs wide, my wet pussy on show for him in the hopes he’d come back and finish what he started, and more. “You can’t keep doing this to me!” I whined.

  “You think I don’t have any self-control, that I’m just a little lap dog for some fucker in an ivory tower? You don’t know shit,” he drolled, like he hadn’t just devoured my cunt and then left me begging for more. “You’re going home today.”

  And then he left on that bombshell
.

  I was going home.

  Had Daddy paid? Or had something else happened?

  I couldn’t even think about that right then. All I could think about was the pulsing and tingling between my thighs. The throbbing ache to be filled, to come. I reached down, spreading my lips, and pushed a finger inside myself while my thumb pressed against my clit, and then I was bringing myself to orgasm for the second time, knowing it was nowhere near what it should have been because my touch wasn’t his. My slender fingers weren’t his thick rough ones. And his mouth wasn’t latched on to my clit, his hot breath all over me.

  I shuddered as I came hard, pleasure zinging through me, but all I wanted to do was cry.

  I lay there sweaty and panting for the second time, confused and angry, wondering why I was so sad about leaving. So sad about the possibility of never having his hands or his mouth on me again.

  What was happening to me?

  ~ 15 ~

  Fighter

  I stared at her on the screen, her slender fingers between her thighs and her head thrown back as she came again. My cock throbbed painfully in my jeans, blocking out all the other aches and pains in my body because the only thing that hurt right then was the fact that I couldn’t have her.

  She covered herself up and turned on her side, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t cuffed her hands to the bed, nor had I locked the bedroom door after I’d walked away. I flicked the screen off, not wanting to look at her any more or I’d lose control, and I never lost control.

  Not even sure how I’d managed to walk away when all I’d wanted to do was fuck her until she was raw and calling my name. I’d never taken a woman that didn’t want me to, but I was dangerously close to doing that with her. Because I wanted in her like I’d never wanted in a woman before.

  Wasn’t sure how I continued to walk away from her, leaving her wanting and desperate for my touch. Torture…Bitch didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what torture was. I was only just scratching the surface with her, yet it felt like it was hard on both of us. With every lap of my tongue I wanted her more and more. With every suck on that little clit of hers, my cocked throbbed, begging to plunge inside her. Her taste on my tongue was sweeter than the finest wine. The headiness she gave me when I was fucking her with my tongue was better than any weed I’d ever had. She was the drug and my supplier in one.