Knight (79 page)

“I should have told you,” I whispered. Thorne reached for me, his hands guiding my hips until I nestled deeper into his lap. I broke the kiss only as I folded my leg opposite his and straddled the heat of his body. “You deserved to know.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I said I was a virgin.”

“You were, and don’t ever fucking think otherwise.” He brushed a hand through my hair. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you. Touching you. Kissing you. Wanting you.”

“I need that. My entire life I was ashamed and frightened of what happened to me.”

“You never have to be ashamed or scared.”

“I’m not. Not with you.” Our lips met again.

The music of the club, the closeness of the office, the panic and desperation and fear faded away. The simple pleasure shielded me from everything, and it was the greatest gift I ever received in my life.

“I didn’t know I could feel this way. Safe and protected and desired.”

Thorne’s calloused hand cupped my cheek. He brushed his thumb along my lip. I kissed it, and he sighed, closing his eyes and swearing a soft profanity.

“I’m not good for you, Rose. I was using you. I was obsessed with finding the traitor, and I didn’t care who I hurt to get what I needed.”

“I want to be with you.”

“You say that now.”

“I’ll say that always.”

His voice rumbled through me, a perfect baritone, a masterful cadence, and a warmth I envied for my own songs. I closed my eyes as he brushed my lips. I wouldn’t let his kiss be a goodbye. Not when every passion within me had finally come to life.

“I’ll never be out of the club,” he said. “Not until they draw the chalk outline around my body. That’s the life. And it’s not for you.”

Like I knew anything different. I shrugged. “That life scares me, but I don’t want to leave you or my brothers. I blamed Anathema for everything dark and twisted in my life. I blamed Brew and Keep. I blamed you. But running away won’t save me.” I kissed him again, my words murmured over his lips. “I’ve gotta face all this darkness myself.”

“Just tell me what you need.”

“You.”

He groaned. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

I kissed him again, parting my lips in invitation. “I need to feel safe.”

“I can’t protect you without spilling blood.”

His tongue flicked against mine. Sweet, despite the terror of his words. The thrill of his kiss quieted the roar of memory in my mind. He struck me in the present and grounded me without music or instruments, notes or songs, to the real world. His touch rendered my body into shivers, and his kiss teased like jazz upon my lips. I wanted his safety. I wanted his touch. I wanted everything he could offer.

And I’d give him everything he wanted in return.

Not because I was scared. Not because I was forced.

But because he was Thorne.

Handsome and sexy, dark and dangerous, as seductive as thick bass and a tapping snare and more powerful than even the worst nightmares that prevented me from touching another man, kissing another man, and offering my pleasure to another man.

His fingers unhooked the button of my jeans. “We’re in Sorceress,” he warned.

“We might not make it back home.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Don’t take that chance.”

I moved his hands lower.

Anathema didn’t appreciate sonnets. The club ignored poetry and song. Thorne needed a gun more than a guitar and a willing woman more than the burden of responsibility. He kissed, he touched, he tasted, and he took, and I offered him every last imperfection I hid if only to cleanse the secrets I carried.

I needed the music and the beauty. He needed the rush and the conquering. The heat blushing my body promised it all.

The night offered moments of passion, echoes of pain, and the threat of violence. Everything he said and everywhere he touched would be lost in the flash of a bullet escaping a chamber. I didn’t know how much time we had, but, together, pressed against his lips, desperate for his grip, aching for his hardness, a single moment tangled with his strength would protect me for an eternity against the truth of what awaited us.

I tugged my jeans from my hips. Thorne forced my panties over my bared legs, trembling with goose bumps. Our kiss broke only so he could free himself from the tightness of his pants. I didn’t wait. Couldn’t wait. In his presence, caught within his arms, trapped in his battlefield power and authority and conquest, my passion bound me in desperation.

I didn’t let him guide his length within me. I didn’t think I ever would. Not when I had so much to learn, so much to feel. The confidence and the pleasure and the intimacy of accepting a part of him, a part of the man who fluttered my heart, twisted my stomach, and wetted my slit. It teased me like the fading remnants of a beautiful dream.

I sunk down onto his length under my own power, with my own determination, my own undeniable wanting.

He offered me that moment of control. Thorne allowed me to move as I wished, to take what I wanted, and to experience every pleasure stolen from me. He might have protested or fought. Instead he hissed my name, swore a quiet oath, and shuddered as our shared passion rolled from me through him.

In that moment, I fell in love with him.

Even if I knew what would happen the instant our bodies parted and the weapons loaded.

His hands tightened around my waist. I tucked in his lap, tiny and fragile. I wielded the power over him with every press of my hips. The motion rendered the most dangerous man I ever met into the passionate lover who wanted only another kiss, another sigh, another tease of tightness that rewarded his good behavior.

Thorne wasn’t a man to be dominated. And with his thickness impaling my most vulnerable core, I couldn’t pretend I controlled him.

The heat bundled within me. My muscles ached and my breath trembled. My every whimper uttered over his name, again and again, as the invasion of his body into mine rewarded me with pleasure and conquered the dark and terrible panic that lingered just beyond my rationality. Part of me would always fear this. Part of me had already forgotten.

“I never thought I’d want this,” I whispered. Just the sound of my voice drew a shudder from Thorne. “
You
make me want this.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“I’m serious.”

Thorne shifted. His hips pressed upwards, deeper. The breath escaped from my parted lips.

The other times Thorne took me, I had surrendered to passion. The amazement resonating from such a long ignored and forsaken desire overwhelmed me. The freedom to feel and revel and the simple delight of a lover’s touch blinded me to everything but my own lust.

Thorne confessed he had used me to learn about my brothers. My confession wasn’t any better. I took pleasure from him, experienced the brunt of his animalistic intentions, and selfishly, unabashedly used him.

I learned how to touch, taste, and accept, but I hadn’t learned how to love.

He didn’t understand how desperately I needed him. The rush of his kiss, the possession of his touch. The fear passed only because his passion overruled it. My pleasure burst within me only because his desire created it.

I had the courage to do what other women had done for him in the past. My motions wound only tiny movements over his hips. Just feeling. I explored how every inch of him fit within me. It wasn’t gentle or delicate, but I didn’t need a soft touch. I wanted
Thorne
. All of him. The hands that prevented my escape. The kiss that muffled my groans. And the cock the claimed me as his and his alone.

His was a perfect possession.

His grip tightened over my hips. I was probably teasing him, and I doubted Thorne ever suffered a woman’s sexy torment before. I doubted even more he ever experienced a woman’s curiosity, the breathless longing of a lover who didn’t understand why such uncompromising penetration felt so perfect, or the inexperienced motions of a lost virgin fucked, abused, and rescued.

I offered him myself, and I’d make sure we would never go unsatisfied.

I moved faster, raised my hips higher, and Thorne’s triumphant kiss satisfied both of us. The rapid, desperate coupling did nothing to ease our need. Too many layers of clothing separated us, and we had too little time to explore the pleasure.

But I didn’t know how much romance to expect with Anathema. Thorne didn’t make love. A man like him hardly controlled his need to push his hips and impale. He growled as my body submitted, yielded, and trembled over the widest part of him.

Even if Exorcist hadn’t threatened us, our passion wasn’t born of champagne and flower petals. Bullet casings, pain, and fear forged our shared pleasure. That was Anathema. That was Thorne.

It was all I ever needed.

I bucked against him. I let his hands lift me only to slam me back down and accept the wild, brutal force of his lust. Each unrepentant thrust demanded my pleasure, and every moment of fullness my body accepted clenched him with my own demands. I needed him, just as much as he needed the club, the road, and me.

I crashed against his body as his grip tightened to bruise. He held me like I might’ve escaped. Even if I might have wiggled from his strength I would only have fallen closer to him. My breath pitched in beautiful, poetic gasp. This time, I didn’t take. I allowed him to give. I ground against his thickness and whimpered as the force of his body and the heat of his hardened cock imprisoned me more than any binding on my wrist or weapon against my temple.

I didn’t fight. I didn’t demand. I
trusted
.

My pleasure struck as I rose up, and my thoughts fractured into concentrated, frazzled, helpless verse when Thorne drove me down. The rush of masculine heat slickened my core. My body ached in delirious warmth with every subsequent pounding. His conquest jetted within me, and I quaked in my own triumph.

And then it was done.

And then it was just beginning.

And then everything was ending.

I fell against his chest, cast my arms around his neck, and buried myself in his leather and wind-swept scent. He didn’t move, and I didn’t dare shift from our embrace. My body twitched in wavering aftershocks. He held me through them all, holding me, kissing my forehead, promising, above all else, it wouldn’t be the last time.

Except I wasn’t a stranger to Anathema.

No matter the promises, lovely words, and oppressive arrogance, too many conflicts were resolved with blood.

Even if we survived Exorcist’s retaliation, the club demanded purification. The president placed us all in danger if he didn’t cull the threat to Anathema.

Brew would have to die for his betrayal.

And the man I loved would become his murderer.

The music faded in an abrupt popping of the club’s speakers.

I zipped my jeans with trembling fingers, but the button didn’t catch. Once. Twice. Figured. The damn things came off so easily. I held my breath and yanked at the denim.

 “It’s a strip club, sweetheart.” Thorne tugged on my belt loop until I stumbled before him. “Not many girls put clothes back on.”

The jeans buttoned. He lowered my shirt over the waistband. And just like that, my body had been covered, our desire sated, and the heat and sweat of the room replaced with foreboding chill. His hand brushed my cheek. My stomach bundled into tight pain.

I would not say goodbye. 

He didn’t say it either.

“You stay downstairs,” he said. “Once Gold and Scotch get here, you’re leaving. We’ll find you a safe place…if one even exists anymore.”

Thorne pulled me from Lyn’s office. The club darkened as the straying dancers gathered their bags and hurried out in manicured outrage. Lyn pulled two guns from behind the counter. Her eyes hardened into the green menace of a swirling curse.

“My club is, and always has been,
neutral
territory.” Lyn pushed the guns to him with a frown. “Consider our arrangement null and void. Anything that happens here is on your head.”

Thorne grunted. “Let’s survive tonight before renegotiating contracts. Get the hell out of here, Lyn.”

“So you and Exorcist can burn Sorceress to the ground? I should call the goddamned fire marshal and have him stand fucking guard.”

“If you plan on staying, better whip out your tits. At least give Ex something to shoot at.”

“Won’t have to. He’ll be aiming for your head.”

The resentment in her voice snapped like the strings of an aging guitar. Apparently Thorne and Lyn didn’t know how to say goodbye to each other either.

He pulled me from the bar and shoved one of the handguns into my palm. The cold metal rested unfamiliar and frightening.

“I can ride a bike.” I swallowed. “But I’ve never shot a gun.”

The metal in his eyes glinted like the weapon in my hand. “You better hope it stays that way.”

Thorne was no optimist. Neither was I. What did I ever have to be optimistic about? Music? My family? Even the best things in my life shattered with crime, violence, and the specter of fear.