Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (20 page)

He liked that
challenge. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d go running to your big
brothers.”

“We’re not
talking at the moment.”

“Maybe you
should be a good little girl and apologize.”

“And if I
don’t?”

I stilled as he
brushed my cheek. But Thorne wasn’t gentle. His calloused touch claimed when it
should have caressed, and his forearm flexed with the rigid strength of a man
barely containing the demon of lust corrupting his intentions. I gasped as his
hand tangled in my wet hair and yanked.

“I don’t play
nice, sweetheart.”

For the first
time in my life, a raw, untainted, pure heat rushed within me. His hand gripped
hard on my hair, and he pulled my head to expose the delicate hollow of my neck.
To kiss. To bite. To slit. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. His hands rough,
his touch unashamed, and his need completely, absolutely, unequivocally
natural
.

“I don’t want
nice,” I whispered.

He tightened his
hold. “What do you want?”

“To feel safe.”

He laughed. His hand
jammed against my throat. He squeezed, just enough to frighten, just enough to
threaten where I was most vulnerable, just enough to clear my mind of the
lingering memories of the last time I was touched.

“Now do you feel
safe?”

I’d rather fear
one man than live the rest of my life afraid of the world. I shook my head as
much as his grip would allow.

“You won’t hurt
me.”

“I wouldn’t be
so sure.” He leaned in close, pushing my head back. My lips parted for him. I
wished I understood why. He smirked. “Maybe I’d get off on that.”

“You don’t.”

“How do you
know?”

Because I did.

“You don’t want
to hurt me. All you want is to make sure you didn’t break your vow when you
said you’d protect me.”

“You fucking
talk too much.”

“You’re a man of
your word,” I said. His fingers clenched against my throat. A warning. I
ignored it. “And I trust you to keep me safe. Even if you don’t think you can
keep that promise anymore.”

Thorne’s
expression blazed with heat and the aching tension of unbridled rage. He threw
himself at me, seizing my lips with a possessive, uncontrolled kiss that bit
more than savored and frightened more than comforted.

And I welcomed
it.

I needed it.

I kissed him
with all the promise I could offer. My cheek bruised from the kidnapping. Thorne
covered it with his hand. My thigh stung as I ground my legs together, offering
a forsaken part of me its first teasing attention in my life. My insides
clenched, hard, twisting against an urge I never thought would awaken and a
need entirely too wild and new and uncontrolled to ever be tamed.

At least,
untamed by me.

Thorne knew
exactly what to do. How to do it. What he did to me.

My mouth parted
for him, but he seized more than the demure pant of my puffy lips. He assaulted
me. Thrust his tongue against mine with aggression, a duel for control. He
didn’t need to fight me. I surrendered immediately against his harsh touch, the
demands of his grip, the frenzy of his lips.

And, for the
first time in my life, it didn’t feel wrong.

The crushing burden
of that secret lifted.

In its
place—warmth. Lust. Sensual need.

I surrendered to
his passionate, angry kiss because he was a man. Because he was strong. Because
he rescued me and kissed me and wanted me and pressed hard against my body with
an unfailing desire that proved just how right it would be to seek my safety
curled beneath his body.

I had never
voluntarily touched a man before. My hands shook as I reached for his shoulders.
I braced myself, like the tattoos streaking over his skin might have burned my
palms. Only the hardened, perfect muscle warmed under my hands.

“You know what I
want.” Thorne rasped against my lips. “Better fucking speak up before I do
something we regret.”

I accidentally giggled.
He frowned, but it didn’t chase away my smile. Or what I wanted. Or how
desperate I was to fuel the warmth kindled within me. The heat destroyed the past
and flaked the memories into forgotten bits of cinder and repression.

“I won’t regret
this,” I whispered. “And neither will you.”

He didn’t expect
my honesty, and he tensed as I shifted off the sink and sunk to my knees before
him. The gun-metal gray of his eyes loaded and aimed, but he wouldn’t get a fight
from me. Not even when the familiarity of cold tile on my knees bruised more
than just my skin.

I waited. Still.
Quiet. Pleading. As meek and mild as someone demanding to offer another’s
satisfaction could appear.

This was what
men liked, after all.

Right?

A willing woman.
A soft mouth. Devoted attention above all else.

But I didn’t
want to run. Thorne’s kiss, his aggression, the hardness of his body and the
smooth jazz of his voice twisted everything inside me with such new and
exciting and beautiful feelings. I reached for his jeans. That seemed to
surprise him too. He hesitated only a moment before stepping closer.

I’d show my
appreciation for the rescue. For listening to my set. For defending me.

For
awakening
me.

He probably
expected so much more than I knew how to give. His guttural order shuddered
within me, commanding me to do what I was meant to do. What I was taught to do.

And I wanted to
do it.

I think I did.

The bruise again.
This time harder. A haunted pain in my knees, an inevitable ache in my jaw.

It all twisted
with heat and need. I tugged down the zipper. The tinny promise screamed in the
silent bathroom.

Why did all
zippers sound the same?

Thorne hardened
before he shifted from his pants. Excited. Desperate. Without a shadow of guilt.

His hardness enthralled
me. My hands shook as I reached for him. He brushed me away and pulled his
jeans lower. He didn’t wear any boxers.

His cock jutted
from his body.

Frustratingly
Hard.

Pulsing with
need.

Intimidating and
beautiful.

Thick. The very
epitome of masculine pleasure.

His hand gripped
my hair once more. The memories returned like a deserved backhand. One for too
much teeth or not enough enthusiasm. My desire shoved the thoughts away.

But Thorne’s
hissed whisper wasn’t a punishment or a threat. His desire encouraged me. His
need fulfilled me. The absolute perfection of his body deceived me. The offer
of his protection promised
everything
to me.

Now wasn’t the time
to think. Now was the time to act. To pleasure. To prove to Thorne how much I
wanted him. To prove to myself the excitement was real. To ignore the
prickling, suffocating bait of panic wiggling in my chest.

And so I
swallowed his cock. Not like a virgin. Not like someone chaste and pure. Not
like someone who had never before touched a man or pleased one.

I closed my eyes
and took as much of his length as I could, and, like a good girl, I didn’t dare
come back for air.

His choked gasp
was my reward. As was the trail of savory promise which coated the head of his
cock. And the salty, clean, masculine allure of his taste. His skin wove smooth
over his rigidness. I ducked hard against his length.

He was bigger
than I was used to.

As if I had ever
been used to it.

His hands
tightened against my hair. He pulled too hard. I liked the burst of pain. I
liked anything but pudgy, too-soft hands against my cheeks.

He grunted.

A deserved,
honest, perfect reward. A sound I never thought I’d earn.

I sucked harder.
It was all I knew how to do. I impaled myself on his body, swirled my tongue
and tightened my lips. Hummed. A song every man would like.

Thorne’s body
shuddered. Complete and powerful. His body primed. Tensed. Took every last bit
of pleasure I offered and promised so much more.

“Jesus
Christ
,
Rose.”

Thorne loomed
over me. His hands tangled in his own hair before slamming on the sink behind
me. He flexed his hips and shoved his cock deeper within my willing mouth. I
fell against the cabinet. He followed. I took more of his length. I didn’t know
what else to do. Or what else I wanted to do.

“Where the fuck
did you learn to suck cock like this?”

I choked.

Gagged.

Pushed him away.

He didn’t want
to know the answer to that. I didn’t want to admit it. But Dad had been right.

It was a good
talent.

And men would be
grateful I learned.

The tears came
before I freed myself from the tangle of Thorne’s legs. I scrambled past him,
but I had nowhere to hide. The bathroom door closed behind us, and I didn’t
know what would collapse first—the walls or my screaming, straining lungs.

“Rose!” Thorne
rustled his pants and tucked himself into his jeans.

He stared at me,
wide-eyed, from across the bathroom. I backed up another step. My leg cracked
against the tub. I stumbled, and he rushed to catch me before I fell, but I tangled
in the shower curtain and held myself upright. He called my name as I blinked
through the tears and pointed toward the door.

“All right.” He
didn’t know how to soften his voice. The words bit the air, chewed against my
panic, exposed every last bit of what I kept hidden.

He waved a hand
and hurried from the room. I slammed the door behind him and shrunk against the
cold tile floor.

He didn’t move
far.

One sob escaped.
A pained, horrible, breathy sob that ripped a path from my chest and up,
scarring every bit of sweetness and melody I used to hide the ugly and broken. Thorne
heard it. He allowed me only a moment after I tucked away my panic. His voice
growled against his frustration. His rage.

“Did Exorcist
hurt you?”

Exorcist
?

I closed my eyes.
“No.”

“Who did?”

I didn’t answer.
The cool bathroom tile summoned a constant parade of goose bumps over my skin,
and I clutched at myself to try an ease the prickling march. Every rising hair
on my arms and neck, every tensed and aching muscle, every twist of my
trembling stomach swept over me because of the memories.

For the first
time in my life, I didn’t fear what happened to me, or curse it, or hide it. I
didn’t care about the past. I didn’t care about
him
.

But I did worry
for the future. For the next time I’d want to touch a man, or be touched in
return.

Would it always
be this way?  Even locked away in jail, removed from the world and society,
harmless to any around him, he still held a power over me. That terrified me
most of all.

I didn’t speak. My
head rested against the door as my breathing eased into shaking sighs. Thorne
called from the bedroom. His deep voice wove over my skin. It battled the goose
bumps and warmed parts of me too confused and betrayed to even understand why
it slickened.

“I think I have
a concussion,” he said.

“Me too.”

“Want to sleep
it off?”

My trembling
stilled as he spoke. I stared at my injured leg, my bruised body, and winced as
I sucked in a deep breath from my aching chest. Injured, but not dead. I
shouldn’t have felt safe, but his voice chased away the haunted memories. I bit
my puffy lip.

“Together?” I
asked.

“If we end up in
a coma, at least we’ll have company.”

I smirked. He
stepped aside as I shuffled from the bathroom. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t
question my panic or demand any explanations.

Or any
satisfaction.

Thorne shut off
the lights, and I slipped between the soft sheets in his bed.

He grabbed me
before I turned away. I stilled, but his thick arm draped over my side, and he
pulled me against the warmth of his body. Cradled. Covered. Consumed.

I swallowed the
panic and forced myself to lean into his strong body. Thorne tightened his grip.
I closed my eyes and braved the only fear still clutching my heart.

“Please don’t
tell my brothers.”

Thorne exhaled,
long and hard. A moment passed, and his arm tightened over me.

“You survived a
kidnapping, ran from a burning building, then hotwired and stole one of our
enemy’s bikes.” He laughed. “Sweetheart, I’ll do any fucking thing you say.”

The pressure
eased. I nuzzled against the man I should have feared—the one who controlled
the club that ruined my life, stole my family, and nearly had me killed. Sanity
and rationality and legality told me to run far from Anathema, to hide out
under assumed names and dye my hair until I was sure no one from the club would
find me and none of their enemies targeted me. As long as I stayed within
Pixie, my life would be a constant barrage of gunfire and memories, and I
didn’t know which would destroy me first.