Through many dangers, toils and snares…
I’d allowed myself to let the moment consume me.
I’d allowed myself to relish the feel of a man—this man—on top of me way too much.
I’d allowed myself to get too comfortable, forgetting this wasn’t me.
Way too much.
And thus, when Chad pushed up off me, took off the condom, and pulled up his pants, the warmth left me in a sudden rush, and the terrible, cold, voidness returned, cackling like a wicked old witch, whispering to my psyche, “You fool”.
That was it. The moment of pleasure, the moment of warmth, the moment of safety, had all been temporary. It was never meant to last, and wasn’t a feeling I’d ever get to keep. Because I wasn’t allowed to have it.
I wasn’t normal.
I wasn’t free.
I was owned and commandeered.
So, even though the last hour or so with Chad—my target—was the utmost highlight of my detestable life, I couldn’t hold onto it and let it screw with my mind. Screw with my purpose, or with my freedom.
Yeah, his cock had felt huge and filling inside me. His tongue had felt deliciously divine in my mouth. His body had felt amazingly searing over mine. But…
I still had to kill him.
For revenge.
For freedom.
After disposing of the used condom, Chad buckled his LRG leather belt, all the while staring down at me. Even in the dark, red glow, I knew, now, in this moment, he was no longer the man who’d touched me in the most tender, altruistic way.
No, he was the vacuous, hard-hearted bastard who’d wipe out the Byrds.
He was no longer the man who promised me he’d never hurt me.
The way he was looking down at me now—vulnerably naked and post-coitally spreadeagled—was nothing short of a warning. An I-dare-you. Like setting up landmines around my bloodless heart, letting me know if I so much as inhale too deeply, it would explode into tiny bits and pieces.
And I feared.
I feared him.
“Get yourself cleaned up and get back to work,” he said once he was fully dressed again. Legs in a wide stance, he slipped his hands in his pockets; a sign of peace, no hard feelings. “You got wet wipes in your purse to clean up? Or should I have Nadia bring some for you?”
“Fuck you,” I spat out, still spread open wide on the sofa banquette, unable to move for some unknown reason—or maybe I was just unwilling.
Dark gaze sliding over my body and back, he deadpanned, “You just did.”
“Enjoy the afterglow, boss, because this…”—I tore my legs open wider and rubbed my fingers down my soaking wet folds— “is never happening again.”
A few seconds passed, then he shrugged. “I have my picks.”
Unexplainable anger gas-pedaled through my veins, pumping through my arteries, and without thinking, I lurched up off the sofa banquette, catching him off guard as I slammed an uppercut under his chin.
He grunted in surprise as his teeth clacked together from the unexpected impact, and his hands flew up to grab the sides of his head in an effort to temper the pain, his eyes squeezed tight, face crunched up.
That particular hit would leave him dizzy and out of it for a few quick minutes. As many times as I’ve inflicted it on others, I’ve also received it during training, so, having experienced that pain a dozen times over, I knew what he was feeling at the moment: like someone was electrocuting his brain as he literally lost sight for a moment, seeing nothing but blackness. Not even stars.
Knowing this, I hurriedly donned my stripper costume, snatched up my purse, and stepped up to him. Eyes still tightly shut, hands still holding the sides of his head, waiting for the waves of jarring pain to pass. In this state, whatever I said to him now would be nothing but distant echoes to him. I didn’t care. I still seethed, “I’m not a girl, ass-shit. You’d do well to remember that.”
Like a cat with its whiskers on fire, searching for a bowl of cool milk to dip its face in, I skipped it out of there before Chad’s equilibrium returned. No way on earth was I going to be anywhere near him when he came to. Because, fuck his promise. With that stunt I just pulled, he’d probably kill me before I got the chance to kill him.
Eleven years ago…
Somewhere in Russia
Click. Thud. Clang.
The girl stiffened, trying not to shiver or cry at the familiar sound of the metal door opening. The ‘click, thud, clang’ never meant for anything good.
Bright light streaming into the darkness of the ten-by-twelve room she’d been imprisoned in for the past twelve months never once represented hope or rescue.
It represented pain and degradation.
She hated the light.
But hated it as much as she wanted, the light came pouring in anyway, because choice was a luxury. And here, now, with no choice and no voice, she had to take what was given.
It wasn’t just The Big Man in Black who knocked her around and brought her bread and water twice a day who came in this time. Another man, who was a little bigger, and a little taller came in with him. Carrying a large, black travel bag.
Fear nibbling at her organs as she eyed the suspicious black bag, the girl abruptly sat up and shifted to the edge of her tough, narrow bed. It hurt her back sometimes, but at least she had a bed now. Twelve months ago, there’d been nothing at all in the room, so she’d slept on the floor in the darkness for five months, no blankets or pillows. Nothing soft or cushy, nothing comforting. Nothing to protect her from anything.
Nothing but the darkness.
The Big Man in Black had gotten a little kinder after a while, and told her that if she started being obedient and stopped rebelling, if she accepted her situation and the fact that help wasn’t coming, then she would receive small rewards for her good behavior.
But the girl had been stubborn. Each time she woke up from a painful knockout, she would scream and shout, pound on the steel doors, curse the guard and spit in his face, fought, until he knocked her out again.
Finally The Big Man in Black stopped bringing her bread and water. For days she’d went on without food, energy drained, which rendered her so weak and lifeless she couldn’t cry out loud, and she couldn’t pound the doors. Everything was silence and darkness, as she was being starved to death. Her life drifted further and further from her body each day. Slowly.
On the fifth day, The Big Man in Black came and found her so pressed into the ground, it was like she was a part of it, her body halfway to death, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. He’d cradled her upper half in his arms and forced hot soup down her throat.
That was the only time she’d ever gotten anything other than bread and water.
When she was revived, she’d promised to behave, if only to get more soup. Or something more than bread and water.
Soup was just a one-time treat, however, to bring her back to life. But The Big Man in Black did keep his word about giving her rewards for good behavior.
First it was the narrow bed, no sheets or pillows. More good behavior got her a fitted sheet and one pillow. Then she got a lamp. Then a blanket. Then a mini radio.
Braving it, she dared to ask for books, even being specific about wanting fantasy and dystopia. Those were her favorite books to read, her escape from the real world. Oftentimes she wish she was just a character from a book, and not a real person. Real life sucked. Like, really sucked.
Her brother’s best friend, the monster who killed her family, loved fantasy novels, too. He was the one who made her love them, because he usually read stories to her which her father forbade. It’d been their little secret.
“We are fantastical, Tweety Byrd,” the family slayer used to say to make her smile. “Rules are not for us. Escape with me. Let’s color our minds and forget what’s real.”
He used to talk like that to her because he said it made the green of her eyes glow. He was like her own personal Peter Pan. Grown, but always so young.
Fantasy reads were a special bond they shared. But they’d had to hide and read, because he’d said if anyone saw them, they would think it strange and stop him from coming there. That he was eight years older than her and shouldn’t be hanging out with someone her age.
But in their world, age did not exist. They were just two beings, two souls, two hearts that bonded.
The Big Man in Black never brought her fantasy books, though. He brought books about crime, and war and killing. Books about guns, books about fighting, books which her father would vehemently disapprove of. Nothing was fantasy, nothing would help her escape.
They would only make an eleven-year-old abnormally knowledgeable in the art of killing.
The two men walked up to her bed and towered over her. The girl knew by now to keep her head down, listen, and never to look them in the eye.
As the second man dropped the black travel bag at her feet, The Big Man in Black spoke in their Russian tongue. “Girl, now that you understand the rewards of obedience and the penalties of disobedience, it is time you begin training.”
“Training?” she dared to utter.
“Hush now, girl!” he barked, but his admonishment sounded half-hearted. He didn’t sound like his usual gruff self, but seemed almost uncomfortable.
“This man here will be your trainer. You may call him Mr. D. He will train you to fight, to survive, to kill.”
The girl’s head elevated now. She knew she shouldn’t, but she had to be sure she’d heard right. “To kill? Why?”
The Big Man in Black leaned down to look into her eyes, and there was something odd there, something she couldn’t comprehend. “Do you like that little lamp over there, girl?”
She nodded. Dear God, please don’t let him take it back.
“Then hush!”
She snapped her mouth shut and ducked her head.
Straightening, The Big Man in Black reached into his leather jacket pocket, withdrew a small, black device and thrust it to her. “This is an alarm. You are to be up by five each morning. You are to dress in the garments provided in that bag, and you are to stand in wait at the door for Mr. D. If Mr. D arrives in the mornings and has to wait even a second for you, then you will suffer the penalties. Starting today, you will be better fed with a healthy meal, three times a day. In training, you will cooperate, you will take instructions without hesitation, and you will speak only when you are given the permission to do so. If you perform and behave well, you will be rewarded a considerable amount of freedom at the end of each month. So if you want to be removed from this room, train well, learn quickly, and never fail.” He paused and cleared his throat, and the girl watched his big feet shift his weight from one foot to the other. “At the end of each week, Mr. D will take his payment from you in whatever manner he deems fit.”
The latter of his sentence was spoken so thinly, as though it pained him to say them.
Unable to help it, the girl looked up at him.
Eyes downcast, that uncomfortable vibe was rolling off him again. And it made the girl nervous. Because if this man who had, a number of times, knocked her out cold without remorse, was uneasy about that last decree, then maybe she should be, too.
Swallowing hard, the girl swung her eyes to Mr. D, who was looking down at her in a way no grown man should be looking at an eleven-year-old girl. He had a big, bulbous nose, pock-marked cheeks, and a fat, black wart between his eyebrows. He scared the living daylights out of her.
“I don’t understand, sir. H-how will I pay you for training me?” she asked, risking the loss of her lamp. “I-I-I have nothing.”
A slimy grin crawled onto Mr. D’s face, his eyes glimmering. A thick hand moved from his side and toward her, his callused fingers landing on her bony shoulder.
The girl held her breath.
Using one finger, Mr. D slid the thin strap of her too-big nightgown down her shoulder. Then he switched to her other shoulder and did the same. The loose gown fell down her emaciated body and bunched up at her waist. And she fought to keep her hands at her sides instead of raising them to cover the egg-sized swells on her chest.
Mr. D reached out and pinched one of her nipples to the point of pain, then whispered in a creepy, rusty voice, “Oh, I think you do.”
Life was slow and dreary when I wasn’t occupied plotting Chad’s death.
Because I had no life, I had nothing to do. And, even though I should be plotting Chad’s demise, I wasn’t. Didn’t feel inclined to. And didn’t know why.
Or maybe I did…
Nadia showered and left for work an hour ago. I’d taken her home with me last night after hitting Chad in the Chill Room. She’d had not an ounce of reservation about leaving with me, even spent the entire day at my apartment, and was actually loath to leave for work earlier.
What with how listless I’ve been since Sydney left, her company was more than welcome. Plus she was malleable, and I liked that.
Tireless, too rested, and with too much energy pumping through my veins, I lay mind-numbingly purposeless in bed until I grew tired of staring the white off the damn ceiling.
My whole life was shit, uneventful and enclosed. The knowledge alone of being on a leash was enough to make anyone start hearing crazy voices in their head.
If I had freedom, then I could go wherever and do whatever, have friends, drink booze, get drunk.
But whenever I ran and tried to take my own freedom, I was always found. There was nowhere on this planet I could hide from The Voice without being found.
He always located me, and the repercussions for running were enough to make me think twice about running again.
It also didn’t help that I constantly felt like I was being watched by him. Chad. The idea was crazy, of course. But whenever I was home alone, that’s how it felt. Even though I obsessively scanned for bugs and detected none, I still felt Chad’s eyes on me.
Blowing out a noisy breath, I swung my feet off the bed, sat up, and opened my nightstand drawer. My Bersa Thunder 9mm stared back at me. I took it up from where it was nestled among two grenades, eight copper bullets and a taser gun. Slipping my index finger on the trigger, I jammed the mouth of the Bersa up under my chin, closed my eyes and embraced the pain of hard metal digging on my skin.
I did this a lot. Tempted myself. But could never find the balls to pull the trigger. Just teasing myself with the possibility of death. Promising my soul freedom, then never actually delivering. Instead of pulling the trigger, I pressed the gun harder under my chin, and harder, until it felt like it would rip through my skin.
Pain was good. Pain was distracting. Pain was soothing.
When it became unbearable, I ended the tease and set the Bersa back into the nightstand drawer.
Fuck my life.
Easing off the bed, I plodded over to the dresser, selected a sweats and tank top, and then dragged them on. Shoving my feet into a pair of Adidas sports slippers, I grabbed my apartment keys and slammed out of there to get some air. Needing fresh air to breathe and think about a life I didn’t have.
My apartment complex, The Chess, was well-secured and safe. Residents of this secluded little place paid a fortune for the peace of mind, not the apartments. So at late nights I usually had no qualms about strolling about the well-maintained complex, which had a pool area, tennis court, basketball court, playground, and its highlight: a blooming, evergreen, wide expanse of a garden at the back, which had every colorful flower one could think of, and variegated trees.
Since I had nowhere to go on the nights I didn’t turn in at Empty Cage, I would mostly walk the beautifully designed, lush and inspiring garden. Although it would be better to appreciate its glory during sunlight hours, I only came out at night because I liked the shadows of the trees offering me fake security, the whistling of the wind through the leaves like a death ballad, a sweet lullaby to my ears.
I breathed easily in the darkness, held my breath in the light.
That’s why I walked the gardens at night.
Here, I had no friends or family—well, I had no family period. Back ‘home’, in Russia, at least I had a handful of odd friends, if I could refer to them as such instead of co-workers, considering they, too, were employers of The Voice.
Stepping through the glass double doors of the building, I threw my head back, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, allowing the cool night air to stream through my nostrils.
Ah. Better already.
The Chess apartment complex had an exclusive hotel feel to it, with the glowing ground lights lining the walls all around, the towering palm trees, and gushing, lit fountains.
Sinking my hands into my pockets, I began the wandering jaunt. Seeing as it was almost nine-thirty, no one was out but me. Thus leaving the night still and quiet. Only the stars spoke, the moon, and the pesky night creatures. And I meandered, one foot after the next, like a restless, tormented ghost roaming the earth.
That’s what I felt like most times, anyway. Like a ghost within the world of the living, but unable to live. Unable to smile, love or dance a while.
Craning my neck slightly, I looked up the eight-story apartment building. Some of them were three bedrooms, some two, some one. Some of those apartments, had families, some newly-weds, some single, lonely suckers like myself. But the ones I envied were the three bedrooms with the immediate families inside. Maybe a brother and a sister who fought a lot. Maybe a teenager who thought his/her parents hated them for trying to guide them in the right path. Maybe a wife who didn’t appreciate the affection of her husband. Maybe a husband who never takes the time to compliment his wife. Maybe a newborn who cries all night.
It didn’t matter. They were family. Families who’ll never know the importance of each other until something terrible happens.
Family. Something I no longer had. Something that was cruelly taken from me.
Isabel Byrd, my mother, was never a good mother. She was a cold, distant, and enigmatic woman. And I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that whatever came down on our heads was on her account.
We were Americans, not Russian—well, my mother gave birth to me in Russia, but both my parents and my brother were Americans. My father told me that before I was conceived, my mother had gotten a job offer which would pay her big. The job was in Russia. My father said he loved my mother to the moon and back, and would’ve done anything to give her smiles instead of worry lines, so although he wasn’t on-board with the whole moving thing at first, he’d eventually caved, packed them all up, and migrated to Russia. I knew of no other family but them, no aunts or uncles or cousins.
A year later, I’d popped into the picture, and I grew up speaking both English and Russian—English the more dominant. Other tongues I was forced to learn during training.
Isabel being home with the rest of the family was rare. For days at a time she would be gone, sometimes weeks, and on rare occasions, months. With the kind of income she used to rake in, she’d asked my father to quit his job as a car salesman so he could remain home and do the parenting, while she made the bread. So he agreed and took on the mother and father role. Became the shoulder for me and Ricardo to lean on.
And him.
Chadrick.
Chadrick resided two avenues away from us. His father, a Russian, was analogous to my mother: always busy, never home, distant. And his mother, an American, was one big ball of depression, perpetually high on her medication drugs, and too caught up in her own desolation to be a mother to her son and two daughters.
Chad and Ricardo were best buddies, and he spent the majority of his time at our house. My mother had favored him more than Ricardo and me, and whenever she was away and called at home, if Chad was there, she would always ask to speak with him first. My father, on the other hand, favored none of us more than the other, and would cook, play games and watch movies with us. Sometimes even Chad’s sisters would come over and spend the weekends. Because my father was so sweet, kind and lovable, people simply loved being around him.
As time passed, however, Chad began to change. Half the time he was sad, downtrodden, and sometimes had questionable bruises all over him. One time he even came over with one eye so swollen it was completely shut and as black as tar. But whenever any of us inquired what was going on with him, Chad would only mutter “I’m fine” or “It’s nothing”.
Only my mother seemed to know what was up and down with him. Whenever she was home, she would take him into her office and they’d be locked in there for hours.
But when my mother wasn’t there to comfort him, Chad was afraid and terrified, sometimes paranoid. And in those times, his sneak-ins to my room to read became more and more frequent. Like he desperately wanted to get away from something.
Soon, his visits to our house dwindled. He became withdrawn. Remote. Aloof. He talked less and stared a lot. And, although he was the same age as Ricardo, and was not an inch taller, he’d started to appear taller, as though his posture was somehow corrected. He walked straighter, quieter. His arms grew thick with muscles, and strong like he was lifting trucks in the mornings, and his face got harder, stonier. He looked strangely older. Cold and deadly.
But still we loved him. Loved him. And always, always looked forward to his visits. Dinner in the evenings wasn’t the same if Chadrick was absent from the table. We considered him a part of our family.
My brother called him “brother”. I called him “Blood”. He called me “Tweety Byrd”.
And in the end, he betrayed us. He clipped the wings of the Byrds.
And he ruined me.
My Blood ruined me.
My reading partner colored my mind with reality, and ruined me.
Wandering through the garden, I watched my feet as they made small, unhurried, purposeless steps to nowhere. If I could run away from my very self, I would.
As I traipsed under a tree arcade, I spotted a bench swing under a sprawling, flourishing maple tree and directed my steps toward it.
Although the night was dark, when I reached the bench swing, the ground light was adequate enough for me to discern it was made of oak, and had words carved into the top wood: Margaret & Ford—Souls Enshrined, Engrafted and Entwined.
With an eye-roll, I clapped my ass down on the swing and pressed my back over their names. The idea of love didn’t repulse me. It was because I knew I would never experience that with anyone. Souls enshrined, engrafted and entwined—whatever the hell that even meant.
The very prince of my dreams when I was younger had turned out to be the villain. And that’s when I stopped believing in fairy tales.
But that love thing must be a real good thing why people chase it so hard, so fervently. Love was either the best thing that could happen to a human, or the worst damn thing.
For me, the only ‘real good’ I feel in my shitty life was during sex. And that ‘real good’ was usually fleeting. Once I came, it was all gone, like a fading essence, and all I want to do was chase it, catch it and plant it within me. Which was the reason I craved sex so much. To make the ‘real good’ last as long I could before it evaporated from me like steam dying in cool air.
A rare small smile tugged at my lips and I shook my head. But hell, I did feel something more than ‘real good’ last night. With him. What I felt with him inside me, on top of me, surpassed great, bordering on extraordinary. And the ‘after’ feeling lasted longer. It didn’t leave immediately. It lingered. Stayed a while. And only faded because he moved.
Because the feeling was within him. The second he got off me, the feeling didn’t vanish, it just changed, from ‘extraordinarily great’ to ‘real good’. And that ‘real good’ didn’t leave until I was out the room.
I bit down on my lower lip, hard and punishing, crossing my arms and hugging myself tight until my ribs hurt, an attempt to distract myself from acknowledging that: it wasn’t the sex that made me feel that unprecedented euphoria. It was him. Just him.
Whether I was fucking or fighting him, he was undeniably, uncontrollably mind-consuming. He made me feel great.
Sure, he also made me frightened, uncertain, and sometimes petrified. But the overriding emotion was irrational desire.
After I’d hit him and run last night, he hadn’t chased after me like I expected him to. Didn’t threaten me or send the club manager to fire me. In fact, I didn’t see him at all after that. Which was something to worry about.
I might have crossed the line with that uppercut. So avoiding the club for a week at most and plotting a new move seemed shrewd.
Plotting. Pfft. The amount of clear opportunities I’d had to kill him and didn’t. Last night was another easy kill. And instead of taking advantage while he was vulnerable, I took off.
I was losing focus and perspective, caught up in depression and self-loathing, knowing I have a task to complete but, subconsciously, failing on purpose.
The Voice would call again soon, and he wasn’t going to be pleased to hear of my failures. And the last thing I should be doing right now was giving him reasons to believe I was a liability instead of an asset.
The truth was, while I still wanted freedom, I no longer wanted revenge. Revenge wasn’t looking all that appealing anymore.
I wanted something new, something more, something sweeter than revenge could ever be. Chad. Alive. And mine.
I was between a rock and a hard place. How did I eliminate the one person who made me want things I’ve never wanted before? Made me feel things I’ve never felt before?
The bench swing suffered a steady and forceful push from behind, and before I could register what was happening, my body was flying forward through the air.
I landed in the grass with a muffled thud and an “umf”. Senses momentarily scattered, I rolled over on my back with a groan, my limbs protesting with small winces of pain.
Before I could gather the energy to spring up and assume a defensive position, my attacker was already straddling me.
Carefully, I opened my eyes.
Holy shit.
Those eyes. Those black, undead eyes. Those obsidian pools of nothingness, beautified with abnormally long lashes. Those wide, tempting lips peeled back in a snarl.
“Did that hurt?” he questioned.
“Not even a little bit,” I replied, braving it.
Strong, long fingers instantly fisted around my throat, tightening, squeezing… “Does this hurt?”
My breathing was cut off completely, and my veins felt like they were swelling, about to implode at any minute. A heaviness behind my eyeballs was practically forcing them from their sockets.
Holy hell, he was killing me.
Still, I managed to give an infinitesimal shake of my head.
Clearly frustrated with my obduracy, he made a growling noise and released his grip on my throat. As I moved my hand toward my aching throat, he promptly grabbed my arms, yanked them straight at my sides, and pinned them down with his knees—which hurt like a motherfucker. The man weighed a freaking ton.
I clenched my fists and curled my toes to stop myself from crying out like a virgin getting penetration for the first time. “You said you’d never hurt me.”
Those empty eyes narrowed to scary slits as he roughly cupped my chin and held my face in place so I had nowhere to look but into the infinite blackness of his eyes. “Judging by the way you fight, you’re trained. So you do know that an uppercut done the way you did it could have killed me, right?”
I didn’t respond. But I did know. There were uppercuts for fighting and knocking someone out. And uppercuts for killing with a single blow. But I wasn’t an MMA fighter. I was trained to kill. Not knock someone out.
So, yeah, I knew what I did. Which was why I ran. Nevertheless, we both knew my intention wasn’t to kill him. If I’d been aiming to kill him, I would’ve channeled my swing more towards the throat and less towards the chin.
Still, he asked, “Were you trying to kill me, Blood?”
My turn to narrow eyes at him, because I knew he knew the answer to that.
“Answer me!” he said in a hushed growl, squeezing my face harder.
Through squished lips, I said, “If I were, you wouldn’t be straddling me now, would you?”
Releasing his hold on my face, he sighed, frustrated, irritated, those damned sexy lips forming a pinched O for the air to pass through.
The man was straddling me, inflicting pain on me with his knees pinning my arms, and, in the midst of all this, all I could think about was how much I wanted those lips on mine again.
A rush of white-hot arousal pooled between my legs, and I squirmed beneath him.
Chad misunderstood my squirm. “You’re hurting. I’m sorry. But…before I let you go. Tell me…”—his gaze shifted from mine to the grass, and his chest rose and fell, as he let out another exhalation. Then his gaze came back to me—”Do you want to kill me?”
What? Did he really just ask me that? Did he know? Did he know it was me?
No. He couldn’t. There’s no possibly way he would’ve allowed me to get this close to him if he knew. This was Chadrick fucking Niiveux. He would’ve killed me ages ago if he knew.
I could understand him questioning who I was, considering I fought like a man and showed no fear to his face. Maybe he was just suspicious of me and a little leery. If he knew, one hundred percent, that I was his once-upon–a-time reading buddy, back for revenge, no damn way in hell I’d be breathing right now.
I didn’t answer with a yes or a no, because I figured, if I lied to his face like this, he’d be able to tell. “Swap the L’s with S’s in the word ‘kill’. That’s what I want to do to you.”
As his gaze drifted down to my lips, warmth supplanted the emptiness, supplanted the threat in his eyes. But it didn’t stop him from gritting out, “Answer my question.”
I didn’t. I was stubborn like that. “Kiss me, boss.”
Slowly, steadily, he breathed through his lips, gaze still on my lips. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. Unless you want me to fuck you right here in this garden with no regard for the residents.”
My core throbbed, and I squirmed again, licking my lips. Clit pulsing heavily with need. “That’s.exactly.what.I want.” As I hiccupped those words, I moaned out loud, thrusting up my hip in impatience, simply because I couldn’t help it.
Chad made me feel. Just feel. And he wasn’t even trying. He was just like any other human being, yet his mere existence affected me in ways I never knew possible. He made me so damn hot and feverish.
With a deep, throaty sound, he unpinned my arms and dove forward, his lips colliding with mine in unsuppressed, unleashing greed. Good knowing he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
Hand still keeping my face in place, he raped my mouth, while I raised my weak hands to his hair. His dirty-blond hair was soft and silky. Enough hair for me to greedily grip and tug.
His groan vibrated against my lips at the rough pull, but he didn’t stop kissing me. Our tongues like two vicious, poisonous snakes chasing each other. Both wanting to win, but neither having legs to rise up and dominate the other, so instead they slid against each other in stimulating rubs, soothing each other, pleasuring each other, compromising, learning to live with each other.
I could kiss this damned man for hours.
One large hand dipped down between us and grasped the hem of my tank. Our kiss broke only long enough for him to rip the tank over my head. No bra was underneath, so my breasts bounced free to the air and his hot stare.
This garden was open to all the residents on the complex, but we didn’t care. It was dark, and we seemed—seemed—to be the only ones awake anyway. The sprawling maple tree yawned over us, providing fake security. If anyone so happened to be strolling by and saw us…who cared? All they had to do was turn around and get the fuck out the garden. Because right now, us two people were far too hot and starved for each other to give a shit.
Garnering some strength, I raised my hips, pressed my palms flat against Chad’s chest, applied force and pushed him over on his back until I was straddling him.
He let me. He trusted me. Which was fucking stupid. He shouldn’t trust me. At all.
Just as he did with me, I grasped the hem of his thin, black T-shirt and hauled it over his head. His blond hair was left ruffled, sticking every which way.
Hot ass fucker.
Leaning down, I kissed his neck, all over his neck, bit and nibbled. Kissed down to his sternum. His skin was so taut, his body so hard.
He felt so good. So goddamn good it was driving me wild. I couldn’t stop thinking that over and over in my head because it was the truth.
He. Felt. Good.
I kissed over his tattoos that were once again drowning in the dark, kissed over his washboard abs. I just kissed and kissed and kissed everywhere. Because I’ve never kissed a man’s body before. And this might be the only male I’ll ever want to kiss, so I was reveling in it. Enjoying it while it lasted.
“You’re hungry,” I heard his voice rumble, sounding half-strained, half-amused.
“You have no idea,” I whispered to his abs.
Chad jackknifed up and grabbed my face again, plunging his tongue into my mouth. My breasts squished against his chest, nipples hard like granite, aching to feel his mouth on them. And as though he could read my mind, his mouth divorced mine and moved in to propose to my breasts, sucking and fondling, relieving my ache. Tossing my head back, I ground against him. Against his tauntingly hard erection.
Holy shit. I don’t think I’ve ever been this insanely turned on. Been this hot for anyone. The feeling was so fucking amazing, I think I might weep when this was all over.
Chad drew back and tapped my arm with two fingers. “Stand up. Get rid of your footwear.”
Wasting no time, I stood up, my feet on either side of his, and kicked off my sports slippers, then looked down at him, hands at my sides, waiting, panting.
Bringing his hands up to my waist, he curled his fingers into the waistband of my sweats and panties, then dragged them down my legs. When they hit my ankles, I stepped out of them and he set the pieces of clothing aside.
Now I was fully naked, standing above him, staring down, while he sat jackknifed on the grass, staring hungrily at my sopping wet folds.
In a sudden flash, he palmed my ass cheeks, yanked me forward, and buried his tongue between my folds. I briefly lost my balance, but quickly regained it by holding onto his head.
The bolt of pleasure that jolted through me when his mouth sucked on my clit had me crooning like an owl among the trees. Chad ate me rapaciously, just like that. His tongue waging an unfair war with my clit, beating it into submission, finding its weaknesses and dragging them to the surface.
My knees buckled, and I fought to keep myself steady when he bit the tip of my clit, the rich nerve end, and I came instantly in a fit of shudders and nonsensical blabbering.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Chad. This man… I wanted more.
While I tried to catch my breath, I became vaguely aware of the clinking of his belt buckle and the sound of his zipper undoing. The tear of a packet, silence, and then suddenly I was being yanked down.
Right down unto his erected cock.
I wasn’t prepared for it, so I screamed a little at the searing pain that lanced through me. But it was good pain, because he felt big and righteous inside me. He fitted, felt right. Like he belonged there all along.
“You okay?” he solicitously asked.
I leaned in and kissed him so he’d know just how okay I was. He was a lot rougher tonight than he was last night, but who was complaining? I enjoyed him both tender and rough.
Clasping my hips, he gently urged me in an undulating motion, and I followed his directions. Somehow, it was as if he knew of my inexperience with men. Maybe he wasn’t bluffing last night. Maybe he could see through me.
Once I got the gist of what he wanted me to do, I held onto his shoulders and began rocking my hips in a faster rhythm against him. Allowing me my independence, he let go of my hips and reached up to cup my breasts, kneading and licking them, while I rocked, pleasuring both myself and him. The best goddamn feeling on earth.
Hands leaving my breasts, they rested on my hips again to pause my movements. When I stopped and looked at him in question, he urged my hips up, and then down. Up, and then down again.
Okay, he was officially teaching me how to fuck a cock.
For a chick with so much talk, I should be embarrassed, but I wasn’t.
Fortunately, I was a quick learner, and in no time, he was releasing me as I took over. Adding my own flair, I mixed it up with rocking and riding alternatively, but not predictably patterned.
Chad’s eyes fluttered down and his head fell back as a deep moan rolled in his throat, his hands gripping my thighs.
It wasn’t long before the distinct, ne plus ultra-intense orgasm began building up inside me, making me raw and frenzied. As a result, I began riding him harder, faster, crazed. Chasing that new feeling, that new kind of orgasm. I rode and rode, harder and harder, reeling it in. Until the fishing line ended, and the orgasm burst over me in streaming waves. Robbing me free of every bit of sanity and energy I had.
I couldn’t ride anymore. I could only stiffen and revel in the pleasure I’d selfishly stolen from this man, not caring for his needs.
But no worries, he was taking it. While I was still in spastic mode, he rocked forward so I was on my back and he was on his knees between my thighs, cock still inside me.
Shoving his jeans further down his legs, he pressed one palm flat against my stomach, eased his hips back, his cock sliding almost completely out before he rammed right back into me. I started to cry out, but his other hand clamped over my mouth, locking my cries in. Keeping his hand over my mouth, he began the punitive pumps. Hard, fast, and unrelenting. His breathing came in ragged hitches, punctuated with sharp expletives, as he pounded me into the ground.
Like I never knew possible, I came again. Convulsively hard. With a whiny groan stifled by Chad’s hand. My fingernails sinking into his shoulders.
Just as soon, Chad chased me over the cliff. His firm, taut body in a spasmodic seize. His muscles contracting. His pleasure-filled eyes locked on mine. A strangled sound trapped in his throat.
After a couple minutes ticked by, Chad removed his hand from my mouth and I grinned, breathing butchered.
We’d fucked vulgarly loud, hard and carelessly in the goddamn complex garden.
A shudder washed over him when I trailed the tips of my fingers up the side of his neck glossed with a thin sheet of sweat. Then, and only then, did I break the spell to ask a question I should have asked him the second he’d pushed me off the swing.
“How the fuck did you get in here?”