Katrin couldn’t take it anymore. The sink was full of dishes. Plates covered in congealed food. The chef’s knife. Mugs with coffee-stained bottoms. The dirty dishes were blocking the drain, and so everything sat in several inches of murky water full of food chunks.
God damn him.
She’d been telling him for days to do the dishes. That she wasn’t going to do them for him this time. She hated, hated sounding like a nagging wife — that wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself at all, and she resented him for forcing her to sound like one. And every time she asked — politely as she could — he replied that he’d do them soon, that she didn’t have to worry.
I can’t do it, can’t be shut up in this messy house all day with nothing but my own thoughts. I either need him to be a partner to me — he doesn’t have to be a husband, he doesn’t have to be a lover; just a platonic partner who helps shoulder this burden — or I need to get out.
The freelance jobs were going okay, but the work wasn’t consistent, and it didn’t get her out of the house. Instead she was caught in a vicious cycle — nightmares each night where Pistol came home covered in blood and wouldn’t tell her where he’d been. Where her father came into the house and tried to kill her. Where she gave birth to a malformed baby with her father’s face.
She didn’t get in bad moods often, but when she did, she spiraled quickly. In this case, she felt she had good reason. She’d let too many things slide recently. Not least of all, the fact that Pistol apparently knew about her father’s plan to coerce Katrin into having a child. And he hadn’t said a damn word about it. No, “Say, Katrin, do you know what your dad asked me to do? What do you think we should do to avoid bowing to his ridiculous fucking wish?” No, he’d known that was part of the deal and he’d married her anyway. Without even checking to see if it was something she’d go along with.
There were easy enough ways to avoid it, obviously. She could tell her father they were having trouble conceiving. That Pistol was infertile. Maybe they could even use some of Pistol’s club profits to bribe a doctor somewhere to say that having children would be an enormous risk to her health.
Except she wouldn’t put it past her dad to have them both examined by medical professionals of his choosing.
How far are we going to go to keep him satisfied? How much longer are we going to play this game?
Those questions were on her mind every single day. And Pistol — Mr. Gallant Gentleman, Mr. “I Won’t Do Anything To You. I’m Not Like That.”— was being a real coward about helping her figure out the answers.
She heard the bike roar up the drive, and the sound of it gave her a headache. Boys and their toys. He entered the kitchen with a quick hello, and tossed a greasy fast food bag on the counter. “Got us dinner. The burrito place is closed — some kind of repairs — so we’re stuck with Wendy’s tonight.”
Katrin didn’t answer. A despair like nothing she’d felt since her mom’s death overtook her.I have no allies. No one I can trust. She heard Pistol go upstairs. Heard him thumping around up there.
After a minute, she followed him. She found him in the bedroom. He’d changed from his shop T-shirt into a slightly fresher T-shirt, and, as usual, he’d peeled off his socks and left them in a corner of the room.
He saw her standing in the doorway. Went back to searching out some sweatpants. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Katrin asked hollowly.
“You look like I ate a kitten in front of you. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Her voice came out meek, hoarse. She cleared her throat. “What’s wrong?” she repeated. And this time, her voice sounded fierce, reflective of what she was actually feeling.
He looked at her again, expression wary.
“This house is a mess.”
He didn’t respond.
“This house is a mess, and I’m cooped up inside it all day.” She motioned to the socks on the floor. “What is this? What’s so hard about throwing your socks in the hamper? It’s right there, in the closet.”
“All right, calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. Don’t act like I’m crazy for not wanting to live in a pigsty.” She threw her arms up and let them fall to her sides. “The dishes. You’ve been telling me for days you’ll do them, but they’re all piled in that disgusting, crud-filled sink.”
“I’ll do them.”
“That’s what you keep saying! Seriously, you’re a grown ass man, not a teenage boy.” She kicked the sock. It didn’t go very far across the carpet, which only made her madder. “Act like it!”
Oh my God. They were fighting like an actualmarried couple.
Pistol’s face went red. “Look, I didn’t ask to be in this situation, so—”
“Neither did I!”
“—if you think I’m gonna change to fit your—”
“I’m not asking you to change, I’m just asking you to act a little more like a grownup. Is that too much?”
“Becauseyou’re perfect to live with?”
“I’m a hell of a lot better than you!”
“The way you stare at me all the time like you’re just waiting for me to fuck something up, so you can add it to your mental tally…”
Her mouth fell open. “I never—”
“You do. You look at me like I’m dirt under your shoe. I got news for you, princess. This ain’t no fairy tale.”
She laughed harshly. “Oh please. Nobody knows that better than me.”
He glowered at her, and for a second she was almost frightened, but anger overrode it. “You think I want to be here, walking on eggshells in the house some psychopath bought me? Before you came along, everything was great. ’Rango and me were gonna drive up to Three Sisters sometime, just the two of us. Get the hell away from this town for a while. I wish we’d done it. Wish I hadn’t even been in Rialto the night this all went to hell.”
“Wish you’d left your brothers to deal with the fallout?” she shot back.
His eyes narrowed, and for a second she thought she’d gone too far. “Keep your mouth shut about what you don’t understand.”
She walked right up to him and very nearly jabbed him in the chest with one finger. “Don’t’ tell me to keep my mouth shut. I’m not asking you to fall in love with me. I’m not asking you to give up your brotherhood. All I’m asking is that when you’re here in this house, you do your laundry and your dishes.”
“Fine!” He sounded like a sulky, overgrown toddler. He bent over and grabbed the socks and T-shirt, went to the closet, and shoved them in the hamper. “Happy?” He demanded as he strode past her and pounded down the stairs. She heard the sink turn on, the clink of dishes, and all she could do was stand there, stunned. Pistol was a lot of things, but she’d never considered him a jerk, or a fucking child.
She went downstairs after him and found him at the sink, furiously rinsing dishes and tossing them loudly in the dishwasher.
“Pistol—” she began, not sure whether to be angry or amused. But before she could continue, Pistol yanked his hand out of the sink with a string of curses.
“Motherfucker!”
Katrin saw that his hand was dripping blood. Her gut plunged.
“Jesus Christ!” Pistol snapped.
“Hey, hey,” She stepped forward. “Calm down.”
“It’s bleeding like a—”
“Stick it under the water,” she said, keeping her voice calm and authoritative.
Pistol placed his bleeding right hand under the faucet. “The fucking knife.”
Katrin resisted the urge to point out that if he hadn’t left the knife in the sink in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. Instead she placed a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the jolt that went through her at the contact. “Good,” she said. Just let it run.”
“It feels deep.”
“We’ll look in a minute.” She let him flush the cut out a moment longer, then turned off the water. “Let me see.”
He showed her his right hand. There was a cut across the meat of the palm — shallow, but a bleeder, for sure. Blood dripped into the sink while she grabbed some paper towels and laid them over the cut. “Hold those there. Keep pressure on it.” She led him over to the table. He followed meekly and let her push him gently down into a chair. “Stay put. I’m going to get my first aid kit.”
She went to the pantry, where she’d put the kit — most accidents happened in the kitchen, after all. She brought the small plastic case back to the table and opened it, then took out some gauze and tape.
Blood had soaked through the paper towels, but when she gently moved the wad of towels away from the skin, she saw the bleeding was already starting to slow.
“Good,” she said quietly. “Hold out your hand.”
He did. She wiped some blood away, then began to wind some gauze around his hand.
“Don’t we need to … sterilize it or something?” he asked.
“Back in the day, the medical community recommended iodine or rubbing alcohol for cuts. Now we’ve realized that flushing with water is often all you need. Alcohol and iodine kill the good bacteria that will help your skin heal.”
He looked white as a sheet, but he nodded. “Glad you know your shit.”
The sound of her voice seemed to calm him, so she kept on. “My mom used to use iodine. When I was little and got hurt. The smell of it used to fascinate me. And the way it looked — the way it dyed my skin yellow.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen iodine.” He kept his gaze on her as she deftly bandaged him. “Man, you don’t lose your cool, do you? Blood makes me kinda … queasy…”
She half smiled. “Well, I’m gonna be a nurse, remember? So it probably wouldn’t go great for me if I didn’t have a strong stomach.” She picked up the tape and began winding it over the gauze. She was suddenly uncomfortably aware that the front of his sweatpants was tented. And she was even more uncomfortably aware of her own reaction to his proximity, to touching him. She was close enough to hear his breath, a little shallow, the way he breathed sometimes in his sleep, in the midst of a dream. And his hand was warm and rough… She swallowed.
“What happened to your mom?” he asked very softly.
Katrin barely flinched. “She died. Last year.”
“Oh God. I’m sorry. I didn’t … I wondered how it ended up being just you and your dad, but I didn’t realize…”
“It’s okay. I miss her. But I know she’s still with me, every day.”
He shifted. “I’m sorry too, about the … I’m sorry I was such a jerk.”
She nodded. “Thank you. Sorry I yelled too.”
“I’ll do a better job with the house.”
“I’d appreciate that.” She finished taping and stepped back. “There.”
He flexed the hand tentatively, still gazing at her.
She met that gaze, and her heart began to pound. Something was happening between them. His stare wasn’t … wicked, exactly, but it was hungry, blazing with need. It pulled at something deep within her. She didn’t move as he rose, towering over her, arm muscles flexing. He extended his uninjured hand gently toward her face, and she shivered in anticipation and desire. He stopped before he touched her. “May I?” he asked.
She nodded mutely. He cupped her jaw — the lightest of touches, his thumb ghosting over her cheekbone. She inhaled softly, closing her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, so that her lips brushed his palm.
He leaned down, and she strained upward, and suddenly they were kissing. Kissing like they had at the wedding, except now it was different. Now they were alone, and she wasn’t afraid. She wanted this, wanted it with everything in her.
She cupped the back of his neck with one hand, drawing him closer. He teased the seam of her lips apart with his tongue, then slipped his tongue inside her mouth. It swiped over her own, and her pussy tightened with a pleasurable thrill. She backed up, drawing him with her, until he was pressing her against the wall, until his hand swept down to her hip, guided her ass away from the wall so he could cup it.
He squeezed until she moaned into his mouth, then gave her a light pinch. Her eyes flew open in surprise at the slight, delicious sting. Then she thrust her hips forward, grinding her crotch against his, feeling wanton, free.
He pulled his tongue back and they stood there for a moment, panting with their foreheads pressed together. She whimpered against his lips, and he hissed as he moved his injured hand to her breast. Though their mutual passion, their need, hadn’t dulled in the slightest, Pistol was gentle as he stroked her breast, careful as his thumb grazed her nipple through her shirt. Back and forth, back and forth until her nipple stiffened, until she arched her back, longing for more of that touch. She wanted to rip off his clothes, wanted to drink in that body she’d only glimpsed before. Knead that taught ass as she guided him deeper inside her, scream her pleasure as he drove into her, his big arms pinning her in place.
She gasped as he pinched lightly through the fabric. She took his hand and set it at the hem of her shirt, guiding it up and underneath until it rested on the cup of her bra. The gauze and tape felt strange on her bare skin as he stroked her, and she laughed, half nervous, half breathless with excitement.
“You want this?” His voice was low, rough.
All she could manage was a nod. Then finally, she managed to get words out. “So much.” He slid one knee between her legs, let it travel up her inner thigh, drawing her skirt up. She gasped as the course denim of his jeans rubbed against her soft cotton panties. Panties that were rapidly growing wetter as his knee moved back and forth over her pussy, sometimes putting just enough pressure on her clit that she gasped. “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
“My pleasure,” he growled, brushing his lips along her cheek. Then, without warning, he spun her so that she faced the wall. Her breath left in a rush, and her back arched automatically, thrusting her ass out so that it met his crotch. He flipped her skirt up and ran his left hand between her legs, using two fingers to pet the damp fabric. She spread her legs, moaning, welcoming his caress. He circled her clit with his fingertips, and she bucked her ass further out, wishing he’d yank her panties aside and plunge his fingers into her, that he’d rub her clit with his thumb until she was wild with desire, and then throw her over the table and ram his cock home.
But he took his time. Teased her slowly, rubbing her pussy with one hand, kneading her ass with the other. He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder, using his teeth to pull the collar of her blouse aside for better access.
She dipped her head, sighing her pleasure. The room was going fuzzy, so she let her eyes close, sinking into the ecstasy. She began to ride his hand, her legs trembling, until he had to hook one arm underneath her to keep her upright, to keep her where he wanted her while he slowly, inexorably, tugged down her panties.
When they were around her thighs, the fabric stretched taught by her spread legs, his hands disappeared for a moment, and she was left there, trembling, her ass and pussy bared to his gaze.
“God,” he said, voice low. “I’ve wanted this since I first laid eyes on you.”
“Then get to it already,” she said impatiently.
She heard his laugh, a deep rumble that sent shivers through her all over again. Then he spun her to face him again. Her panties dropped to her ankles, and she stepped out of them. He tugged her skirt down, and she kicked it off, simultaneously reaching for the hem of his T-shirt. They got tangled for a moment as she tried to pull the shirt over his head while he was in the process of unbuttoning her blouse. They laughed, then moved in for a kiss, their shirts still half on and half off. Pistol nipped her lower lip and fumbled with her last button, reaching up to yank the blouse down her arms. She deftly shrugged out of it, still kissing him, then gave him a light shove back. He staggered a little, and she grabbed his shirt and nearly ripped it off of him.
She stood there in just her bra, and he stood there bare chested, a trail of light brown hair leading from his belly button down to the waistband of his jeans. She took a moment to study the tattoos — intricate, colorful designs that wound their way across his chest, down his sides. It was hard to separate the designs in some instances — like these were a lifetime of stories twining, overlapping, getting lost in one another.
“Take your pants off,” she ordered softly, her voice hoarse. “I want to see you.” He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a grin. His face looked more naked and vulnerable than she’d ever seen it — more so even than their wedding day. His hands moved slowly to his fly. She watched as he popped the button. As his injured hand tugged down the zipper. He slid the jeans past his hips, down his lightly-furred, muscular legs. Then he stepped out of them and let her look at him in his gray boxer briefs, let her take in the telltale bulge, the damp spot, the hard flesh poking out from the slit.
“Turn around,” she commanded, voice warm, silky. She was enjoying herself.
He did. His ass was just as taut as she remembered, stretching the gray fabric. She stepped forward. Placed her hands on his hips and teased her thumbs along the waistband. She felt him shiver.
She kissed his shoulder, moving slowly down the ridge of muscle toward the center of his back. Then she pulled down his briefs, careful as she tugged them over his erection.
When he was fully naked, she leaned against him, her breasts pressed to his back, her crotch pressed against his hard ass. She moved her palms forward across his hips, down over the coarse hair until her fingertips touched his cock. Sighing against his bare skin, she gripped his shaft gently in one hand. She wanted to feel it before she got a good look at it — wanted to learn it with her touch before she guided it inside her. His breathing roughened; his body quivered.
“Katrin…”
“Shhh.” She kissed his shoulder again. Pumped his cock lightly, rubbing her thumb along the ridge under the head. Circumcised. The skin incongruously silky over the hardness of his erection. The tip was damp, and she spread the moisture with her thumb, making his thighs bulge and his ass clench.
This was so much different from the quick, awkward sex she’d had in college. She felt powerful this time, hungry and sexy as hell. Ready to own this man and let him own her. She nuzzled the side of his neck. “Turn around.”
She let go of his dick so he could turn to face her. He was flushed, breathing ragged, pupils huge. She reached around behind her and undid her bra clasp, letting the blue satin garment fall from her body.
He took in her nakedness, gaze lingering appreciatively on her full breasts, then sliding down to her wide hips, and finally to the dark thatch of her bush.
“Gorgeous,” he murmured. “You’re more gorgeous than I ever imagined.”
Their eyes locked again. “Take me,” she whispered. “I want you to fuck me.”
His breathing paused for a moment. Then a weak grin spread across his face. “Gladly, sweetheart.”
He closed the gap between them and swept her into his arms. Lifted her off the ground and placed her on her back on the kitchen table. He grabbed one of the cushions off the chair and slid it under her head. Then he took another one and slid it under her hips. He guided her legs apart, sweeping his broad palms up and down her inner thighs, leaning down to lavish her breasts with kisses. He placed his lips around her right nipple and sucked, making her arch and squirm. When the mad desire was back, when she was panting and had her legs hooked around him, urging him closer, he spread her pussy lips and dipped his ring finger inside her. With his other fingers, slick with her juices, he began to rub her clit. Quick, concentrated circles that had her whimpering and writhing, trying to impale herself on his finger.
He scraped her nipple lightly with his teeth, and she almost came on the spot. Then he let go, straightened, and took her by the hips, his erection nudging her pussy as he stepped closer. She gazed up at him — at his firm, tattooed chest, his washboard abs, his gorgeous eyes. She felt dizzy and wonderful, taking him in, craving more and more of him. He trailed the back of his hand along her stomach, making the muscles flutter.
“Condom,” she whispered, trying not to get queasy at the memory of her father’s phone call.
“I know,” he whispered back. “I’m … not sure I have one.”
“Shit,” she whispered.
He laughed softly, still stroking her skin. “There are other things we can do, you know.”
Her breathing slowed; she squirmed again on the table. “Oh yeah?” she clenched her jaw as his hand made its way up to her breast again, pinching her nipples into stiffness. “Like what?”
His hands swept down again, fingertips tickling her inner thighs, drifting down to the ticklish sides of her knees, making her jump.
He bent over and kissed his way down her body, his stubble scratching the sensitive skin of her belly. He touched the tip of his tongue to the spot under her navel. He met her gaze again, grinning up at her as he licked lower. She shuddered, stifling another moan. She shifted on the pillows, trying to lie still as he knelt between her legs.
Oh God … Oh God, should she tell him she’d never done this before? Never had a guy…
But then she felt his breath against her pussy lips, and she couldn’t think about anything else. Could only lie there, helplessly in thrall to pleasure as the soft wetness of his tongue swiped between her legs.
Oh God, oh god, oh god…
He licked her gently at first, his tongue sliding over her opening, then forward to lave her clit. She gave a soft, surprised whimper, and her breath hitched. Pleasure spread from her core through the rest of her as he continued on that same path, holding her legs spread and then exploring her most intimate area with his tongue. She could barely breathe as he swirled his tongue around her clit; nearly bucked off the table as he began lapping — as quick, furious motion that had Katrin writhing, sighing.
Pistol stopped for a moment. Wiped his wet chin with the back of his hand. “God, you’re gorgeous like this. I’m gonna give you the best orgasm of your life.”
And before she could say anything, he plunged back down, licking her pussy in long, firm swipes. There was a spot on the right side of her clit that felt particularly good, so when he started licking there, she couldn’t help but put a hand on his head to keep him in place, while she rode his tongue the best she could.
How have I never tried this before? I’ve been missing out!
Suddenly Pistol’s tongue moved away from her clit, and his fingers parted her gently. His tongue slipped inside her, and she gasped, crying his name. The wet muscle thrust inside her, and she twisted her hips, trying to get more of that sensation. She felt so close to him. Truly, for the first time since they’d moved in together, she felt connected, soaring on the pleasure of being here with him, of feeling him inside her. He placed his hands just below her knees and ran them down her shins. He tickled her feet lightly as he continued tongue fuck her. She laughed and jerked.
And then his tongue was gone, replaced by two probing fingers that moved slowly inside her, pressing gently, finding that spot that brought her breathless pleasure. When he found it, he crooked his fingers, and at the same time, flicked his tongue against her clit.
“Pistol!” She was trying to clutch at his head — dammit, if he’d had hair, she would have been pulling it for all she was worth. The intensity was nearly too much; heat flooded her entire body, and the room blurred. She rocked her hips, forcing his fingers deeper. He flicked his tongue again and again against her clit, a motion like butterfly wings, while he continued to crook his fingers every few seconds against her sweet spot.
She came in a rush, pussy clenching hard around his fingers, her clit throbbing and her chest heaving. She’d never in her life had an orgasm this intense. Afterward all she could do was lie there trembling while he cleaned her with his tongue. He swallowed every drop of her juices, soothed her tingling slit with a couple of gentle licks that nearly made her purr.
He told her softly to stay put.
She heard him go to the bathroom and clean up. She drifted, and wasn’t sure how long she’d been out of it when he came back. She gazed up at him while he gazed down at her. He wasn’t hard anymore, she realized.
She shifted up onto her elbows. Glanced again at his cock, then up at him. “Want me to…?”
He shook his head, smiling at her. “I took care of it.”
And with that he reached down and scooped her up in his arms. He carried her to the staircase and then up the stairs, depositing her gently on their bed. He climbed in beside her and pulled the covers up over both of them. She curled against him, feeling suddenly more vulnerable than she had when she was spread open before him on the kitchen table. She hadn’t allowed herself this kind of pleasure before; since her mother’s illness, she’d felt guilt about any desire for sex, for a relationship. Because there had been someone who’d needed her. There’d been something more important to worry about.
But now…
God, it had felt so good. She was still dizzy from that sex, still riding a high she wasn’t sure she’d ever come down from. She was reveling in Pistol’s closeness, in the slow, steady movement of his hand up and down her naked back.
Is it okay? Am I allowed to want this? Especially when he’s … when this was all set up by my father? When this wasn’t a choice for either of us.
But tonight had been a choice. The marriage wasn’t, but this was — being here, listening to each other’s breathing. Katrin choosing to trust Pistol. Pistol choosing to be here with her instead of at the clubhouse, or out on a mission.
They did have agency here.
And tonight, at least, they had chosen solace in each other’s arms.