Emily
All I can think when Patrick goes down is: I’m going to get it later.
When you’ve lived with an abuser for as long as I have—my entire life—you start learning the tricks. One of the tricks is to always appear to be on their side, even when they’re in the wrong. Especially when they’re in the wrong. All I have to do is make sure to appear to be on his side, and maybe I won’t get it too bad when he finally wakes up.
But when I make to kneel beside him, the tattooed-hand man takes me by the arm. Not hard, but not soft, either. A firm grip.
“No way,” he says.
I spin on him. “I have to make sure he’s okay,” I insist.
He stares at me with dark eyes. “That piece of shit was about to hit you. Look how damn small you are. He would’ve laid you out and for what? ’Cause you helped me to my feet? Pathetic. No way I’m letting you go with him. Who is he, anyway? Your boyfriend?”
“My brother,” I say. His hand is warm and strong. I can’t help but relive the kiss when he holds me so securely.
I glance down at Patrick, unconscious but breathing, and try to pull away from the man. He shakes his head. “No way,” he repeats, voice stern.
“Listen to me, Mister Whoever You Are, if you don’t let me go to him, I’m going to—”
“I’ll kill him if he touches you,” the man states flatly.
I roll my eyes. “Look, I don’t need a knight in shining armor, okay?” Are you sure? A voice asks. Are you one-hundred percent sure of that, Emily? Maybe a knight in shining armor is exactly what you need.
The man shakes his head stubbornly. Then, before I can react, he bends down and picks me up by the waist. I let out a wail, but I’m sure there’s as much thrill as fear in my voice. He throws me over his shoulder, my arms flailing at his back, and turns away from Patrick’s prostrate form. “What are you doing?” I demand, voice breathless.
“Getting you out of here,” the man says.
He begins carrying me toward the exit. The crowd loves it.
“Look at him go!”
“There’s a brave man!”
“Saving the girl!”
Everybody’s drunk or drugged-up and nobody steps in to stop him. He carries me up a flight of stairs, maneuvering me as though I weigh nothing, and out into the pitch-dark night. Across a parking lot and to a car.
I should be pounding on his back with my fists, kicking out with my legs, desperate to get back to my brother. But the truth is, I’m intrigued. I know I shouldn’t be. I know it’s wrong. My brother is laid out back there and here I am, not even putting up a good fight to get back to him. But when this mystery man lays me in the back of his car, I don’t dive for the handle. Instead, I sit with my hands in my lap, trying to catch my breath. There’s something about his touch. Conflicting voices scream at me. Go back! But he’s interesting! But what about when Patrick wakes up? Can’t a girl go on a ride of her own every now and then? Not you, Emily! You know that! But this is the first exciting thing that has ever happened to me.
That last thought seals it. Always, it’s Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Everything happens to him and I’m just along for the ride, his quiet sister, his obedient sister, his beaten sister.
When the man starts the car, I don’t jump at the door. I look at him in the rear-view mirror instead. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a cynical smile on his lips. He looks in-control as few men do.
“My name’s Jude Kelly,” he says.
“Emily Ness,” I mutter.
“I’m taking you somewhere safe, Emily Ness.”
I should fight, I should scream, I should break the glass and leap out into the street if that’s what it takes. But I don’t do any of that. I lean back in the passenger seat and watch as New York drifts by, the lights and the partiers and the twenty-four-hour stores. Jude drives us to a block of apartments and stops outside.
I’m about to step out when he walks around the car and opens the door for me. “I can carry you again, if you like.”
I step into the street. “I can walk,” I say shortly, still wondering what the heck I’m doing. I think of Patrick, back there, still out cold. Or maybe not out cold anymore. Maybe on his feet and swearing bloody vengeance. I swallow; there’s going to be pain when I return. But for some reason, that isn’t enough to stop me from following Jude through the lobby, into the elevator, and up to his apartment.
His apartment is a one-bedroom place with a lived-in look. Clothes are strewn across the floor and empty beer bottles rest on the coffee table. No pictures hang from the walls. The only decoration is a large flat-screen TV which sits in front of the couch. Jude waves at the couch and I sit down, pushing aside a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Jude brings me a glass of water. I drink it down, savoring the coolness on my throat. I didn’t realize how hot I was until I drink it.
I lay the empty glass on the table and Jude drops onto the couch next to me. I turn, realizing he’s looking at me. There’s a heat in his eyes, an intensity I’ve never seen before. His eyes are hard. His body is harder, every contour outlined under his clothes, packs upon packs of muscle.
His eyes move up and down me, from my toes to my face. A shiver runs down my spine. I should stop this, I think. But a man has never looked at me like this before. Despite myself, my body starts to respond. Shivers, tingles, a tickling sensation between my legs.
“You’re beautiful, Emily,” he says.
When he leans across and kisses me, I should shove him away, or even just turn my head to the side. But I just want to taste it, if only for a moment. When his lips press into mine, I take in a long, deep breath. I’ve never moaned because of a kiss before, but there is sound escaping my throat. I don’t think; I open my mouth and push my tongue forward. He meets me, and for a while our tongues dance, clashing. Nerves tingle and dance down my tongue and over my body. Then he reaches his hand across and presses down on my pussy. My pussy! I should push him away. This is beyond bad. But I can’t.
The pleasure is too much.
He breaks off the kiss. His lips are red. The mood I’m in, suddenly his red lips are sexy, a sign of our kissing.
He slides off the couch and kneels in front of me, hands working at my pants. He unbuttons them, pulls them down, along with my underwear. I’m bottomless, pussy right there, naked. I should cover myself, but I don’t. My clit is aching like mad and when he brings his face close to me, I don’t moan in resistance. I moan in encouragement.
He grabs my thighs, parts my legs, and then shoves his face into my pussy. His tongue darts from his mouth and licks my clit. Oh. My. God. I’ve never felt pleasure like this. I’ve touched myself sometimes, in the shower, or in the dark under covers, but its never felt like this. He teases my clit at first, circling it with his tongue, and then he licks it with full power. Pressing his tongue down so hard it feels like a burning rod, pushing firmly into me.
I lean back on the couch, letting my head roll, and start moaning louder and with more passion than I’ve ever moaned before. He digs his hands into my thighs—hands that just beat the crap out of Patrick!—and licks faster. Soon, his licking turns my clit into a fire-hot orb. A ball of pleasure so hot I’m surprised it doesn’t singe his tongue. He licks with more ferocity, trailing his tongue up my lips, down to my hole, and then with a quick jerk back to my clit.
I’m moaning louder and louder now, and then—
Oh . . .
My . . .
“God!” I cry.
The orb of heat explodes and the orgasm rocks through me. I feel as though I am being thrown about the place, from wall to wall, crashing. I sink my fingers into his hair and press his face closer to me. Pleasure explodes. I moan louder, with more hunger, and then the orgasm surges through me one last time.
“Fuck!” I roar, shocked at myself for cursing.
When it’s over, Jude rises to his feet, offers me his hand, and leads me to the bedroom.
We flop down, side by side.
“Damn,” he says.
“Damn,” I agree, hardly able to catch my breath.