Page 52 of Faithless
When all motion stopped, I realized it was over.
Roughly a dozen gladiators had been released to the pit for this final fight, and now only the Butcher stood, with his jaguar at his side.
He stood in the center of a massacre, all manner of blood and gore surrounding him. He was exhausted but appeared uninjured. Everyone in the audience was on their feet, chanting his name, pumping fists, and clapping.
The Butcher didn’t acknowledge them, though. He looked straight at me.
I watched his gaze start at my ankle, then travel up the length of my bare calf. When our eyes met, I raised my champagne bottle in his direction and shot him a smile.
“Well done,” I said, even though he couldn’t hear me.
He gave a small nod in return, the corner of his mouth ticking up for one mere second. It was barely a smile, but it sent my chest pounding all the same.
* * *
I returnedto the suite alone, not bothering to check in with Torr when I left the VIP box. He’d been sitting at the lounge bar, engrossed in conversation with the beautiful bartender. She’d laughed uproariously at something he’d said, tossed her dark, braided hair over her shoulder, then leaned across the bar to stick her cleavage in his face and whisper something in his ear.
Whatever. If he hooked up with her, he’d be an even bigger asshole for trying to dictate whatIdid. And a hypocrite at that.
I glanced over my shoulder after passing him and wished I hadn’t. It still hurt that he didn’t pull away from her but smiled all lazily and flirtatiously instead. It still hurt that his gaze flicked down to all the business happening in her bra.
I hated that we’d been thrown into this crazy mission full of secrecy and corruption and things were still exactly as they’d been back home. Torr flirting with, and almost definitely fucking, the prettiest woman in the room. Me shoving down my feelings and trying in vain to distract myself with other men. Same old fucking bullshit.
His weird possessiveness was new, though. For a minute, I thought it might be due to him wanting me after all. What else was I supposed to think when he got all squirrelly and ran off to the gym when I’d semi-jokingly asked if he was jealous?
But it was crystal clear to me now. He’d rather flirt with a boobilicious bartender than be near me. For fuck’s sake, why did he even want to come with me if he couldn’t stand to be around me? We barely looked like a honeymooning couple and had spent most of our time apart since we’d arrived.
My thoughts stewed, roiling around my head like a stormy sea as I walked back to the suite. Once there, I headed straight for the bar next to the kitchen. It would probably cost Gwen’s employer extra to keep this place fully stocked, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. That champagne bottle had barely touched my tolerance, and I was intent on getting obliterated. I grabbed a whiskey bottle and headed for my bedroom.
Paige, the sweetheart, had made my bed, folded down my sheets, and laid out a soft, neatly folded robe on the bed. She placed a note on the garment, handwritten in a pretty, feminine script:Rori, dial *6 for maid service and ask for me if you need a bath, food, or anything else for your evening. I’m happy to be of service! -Paige
“Too damn sweet,” I muttered, setting aside the note and robe so I could flop onto the bed without ruining them. It would be nice if I could smuggle Paige out and take her with me whenever we left this place. She and her family would be happy and free in Four Corners.
I swallowed a big pull of whiskey, sinking down into the mattress as the liquor made a warm path down my throat to my belly. I could almost pretend it was someone’s hand, or a mouth, moving down my body like that.
A frustrated sigh left my chest. We had a whole month to spend here and were off to shit-tastic start. I knew in my gut I was right about the Butcher’s jaguar. That gladiator was the one I needed to talk to, and on some instinctivel level, I knew it before I ever saw the black cat prowling at his side. But even if the Butcher and I got a plan together, how much could I really do if I didn’t have Torr to back me up?
How far would he really go innotsupporting me?
Round and round went my mind with questions. The only reason I wasn’t speaking them aloud was because I didn’t have anyone to listen. If Torr were here, he would tell me it was just my anxiety.
I took another pull of whiskey with an annoyed groan. Closing my eyes as I swallowed, I imagined the Butcher’s fingers trailing from my jaw, down my throat, between my breasts, and settling on my belly.
Only…I imagined his touch continuing further down, a hunger in his dark eyes as he watched me with rapt attention. With my own hand, I followed the path I imagined him taking, sliding a palm down my thigh to bring the dress up higher, until it bunched around my hips.
I was just on the edge of tipsy, pleasantly warm and languid with just the slightest buzz in my brain. But it was enough to quiet my racing thoughts and replace my fantasies about Torr with those of someone completely new.
I couldn’t believe how easily I pushed Torr from my mind and slotted the Butcher seamlessly into the same place. Whenever I had tried to fantasize about other men before, it never worked. Thinking of them just didn’t stimulate my body and brain the way Torr always had. But for some reason, my brain chemicals decided that the Butcher was just what I needed.
In my mind, his hand gripped my thigh, kneading it before traveling to the space between my legs. Maybe he’d cut my underwear off with a machete, that’d be hot.
Imagining it was his hand doing the work, I rubbed myself. My head went back, eyes firmly shut to stay in the fantasy. Instead of my own two fingers sliding across the thin material of my panties, they were his. Hands much bigger than mine, with callused fingertips for added friction, stroked my lips with a firm pressure that continued up to my clit.
My skin, my breathing, and heartbeat, everything reacted to his touch. I arched on the bed, splaying my legs wider as I sighed under my—no,his—ministrations. If I peeked, I’d definitely see dark, hungry eyes framed by thick lashes drinking me in. Those eyes would drop, traveling the length of my body before zeroing in to watch where his hand played with me.
What did the Butcher’s voice sound like? Was he a dirty talker? Would he tell me how I looked to him stretched out on the bed like this? Would he describe all the ways he wanted to fuck me in filthy, clear details? Or would he just watch silently during the foreplay, observing me closely for what I liked and responded to the most?
His mouth would definitely be occupied if I had anything to do with it. He had nice lips, and I wondered if he allowed kissing when he met with guests.
