Page 157 of Pride: The Rogue
For the first time in his miserable number of years, he cried actual tears.
“…I’m going to make you suffer…”
I can’t suffer more than this.
“…look how wet you are for me, love…when you come, I’m going to lick you clean…”
Dimly, through horror and acute misery, Latimer registered the distant, muffled thundering of Wakefield’s servants nearing the main landing.
The need to beat Wakefield brutally, savagely, proved greater than Latimer’s need to protect himself from the debilitating scene of Livian with another man.
With shaking hands, Latimer let himself inside and recoiled. The horrific, carnal tableau before him was more than soul crushing.
Wakefield lay between Livian’s thighs. The speed and force with which the other man plowed her, over and over again, sent the younger man’s taut arse flexing. His pendulous balls slapped wildly against her flesh.
With a roar, Latimer sprinted across the room.
The earl only noted his fun had been interrupted, too late. When his gaze locked on Latimer, shock filled the other man’s flushed, perspiring face.
“L-Latimer?” he strangled out, his indignant voice rough from his vigorous bout of lovemaking. “What the fuck are you—?”
Wakefield’s question ended on a sharp gasp as Latimer hauled the other man away from Livian. “Bastard,” he hissed. “I’ll kill you!”
Throwing the earl to the floor, Latimer quickly stood over him, hauling back and striking the stunned earl repeatedly in the face—over and over again.
From somewhere, a primordial roar soared around the room that combined with Livian’s cries and shrieks.
Me, those are my shouts.The only thing that dwelled inside, was the sub-human need to destroy. To kill.
Wakefield had put his hands on her.
He’d made her cry out, in ecstasy.
The manacles of rage and jealousy made Latimer careless.
Wakefield brought a knee up sharply and caught Latimer hard between the legs.
His vision went black and little pricks of white light danced in his eyes. The other man pressed his advantage. He caught Latimer once more with a knee and brought Latimer’s writhing frame to the floor.
“My God, Latimer, what the hell is wrong with y-you?” the earl said between gasping pants.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Latimer rasped through that blinding pain.
Except, in a reversal, Wakefield proceeded to hand down the same exact beading Latimer dealt him. Or he tried to. The earl got four punches in before Latimer managed to jerk his head back and strike his forehead against the younger man’s.
From behind them, Latimer registered a rush of footballs. A moment later, they were separated. It took four of Wakefield’s guards to hold Latimer back. And even then, while Wakefield casually but quickly went about drawing his trousers on, Latimer managed to shake free two of them.
Given his exertions from the long ride from Hitchin, physically drained from his fight with Wakefield, and emotionally drained from having lost Livian, proved too much.
Latimer’s legs gave out and were it not for the stronghold Wakefield’s big servants had on him, he would have collapsed to the floor.
Wakefield looked to his men. They instantly released him.
Latimer fell to his knees. Beat, hurting, and spent in every way, he sagged.
Towering over him, the earl glared. “Are you bloodymad, Latimer? Invading another man’s household, storming into his room while he’s bedding his lover?”
Hislover.
