Page 18 of Violent Things
“Oh my god. Fuck, oh my god.” Butheis my god. He’s the sun and I’m the earth, orbiting him always, unable to escape his gravity. Unwilling to try.
“Come for me, Sloane. Come on. Do it.”
I’ve never been able to hold back with him. I have this overwhelming need to do what he wants me to, despite how much I fought against that idea when we first met. And right now, he wants me to come. He makes this pretty damn easy for me when he slides his fingers all the way inside, twisting them toward him and making a beckoning motion that tips me right over the edge.
I’m incapable of making a sound as my body locks up, gripped by the sheer force of the orgasm that hits me. It feels like I’m slamming into a brick wall.
Zeth growls deep in his throat as I writhe against him; he holds onto my wrists, stopping me from reaching out to touch him. I want to so badly, but I can tell by the firm grip of his hand that he doesn’t want me to.
“Fuck, your body looks incredible like that. All stretched out and long, with your arms over your head, ” he says, his voice deep and filled with promises. I’m still coming, synapses snapping and firing blindly in my head as he stoops to take one of my nipples in his mouth. He licks and sucks at me, squeezing my nipple in-between his teeth as I squirm, trying to catch my breath.
“Are you ready for me, angry girl? Do you want me inside you? Is that what you want?”
I nod my head, burying my face in his shoulder as he continues to work his fingers inside me. Zeth doesn’t wait for me to regain my voice; he accepts my nodding as all the permission he needs. He’s inside me a second later, strong, hard body between my legs, his hands pulling my thighs up and around his waist. This is normally where he would fuck me until I can’t see straight. I’m expecting it, holding my breath, waiting for it, and yet it doesn’t happen. Opening my eyes, my heart still charging beneath my ribcage, I find Zeth staring down at me with a look akin to complete awe on his face. He just shakes his head, half smiling as he begins to move inside me.
It’s torturous. Slow. Purposeful and intense. I’ve never experienced anything like it. And the whole time, Zeth doesn’t look away. He holds me in his gaze as he fills me, carefully bringing me back to the point of frenzy. My body is crying out for him to sink himself deeper, harder, faster inside me, but my head knows that’s not what this moment is right now. I’m too scared to even admit what this moment is.
Zeth’s hands stroke my body as we move together, and it’s almost as if I can feel it happening. This is more than just our bodies connecting. This is something else entirely.
When we come, we come together, and it’s silent. Zeth wraps his arms around me and I cling to him, and it feels like he’s absorbed me into him. I have the most insane, obscene urge to cry. Why the fuck do I want to cry? I can’t let it happen. If I do, he’ll think I’m one of those crazy bitches who start sobbing after sex in the movies, and that is the very last thing I want. Instead, I press my face into the skin of his chest, eyes closed, trying to remember what my life looked like before he was in it. All I can remember is darkness.
Zeth slowly rolls us over, still inside me, so that he’s lying on his back and I’m lying on top of him. There isn’t a second where he removes his arms from around me. He holds on tight, like he’s afraid I’m about to vanish into thin air. I can hardly breathe around the burning in my throat as his huge hands, used for so many years for violence, for inflicting pain, carefully stroke my hair.
Chapter Eight
Zeth
Something is really fucking wrong with me. When I left the house this morning, Sloane was sniffing and coughing, and all I wanted to do was stay home and take care of her. I had no idea how to do that, though, so I left instead. Feeling fucking useless is not my wheelhouse. My wheelhouse is smashing shit up and making people feel decidedlyworsethan before they met me. I don’t have the first clue how to make someone feelbetter.
And the sex?
I don’t even want to think about the sex. It was fucking insane in the very best way. Six months ago I’d have laughed hysterically at the very prospect of being intimate like that with someone. Sex has always been an outlet for some of my more exotic proclivities; it sure as shit hasneverbeen an outlet for affection. Or a display of love.
As I drive toward the gym, I bite the bullet. I let the guy from before, the guy I was for years, have free rein.What thefuckare you doing, asshole? She’s just some piece of ass. She’s going to ruin you if you let her. Women come and go. They don’t sleep in your bed. They don’t make you coffee in the morning. And you don’t fuckingmake loveto them! You fuck. You fight. You flee. That’s always been the rule, man. What the hell is wrong with you?
What would Charlie think?
My stomach feels like it’s full of ice-cold water at that last thought. For years, what Charlie thought or wanted or cared about was all that concerned me. The fucker tried to kill me repeatedly. He stole into my room every night for years, playing his fucked-up mind games with me, and yet still some desire to please him is ingrained deep within my bones. The guy’s dead and even now I can’t escape him. How fucked up is that?
I’m almost at the gym when my cell starts ringing. Assuming it’s Michael, I almost answer it without thinking. The out-of-state number on the display catches my eye, though. I stare at the screen for a moment, debating whether to answer. On the sixth ring, I make up my mind. This had better be fucking good.
I pick up, and I don’t say a motherfucking word.
I’m met with silence, and then¸ “What’s up, asshole? Roberto Barbieri asked us to call you.”
Barbieri? What the fuck? The name has instant alarm bells ringing in my head. Barbieri and Charlie used to have some dealings back in the day. The Italians are based out of New York, but they’re always looking to move in on new territory. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m hearing from them now. Seattle has been a largely unclaimed territory for months. In fact, this probably should have happened much sooner.
“Roberto Barbieri shouldn’t even have this number,” I growl into the phone. There are sounds of a scuffle on the other end of the line, and then another voice speaks. These are the brothers, Theo and Sal. Barbieri’s sons. Their reputations precede them, just like mine does. And from the calm tone and the fierce intelligence I can hear in this guy’s voice, I’m talking to the older brother right now—Theo.
“Mr. Mayfair, we met back in Seattle a couple of months ago. I believe we had a common enemy. The Monterellis? You took care of one brother. We took care of the other.”
Huh. I’d had my suspicions about that. I did end Frankie Monterelli, yes. He was the last person I killed, and the fucker had been going for his gun. When his younger brother, Archie Monterelli, was killed at St. Peter’s Hospital, things really started to get complicated for me. “I remember,” I say. “The cops pinned me for that one, too. Made life very difficult for me and my girl.”
“We’re sorry about that. The method of execution’s usually enough to tip the cops off over here in New York.” The method of execution being a Columbian Necktie. I remember Sloane telling me the blood had hit the damn ceiling. Not my style at all.
“Seattle cops don’t know shit about Roberto Barbieri. And they don’t care, either. You guys made a mess.”
“Irrespective of what happened, Roberto wants to hire you. He’s offering big money for you to fly out to New York.”
