Page 5 of Violent Things
He slides whatever he has in his hand—a vibrator, must be—further, further, further inside me until the hilt of it is pressing up against my clit. The intensity of the vibrations increases, sending a shockwave of pleasure rippling over my skin.
“Oh…my…god.”
“We’re not finished yet,” Zeth says. I understand immediately after what he has planned. He thrusts his hips against my ass, the tip of his cock sliding down between my ass cheeks, and I draw in a sharp, nervous breath. I haven’t done this before. Not with something already inside me.
“Trust me?” Zeth asks, pushing a little harder.
I try to slow the thunder of my heart, utterly conflicted by the rolling beginnings of the orgasm building low inside me, and the prospect of how I will cope with what he’s about to do. “Yeah. Yes, I trust you.” I exhale, trying to prepare myself.
A deep breath is not enough, though. The burning heat of the pain that lances through me when Zeth pushes slowly into my ass is overwhelming. I grab onto the headboard, handcuffs digging deep into my skin, and I brace myself against the all-consuming sensation. He’s not even close to being all the way inside me when he stops, leaning around my body to work the vibrator inside my pussy, his other hand working my clit.
“Relax. Breathe, Sloane.” He kisses my shoulder, licking at my skin, growling as I tighten and tense around him. “You say when. You’re in control.”
I don’t feel very in control in my current position, tied to the bed and impaled on his cock, but I know he’s not lying to me. I may not feel in control, but I can make this stop at any moment. I can just say the word and it will be over. But…but I don’t want it to be over.
Because underneath the pain and the burning heat…it feels good.
“Slowly,” I whisper. “Just…go slow.”
So he does. Millimeter by millimeter, Zeth carefully begins to rock against me, easing himself inside. With each and every minute movement of his body against mine, my muscles lose their tension. It’s not long before I’m moving with him, tilting my hips back, testing out the boundaries of what I can take here.
“Fuck. You’re so fucking perfect,” Zeth groans. “This is killing me. I just wanna fuck you so hard. Bury my dick inside you ’tilmy balls are slapping that tight ass of yours.”
“Then…then do it.” I know I’m going to be living on a knife-edge, regretting and glorying in those words as soon as they’ve left my mouth, but I still say them.
Zeth lets out a carnal, inarticulate sound as he draws himself out of me and then thrusts back inside. He’s shaking, his body vibrating against me as he fucks me. I never thought it would be possible to come like this, but I can feel it building inside me even now. The small pulses of pleasure shooting through me because of the vibrator are intensified a hundredfold by the sound of Zeth’s own pleasure firing through him. It pushes me over the edge.
My arms and legs pull in as my orgasm rips through me like a bullet out of a gun. Zeth’s fingers dig into my ass, fingernails breaking the skin, as he climaxes at the same time. I can feel him pulsing inside me, filling me, claiming me as his.
Neither of us can breathe, speak, move when it’s over. Zeth presses his forehead into my back, fighting to fill his lungs, until I can’t bear him inside me anymore and I twist away. I slump down onto the bed, my hands still held up over my head, and Zeth works to free me.
“You think the neighbors heard?” he asks breathlessly.
“Buddy, if I had any neighbors, they’d have called the police on your ass a long time ago.” My body feels thoroughly stretched and sore in the best kind of way. I collapse on top of him, my head on his chest, my hand over his heart—it’s still galloping inside his ribcage.
“You’re gonna have a heart attack one of these days,” I muse.
Zeth laughs, stroking one hand up and down my sweat-slick back. “If I do, don’t resuscitate me, angry girl. That would be the best fucking way to die.”
Chapter Three
Zeth
Three Weeks Later
For the first time in my living memory, Christmas didn’t suck major ass this year. And now that New Years’ is long gone and everyone’s quit singing Silent Night, things are finally getting into a routine. A fuckingroutine. Sounds so stupid, and yet here I am. My favorite part of this routine, after hanging out with Sloane and all that entails, is working at the gym.
If there’s one thing I know how to do in this life, it’s how to knock someone the fuck out. Michael reels backward as I hammer my fist into his face, blood exploding from his mouth. Pain sings out in my right hand—my knuckles were split open about seven minutes ago. Now they’re a royal fucking mess.
My boy rights himself, swiping his blood from his lips, giving me the kind of dark, shitty look I normally reserve for the spineless motherfuckers who come in here trying to spar with me on a Friday night. The t-shirt fillers, wanting to bulk up before they go out on the weekend to impress the women. Wanting to feel like proper badasses by taking down the owner of the gym.
Pity for them I don’t go down easy. Or ever, really. I’m betting it’s hard for them to feel very masculine with the busted-up noses and the black eyes I hand out, either. Serves them right.
“You call that a hook?” Michael spits blood onto the ground, flexing out his own hands. His white wife beater is stained with his blood and mine, kind of like some weird hippy Rorschach tie-dye. All I see in the patterns our blood makes is guns and explosions. Make of that what you will.
“I nearly put you on your ass, motherfucker,” I growl at him. If he’s trying to bait me, he won’t need to do much to succeed tonight. I haven’t fucked Sloane in two days. She’s been working nights at the hospital and I’ve been training early. It’s left zero time for me to drive her crazy, or for me to expel some of my pent-up tension. Since I’m no longer working for a gang lord, the extra energy that would have been burned up by the adrenalin firing through my veins as I sped through the streets of Seattle on whatever dark and dangerous mission I’d been commissioned with now sits dormant in the pit of my stomach, gathering momentum. It explodes out of me in these matches I hold with Michael, or any other asshole dumb enough to verse me. Owning a fighting gym, I’m not exactly in short supply of those.
“You look tired. You wanna call it quits?” Michael asks, and even as he says this he’s laughing. He knows what his words will do to me.
