Page 71 of Fury

“Shit.” His face twisted in a dark scowl, the curve of his shoulders tense. He grabbed one of my hands and brought it to his chest. “Need you…” he breathed.

He needs me.

I moved my hands over his slick damp skin, down his smooth back to his clenching ass, bringing him closer to me. I held onto him, climbing on him, meeting his every thrust with my own, rubbing my chest against his.

“Fuck me, Serena. You fuck me the way you want,” he said on a grunt, his lips tense.

I pushed him over on the bed, and he slid out of me, his eyes flaring. I straddled him and quickly tucked him back in, my hands planted on his chest, my nails digging into his flesh. I rocked over him, and his hold on me tightened. The pleasure built around us, my head spun, my insides swirling.

I listened, but there was no audience, no hooting, no snickering, no—

“Look at me, Sunshine,” he muttered through short breaths, a hand pinching my ass cheek.

My eyes snapped open at the sting, snagging on his fierce gaze.

“This is you and me, baby. Me and you.”

Yes, yes, you.

His hips rolled into mine, their rhythm quick and steady. “Say it.”

“Me and you.”

His hand went between my legs, the smooth nub of his cut off finger pressing on my sensitive flesh.

Everything shimmered and shattered inside me.

You. You. You.

18

We were on the wayhome from a charity run in Pennsylvania and had landed in Ohio for the night. At Reich’s chapter.

I wasn’t eager to spend any more time with him than I had to, but what the hell, there were five chapters of the Flames of Hell on this run together. I could continue to get lost in the crowd if I wanted to. We hadn’t spoken two words to each other in PA, just acknowledged each other’s presence with a lift of chins, a nod.

Eager for booze and loud music after hours on the road, we strode into the Peghorn Saloon, the local Flames hangout. It was after two in the morning, and there were still plenty of bikes and cars in the parking lot. The Smoking Guns logo screamed at me from the gas tank of a number of bikes. A sharp ache needled through the joints in my fingers and raced up my arms, my muscles stiffening.

Reich pushed open the old metal doors.

No music’s playing.

“Been trying to call ya, Reich. Couldn’t get through.” His glassy eyes wide, his voice shaky, Garrett, the owner of the Peghorn, stood in a bar that was barely recognizable.

Pool tables flipped over, broken cues and balls littering the floor. Shattered bottles and glass everywhere. Men and women were glued to the walls, a din of mumbling, crying, and shifting chairs zipping around the large bar.

Smoking Guns everywhere.

“It’s about fucking time.” Med slammed a hand down on the bar, a bottle of liquor in his hands.

My heart stopped. His snarl. That voice. Those eyes. A cold sting washed over me and settled in my bones. My fingers curled into tight fists, even my middle fingers that were no longer there.

“Holy fucking shit,” Drac muttered next to me.

It’d been four months since I’d been released from Med’s hellhole, but the sight of him, the sound of his voice, generated a tidal wave of nausea and fear, my pulse pounding, my blood jamming in my veins—as if I was still there, still his prisoner. Even now, surrounded by my brothers. Even now.

I hated him. I feared him. I hated him.

I wanted him dead.

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