“I letSterlingfuck me,” I correct.
“Don’t do that,” he chides.
“Do what?”
“Try to pit us against each other. Jealousy isn’t going to work on us, Angel. I already told you. We share.”
I laugh, a real and genuine barking laugh. Because while these boys might share, I’ve seen more jealousy between the four of them than I think I’ve ever witnessed in my entire existence. “I’m not pitting anyone against each other, Quinn. I’m correcting you. With the facts. If you don’t like it, then—”
“Then what,” he says, once again closing the distance between us in no more than a heartbeat. His hand wraps around my back, tugging softly at the ends of my hair so that I’m forced to meet his gaze. His eyes searchmine, so captivating that I almost forget what we were talking about altogether. “Then I’ll have to do something about it? Because trust me, Angel. I have had that very thought every day since you allowed me the pleasure of tasting that sweet cunt of yours.”
“You—you have?” I ask, barely capable of forming the words through the lack of air currently in my lungs.
He nods, playing with the strands of hair wrapped around his fingers. “Thought of it, begged for it, even touched myself to the idea of it.”
Fuck. I think I may pass out. My heart is beating so fast I can’t see straight. I blink, trying to force away the black stars that are floating on the edge of my vision.
“But what I can’t figure out is why you are so reluctant to trust us.” His voice is soft, lyrical. And I have to fight myself to not immediately give in. “After the truth we’ve shown you? After your own kind has abandoned you? Why are you living by their rules, even still? What are you hiding that requires that level of secrecy?”
His gaze doesn’t falter, his eyes don’t even blink. I breathe it in, breathehimin. In such close proximity, the world around us melts away. His hands run up the sides of my body, dancing over my curves on their way up and tangling with my fingers trapped above my head. I find myself fighting the desire to let him in, to tell him everything. To beg him not to stop. Because as much as I want to keep this secret, I want to please him as well. I need it. Icraveit.
I swallow, willing the words to surface. Or willing him to pull them out of me. Willing him to touch and tease his way through this interrogation until I’ve given him everything I have to offer. And just when I’m sure he’s going to give in, to kiss me this time—he releases my wrists from the leather cuffs in one swift motion.
I blink, my world spinning as I catch myself before I hit the floor. Blood rushes back into my arms, making my skin tingle as I try to push myself upright. By the time I’m standing again he’s already across the room, letting someone in through the doorway.
“What are you doing in here?” Aamon steps in. He’s looking at me, but the question is posed towards Quinn, a heavy accusation in his tone.
“She wanted a tour of the bar. Figured I’d oblige.” Quinn is once again his unconcerned self, and while he’s putting up the perfect facade, I know the truth is written all over my frazzled and heated face. Aamon spends several moments assessing me before turning to Quinn.
“Did you take her to see Laurel?”
Quinn nods, waving his hand. “Yeah, it was nothing, just a bruise. Laurel gave me shit for even bringing her in the first place.” I don't fail to notice his lie, but whether it's because he's genuinely trying to cover for me, or only trying to gain my trust, is too much for me to figure out right now.
Aamon’s eyes linger on Quinn for a second longer, narrowing in before turning and walking out the door.
“Come on,” he calls as he stalks into the hall. “Sterling is waiting for us.”
I let out a breath, my whole body unclenching. Quinn nods for us to follow and I rush through the room, rubbing at the tenderness in my wrists. Quinn’s hand lands on the small of my back and I can't help but take one last look towards the restraints on the wall—the same I’d been in mere moments ago. As Quinn and Aamon lead me out the back entrance and to the bikes that Zeke waits beside, I feel how much my body longs for another opportunity to return to the red rooms. With Quinn. And maybe with more thanjustQuinn, too.
The parking lot of the clubhouse is dark when we return. I’ve seen other Blood Order members coming and going throughout my time here, and I’m all too aware of how quiet it seems now. How out of place something feels. My skin pricks, apprehension unfurling inside of me.
“Where is everybody?” I ask, squeezing a little tighter onto Aamon. He cuts his engine, signaling me to let go. I reluctantly drop my hands and hop off the back of his bike as gracefully as I can manage.
“I have something for you,” he says, ignoring my question. I pause mid-motion as I’m pulling off the helmet he insists I wear, hands hovering above my head.
“For me?” I toss him the helmet, turning to look over my shoulder to see who else he could possibly betalking to.
He chuckles. “Yes, for you.” He nods, his features still veiled behind his mask. “Consider it a peace offering.” He repositions himself so that he’s facing me, leaning against the seat of his bike in a way that allows me to see all of him. The length of his legs extend between us, his arms folded over his chest, flexing the cords of muscle and defined veins wrapping around his arms. There’s the smallest hint of a smirk concealed behind the shadows of his mask. He’s replaced his typical vexed demeanor with one that’s more akin to Quinn’s temperament, and I find myself hugging my middle to shield from the uncomfortability of the shift.
“I don’t know if I should be excited or scared,” I say honestly.
“Why’s that?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.
“You extending an olive branch? My entire world may be upside down right now, but even I can tell that’s some sort of gods-ordained anomaly.”
He straightens, his body tensing in the little bit of moonlight filling the parking lot. “Trust me, Angel.” He steps up to me, reaching out a hand and smoothing my helmet-tousled hair. “I may be an anomaly, but nothing about me is gods-ordained.”
His presence is electrifying, especially in such close proximity. Everything about him should be a warning to run. And yet, I find myself leaning into his touch. His words, dipped in darkness, do little to discourage me either. And I’m suddenly wondering what it would be like to have thosetattooed hands running over the curve of my ass, up my spine. Around my neck.
