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Chapter thirty-seven
I managed to get Anniston upstairs before fucking her outside the back door of my club. The minute I was inside her, I knew once wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would never be enough. She’d seeped into my veins like heroin, consuming me, possessing me, driving me fucking insane. I damn sure didn’t want anyone looking at her. They could see me in my underwear all fucking day, and it didn’t matter. I’d already been stripped and tormented more times than I could count. There was nothing anyone could take from me that hadn’t been stolen a long time ago. But her? All of those things I took—her fear, her humility, her throaty fucking moans—they were forme. No one else. Not the doorman in my building. Not Leo. And sure as fuck not those sick fucks that call themselves a Brotherhood.
I handed her one of my t-shirts and a pair of joggers, then I grabbed a pair for myself.
“You always keep spare clothes in your office?” she asked as she studied her surroundings the same way she’d wide-eyed the club as I brought her up the stairs.
I pulled my wet underwear off and tossed them onto the floor. “Sometimes my job gets messy.”
“You mean bloody.”
She licked her lips as her gaze fell to my cock. Then she tossed the white robe onto the floor, allowing me to see—really see—for the first time all the damage I’d done to her body. Dried fingerprints stamped in blood painted a violent picture all over her chest and throat. There would probably be bruises underneath all that tomorrow.I marked her.Why the fuck did that thought make my heart pound faster?
Because I wanted to bruise her, bite her, and mark her everywhere.
“You had blood on your shirt that day.” Her breath quickened. “In the kitchen.”
The same day I took her mouth to pay for her mother’s sins.
I slid into the joggers after contemplating fucking her again against the wall, then took another look at her body and decided it could wait.
She moved to pull the t-shirt over her head, and I grabbed her wrist. “Wait. Let’s get you cleaned up.” I went into my private bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water.
“I was ninety percent sure you were a serial killer that day,” she said with a chuckle. Fuck. Even her laugh was sexy.
I laughed, deep and from the gut. “Is that so?”
She shrugged. “Hit men are serial killers too.”
“Baby, you’re so far from the truth you need a map to find your way back.”
As I dabbed at her chest with the washcloth, careful not to re-open her wound and make it bleed again, her eyes fell to the stripes on my chest. “What happened here?” She trailed a fingertip along one of the red lines, tiny shockwaves following her touch.
We’re both victims of the same game.The difference was that I had a choice.
How could she be so tender, so gentle with me after what I’d just done to her? Fuck. I was still cleaning the evidence off her skin. It made me want to devour her, explore every part of her the way she seemed to crack me open and expose every part of me.
“Nothing,” I answered, then handed her the cloth, so she could finish herself.
After tonight, I was marching head-on into the darkness, and it was going to take everything I had not to bring her with me.
