Affliction: An Age Gap, Insta-Love Romance

Chapter 6

Patriot bitthe inside of his cheek and forced back a growl of appreciation.

Cilla in her waitress uniform was sweet, luscious, and sometimes adorable. Cilla in her comfy clothes—her shorts and threadbare t-shirt?

God.

Damn.

He could see right through the thin material of her old t-shirt, with the words “All’s fair in love and Lore!” written on it.

Never in his life had he been as tempted as he was in that moment. Her heavy breasts hung loose, her nipples were hard peaks against her shirt that was thin enough for him to see that her sexy little buds were a sweet light pink in color.

Fuck, they probably tasted like strawberries and cream.

His favorite flavor.

Her shorts weren’t shorty shorts, the kind the club women wore, but they weren’t basketball shorts, either. They were cotton and hit right above her knee, giving him an amble view of her lower legs, and the start of thick, milky thighs, thighs he wanted wrapped around his head…then his waist, as he showed her just how much pleasure they could wring from each other.

He bet she was tight, her pussy hot and wet. She’d make him goddamn delirious when she came, and that hot, tight cunt squeezed the shit out of his dick.

His cock thickened in response to that thought, pressing against the zipper on his jeans.

Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to readjust himself, especially with Cilla eyeing him like he brought the Black Plague to her door.

Yeah, she was pissed, and she looked fucking hot with her pink cheeks, glittering eyes, her arms crossed under her beautiful tits, and her legs parted in a stance he assumed was meant to copy his.

Damn, he liked his sweet Cilla all riled up. Too bad he had no idea what the fuck she had to be riled up about. She was the one who’d been avoiding him for four fucking days! Four days without her, and he was like a goddamn addict, coming down from a high and fucking crashing without his fix. Four days without his Cilla fix, and he was dying.

Without her, he had no peace, no comfort, no true pleasure in anything.

Have you realized yet that you need her more than your next breath?

Yeah, fucking internal voice, he knew. But he couldn’t accept it.

Cilla didn’t need to be tied to someone like him—like a fucking anchor around her neck, when she was just learning to swim. Life, as it was, was just beginning for her. And him…he’d lived, he’d done shit, he’d fucked up, he’d learned, and he’d sinned…and now he was living with the consequences of a life lived hard.

Consequences like falling head over heels for a too young, too innocent, too fucking sexy for her own good woman—and not being able to love her like she deserved to be loved. Like he wanted to love her.

Clearing his throat of the sudden lump of emotion he just couldn’t swallow, he huffed and thrust his fingers through his hair. His manbun had come loose on the drive over, and he hadn’t given a fuck about it, not when he was on a mission to get to Cilla, get Cilla to explain what the fuck she was doing, and then…. Well, he had no idea what he was going to do after that. He only knew that now he was here, with her, getting his fill of her for the first time in too many days, he couldn’t catch his fucking breath.

Shit.

Focus on the facts, fucker!

“Why have you been avoiding me?” he demanded, feeling like shit when she flinched at his tone and volume. Fuck.

Reel it in, asshole! She isn’t your enemy!

“Shit, Cilla…” he sighed, dropping his hands to his sides where he squeezed them into fists to keep from reaching out to touch her, to pull her into him and hold her.

She raised her hand to stop him from continuing, her eyes blazing.

“If you came here to be an asshole, you can leave right now. I am not in the mood, Patriot,” she snapped.

He almost curled his lip in humor—fuck, she was feisty when angry.

She’s going to be explosive in bed, too. All that fire raging inside, waiting to come out with the just right trigger….

“You’re not in the mood? Seriously, what the fuck, Cilla?” he ground out, shoving his fingers through the hair on his crown in frustration. “What the hell do you need to be in a mood about anyway? I’m the one who’s pissed—you took off after that night at the party, then you fucking ghosted me for days, Cilla. Not one goddamn word from you in four motherfucking days, and you’re in a mood?”

As he spoke, her face got redder and redder until the color spread downward over the creamy skin of her throat, down her chest, and disappeared into her t-shirt. He didn’t even try to not think about how far that color spread, and if it matched the color of her pussy lips.

Swallowing back a groan, he nearly flinched at the explosion of words from his usually sweet Cilla.

“Screw you, Patriot,” she spat. “Ghosted you? I didn’t ghost you, Patriot, I just lived my life as I usually would. I’m sorry if you feel neglected because I’m not pandering to you.”

Recoiling as if she’d just poked him in the forehead with a steel bat, he narrowed his eyes at her.

“Pandering…to me?” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “What the fuck, Cilla! We’re friends, we care about each other. I worry about you, I think about you, I want to talk to you—every goddamn day. And you feel the same way about me.” He used his longer stride to get right up in her face, until there wasn’t an inch of space between their bodies. “What happened that night at the party that made you run and hide from me, Cilla?”

She pinched her lips, her face leaching of color until her sexy blush from earlier was gone. He already missed it.

I missed something, alright,because Cilla going pale at his mention of the party meant something had happened, and she didn’t think to tell him about it.

Fuck that!

He leaned down until their noses nearly touched. “What happened, baby?” he drawled, his voice low and rumbling through his chest.

She shuddered, her mouth forming an O.

He brushed his lips against hers, so…very…lightly. Like a whisper.

He could feel his cock leaking precum against the inside of his thigh where it was tucked down his pant leg. He was a beast at 9 ⒈／⒉ thick, pulsating inches, so an erection was always a problem…unless he was naked.

Patriot watched quietly as emotions shifted through Cilla’s eyes—uncertainty, desire…then fear.

What was she afraid of? Him? How he made her feel?

Hmmm, his sweet Cilla was untried; all of her movements, her reactions, told him that she was inexperienced. But eager to be taught.

She bit her lip.

That fat, juicy, tasty looking lip.

In one breath he went from restrained to ravenous, crashing his mouth to hers.

Shocked, she gasped, and he took the opportunity offered, and he plundered. He stormed her mouth like a man desperate for life. For a taste of her. He conquered her, sliding his tongue into the wet heat he’d been dying to know intimately.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him, and he partook of the feast of the senses. Delicious. Decadent.

How could he have ever thought to deny himself this? To deny himself the pleasure and the passion of Cilla?

I’m a fucking fool.

No more. No longer.

She was his.

He would claim the shit out of her—and then her mouth, her noises of pleasure, and all of her—every goddamn luscious centimeter of her would be his.

Drawing in every last ounce of his control, he held back the beast snapping and clawing to be released, growling and snarling to be unleashed, to cage the civilized man and let the beast take control. But he couldn’t be that beast with Cilla. She deserved the man, the gentle and careful man who only wanted her pleasure. To let the beast loose would scare the shit out of the inexperienced Cilla. She needed soft, and he wanted to give it to her. He would give her whatever she needed—he would. No one else would ever have Cilla like he would. But could a man who was more animal than human really be what Cilla needed? Could a man who had so much blood on his hands and darkness in his soul actually hold the brightness and goodness that was Cilla without tainting her forever?

Patriot, an asshole who just took what he wanted, when he wanted it…took his time, savoring the taste of his woman on his tongue. Not a man of words, he still wished he could articulate just what he felt for her. If he could inscribe the depth and breadth and intensity of what he felt for her, once he was done, there would be no paper left in the world on which to write. And so, he kissed her, devoured her, ravished her mouth with his, pouring himself, his blackened soul, his blazing heart, and his desperate desires into the kiss. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to be inside her, to feel her tight, scorching heat swallowing his fat, aching cock. It would be motherfucking glorious. He groaned into her mouth as she shivered against him, the hard tips of her nipples scraping against his chest. Fuuuuuck, if he didn’t have his Cilla soon, he’d fucking explode.

Suddenly, her hands were pushing against his chest frantically, and he jerked himself back from the brink of mad euphoria.

He broke the kiss, gulping lungfuls of air, desperate to steady himself after he lost his fucking mind in that mouth of hers. The beast, barely leashed, growled, enraged at the loss of contact with its prey.

Cilla was panting, her hands now pressed to her own chest, her breasts shaking as she breathed. She took a step back, her eyes wide. Was that shock? Disgust? Had the intensity and depth of need in his kiss scare her away?

Had he fucking lost her because of his ravenous, beastly needs?

“No! That can’t happen again,” she cried out, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. Her eyes were dilated, her lips parted, her cheeks pink, but there wasn’t fear there in her expression. There was only disbelief, confusion, and wariness. She wanted him—wanted what he could give her, but she was unsure, uncertain.

He could work with that.

“We can’t do this,” she blurted again, pressing the back of her hand to her trembling mouth.

His first thought was “why the fuck not?” but then a more level-headed voice prevailed.

She wasn’t ready, not for what he had in mind. Not for the beast nor his master. He’d rein him in…until she was just as hungry and needful as he was.

He wanted to bend her over the couch and fuck her like a goddamn animal. He wanted to let the dark creature, born and bred in desert battles, to let loose and mark her as theirs.

But that had to wait.

He was done with lying to himself. He was done denying himself what they both wanted. No, he wasn’t pure, untainted, or even human any longer, but he knew that being with Cilla would ease the pain of being living, breathing darkness. With Cilla at his side, in his life, in his bed, he could finally find peace…light…happiness.

He just had to be patient, because while he wanted Cilla as his ol’ lady, things were…complicated.

How had he forgotten about the shit storm that was Jaime and her demand for his “boyfriend” services? It had been two days since he’d last taken her call, but that didn’t stop her from texting and calling all day. He’d agreed to her plan, only because he didn’t want her talking to her brother about their indiscretion three years ago before he got a chance to get face-to-face with Stallion and admit to him, man to man, that he’d fucked up.

Fuck.

Jaime.

He needed to figure his shit out before he put a claim on Cilla.

He just didn’t know how to go about untangling himself from a woman who was dealing with her own drama. He’d seen things like that before, where the boyfriend didn’t take hearing “no” very well, and turned into a fucking asshole creeper. So far, Jaime had been tight lipped about who the asshole stalking her was, which wasn’t a surprise. Jaime never liked having things out of her control, which meant Patriot was on the line to help her, but his reach was limited. Then again, it wasn’t all that difficult to shoot a text to Red, the MC tech nerd, whose full road name was Redtube after the porn site he pretty much kept in business all on his own, the perv. Hey, Patriot enjoyed porn like any regular guy, but Red took it too far.

Patriot mentally shuddered, and brought himself back into the moment and the woman glaring at him like an angry bunny—all soft and adorable, but watch out for sharp teeth!

Before she could retreat like her eyes were telling him she would, he reached out and cupped her face in his large hands. He brushed his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks, over her chin, then over the lips he’d kissed…he’d devoured…he fucking needed to kiss again.

But he stopped himself.

The look of fear and something else in her eyes told him that she wouldn’t be receptive to more yet.

But she would be. In time. And time he would give her, because he still had shit to get done before he could worship her like he longed to do.

He pressed her forehead against hers, closed his eyes, and sighed.

She was stiff at first, but her could feel her melt into him the longer they stood there in silence.

God…she was everything.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re right.” Slowly, he pulled back, his gaze locked on hers. Her eye lids fluttered as if she were fighting the urge to close them, to lean into his touch.

“I…I am?” she muttered, her voice husky as fuck. Damn. Her mouth may be saying their kiss was a mistake, but her body was just as affected as his was.

He smirked, loving how hazy her gaze was, and how flushed her cheeks were, and how shallow her breathing was.

Yeah, she was affected, and that was something he would use. Later.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured against the flesh of her forehead, his lips skimming her warm skin. “You’re right. We shouldn’t do that again.”

Immediately, she tensed, coiling to pull back.

He dropped his hands from her face to wrap his arms around her body, holding her in place. Holy hell, her body was fucking perfect, fitting against him like she was made for him.

Because she was.

Unthinking, driven by an atavistic urge to mate, his hips ground against her, pressing the throbbing, hard length of his cock against her belly.

Heaven. Fuck. She felt like heaven, and he wasn’t even inside her.

Yet.

She gasped, her gorgeous eyes widening. But—he made note—she didn’t pull away. She remained where she was, panting. Melting into him.

Fuck yeah, his baby was hungry for his cock.

But they had to wait.

She wasn’t ready—and neither was he.

That wouldn’t stop him from enjoying the little things, though.

He smirked down at her, loving the look of shock and awe on her lovely face.

Her luscious curves were like velvet against the steel of his muscles. Hard beautifully cushioned by soft. Firm sensually subdued by the supple. He pressed his nose against her skin of her throat, just behind her ear, and took a deep breath. At the scent of warm vanilla, he moaned—both contented and goddamn ravenous. How did she do it? How was she his calm and his condemnation in the same person? Frayed and frantic perfectly soothed by silk and satin, flesh and blood.

Skimming his nose over her fragrant skin, he hummed. “Because, baby, you aren’t ready.” He drew up to his full height, taking in her heated, needy expression, and nearly said “fuck it.”

She gazed up at him, confusion and barely banked desire darkening her features. Her already ripe lips were kiss swollen and a deep pink. God…to taste her again. To engrave her flavor into his bones so that even the depths of him knew her delicate essence.

Lord, fuck. Once he finally got her into his bed, beneath him, around him, it was going to be fucking catastrophic. It would shake his world to its foundations, and he would go down bellowing her name.

“No more avoiding me, baby,” he commanded in a low rasp, then headed out.

Shutting the door behind him, he closed his eyes and cursed.

“Fuck, I need a drink.”

Cilla would be the death of him, and he’d thank her on his way down to hell.