Bonds of Obsession (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #3)

19. Quinn

19

QUINN

His mouth crashes against mine and the rest of the world fades away. The kiss is hard and demanding, but it’s not enough. My hands find his shoulders, his back, his biceps, desperate to touch every part of him after being kept away for so long.

To think there was a possibility that I might have never again run my hands along the hard planes of his chest or inhaled the woodsy, slightly citrus scent that’s so uniquely his… fuck, it makes me want to be that much closer to him now.

I know we can’t make up for lost time, but I think we both need this—hard and fast and reckless—on a basic, almost cellular level that neither of us can fully understand in this moment.

He rolls me onto my back, ignoring his own injuries as the bed creaks and groans under our combined weight, and settles between my legs. A primal, animalistic groan rumbles up from his chest. I’m not sure if it’s pain or pleasure that’s causing it, but the sound is just another reminder that he’s here, that this is really happening, that I don’t have to fucking hope and pray and dream about him coming home anymore.

He reaches down between my legs and growls as he slips a finger inside me. “Fuck, you’re always so wet for me. You want more of this, don’t you? Want me to fuck you hard?”

The roughness of his hands as he adds a second finger, along with the grit and gravel in his voice, trigger something in my brain. Something that allows me to give up some of the control that I’m usually so protective over.

There are only three people who can trigger that response, and they’re all here under the same roof with me.

Thank fuck.

“Yes,” I answer without hesitating, without even thinking. “Fuck, yes. I need your fingers. I need your cock. Need you.”

Every touch feels like lightning against my skin. The familiar calluses on his fingers, the heat of his breath against my neck, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress—it’s sensory overload, but in the best possible way.

My body remembers him, remembers all the things I love about him even though I’ve probably done a shitty job of expressing just how much all those little things mean to me.

I have to hope he understands, and that he can read my body and mind just as well as I can read his.

He pulls his fingers away, but I barely have time for an involuntary, needy whimper before he’s replaced them with the thick, blunt head of his cock.

“Yes,” I repeat, lifting my hips off the mattress in an impatient effort to get him inside me. “That’s it. Right there. More.”

The words feel inadequate. Need doesn’t begin to cover this bone-deep ache, this frantic desperation to crawl inside his skin. My nails rake down his back, needing to mark him, to prove he’s real and solid and here.

There’s no slow burn, no gentle build. Just Atlas sliding balls deep into me and then pulling all the way out to do it over and over again. His thrusts are wild and strong and almost painful, but that’s exactly what my own body has been craving.

I’ve always needed a little pain to numb the rest of my senses, and this time is no different. I might be numbing happiness instead of sadness, but that also takes away the anxiety and vulnerability and potential heartbreak that go right along with that happiness.

It’s almost too much. The thrust of his hips, the pounding of my heart, the rush of blood in my ears—it’s too intense, like my body might burst from the sheer force of the pleasure.

And still, it’s not nearly enough.

My fingers dig into his back, scratching lines into his skin, and he growls at the sting, the tiny pinpricks of pain that make the pleasure so much more satisfying.

I’m not sure how long we keep this pace, but eventually, I’m gasping for breath and my chest is heaving as I struggle to keep up.

“Wait—stop,” I pant, pressing against the wall of muscle on top of me to try to slow him down. “You’re… you’re hurt. We need to slow down before you bust a stitch and I have a heart attack.”

All he does is shake his head, barely breaking his frantic rhythm. “Don’t care. I need you. Fuck, I need to feel you come all over my cock.”

How can I argue with that? The rational part of my brain is screaming at me, telling me this is wrong and lecturing me on how much more recovery time he’s going to need because of these fleeting minutes of pleasure.

But for once, I don’t give a fuck about being rational or practical or smart. Instead, I move my hands back down to grip his hips and urge him on.

The rhythm finally falters for a moment as he pulls out, but it’s only so he can reposition himself, lifting my legs over his shoulders and plunging back into me with a rush that takes my breath away. I’m exposed, completely at his mercy, and I surrender to the feeling, giving myself over to the unrestrained, unguarded pleasure.

It’s different from last night—those slow, careful movements and all the care we took with his wounds—but it’s just as intense, if not more so.

Last night was close and passionate and intimate.

Today? We’re fucking. We’re fulfilling a primal need that’s as basic as it is instinctual.

“Harder,” I beg, spreading my legs wider to give him better access. “Fuck me harder. I’m getting close.”

He seems happy to give me what I want, snapping his hips forward with enough force to jerk my entire body around on the mattress like a rag doll.

Something warm and wet drips onto my breast. At first, I think it’s sweat—we’re both covered in it, our skin slick and sliding against each other. But when I glance down, I see red. Dark red droplets splashing across my chest.

“Atlas—”

He cuts me off with another deep thrust that makes me forget what I was about to say. His blood smears between us as he drives into me harder, faster, chasing his release. I should stop him. I should say something. But my own orgasm builds, sharp and electric, and I can’t form words.

He comes with a guttural groan, spilling inside me. The sensation tips me over the edge and I follow, crying out as pleasure crashes through me in waves. His mouth finds mine in a messy kiss, teeth clashing, his blood mixing with sweat on our bodies.

When the high fades, reality crashes back. Atlas collapses beside me, his chest heaving. His face is ghost-white, and pain lines are etched around his eyes. Blood has soaked through the bandage on his chest and is slowly trickling down his stomach.

“Shit.” I bolt upright. “Killian! Get your ass in here!”

Atlas tries to grab my wrist. “I’m fine. I don’t need?—”

“You’re not fine, you stubborn ass. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.” I pull my arm away as I try to assess the situation. Fuck, there’s a lot of blood. More than there should be. “Killian!”

Atlas sinks back against the pillows, his breathing shallow. The sheets beneath him are already stained red.

“Worth it,” he mumbles, but his usual cocky grin is weak.

The door bursts open and Killian rushes in, gun drawn. His eyes sweep the room before landing on us. His nostrils flare as he takes in the scene—me still naked and clearly freshly fucked, Atlas bleeding beside me, both of us covered in sweat and blood.

Heat flashes through his eyes for a brief moment before he groans in exasperation. “Jesus fucking Christ, Atlas. Those stitches were perfect before you decided to start thinking with your dick.”

“Had to…” Atlas’s laugh turns into a harsh wheeze that makes my stomach clench. “Make up for lost time.”

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?” There’s a gentleness beneath Killian’s gruffness as he shoves his gun in the waistband of his pants and approaches us. His hands are already steady, clinical, as he pulls the soaked bandage away. “Half these stitches are shot. Gonna have to redo the whole goddamn section.”

The bedroom door opens again and Nico rushes in, wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants. His eyes lock onto my naked body and darken with unmistakable heat before he takes in the blood-soaked scene.

“Couldn’t even keep it in your pants for a full day, huh?” He shakes his head at Atlas, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

Killian leaves the room, then returns with the med kit and gets to work cleaning, stitching, and re-bandaging Atlas’s wounds. Atlas winces but stays still, his hand finding mine and squeezing.

“You need to be more careful,” Killian mutters, although I’m not sure if he’s talking to Atlas or me.

“We all need to be careful.” Nico’s voice carries an edge of worry as he leans against the doorframe. “Especially you, mia cara. The Dark Lotus Syndicate isn’t like other organizations.”

I pull the sheet up to cover myself, suddenly feeling exposed in more ways than one. “I know. But I don’t think there’s anything I would’ve done differently if given a chance. Well, except to tell them to go after Ambrose too.”

“And that’s fine. I wish they’d killed him in the crossfire, though, because now he’s a fucking complication. It would be different if the Syndicate was bound by blood or tradition like most crime families. Instead, they’re all about power and politics. The votum system keeps things in check, but…”

“But some members weren’t happy with how you used yours.” Killian doesn’t look up from his work as he speaks. “They think it was reckless.”

“I had to.” The memory of Atlas bleeding out makes my chest tight. “I couldn’t let him die.”

“We know.” Nico’s expression softens. “But they don’t care about that. They don’t care about loyalty or love or family. They care about power and maintaining their position.”

“There’s a lot of complex dynamics we don’t understand yet.” Killian finishes the last stitch and starts wrapping fresh bandages around Atlas’s chest. “One wrong move could get you killed.”

Atlas tries to sit up but Killian pushes him back down. “We’ll protect you.”

“That’s not enough.” Nico shakes his head. “We need to learn how to navigate their world. Fast.”

My stomach twists into knots at the thought of navigating the Syndicate’s web of politics and power plays. The organization I joined to save Atlas is already starting to feel like a noose around my neck.

But when I look at him lying there next to me, alive and breathing in spite of everything he’s been through, I know I’d make the same choice again. Having him back is worth whatever price I have to pay.

“Well, now that we’ve established Atlas is an idiot who can’t keep it in his pants for twenty-four hours…” Nico’s lips quirk up, breaking the heavy tension in the room. “He probably needs some food to replace all that blood loss.”

“I can walk downstairs myself.” Atlas pushes himself up on his elbows, ignoring Killian’s disapproving glare. “The stitches are fresh now, I’ll be fine.”

“Fucking dumbass.” Killian’s barely-suppressed smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he starts packing up the medical supplies. “But I suppose you need to eat something.”

“See? Even the doctor agrees.” Atlas grins, although it’s strained around the edges. He swings his legs over the side of the bed with a barely concealed wince. “Could use some work on that bedside manner though.”

“At least put on some clothes first.” Nico tosses him a pair of sweatpants. “I don’t need to see any more of you today than I already have.”

I slip into the bathroom to clean up and throw on fresh clothes, my mind still churning with thoughts of the Syndicate. But when I come out and see Atlas standing there, black sweatpants slung low on his hips and that familiar stubborn set to his jaw as he argues with Killian about whether he needs help down the stairs, I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders.

I hover close to Atlas as we make our way down the stairs, ready to catch him if he stumbles. He catches me watching and shakes his head.

“I’m not going to keel over dead from walking down some stairs.” He reaches out to run a hand over the curve of my ass. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m made of glass. The blood loss makes me look worse than I feel.”

Killian grunts from behind us. “That’s because you’re still riding an endorphin high from getting laid.”

“Maybe.” Atlas shrugs and shoots me a wink. “Still worth it.”

We reach the kitchen, where Nico has already pulled several ingredients from the fridge. The familiar sounds and smells of him cooking—the sizzle of oil and the sharp scent of garlic—fill the space.

“Sit down before you fall down,” he orders, pointing his spatula at Atlas.

I help Atlas into a chair, earning another eye roll from him.

“I swear, if you all keep looking at me like that…” he mutters.

“Yeah, I fucking know you’re not made of glass,” I huff, shooting him a look. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t still need a little help sometimes.”

“I’m fine.” He tugs me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Better than fine.”

“You lost enough blood to paint the bedroom red.”

“But look.” He flexes his bicep with an exaggerated grunt. “Still strong enough to?—”

Nico’s phone buzzes on the counter, cutting off whatever ridiculous thing Atlas was about to say. Nico glances at the screen and his whole body tenses.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, setting the spatula aside.

The playful atmosphere evaporates. Atlas straightens in his chair, wincing slightly at the movement. Killian sets down his coffee mug with a sharp click.

I strain to see the name flashing on the screen, but can’t quite make it out. “Who is it?”

“Brace yourselves.” His thumb hovers above the screen to answer the call. “It’s Zoey.”