10. Celia
Chapter 10
Celia
Not only do I convince Rage to find me one of Rebel’s t-shirts to wear to bed, but he dresses me in it, too. He takes his time pulling it over my chest, enjoying the sight of my naked tits too much to rush the process, but he does as I ask, even pulling a pair of his boxers up my thighs and over my hips before laying me down in his bed. He stares at me with a frown on his face before joining me and wrapping a heavy arm around my waist to pull me close.
Removing the leather cuffs for the brief moment he slipped off my gown and redressed me in my makeshift pajamas was a tease, making me forget that we aren’t simply a man and woman going to bed together.
I’m still his prisoner. Every clink of metal behind my back solidifies that reality.
Idly, Rage strokes the tiny gap between where the leather touches my skin with his fingertip. “What would you do--” he plucks the cuff—“for me to take these off?”
I pinch my lips together, trying to ignore the way he smells. Something manly, like cedar or sandalwood, deep and woodsy. It must be his soap. I hold my breath as best, shutting my eyes to block as much of him out as I can. But between the body heat radiating off of him and the weight of his arm draped over my waist, it’s impossible to ignore him.
Then there’s the featherlight brush of his fingers on my wrist.
Another tease.
I squirm, uncomfortable with this entire situation. “ Nothing. Because even if I did believe you, which I don’t, you wouldn’t take them off.”
Rage hums softly. “I would for the right reward.”
“Oh, so this is—what, a gift? An act of kindness?” I scoff. “You don’t get rewards for doing things for the sake of others. It’s called being a good fucking person. And for the record, you wouldn’t have to take them off if you hadn’t put them on in the first place!”
Ignoring my tirade, he simply says, “So you don’t want them off?”
“Of course I do!” I snap. “But not if it means giving you something in return, asshole!”
He presses his lips to my jaw and hums again, like he’s enjoying his little mind game. “Wake me up when you change your mind.” He drops back onto the pillow and stretches, getting comfortable. My limbs ache, my muscles coiled tight simply because I can’t unwind them. Even though Rage’s bed is wide enough to fit three people, he stays close, taking up the middle of the bed like he owns it and keeping his arm around my waist like he owns me.
I guess, technically, he does.
For the next eight hours, at least.
I listen to his breathing, waiting for the moment it slows. Time passes in blind increments. I search the room for a clock, but there is none. Although I feel Rage’s limbs twitch as his body tries to succumb to sleep, he never fully relaxes. Is that his normal, or is he waiting for me to take him up on his offer? Is that why he can’t sleep?
What the hell would I even give him for it?
All the possibilities that come to mind are of me on my knees choking on his cock again or of me spreading my legs for him to shove it as deep inside as he can while he relentlessly fucks me for the remainder of our eight hours together.
Neither of which are fucking happening.
But still , the idea settles somewhere in the vulnerable part of my mind between waking and dreaming, hooking its claws in so that I’ll think of it not only when I’m asleep, but also when I’m wide fucking awake.
Like right now. I am wide awake.
I replay the events of the night in my head, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. What could I have done differently? Would it have made a difference, or would I still be here in Rage’s bed, cuffed like a prisoner… or a plaything.
The neon pink sign for The Playroom flashes through my mind. Then the blinding white sign for restrooms follows. The two women who helped me in the restroom—Fox the redhead and the blonde nicknamed Angel. I chew on their advice as the silence between me and Rage stretches on.
If he’s gonna hold you down and fuck you, you’ve gotta do the same.
You’ll be in control of what happens—or doesn’t.
Is that what I need to do to take Rage’s power away? Fuck him first?
I don’t think I’m understanding their advice correctly. That can’t be the answer. Then I’m giving him exactly what he wants—my body, my attention, my everything. Giving in feels a lot like losing.
But so does lying in the dark for the next eight hours, unable to move beyond what Rage allows.
Tentatively, I twist my body toward him. What do I even say? Hi, I’ve changed my mind, can I fuck you?
Yeah, that’s really gonna show him who’s boss.
I need to act first, ask for permission never. It’s what Rage would do. It’s how he keeps his power. He takes.
Steeling the nerves fluttering in my gut, I press my body into Rage’s, smashing my tits against his arm and laying my thigh across his. I can’t push myself up and into his lap without the use of my hands, so I use what I can to get Rage’s attention.
I rub my pussy on his thigh and press my knee into his crotch, feeling his cock swell from the pressure. If he wasn’t awake before, he is now, the harsh inhale giving him away. I keep moving my hips, hitching my clit on his muscled thigh, rubbing his cock with my knee.
It can’t be comfortable or anything close to soft, but within seconds, his cock has sprung back to life.
Pleasure skates up my spine as I use Rage’s body for my own benefit. This is new for me. I don’t dry hump people. Or pillows. Or dildos. Or anything . But Rage’s body is so warm , the hard muscle of his thigh flexing as I rub against him as best I can from this angle. I pant these tiny, hot puffs of air near Rage’s ear, and finally, he moves.
Gripping my leg, he drags my thigh further over his hips, trapping his cock in the crevice where my calf meets the back of my knee, and shifting my body so that I can better grind against him. I whimper as he thrusts, rubbing his dick against my leg while I do the same with my pussy and grind my hips to increase the friction.
We both pant these hushed, heated breaths, neither of us speaking, both of us seeking our own pleasure.
It isn’t until I bite his shoulder on a particularly magnificent swivel of my hips that he groans and reaches for me. Gravity tilts as he drags my body on top of him and forces my legs apart, making me straddle his hips.
The head of his cock presses insistently against my clit, the long length of him slotted against my core, the soaked crotch of my boxers molding to our bodies. I drag in a needy lungful of air while he palms my thighs, running the rough pads of his hands up and down in these slow, long drags of skin-on-skin.
“What are you doing, krosotka? ”
I shudder from the rumble in his voice, followed by an impatient twitch of his cock. I’ve given him a way to break his word. He could spear me on top of his cock and force me to take his length, his girth, all the way to the hilt. It would be easy. For him to take, and for me to let it happen.
But that’s not what this exercise is about.
“I’ll give you this —” I roll my hips and moan, grateful for Rage’s punishing grip on my thighs or else I might fall off of him. “—when you take the cuffs off.”
He thrusts, pinning me in place as his dick rubs against my overheated core. Despite the thin barrier between us, I can feel him pulse with need as his desire roars between us.
I came on his fingers on the bathroom counter.
He didn’t come at all.
“I’ll make you come,” I clarify, “but we’re not having sex.”
Rage huffs. “I want to fuck you, Celia, not dry hump you. It won’t work. I can’t come like this. Nice try.”
“You will come,” I insist, grinding my hips and gasping at how fucking good it feels, “because I will.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. “You’ll ride my cock until you come?”
I nod before I realize he can’t see me in the dark. “Yes. But with my underwear on.”
“That’s dry humping, Celia—it’ll chafe more than anything, and I’ll have blue balls for the rest of the night. The answer is no.”
“You can suck my tits while I do it.”
“Lights on,” he counters, “with kissing.”
“No kissing.”
“It’s my reward for removing the cuffs. Kiss me while you ride me, or there’s no deal.”
I should have known this wouldn’t be as simple as helping him bust a nut before bed. So much for all that power I supposedly have. But for one, it’ll get the cuffs off. For another, I’ll get to come again, which means I might actually get some sleep. Maybe Rage will, too, if he comes hard enough.
I better put on a damn good show.
“Fine,” I bitterly agree.
While he reaches behind me and undoes the cuffs, he buries his face in my tits and mouths a nipple through my t-shirt. I gasp, my hips jerking, and he groans. “Take this off,” he orders, turning on the bedside lamp in the next instant, “and ride me, beautiful.”
My shoulders scream when I pull my arms back to the front, but I don’t linger on the pain. I lift my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor, rolling my hips once to test our connection.
Rage palms my bare tit but keeps his eyes on my face. I know what he wants, and it kills me to give it to him. I delay the inevitable, building into a rhythm that makes my breath catch and my body flush hot. Unbearably hot. Our desire flows like water between the two of us, drenching us both where our bodies meet.
As my pleasure mounts, I imagine what if would feel like to sink on top of him. How full I would be. How hot and slick and perfect it could be. I grip Rage’s shoulders tightly, using him as an anchor. I’m so turned on that it hurts . It shouldn’t feel this way— he shouldn’t make me feel this way.
I can’t want to fuck the man I hate.
When I make no move to kiss him, Rage takes over, growling as he drags my face down to meet his. Our lips crash in a tangle of teeth and tongue, both of us moaning and thrusting in time with each other. Rage’s tongue slips inside my mouth as he punches his hips up, slamming the tip of his cock against my clit and making me see stars. I drag in a lungful of air and he groans, nipping my earlobe. “I can feel you, krosotka , so fucking wet, drenching my cock in your sweetness.” He attacks my mouth again, biting my lip, seeking dominance.
The pain mixes with the pleasure. I’m too far gone to care, digging my nails into his skin, jerking my hips in tiny, short bursts to maximize the pressure and heat on my clit.
Sex would be better, but this is pretty fucking close.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” I clench my eyes shut as I explode, crying out as both pleasure and pain ricochet through my body. Rage grabs my hips and slams me down, shoving an inch of his cock between my lips, forcing his way inside. His cock pulses, each hot burst filling my underwear with nowhere else to go. I feel the wet heat as if it were my own, already soaking between my thighs. Trembling, I hold onto Rage until my orgasm wanes, barely registering that I’m still twitching my hips in time with his thrusts.
He lays back onto the mattress and drags me with him, burying his hand in my hair and holding me tight against his chest. I can feel his hammering heart, then the laugh rumbling around his ribs. “You proved me wrong,” he murmurs, gently scratching my scalp. “Feel free to do that again. I could go for another round.”
Somehow, I think he still came out on top, in the end. It rattles my confidence, crashing my high. I let him caress my sides, my hips, and my back for a few moments before rolling off of him and hopping out of the bed to search for a fresh pair of boxers. I change in record time, finding the t-shirt on the floor and whipping it over my head. The boxers make me wish for a shower for the second time tonight.
Rage watches me the entire time. His smile is cat-like, wicked and triumphant. “You should sleep naked.”
I scoff. There’s no way in hell that’s happening.
Unless…
“What are you willing to do—” I lift the hem of my shirt high enough to flash the underside of my boobs—“for me to take these off?”
Swallowing hard, Rage sits up against the headboard. Red scratches tear across his shoulders, much like how I’m sure his fingerprints are pressed into my hips. His dark eyes glitter with a thousand possibilities. I have no clue what he’s willing to give me in return for a naked night between his sheets, but I need to play this smart.
He is ruled by his desires. I can use that to my advantage.
A shower would be heavenly, but this is a long game we’re playing. I need to think beyond tonight. What do I need to be the one on top?
Before Rage can offer me something, I jump ahead of him. “If you answer all of my questions, I’ll sleep naked tonight.”
“Three questions.” His lips curve into a sinful smirk. “Unless you wanna fuck. Then I’ll answer anything you want.”
I gape at him. “How can you still want sex? We just—we basically had sex!”
“Not the same.” He pats his thick thighs, and I catch a glimpse of his glistening cock. It isn’t hard, but it could be very soon if I don’t shut this down. “Come sit on my lap and I’ll answer your questions.”
“Three questions, and I’m not sitting in your lap. Keep that thing away from me.”
He clicks his tongue. “You like my thing.”
My face flames. I undress without addressing his thing. I don’t even look at it, focusing instead on the empty space on the bed beside Rage. I slip between the sheets and keep the blankets between us, determined not to touch him. “Okay, first question.” I pick the first one that comes to mind, knowing that I can ease into the tougher ones. “Why did you hurt that man?”
It’s not the question I’m expecting to ask, and clearly Rage isn’t expecting it, either. He stares at me for a long moment, scanning my face. Slowly, his smile fades. “Because he doesn’t deserve you. Is that what you want to hear?”
I fiddle with the comforter. “I don’t want you to tell me what I want to hear. I want you to tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth.” Rage sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Seriously. He doesn’t deserve you, Celia. None of us do.” He blows out a breath.
This is a new revelation. Rage, showing self-doubt? “You can’t honestly believe that,” I chuff, rolling my eyes. “You’re the most self-absorbed person I know.”
Rage’s throat clicks on a swallow. “You asked for honesty. I’m being honest.”
I purse my lips, not believing it for a second. Is he saying that he’s not a good guy? “Well. I guess we can agree on that, at least.” I level him with a look. “You don’t deserve me.”
The statement rings as hollow as Rage’s subsequent laugh. “You think I don’t know that?” Shaking his head, he tumbles to the mattress and climbs on top of me, the comforter the only thing between us. “It’s impossible to fucking miss with how often you’ve been throwing it in my face. That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me this entire time, right? With all your fighting and your pushing and your flinty fucking gazes.” He growls, tearing at the blankets to get to me. We wrestle over the comforter, but he’s stronger, pulling it from my grasp in no time. Once my body is bared to him, he spreads his palm over the bottom rungs of my ribcage, like he’s searching for the heart tucked safely inside. “You fight so hard, Celia, so fucking hard. But I won’t take no for an answer. You even tried to spend your evening with someone else tonight—” he snarls, the hurt in his eyes crackling like lightning—“and I nearly killed him for it.”
Then Rage kisses me, crushing my body beneath his own. He leans on his forearms and cradles my head in his hands, bringing my mouth closer to his, like he can’t get enough of the taste of me. With a groan, he releases my lips and leans his forehead against mine. “A better man would let you go. I know that. But I can’t. Ever since I laid eyes on you, I knew you were mine. Ours, ” he corrects, chuckling in that bitter, humorless way again. “But mine more than anything. I can feel it in my bones, Celia. You were made to be mine. And no matter how much you resist me, I can’t let go.”
My heart flutters like a wild bird caught in a cage. People don’t talk like this about others. About anything. This level of desire isn’t normal.“I don’t understand,” I murmur, touching Rage’s face. There’s a tiny indent over his cheekbone—a scar, if I had to guess. “Why me?”
There are any number of reasons why someone might want to sleep with me, but Rage doesn’t want just sex. That’s abundantly clear by how he sticks around during the daytime and agrees to me sleeping in his bed at night without actually sleeping with him. It’s not like we’re friends—I don’t know him from within the fashion industry—and I can’t recall ever having met any men named Rage, Rebel, or Ruin when I cavorted within the bratva’s circles. I don’t even know why they invited me to Midnight in the first place.
I don’t know why they chose me.
I take a shallow breath, a new question on the tip of my tongue. It might be my last one, I’m not sure—“Have we met before, Rage? Before Midnight. ”
Rage unfurls his hands from my hair to fist the sheets beside my head. The sound he makes is agonizing. “ Yes. ”
My heart is already racing, but it jumps a beat. “When?”
“That doesn’t matter.” He shuts the question down immediately, nipping my jawline. “You asked me why I need you.” He moves to my neck and swipes his tongue along my pulse point, humming in satisfaction as it jumps. He pushes himself up to stare into my eyes. Even in the lamplight, his eyes are endless pools of black, consuming everything they meet. The flush on my cheeks. The sheen of sweat across my brow. The way there’s not a sliver of distance between us, our heartbeats warring against each other’s. When his gaze pings back to my face, he draws a deep breath and releases it nice and slow. “I need you, Celia. Body. Mind. Soul. All of you. Because you’re perfect. I know you don’t believe me, but I promise, you are. For me, for my brothers, for the bratva. Perfect. ”
I shake my head in quick, successive bursts. “No, you’re lying?—”
He pitches his hips forward, punching the air from my lungs with a heavy drag of his cock against my stomach. “Say that again,” he warns, “and I’m shoving it in your mouth.”
“You can’t!”
“I can,” he counters, clenching his teeth, “because your dis-fucking-belief supersedes everything else. I’m not lying to you, Celia, I’ll never lie to you. So if I need to shove my cock down your throat so that you’ll listen without interrupting, I fucking will.”
I snap my mouth shut and glare at him.
He actually smiles, and it softens his features. There’s a sparkle in his eye and a gentleness to his lips that makes him even more handsome than when he’s acting all macho and possessive. It punches me in the gut so strongly that I have to gasp to catch enough oxygen for my brain to catch up.
“I need you,” he begins again, “because you are fierce. You value life so much that you’ll fight for it, even when it’s not your own, which is fucking insane.” His eyes narrow, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t do that again, by the way. No sacrificing yourself for strangers.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but the threat of cock-suffocation is enough to keep me silent. When have I ever tried to save a stranger?
He continues, “you have a gentle heart. You don’t like bloodshed. You’re all sappy and in love with love?—”
This part can’t be true. I’m a wrecking ball when it comes to love.
“—and it makes me—” Rage shakes his head, his shoulders bouncing with a warm chuckle. “It gives me hope that you could ever love a man as dark and twisted as me. As my brothers . You may have rejected the bratva, but it runs through your veins stronger than you realize. Otherwise, you would have crumbled by now.” He wedges himself between my thighs and lifts up onto his knees, dropping the bedsheet behind him. The cool night air makes me shiver, but then Rage is pressing his scorching hot erection against my pussy, and I choke as heat engulfs me, spreading from the apex of my thighs to every square inch of my body. He doesn’t thrust, sitting perfectly still as his eyes rake over my naked body.
“You’re still here because you can handle it.” He cups my knees gently, brushing his thumbs over the bruises. “Because as much as you claim otherwise, you want to be here.” Licking his lips, he draws another breath. “I know that scares you, but think about it. You could have run over to that drawer—” He nods toward his dresser—“and plunged a knife into my heart or a put a bullet in my brain, but you didn’t. You could have , but you chose not to.”
I pinch the inside of my cheeks between my teeth, unable to look away from him. The hard planes of his torso aren’t smooth like I had thought; rough patches of mottled skin stripe across his chest and one of his shoulders. I think of the scar on his cheekbone—the tiny, inconsequential indentation—and realize that whatever caused this covered a much larger area and took a longer time to heal than what punctured his cheek. I lift my hand and trace one of the streaks with my fingertips, feeling its rough, bumpy texture.
Rage’s abdominal muscles tense as I skirt around his belly button.
It’s easier to focus on Rage’s body than what he’s saying. Part of me knows that he’s right—I could have run over there, grabbed any one of those handguns, and shot him dead. If I really hated him, I would have.
But I didn’t.
And that makes everything more complicated than I’m willing to admit.
“Maybe I should have.” I pinch my lips together, knowing that it’s a shitty thing to say. It’s also another lie, and I shut my eyes to avoid looking at Rage and his gorgeous fucking body. “But that would make a mess.”
“You didn’t let your brother kill me, either.”
“It would have ruined half my inventory.”
He grunts in a noncommittal answer.
I crack open one eye. He’s still staring at me and rubbing these tiny, little circles over my kneecaps. Gently, he says, “you said I could have you.”
My exhale is little more than a puff of exasperation. “You are not having sex with me right now?—”
Rage clenches his jaw. “That’s not what I mean.” His hand slides over my knee to the front of my thigh. “When you came to Midnight the first time, you said that you were ours. That was a promise, Celia, whether you intended it to be or not.”
I purse my lips. “That’s not fair. I was coerced.” I distinctly remember both Rebel and Rage kissing and touching all over my body that night.
“You wanted us then. You still want us now.” Rage reaches over and turns out the light with a click , shrouding us in darkness. His hand travels higher, tickling my inner thigh. “Stop breaking your promise, krosotka , or I’ll break mine. You won’t leave this bed without my cum buried so deep in your pussy, you’ll reek of it for days.” He pushes my thigh up, bending my knee toward my chest and making me hiss from the ache. “Then when your belly is round and swollen with my child?—”
My back arches on a moan as he aligns our hips and grinds against my pussy. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Not this again. Any mention of having a child makes my hormones rage. My body throbs hot with need, the mental image of me being pregnant and glowing with happiness cutting deep inside my chest, pouring out of me in a strangled cry.
I want that more than anything.
As Rage rotates his hips, I grind right back, unable to stop myself. Panting, I reach for him, blindly hoping that maybe it won’t be so bad, having Rage as the father. Maybe he’ll be good to me, then, and good to our baby.
Maybe he really means it when he says I’m perfect for him.
He hisses and pulls away, extricating himself from the bed, from my limbs, tearing away any hope that I have.
“—then, you won’t be able to deny that you’re mine. ”
I’ve pissed him off, but I’m not sure how. He paces the room in the dark for a few minutes before climbing back into the bed, as far away from me as possible. He doesn’t even grab the sheets, leaving them all for me.
“Rage?” I brush my hand across his shoulder, feeling stupid for even that small of a gesture. I hate going to sleep without resolving an argument, though. After a year of cold, sleepless nights with my ex, the last thing I want is another one. I never used to know how to appease my ex-husband, but with Rage, I have a feeling that bridging the divide is the first step. When he doesn’t answer me, I slide up behind him and wrap my arm around his middle. Part of me is terrified that he’ll suddenly decide to say fuck this to our little negotiations, flip me onto my stomach, and have his way with me, but another part of me is terrified that I might want him to.
If he can give me a baby…
I shut down the thought, unwilling to entertain it for another second. Getting my hopes up will only lead to a crash so massive, I won’t be able to recover.
I might actually kill myself this time.
Admitting my fears to Rage feels like swallowing a mountain, so I start small, with the tiniest one I can.
“I don’t know if I—” I take a quick breath—“if I would make a good partner.” I hug Rage tighter to ground myself in my body instead of allowing my mind to drift out into a sea of sorrow. “I wasn’t exactly…” I wince. “…wife of the year, in my last marriage. Not that we’re getting married!” I resist the urge to run far away and bury my face in Rage’s back instead. Breathing in his scent, I refocus. “I, um, don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for that. Again, I mean. Ever again.”
Rage laces our fingers together and lifts my hand to his lips. Softly, he murmurs, “if I do my job right, you’ll want to marry me.” He draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly, clutching my hand tightly in his. “Not because I force you to, but because… you want to.”
We fall into silence, with Rage pressing a kiss to my palm every few minutes. As we lie in the dark and breathe in the stillness together, I imagine a golden thread looping around us, tying our aching hearts together.
Because as much as I’ve wanted to be desired since the brutal heartbreak of my divorce, I realize that Rage might have been looking for that, too.
Desire.
Need.
Love.