9. Celia
Chapter 9
Celia
“Do I at least get to change clothes?” I rub the sheer fabric of my skirt between my fingers. “I’m gonna freeze in this.”
It takes Rage a few seconds to respond, like he’s barely processing what I’m saying. “You won’t freeze,” he says gruffly, unbuttoning his dress shirt. “Not with me beside you.”
My face flames, and I scowl at his dresser. “I’d still like something else to wear. A t-shirt? Sweatpants?” When he doesn’t make a move to get me anything, I take initiative and practically sprint to the other side of the room.
Anything to stop me from seeing his bare chest.
It’s one thing to know he’s hot on a fundamental level. All three brothers are ridiculously sculpted, each of them embodying different aspects that make men attractive. Rebel has this devil-may-care smirk and lean physique, Ruin has the whole mystery man thing going for him, and Rage…
He’s got alpha male written all over his huge, muscled body.
I tug open the top drawer. My eyes widen at the expanse of handguns and knives carefully tucked inside, each one pressed into foam to keep them from shifting around. Rage’s hand brushes over mine as he shuts the drawer.
“I don’t own any t-shirts.” He reaches for the second drawer and pulls out a pair of boxers and black socks. “You can wear these.”
I pull a face as he drops them into my arms. “I’m not sleeping topless.”
He stares at me, the hard line of his mouth unforgiving. “You’ll be more comfortable that way.”
Rolling my eyes, I dig through the second drawer, then the third. He was serious about not owning t-shirts. I don’t even find a pair of sweatpants or shorts. “What do you work out in?” I turn to stare at the benchpress and weights along the far wall. “I’ll wear that.”
His lips quirk into a smirk as he shrugs off his shirt and reveals the wide expanse of his torso. I’ve never seen it before, and my eyes rove the contours of his muscles, the well-defined ridges along his hips, the start of the deep V leading straight to what lies hidden beneath his slacks. A trail of dark hair starts at his belly button and dips lower, also hidden, until he undoes his belt and drops his pants.
The thick outline of his cock juts out, stretching his black boxers.
I swallow hard and avert my gaze. I don’t care if he sleeps in his boxers. Per our agreement, he’s not allowed to touch me with his dick tonight.
But then he drops those, too, and I catch the bob of his cock in the mirror overlooking his weightlifting station. My body ignites, and I squirm in place as I try not to look.
I fail miserably.
His voice rumbles over my shoulder. “I workout in my boxers, krosotka, but I sleep nude.”
Of course he does.
He chuckles, grazing my forearm with his knuckles. The rough bandage around his fingers scratches my skin, and he suddenly flinches away.
“What’s wrong?”
Ignoring me, he pulls open another drawer and retrieves something from inside. I barely catch a glimpse of silver before he spins me around, snatches both of my wrists, and holds them behind my back. Something stiff locks them into place, and he grunts in satisfaction.
I try to pull my hands back to the front and find that I can’t. They’re locked together at the wrist, the clink of a metal chain keeping them secured against my back. “Did you just handcuff me?” Spinning around, I check my reflection in the mirror, straining to see what he’s done. Leather cuffs connected by a silver chain are cinched around my wrists. “What the hell, Rage!” They jangle behind my back the more I struggle. I twist my wrists and pull, but they don’t budge and my hands won’t fit between the cuffs.
Something in his expression closes off, creating a wall I have little hope of penetrating. “I won’t fuck you tonight, but I can’t have you running loose, either.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up as he averts his gaze. A muscle in his jaw tics. “Or killing me in my sleep.”
Grabbing onto the cuffs, he pulls me into the bathroom and closes the door behind us. Walking backwards usually sucks, but walking backward in heels double sucks. I grit my teeth as he picks me up and plops me onto the bathroom counter, hooking my cuffs over something behind me. The faucet, if I had to guess, from the awkward angle it forces me into. The edge of my butt dips into the rounded sink.
“Wait here while I shower.” He barely looks at me as he spins around and starts the water, stepping inside before it’s even warmed up. I watch him through the glass as he steps under the rainfall and drenches himself, rivulets of water following the hard lines of his body.
It’s impossible not to stare at the appendage jutting out from his hips.
He exhales slowly, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.
I could have used a shower after the blow job earlier, but the last thing I want is to get naked with Rage in the vicinity.
I’m grateful he hasn’t forced me in there with him.
While he lathers up, I scour the contents of the counter, looking for antiseptic cream or lidocaine. I can handle bruised knees better than my bruised ego, but that doesn’t mean I should have to. The man’s loaded, not to mention responsible for my discomfort, so the least he could do is spring for some pain meds or creams.
The heady scent of amber soap fills the air. I give up on my search and close my eyes, content with a few minutes of relative silence. If I can’t find painkillers on my own, then I’m shit out of luck. There’s no way in hell I’m asking this man for anything.
It gets uncomfortably hot and humid after a few minutes of steam pouring from the shower. Rage must have the water turned up to hellfire . Likely attempting to scour the sin from his skin.
I roll my eyes. Not fucking possible.
I shift my weight and lift one of my legs onto the counter, leaving the other to dangle over the edge. Warm, moist air greets my inner thighs, and I try not to imagine it as anything other than air.
Innocent, comfortable air, unlike the heavy exhales and groans Rage makes when his face is buried between my thighs.
My thigh twitches, and I bite my bottom lip to fight the ache of desire deep in my belly.
Damn him and his raging-fucking-hormones getting me all riled up. Sweat slicks my skin. I’ll need a shower after this, or my makeup will clog my pores. While I’m mentally tallying all of the nighttime routines I’m going to miss—face wash, floss, hair brush, toothbrush—I hear a rush of water spilling to the shower floor, followed by a groan that rumbles across the room.
I know that sound.
I know that sound very well.
My nipples harden. Heat pools between my thighs. If I listen closely enough, I can hear Rage’s movements from behind the shower door, the steady, quick tug of skin and the deep growls that spill past his lips.
Fuck. Me.
My asshole-not-boyfriend is jerking off six feet away.
I bite my lip and clench my eyes shut tighter.
I can’t enjoy this.
He’s a horrible person. The last man on the planet that I want to be around, let alone stuck with for eight hours tonight. Sleeping next to. I should file a police report. Stalking, breaking and entering, assault. I’m sure the cops could come up with more charges than that for all three of them. I could use my brother’s name for even more leverage— hell , I could use my last name for leverage.
Rage might be powerful underground, but I’m powerful above it.
Another groan spills past his lips, and all of that alleged power feels oceans away as he drags me under with him. My body tingles and my pulse races, the ache between my thighs roaring to life.
I’m used to the way he sounds when he’s hot and bothered, but it’s different this time. We’re not rushing through an orgasm before the next work rush. This is oddly… intimate. Close. Even when I sucked him off earlier, it wasn’t about us then. It was a show of force to prove to me—and the entire room—who I belonged to.
But right here and now, I’m the only one listening. He isn’t putting on a show for the masses.
He’s putting on a show for me.
I open my eyes and search for him through the haze of steam in the air and streaks of water on the glass. Although the image isn’t perfect, I can clearly see his profile and the hard strokes of his hand on his shaft. He isn’t facing the wall like he was earlier.
He’s facing me.
His liquid gaze burns into mine, lips parted, jet black hair slicked back, one hand on his cock while the other presses against the glass separating us. Once he notices me watching, he swipes his hand through the condensation and clears the view so I can watch unobstructed. A smirk catches on his lips. He leans toward me, his shoulders pitched forward, his hips rocking in time with every stoke.
My whole body shivers. I press my thighs together and wiggle on the countertop, seeking friction but finding none. Dammit. I tug on my bindings, but they don’t budge, the leather digging into my wrists and the chain clinking against the faucet.
Rage’s smirk is blazing hot, his breathing ragged as he notices my struggle. “Say you want me,” he rumbles deep in his chest, “and I’ll make you come. Isn’t that what you want? My mouth on your pussy? My tongue flicking your clit?” He shudders, gripping his cock tight, stroking harder, slower. “I can make you feel good. You know I can.”
Hatred burns through me. I detest everything about this man, from his wicked mouth to his unrivaled confidence. The way he jerks me around, cuffing me, slapping my ass, turning me on.
I’m burning alive from the inside-out, and it’s all his damned fault.
I keep my mouth shut.
Rage stops jerking off.
He turns off the water and steps out of the shower, not bothering to dry off, and slinks closer to me. He takes a deep breath and pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, groaning as his eyes rove my body. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Celia.” He drags in a shaky breath, reaching out to drag his fingertips down the front of my dress and across the generous side boob peeking out the front, all the way to the bottom of the V sitting over my sternum. He presses his palm flat against my ribs, his expression serious as he feels my heartbeat.
It skips beneath his touch.
He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, broken thing that takes my breath away. Slowly, he pulls my breast free from my dress, then does the same for the other side. Palming my tit, he massages it in his warm hand. “Don’t you want me, Celia?” Lowering his head, he sucks my nipple into his mouth, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body. My back arches and I choke on a whine that never quite breaks free. He groans, the vibration of it making my toes curl.
“Your body says yes, but your mouth keeps saying no. Why is that?” Rage doesn’t look up at my face. He plays with my breasts, sucking and plucking my nipples into sensitive peaks between his lips, his teeth, his fingers, driving me into a frenzy.
I grind my hips against the counter, whimpering as desire slicks between my thighs. God , he’s insufferable.
Without waiting for an answer, he runs his palms up my outer thighs, lifting my skirt with ease. Kissing down my chest and stomach, not caring for the fabric in the way, he sighs. “Are you scared, krosotka ? Scared of me ?” The bandages on his hands are gone, revealing raw, aching flesh from his knuckles to his fingertips. The bruises are mottled purple and red, the skin swollen and hot to the touch. The color matches my knees, both of us aching from what we’ve done to each other.
He beat a man unconscious because I crossed a line.
I got on my knees as punishment for it.
Fox’s lilting voice lashes across my mind.
You need to fight back in a language he’ll understand.
I still don’t know what that means.
“I’m n?—”
Rage digs his fingers into my hips.
“—not scared of you.” A delicious shiver rolls down my spine as he spreads hot, open-mouthed kisses down my thighs. It isn’t a complete lie. I’m not scared of him like normal people probably are. They’re worried he’ll mug them on the street or marry their daughters for inheritance money.
I’m worried that I’ll lose pieces of myself that I’ll never get back.
His lips brush over my knees, kissing the tender skin there. “I hurt you.” It isn’t a question, but a statement. An admittance of guilt, perhaps.
Except when he looks up at me, there isn’t a shred of guilt in his eyes. “I’ll hurt you again.”
Still not a question.
I tilt my hips up, snaring his attention between my thighs. His nostrils flare and he spreads my legs wider, dipping between them to kiss even higher along my inner thighs. My body flushes hotter, my legs twitching as he gets closer to where I want him most. I bite my lip and nudge his collarbone with my knee to get his attention. When he looks back up at me, my voice comes out as a whisper. “Do you want to?”
There’s a moment of silence as he considers his answer. “If that’s the only way I can touch you, then…” His fingers tighten around my hip, his nails digging into my flesh. “…yes.”
It’s not a good answer. How can someone saying they want to hurt you ever be a good thing? My ex-husband wanted to hurt me after I couldn’t give him what he wanted, and he cut me deep enough to leave scars. If Rage hurts me, I have a feeling that he won’t just cut deep, he’ll shatter me.
Then he’ll pick up every single piece and lock it away to keep for himself.
Nothing about Rage will be half-measures. It’s all or nothing.
But maybe that extends beyond hurt.
Can a man who wants to own you understand what it means to love you?
I shimmy my hips closer to the edge of the counter. “I want you to touch me.” The angle pulls my back muscles and digs my shoulders into the mirror, but I’m resigning myself to it as a fact of our relationship. Nothing with Rage will ever be painless.
I’m starting to learn that.
“You want my touch, but do you want me ?” he asks, jaw clenched tight. He drags my panties down my hips, the fabric chafing my thighs. “Say you want me, and I’ll—” his voice cracks at the edges—“I’ll make you feel good this time. I promise.” The heat in his eyes blazes, flickering in their depths like embers in the night. He exhales harshly as he pushes my right leg up to remove my panties, his eyes lingering on my heels. A muscle in his jaw tics, and when he returns his gaze to mine, those embers have ignited.
All I see is fire, threatening to consume him from within.
“Who gave you these?”
The sudden change of subject throws me off balance. I stumble around the word what?
He growls, grabbing my ankle hard enough to dig the buckle into the bone. I flinch, but he’s staring at the shoe, not at me. He flicks his thumb over one of the straps.
I wish he were flicking my clit instead.
“The—”
His eyes ping to mine, searing straight to my core.
“The, um, guy gave them to me.” My cheeks are already flushed, so they burn crimson as embarrassment floods through me. My answer feels lame, but it’s all I have. “The guy in the limo. He picked me up tonight. I don’t know his name.”
Why the hell does Rage care about my shoes when my pussy is wet and waiting for him? I try to close my thighs, but Rage holds them open, his lips curving into a malicious smile.
“You mean Thanatos.” He shakes his head, chuckling deeply. “ Thanatos. The fucker’s gone for five years, and he comes back to give my woman gifts.” Licking his lips, Rage grabs my hips and pulls me to the furthest edge of the counter. I scramble for purchase, my heels sliding on the granite countertop as I try not to fall off, but Rage sets my thighs over his shoulders and growls.
“This is my fucking pussy,” he roars, spitting on my clit. Saliva drips down my slit and over my crack to pool on the countertop. “ My fucking woman. ” Sliding a thick finger inside my heat, he inhales deeply, his pupils dilating. “Fuck, you’re soaked.” His body goes rigid for a split second before he slides a second finger inside. “Wet for me , or wet for him ?”
I’m barely breathing, too strung out on the feel of something finally inside of me to process his questions. “W-what?”
He drags his fingers out before pushing them back in. “It’s a simple question, Celia. Are you wet for me , or are you wet for Thanatos? ”
“I—I don’t even know who he is!”
Rage flicks his gaze up to mine. An inferno of fury roars in his eyes. “He’s my brother,” he snaps, pressing his thumb against my clit. My hips buck up to meet him, and he punches his fingers inside of me faster, grunting as the scent of pussy fills the air. The sounds of my body taking him in are loud —so much louder than when he stoked himself in the shower. The wet squelch makes my body shiver, a low-pitched keen catching in my throat.
“My half -brother,” he unnecessarily self-corrects, spitting the words out. Rage suddenly stands, bending me in half as he crowds closer, burying three fingers inside of me and panting over the top of my head. He lowers his face mere inches from mine, drinking in the lost haze in my eyes, the way I search his face, unfocused and untethered, as he finger-fucks me.
Maybe that goes against the rules for tonight, but it’s hard to care when I’m this close to coming.
“Tell me who you want, Celia. Me or Thanatos?” Rage’s lip curls on his half-brother’s name, like it disgusts him. Maybe it does. I’m not sure how they’re related or what the history is between them, but it screams bad blood .
“I want you!” I cry, writhing my hips, trying to ride Rage’s fingers. How could I want a man I’ve never properly met? Just because he gave me some shoes to wear?
Rage is fucking crazy.
He shudders, burying his fingers all the way, grunting as he grinds his palm against my clit. “That’s right, you fucking want me,” he snarls, scraping his teeth across my temple. “I’m the only one who makes you feel this good. The—” he curls his fingers inside me—“ only —” grabs my throat and squeezes—“one.” He crashes into me, barreling his chest into mine and swallowing my scream as I come undone. He groans into my mouth. “So goddamn beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing me again, sweeping his tongue between my lips. “Of course you want me. Of course you do.”
Even strung-out and trembling, I recognize his words for what they are—something to soothe the ache inside his heart. The kind of self-soothing lies we tell ourselves until they come true…
Or until we believe they do.