18. Knock Harder
18
KNOCK HARDER
GHOST
I’m a sure person. I know what I want and how to get it. I trust my instincts, even if my mind isn’t a safe place, and I trust my body to know how to achieve what I’m after.
Right now, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing or why I’m doing it. I taunt devils on the daily, but Riot has never been the devil I’m most interested in riling—not sexually. The second his eyes leave me, no longer paying attention, a flood of shame and anger swells within me and I find myself doing whatever it takes to get his attention back. Why? Because he fucking infuriates me, and I like how it feels. Because he steps up to the plate just by being a dick, and he tempts the parts of me that don’t get to mingle with daylight too often.
There’s nothing safe about Riot, but he’s turning into my safe outlet because I know he can deliver what I need.
Rapture in the form of ruin.
Pleasure in the ritual of danger.
Enlightenment in the task of unmasking.
A mutual destruction that strips us bare and unveils the true parts we’re after. He’s looking for himself, and I’m looking for someone to appreciate who the fuck I am.
The tension hasn’t died on the walk across town. Carrying Brady while Riot’s eyes are on me has only built it to the point that I’m agitated and deadly. My needs are screaming at me in guttural voices that make no sense. I’m aware that I’m goading Riot into giving me what I need, but I’m still unclear on the details of what exactly I’m after.
I want him to be the one to crack.
I want him to be the one to snap and dictate the night.
I want him to take what he’s been teasing for months.
… But I don’t know how to force control on him when I’ve never willingly given it up.
I drop Brady to his feet when we get to the front porch of the Hallows’ house. Riot unlocks the door, but he looks back at me while he does it, a challenge in his grey eyes that I’m eager and willing to accept. But I don’t show him that. I set my eyes on Brady instead, looking at the kid like he’s the challenge. Riot tenses, and then he pushes the door open and forces Brady inside.
The little fuck’s hands are all over Riot, groping at his shirt to tear it off and fumbling with his pants to get things moving faster. I watch, letting my rage build, wondering who the hell this guy is. Isn’t he here for Reaper Corp? Does he know we’re Vile House? Is he setting us up because we’re too lost in our challenge to see the signs, or are we the ones about to ruin him?
In the front entrance of the house, Riot flicks on a lamp to illuminate my anger, looking at me over the top of Brady’s head as if to ask, ‘game on?’ I lick my lips and close the door behind me.
When Brady takes Riot’s shirt off, I track the tattoos on his chest, following them down his ribs and sides, lost in a sea of scars and muscle definition. As I’m getting hard from the sight of the man who turns me into a new version of myself, Brady finally remembers my rule. He looks back at me for permission to touch Riot, and I’m tempted to say no. I want to say no. I want to deny him access to what is mine and throw him from this house so we can tear it down ourselves. But Riot hasn’t broken free from his leash yet, and I need him crazy with power before I throw Brady out the front door.
Brady is an idiot. He must know about Moros if he’s here for work—Reaper Corp or the music festival—which means he knows how troublesome the town is. He’s almost as dumb as the girl Krypt killed in the cemetery, but instead of reminding him of that, I step up to him and grab his wrists. I place his hands on Riot’s hips, sliding them down to cup his hardening cock.
“You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” I ask him while looking at Riot. “You know nothing about us.”
Brady whimpers. “I know chemistry. We have it.”
We sure as fuck do. I’m one chemical and Riot is another; Brady is simply the ignition that will spark our first explosion.
He’s too needy for my tastes. Too compliant and amenable. “Please,” he begs. Too polite and submissive. Fucking take what you want, man. Stop begging.
“Please what?” Riot asks him. “So many manners and not enough demands.”
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: guys like us are intrigued by the submissive type because we enjoy lording our power over them, but they never keep our interest for long. So, when Brady opens his mouth to demand something specific, I beat him to it.
“Get on your knees for him, tourist,” I snap, shoving him down whether or not he likes it. His knees hit the wooden floors, and Riot’s eyes hit mine, half hidden behind his unruly dark hair and whatever persona he’s hiding behind. “Hurry up and suck him.”
I demand it, but I don’t want it to happen. Riot catches the confliction on my face, but I don’t hide it from him. Because I have one more trick up my sleeve, and when I play it, it’ll be the thing to break Riot’s well-crafted control. His charm will vanish, and in its place, the true Killian Hallows will come forth.
He’s the one I’m thirsting for.
Riot is still looking at me when I shift my focus downward, watching Brady undo his pants too slowly for my liking. I tug on his hair and smack his cheek, demanding he get on with it and show me the cock that belongs to me . When he pulls Riot’s pants down his thighs, the bulge in his tight boxers has me licking my lips again, but when his hard cock bounces free in front of Brady’s face, I clench my jaw in both restraint and admiration. I’m not ready to make my move yet, but since no part of Brady will act as anything more than a body to use and our ignition switch, I grab hold of the sides of his head so that I’m the one bringing pleasure to Riot.
At the first brush of Brady’s fingers on his cock, Riot’s hand snaps forward and cinches my throat, bruising my already bruised neckline. His grey eyes become as tumultuous as his brother’s, and the way he’s watching me is akin to that one or two second precipice between life and death—he’s half mad with want and half sane with the game, unsure which direction he’ll shift first.
But I’m the one in charge here, and with his hand on me, eyes on mine, I force Brady’s face forward and watch Riot’s eyes narrow as I fuck his cock with a city boy’s mouth. I hate it. I loathe that this kid’s mouth is touching him. I’m fucking raging inside, but I’m Ghost of Vile House, and I’ve become familiar with enduring the bullshit before getting the reward.
Riot’s snapped tether will be my reward.
Brady chokes, gagging around Riot, and I push his face forward with no mercy. Riot’s hand tightens on my throat, and I grin before looking down to watch the way his dick disappears inside Brady’s mouth. When I pull Brady back, he gasps, sucking in air as his hands grab my wrists.
“Not so hard,” he says breathlessly. “Give me a minute to?—”
I dig my thumbs into his jaw joints and force him forward again. When his nose hits Riot’s lower stomach, Riot buckles forward, using his hand around my neck for balance. His forehead almost hits mine, and his groan is so anguished that it fills me with diabolical pleasure. Oh, fuck yeah. He’s almost there. Almost ready to buckle. Almost ready to be the puppet attached to my skilled strings.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Think you’re winning, sweetheart?”
I grin, knowing I am. With my lips brushing his ear, I whisper, “Game point.”
Then I pull Brady back, force him to his feet, and let Riot look at him for a single second before I spin him to face me. His lips are slick with spit, but that’s about all I notice about him. I don’t give a single fuck about the guy, but I lure him with a sexy smile and nod downward, demanding for him to kneel. Because it’s my turn now. He left the club with two devils, and if he thinks any part of this night is going to be about his pleasure, he has no idea what kind of town Moros is.
Luckily, he’s still turned on enough—hopeful enough to think his turn is coming—that he kneels in front of me. His hands make fast work of undoing my pants, and when I look at Riot, the hand he had wrapped around my throat is balled into a tight fist, straining in the air because he hasn’t figured out what to do with it yet.
“Oh, god,” Brady moans, pulling my dick free. “I want you both inside me.”
“Get me wet, tourist. You’ll get your turn.”
Riot’s eyes snap to mine, and there he is. He’s shifting his focus, ready to snap for good. Because this is it. There are no more moves left on the board. He either lets this happen, or he shows me just how possessive he’s demanding himself not to be.
I go tense when Brady’s hand wraps around me, letting Riot know what’s happening. Because I’m acting for him and only him, and I’ll always be the star of his show. Brady pumps his fist up and down the length of my cock a few times, yet I hardly feel it because every part of me is focused on Riot. When he leans forward to suck me between his lips, Riot’s hands latch onto the side of his head, stopping him.
Brady moans because he thinks Riot is about to do exactly what I did, but I smile so fucking wide because I know better.This is the exact moment I win our game.
“Please,” Brady begs while Riot wages an internal war with himself. Is his pride more important than losing this game? Time will tell. A split second of hesitation and he’ll drop his masks and show me his genuine self. “Please, let me taste him.”
Brady fights his hold, leaning forward, and that’s when I know I’ve won for certain. Because Riot’s eyes are thrashing with an entirely new kind of power. I smile at him, goading him into doing it.I’m so pent up I don’t even know if I’m breathing, but it doesn’t matter because looking into his eyes, watching them swirl with turpitude and a level of need I’ve only ever known myself to feel, I pause to drink in the power coming from this very moment in time. Not life. Not death. Something better because it’s so strong but so unknown.
His smile isn’t charming when he gives it to me. It’s broken and beautiful, and I want it forever. Because it’s mine. Only mine. Meant for me and him and this moment that defies time and warps the orbit of our lives.
“Please!” Brady whines.
Looking at me, Riot says, “Drop the manners when you get to Hell, lamb.”
“Wha—”
The crack is loud in the foyer, bouncing off the walls. When Brady’s hands go limp and fall away from my cock, my chest heaves with adrenaline and a straight shot of arousal. Because here he is. Killian Hallows. Unleashed, unhinged, cracked in fucking half and bringing my omen of death. This. This is the thrill I chase whenever I tempt death. Riot brings it better and stronger.
It’s about goddamn time.
Brady’s body slumps to the floor, and as soon as his head thumps off the floorboards, it’s like the starting gun of a race has gone off. With a dead body between us—the ignition switch flipped—our chemical reaction takes a moment to build, and when it combusts, it feels like the violin sounds.
It’s angry harmony and contrasting notes of emotion, and I drink it down, breathe it in, and brace for madness.
With one twitch of his jaw, it happens. We combust. I lunge for him and he lunges for me, a clash of pain and pleasure over a body that does nothing but get in the way after serving its purpose. Riot’s hand wraps around my throat again, but I’m already coming at him with a trajectory that won’t be stopped. Our mouths slam together in a bloody mess of teeth and tongue, snarling lips and ragged groans that add to our music.
I come alive.
And now it’s time to force him to control it.
His teeth cut into my bottom lip, drawing more blood, but his wolfish moan breathes vitality into my very core. Every part of me surges with a current so forceful I don’t know how to contain myself. It doesn’t matter. Because Killian does it for me.
Killian. The real him.
His fingers squeeze the pulse points in my neck and mine tug at his hair. Brady’s arm and hand bones snap beneath our feet, and when Killian trips over his half-down pants, he does it with purpose, using his trajectory to move me.
“You fucking cheater,” he snarls at me, pushing me backwards until I stumble over Brady’s torso. My back slams against the wall of the foyer, the plaster and drywall too weak to hold up against Killian’s assault, and when he comes at me, I swear he pushes me through the wall.
“Don’t be a sore loser.”
“The only one who’s gonna be sore out of all this, sweetheart, is you when I bloody up that tight hole.” He slams my head back, and I see stars as drywall dust floats around. “Someone who won’t stop when you say no, right?”
Oh fuck. He remembers. I knew he would, but I don’t want him knowing I’m pleased by this because it’ll convince him he’s winning when I’m the one who’s in the lead. I laugh against his mouth, hysterical and heinous, but my laugh dies when he grabs my cock and squeezes so hard I cry out in pain.
My eyes water. When he leans back to look at me, he notices, and I enjoy the way he admires me while water leaks through all my over-glued cracks. Power rises, and I shove at his chest, unwilling to just succumb to this like some little bitch. I want him to fucking take it. Because it isn’t in me to surrender on purpose.
He squeezes my cock harder as he stumbles backwards, but when he loses his grip, his pants and Brady’s body take him down. He lands on top of the dead city boy, kicking his shoes and pants all the way off as I stalk towards him with my hard dick in my fist.
“You can do better,” I step forward. “I didn’t pick you only for you to give up once the final play has been made.”
With his pants off, he sweeps his leg in an arc and takes me out at the ankles. I crash to my knees, and he climbs atop me, pushing me back and pinning me down with Brady’s shoulder digging into my spine.
“You think the final play has been made?” He rips the buttons of my shirt open, finding blood leaking down my chest from my shoulder stab wound. “We’re barely past round one.”
When he leans down, I expect him to bite me. Hurt me. Push me. Something volatile and dangerous, but instead, he swipes his tongue through my blood until it coats his lips and mouth. Sitting upright with my wrists pinned to the floor, he smiles at me with bloody teeth, looking beautifully disjointed and hot because of it.
My lips part, panting through this swell of need, unsure what to do. I’m tempted to ask for the ninety seconds because I feel so out of sorts, but this level of discomfort is so wanted that I suck in air and concoct my next move. Getting off my back is number one because no one, not even Killian fucking Hallows, gets me on my back.
I buck my hips, but he only laughs, drawing my attention to his mouth again. Gathered on his tongue are spit and blood, and I hesitate, watching it drip down his lips. I bite mine in anticipation, and then Killian leans back, spitting that bloody mixture straight onto my cock.Then his own. Like he’s washing Brady’s saliva away with my blood and his spit.
I don’t moan or groan, but a harsh inhale that is equal parts arousal and rage comes from between my lips. Killian crushes his mouth to mine to devour the sound while his hand spreads the bloody spit down my cock. I buck again, fucking his fist because I’m the one in charge. The glide is smooth, but his grip is tight, and every ounce of pleasure is met with an equal part of pain.
Everything disappears. The house and the foyer and the dead body I’m crushing. My attention fine-tunes to his hand on me and my mouth on his. Biting his tongue and drawing a rush of copper, I stop fortifying my cracks and let them come apart. My glue dissolves, my puzzle pieces scatter, and my foundation splits deeper than it ever has before. When I snap my wrist free from his hold, I use all my strength to push him away until I can get a knee up. The sole of my foot hits his sternum, and he flies backwards.
“Soren!” he screams at me, chest heaving. “Don’t fucking push me right now.”
“Why?” I crunch more of Brady as I get my pants off. “Thought round one was barely over?”
“You don’t want to know what happens in round two.”
I do. Because it brings that same sensation I get when I’m toying with Death. The night he drowned me in the pond on Carnival Hill, the way I swung from his noose at Remi’s shop, and the devastatingly comfortable way it felt to be paralyzed in my grave. The thrill I seek that makes me so diabolically joyous I can’t help but laugh. I laugh now, enlightened while so dark.
“Round two can’t happen until you take it off.”
He climbs to his feet to be level with me as I stand, looking down at his masterfully naked body. “Take what off? I’m fucking bare.”
And harshly handsome. Killian is the embodiment of cynical strength. He’s beauty in an unnatural way and a trap so well disguised no one ever knows they’re falling into it. He’s sexy because of his looks, but he’s sexier because of his ambiance. He doesn’t back up as I step over the body, and he doesn’t flinch when my palm cracks off his cheek.
“This.”
“No.” He grits his teeth.
“Take it off.”
“No.”
I smack him again, making him stumble backwards. The hallway table slams against the wall, and when I smack him a third time, it breaks as his body hits it. He grabs my wrist so I can’t do it again. The lamp he flicked on crashes to the hardwood, but the bulb doesn’t shatter, illuminating us from a different vantage point.
“Take the fucking mask off, Killian , or you can’t have me.”
He snorts. “You think you get a say in this?”
I study him. Broken, bloody, almost panicked, but too powerful to give in to it. It clicks, and I tilt my head at him. “You don’t know how, do you?”
“Fuck you.”
“You’ve worn the masks and fake personas for so long that you don’t know how to take them all off.”
“Without a mask, I’m more than Death’s door. You sure you want to knock on me?”
I’ve never knocked harder. My laugh is vicious. Because I’m goading a devil, and masks or not, I’m still going to win.
“Knock fucking knock.”