Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lettie
I stood frozen on my porch as he stepped up until his eyes were level with mine.
Heat radiated off his body. The scent of leather and whiskey and something darker wafted around me.
Something that made my pulse hammer in my throat.
He was doing it again—holding me hostage as he stared into my soul.
Cerberus growled beside us, a low rumble that vibrated through the wooden planks beneath my feet, but he wouldn’t attack. Not without my command.
“W-what can I do for you?”
“Not a damn thing, baby.” His hands cradled my face, rough palms against my cheeks, and then his lips were on mine before I could even breathe.
Soft at first. A whisper of contact that made my knees weak.
Then firmer as his teeth nipped my bottom lip.
Sharp. Possessive. His tongue traced the seam, seeking entrance, but my mind was lost on his hands.
His fingertips dug into the back of my head, holding me in place as if I might try to back away. As if he didn’t want to let me go. As if he’d chase me down if I ran.
One hand gripped the porch pillar, and the other fisted in his shirt.
I couldn’t say if I was pushing him away or pulling him closer.
I couldn’t even think as I opened my mouth for him and his tongue swept inside, deepening the kiss.
He tasted like coffee and something darker.
Something dangerous. Something I wanted more of despite every warning bell screaming in my head.
“VIOLET!”
The sound of my mother’s yell broke the spell this man had cast on me. I stepped back, my hand dropping to my side. My lips felt swollen. Bruised. Claimed.
“Excuse me,” I whispered and ducked inside.
My hand went to my chest as I tried to calm the storm raging inside me.
My heart slammed against my ribs. My skin felt too tight.
Too hot. I’d never been kissed like that.
Never had my body reacted like that to a simple kiss, like he’d reached inside me and flipped a switch I didn’t know existed.
“VIOLET!”
“Coming, Mother!” I rushed to the back of the house and into her room. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of unwashed sheets and stagnant air.
“Was that a motorcycle outside?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I thought those people left?”
“They did. This is someone else. From the club next door.”
“Why are they here?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to find out before you started screaming for me. What do you need?”
“I need to know why they’re here.”
I rolled my eyes at her theatrics. “I’ll let you know when I know. Now please just stay quiet and I’ll fix your tea.”
I left the room to my mother muttering about inconsiderate people showing up unannounced, as if it somehow inconvenienced her.
As if she did anything but sit in that damn chair all day.
I left my guest on the front porch and headed to the kitchen to make my mother’s afternoon tea, needing a few minutes to compose myself before facing him again.
Before I did something stupid like climb him like a tree.
Only, when I entered the kitchen, he was already there leaning against the counter, smiling at me. Predatory. Knowing. Like he could see every filthy thought running through my head.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I came to see my queen.”
I ignored the way my stomach fluttered when he called me his queen.
Ignored the heat pooling low in my belly.
The ache between my thighs. “You can’t just walk into someone’s home without being invited,” I said, pulling the tea bags from the cabinet and filling the kettle with water.
My hands shook. Just slightly. Just enough that I knew he noticed.
He caged me in against the sink, his hands gripping either edge as he ran his nose up the side of my neck and whispered, “I’m not a vampire. I don’t need permission.”
My thighs clamped together as I tried to swallow my gasp, hoping he didn’t notice the effect he had on me. The chuckle against the side of my head told me I wasn’t subtle enough. Told me he knew exactly what he was doing to me. Knew exactly how wet I was getting just from his proximity.
He moved easily when I turned to set the kettle on the stove.
I faced him and bit my lip. He was so damn sexy, with his long hair hanging down, his leather cut covering his broad chest, and the denim jeans that hugged his thighs.
Even the scar that framed the side of his face didn’t detract from his looks.
If anything, it made him sexier. Dangerous.
A warning I knew I should heed but wouldn’t.
And then there was the unmistakable bulge between his legs. Thick. Hard. For me.
“Who are you?” I asked, realizing I didn’t even know his name.
He chuckled. “Hades.”
I glanced over at Cerberus, then back at Hades. The God of the Underworld. The handler of Cerberus, the three-headed hellhound who guarded the gates of hell.
Persephone’s mate.
I swallowed down the feeling bubbling inside me, afraid to name what I was experiencing. Afraid to acknowledge that this man, this stranger, had already burrowed under my skin.
“Your name is Hades?”
He nodded as he stalked closer, eyeing me like a treat he’d been denied for too long. Like he wanted to devour me whole.
“You can call me Brock,” he said before his lips found mine again. This time his hands gripped my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he pulled me against his hard length, letting me feel exactly how much he wanted me. How much he needed me.
The moan escaped involuntarily, and he growled his approval.
A sound that vibrated through my chest and settled between my legs.
My hands clutched his arms, desperate to ground myself when all I wanted was to float away.
When all I wanted was to wrap my legs around his waist and let him take me right here against the counter.
His lips moved to my neck, and I closed my eyes as his fingers danced up my sides, stopping just beneath my breasts.
My arms went around his neck as he lifted me onto the counter, pushing his body between my legs until he pressed against my core.
The pressure was perfect. Maddening. Not nearly enough.
His hands returned to my hips, tugging me closer. Grinding me against him as my breathing quickened to match my heartbeat, which threatened to burst from my chest. Heat flooded my system. My skin felt like it was on fire. Every nerve ending alive and screaming for more.
The kettle’s whistle pierced the air as Brock whispered, “Come for me, my queen.” My body felt like it split in two.
Cleaved by my orgasm. White light exploded behind my eyelids.
My thighs clamped around his hips as pleasure rolled through me in waves.
He held me in his arms as I floated back down to earth, as I remembered how to breathe.
My breath hitched when I caught him watching me, studying my face as I panted. His eyes were dark. Hungry. Satisfied in a way that made me shiver.
“So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”
I didn’t have words. I had plenty of questions, though. Like, what the hell was going on? But my brain had short-circuited the moment my panties flooded with arousal. The moment this stranger made me come with nothing but friction and his voice in my ear.
Brock stepped back, leaving me on the counter as he removed the kettle from the heat and poured it into the teacup. He dipped the bag a few times, then picked up the sugar. He held it up with a silent question, and I nodded.
“Three,” was all I could mutter through my confusion.
He held up the cream and I nodded again.
Brock poured some into the cup and swirled it around with the spoon.
The domesticity of the moment was jarring.
Surreal. This man who’d just made me come was now preparing my mother’s tea like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“What else?” he asked, and I blinked at him.
“Cookies.” I pointed to the tin on the counter. Apparently, one-word answers were all I was capable of. He opened the tin and dropped a few onto the plate.
When he turned back with the tray in his hands, he lifted a brow. “Should I drop it off?”
That was enough to clear my mind in an instant. I jumped off the counter and snatched the tray from him. “I’ve got it, thank you.”
He laughed as I rushed from the room to drop off my mother’s afternoon snack. I hadn’t added the jimsonweed, not with Brock standing there. He would ask questions I didn’t want to answer, and I wondered, not for the first time, if I should look into packing my own tea bags.
It was another product I could sell. Another less obvious way to deliver the potions needed to help women and children stay safe. They would have to be labeled correctly, but in a way that didn’t reveal the contents. Something to think about when my brain came fully back online.
“What’s wrong with you?” my mother asked as soon as I walked into her room.
“You need to be more specific.” I knew she had a list of complaints when it came to me. How I lived, how I dressed, how I spoke. The criticisms were never-ending with her.
“You’re flushed. What were you doing?”
“I was making your tea, and I was in a rush to get back to my company.”
My mother pressed her lips together and looked me over from head to toe before focusing on her tea. “I hope you didn’t mess it up by rushing.”
I rolled my eyes and waited for her to taste it. If she only knew I hadn’t made it at all. If she only knew a man who’d just made me come against the kitchen counter had prepared it.
“Well, is it up to par?” I asked once she took a sip.
“Hmpf,” she muttered. “It’ll do.”
I shook my head and made my way back to the kitchen, hoping she’d still fall asleep when she finished. There was something to be said for muscle memory.
The kitchen was empty when I returned, and I looked out the window.
His motorcycle was gone. I pressed a hand to my chest and breathed deeply, wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing since I hadn’t heard his motorcycle start up when he left.
Maybe I’d hallucinated the entire encounter. Maybe I’d finally lost my damn mind.
Then I saw the note.
Had to get back to the club but be ready by six. I’m picking you up and taking you to dinner.
Brock
I stared at the piece of paper and smiled. He didn’t leave me his number, so even if I wanted to tell him no, I couldn’t. Not until he showed up here tonight. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. Trapping me. Claiming me without giving me a choice.
But maybe I could surprise him and cook dinner instead of going out. I wasn’t the type of woman who needed to be wined and dined. All I wanted... needed... was to be loved and cherished. To be seen. To matter to someone.
“VIOLET!”
I wanted one day where I wouldn’t be screamed at by a woman who could take care of herself but refused to. A woman who constantly told me I was ungrateful while she lived in my house and ate my food.
Maybe going out wasn’t such a bad idea. I trudged down the hall and told my mother she was on her own. That I had a date, and for the next few hours I’d be getting ready for it. And then I’d be unavailable to her as I left the house for said date.
She muttered and complained, but I walked away and ignored her. Instead, I took a long, hot bath with a glass of wine. I shaved everywhere. Not for him, but for me. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. I was absolutely shaving for him. For the possibility of what might happen tonight.
I wouldn’t be having sex with Brock on the first date, despite letting him make me come on my kitchen counter the first time we met. Despite the fact that my body was already aching for more. Despite the wetness still coating my thighs.
Stupid and reckless wasn’t normally part of my personality, but as I dressed, I decided it was time to be a little selfish.
To do something for me. As I clasped the necklace around my neck, I smiled at my reflection and held the small vial of purple liquid, knowing that one wrong move and Brock would be meeting the real Hades before the night was over.
I brushed and dried my hair, then applied some lipstick and mascara. I didn’t wear much makeup. I didn’t go out enough to warrant dressing for others like most women did.
They might say they dressed up and applied a full face every day for themselves, because it made them feel beautiful. But unless they did the same on the days they stayed home and cleaned the house, they were lying to themselves.
We all had a touch of vanity. There was nothing wrong with that. But why not admit you wanted people to notice you? What was the harm in wanting to be seen?
Was it prideful?
Maybe. But both men and women should take pride in themselves. In how they looked, how they spoke. Their character, their integrity. There were so many aspects of our lives we should be proud of, and style and appearance were among them.
Why women felt the need to hide what they wanted was sad. Self-esteem was important to a healthy lifestyle, and if having people compliment the way you looked helped build your self-esteem, why was that seen as wrong?
Why was self-esteem twisted to make a healthy amount of vanity seem as though it was on the same scale as murder?
Though murder might not seem like a path to self-esteem, it was for me.
I felt proud of the women and children I’d helped.
There’d even been a few men here and there.
I removed their bullies so they could finally feel safe and happy.
I eliminated the monsters who preyed on the vulnerable.
The satisfaction of knowing another abuser was rotting in the ground beat any compliment about my appearance.
I wondered what Brock would think of my side business.
Would he accept me for who I was, or would he turn me in?
The third option was the one I tried not to think about: the hypocrisy of him deciding it wasn’t my place to play judge and jury, then believing it was his.
Men like him, in motorcycle clubs—they dealt their own justice.
Would he see me as a kindred spirit or a threat?
I held the necklace in my hand. Maybe a date wasn’t a good choice. Maybe being alone was safer. Maybe letting this man into my life was the stupidest thing I could do.
That question wouldn’t be answered tonight, though, because Brock never showed up. I didn’t hear from him again until almost a week later.