32. Artemis
32 ARTEMIS
Saint is snoring on the couch when I get home.
It’s almost dawn, the sky lightening the tiniest amount.
I stayed up way too late just talking and drinking with the Bow & Arrow crew.
That’s something that we don’t normally get to have, but finally Antonio clapped his hands and sent everyone home.
Tomorrow, we will clean up the mess that the sheriff’s department made.
Tomorrow is really today—but I’m not counting that.
I drop my stuff on the table and glance around.
There’s no sign of Reese.
There are cards on the table, two shot glasses, a mostly empty bottle of whiskey.
I go over and nudge Saint’s leg with my foot, and he doesn’t move.
For fuck’s sake.
And then an idea occurs to me.
A little payback .
I fill up a pitcher with water and ice and carry it back.
I’m exhausted, but I’m also…
kind of in the mood for a fight?
So I toss it on his head.
He comes awake with a roar, fists swinging, and I laugh.
His gaze jerks around, head swinging wildly.
I imagine I looked something like that, too.
Why do we wake up so violently?
Oh, that’s right: because we’re traumatized .
Except he doesn’t just spot me and glower, which is what I expect.
He gets up off the couch and lunges at me.
He collides with me, tackling me to the floor.
The pitcher—luckily plastic—goes clattering away.
He collects my wrists, stopping my fight in my tracks, and pins my hips with his.
It does something to me.
Something it shouldn’t .
“What the fuck, Artemis?” His face hovers over mine, dripping water on my cheeks.
“Where is Reese?”
He groans.
Or growls. I can’t quite tell—all I know is that he moves his hips, driving a suddenly very hard erection between my legs.
If we weren’t wearing pants…
“I don’t give a shit about Reese,” he says.
“And I fucking hate your guts.”
“Well, I hate yours right back.” My legs open.
He groans and lowers his head to my neck.
I think, for a second, that he means to just hide his gaze from me.
But then his teeth score my skin, and he bites .
Hard.
A throb goes through me.
My arms jerk, but he holds fast to my wrists.
He pushes them above my head, holding with one hand and yanking my pants down with the other.
He has to shift out of the way, and my cheeks burn.
“Leather pants,” he mutters.
“So fucking hot. But why are they so difficult?”
Jesus.
“You think I’m hot?”
“I think your ass looks good in these pants,” he counters.
He gets them and my panties to my ankles and shoves my legs wide again.
He kneels between them, extended over me.
“Are you wet for me?”
Before I can answer, he runs his finger down my center.
I arch at the contact.
“Wet,” he says, and he makes it sound like a bad thing.
He touches his finger to my lips, smearing arousal across them, before returning his hand to my core.
He pumps one, then two fingers in and out, twisting, thrusting.
Watching my face.
I glare at him.
He pauses to shove his sweatpants down.
He’s already hard. He notches at my entrance and pauses, gaze roving my face.
“This doesn’t change anything.”
“Spontaneous sex,” I breathe.
“Of course it doesn’t change anything.”
He nods, then pistons forward.
His cock spreads me.
The fullness is almost overwhelming.
I meet his eyes, my lips parted.
He stays there, seeming to search for something in my face.
Maybe he’s waiting to make sure I don’t fall in love with him?
“Get on with it,” I growl.
He tsks and pushes up my shirt.
He locks on to my nipples, and before I can open my mouth, he lowers his head.
He takes one in his mouth.
His tongue flicks at the piercing and the flesh around it.
Then his teeth are on it.
Tugging.
I groan.
“You like that?” He eyes me, then does it again.
“Yeah. You’re a whore for my cock.”
“Move,” I moan.
“I need?—”
“I know what you need.” He licks my nipple, then shifts higher.
He bites my breast, and I clench around him.
I make another noise.
God, how did we end up here?
I lift my hips, trying to get some friction.
He hisses through his teeth and bites me harder, chasing the pain with his tongue.
And then he moves. He plays with the jewelry in my nipple with his tongue and teeth, sucking, nipping, and his hips jack forward.
Back. Again . I bring my legs up higher, trapping his hips with my thighs.
“Do I make you feel dirty?” he asks.
“Like how you make me feel?”
I shouldn’t be at the edge of an orgasm so fast, but I cry out when he hits just the right spot.
Over and over. It’s too much, between his mouth and his cock.
I unravel, coming with a whimper of pleasure.
It holds me hostage, burning bright through my body.
“I’m going to need an exorcism after this,” he mutters.
“Fuck me. You’re so wet. Every fucking insult makes you clench around me.”
I know .
I’m going to need an exorcism, too.
But that doesn’t mean either of us are going to stop this madness.
“Tell me you hate me,” he orders.
He releases my wrists and hooks his arm under my knee.
He spreads me and leans up, his attention focused on where we’re joined.
“I’d sacrifice you to save literally anyone else,” I pant.
“I hate the way you feel?—”
“Liar,” he groans.
“There’s not a word for how much I despise you.”
His eyes bore into mine.
“Nice little whore. Spreading yourself for me. Your cunt is drooling for more.”
His pace quickens, until I feel every hit like a bolt of lightning through me.
I dig my nails into the floor to try and stop from sliding.
“Break for me.” He rubs my clit hard, his gaze impassive.
Watching. “Prove to me you’re a little slut for this.”
He drags another orgasm out of me, and I spasm around his dick.
He’s stopped, just watching me writhe around him.
Under him. And then, before it abates, he starts again.
Faster. Chasing his own release, while I do my best to catch my breath.
Saint pulls out of me fast, finishing himself off with his fist. His tattooed knuckles wrapped around his tattooed dick does something to me.
Another clench, a thrill chasing down my spine.
He comes across my pussy and stomach.
His chest rises and falls hard, and it takes him another moment to come back to his senses.
Blinking away the lust and crashing back to reality.
I’m already there.
It’s not as horrific the second time around, but I still crawl backward and scramble to my feet.
He glances at the empty couch.
I try not to figure out what’s inked into his flesh.
The tattoos are everywhere, not stopping mid-thigh like I once theorized.
A collection of small pieces all slotted together like a puzzle.
“Reese went for a walk,” he says roughly, like he’s just realizing we’re alone.
“He should be back soon.”
My gaze moves to the window.
“When?”
He follows my gaze.
The sun has begun its assent, staining the sky in pinks and oranges.
“I…” He pauses, then swears.
“I fell asleep.”
“So…?”
He goes to the window and gives me a view of his ass.
Surprisingly, the tattoos stop just at the curve, leaving the cheeks startlingly bare.
But that’s all I get a glimpse of.
He pulls his sweatpants back into position.
Doesn’t seem to bother him that his dick is still wet.
Maybe he’ll take care of that in a second, because my concern grows the longer he takes to decide when Reese left.
An hour ago?
Two?
More?
I grab my cell and call the burner, but it’s disconnected.
It doesn’t even ring through.
I find my pants and rush into the bathroom.
After the world’s fastest sponge bath, I reemerge.
Who needs sleep?
“We need to find him,” I say to Saint.
He grimaces, then nods.
He takes his turn in the bathroom, while I put on a sweatshirt and comb my hair.
I braid it quickly and wait.
Saint comes out, jams his feet into shoes, and nods to me.
Okay.
“Let’s go,” he urges.
“I don’t like the fucker, but I don’t want anything to have happened to him on my conscience.”
Uh-huh.
I glance at Saint, who studiously ignores me.
We stride down the hall to the elevator.
I can’t help but think he might be lying.