52. Rory
Rory
“WHY DID YOU HAVE TO BE THE FIRST?”
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Never Good Enough”
“Armageddon”
“Numb to Everything”
“Dead Butterflies”
Four Weeks Later
“Your boudoir awaits, mi’Lass,” I say, tongue in cheek, while carrying Briella into my cabin.
“You can put me down,” she mutters as soon as I’ve stepped in the entryway, tone firm. Bit annoyed if I’m wagering. Don’t know if she’ll ever lose that with me.
She’s been carrying some bitterness since the splint came off. Can’t blame her. Jude was right about the limp, the bloody bloke.
“Sure?” I ask, my beard brushing the top of her forehead as I eye her leg.
She knows I’m thinking of it, but I don’t mention it. Not even to let her know how well she’s doing.
Doc is still hoping it’s soft tissue damage, but he’s helped her every day with exercises to strengthen her muscles, get her back into her routine. Leaves her pretty sore and grumpy.
Until then, it’s been daily worship in between all the healing. Revolving beds.
My goddamn turn.
When she nods, I set her down and give her a bit o’ space while I move about the cabin, turning on the lanterns, then get the pipe stove fireplace going. Already prepped it when Raphael informed me she’d be with me tonight.
“It’s clean,” she remarks as I add another log to the wood fire.
“Guess ye got me into a bit o’ a routine. I like making the place clean when I know ye will be here.”
She doesn’t smile. Shite. I’d settle for her crazy ear-biting over this self-pity. Loathing there, too. She won’t look at me, jaw set tight, like the sight of me makes her sick. Maybe it does.
I keep a keen eye on her as she puts more pressure on her good leg and takes small steps, limping toward the couch opposite the fireplace.
She’s been takin’ it easy today—doctor’s orders, though she fought Jude tooth and nail. After our first heavy snow, Briella begged to go outside and play. So, we all bundled up for her, but she overdid it yesterday. All that semi-running ‘round the cabins, chucking snowballs like a little savage.
Jude made sure she rested today, all curled up in Vincent’s wool blankets with the Doc massaging and exercising her leg.
So, I’m not surprised she’s in a bad mood.
But she’s mighty pretty in the chunky, long sweater, heavy-knit wool from Vincent. Damn near swallows her. Soft gray that brings out her hair—messy knot of curls, a few purple strands falling along her cheeks, she keeps blowing away with a huff.
Bare legs and big sleepy eyes, softer than fresh-fallen snow. Pretty as Christmas morning, and mine to keep tonight.
Mighty fuckin’ dangerous, how she doesn’t even try.
Closing the fireplace, I rise and remove my suspenders, start unbuttoning my black collared shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, she blushes, turning away, hoping I didn’t notice.
After I chuck my shirt into the corner laundry basket, I go for my trousers, only to pause when she doubles over on the couch, lowers her chin, and catches her head in her hands. A heavy sigh. “Do we really have to do this? It’s cold.”
“Come to big Red. I’ll warm ye up. And promise to be a gentleman.” When she lifts her chin, I wink and drop my trousers, freeing myself. “Unless ye want the devil.” Shameless that I’m hard. Nothing she hasn’t seen.
I make my way to her, reach down and take her hand, helping her to her feet, noting her wince.
“Are you going to handcuff me again?” she wonders, peering at the bed.
She’s making it damn difficult to stay a gentleman, looking the way she is with those sad, pathetic eyes. All I want is to bend her over the bed and give her a good spanking with my belt until she’s spitting fire like she always does with me.
But tonight is different.
So, I slip my thumb beneath her chin and bring her eyes to mine. “Do I need to, Briella?”
She doesn’t squirm or try to escape when I wrap a hand around her back and bunch up the wool, my fingers skirting her panty-clad, pretty ass.
“It’s not like I can run.”
Those eyes narrow. Aye, there’s the revulsion.
When she shivers again, I sweep the sweater off before she can protest. Fuck, her curves just don’t stop. Bit o’ plumpness in her belly, which I love. Goes well with those birthing hips. Perfect for pushing out a mini Rory.
I don’t carry her to the bed.
Instead, I take her to the floor with me, facing the fireplace. Big ol’ black wool blanket under us. “What are you—”
“Shh,” I cut her off and part my legs, pulling her closer until her soft back is against my ruddy chest. Fuckfuckfuck! She smells so damn good. Like cinnamon and vanilla. Her skin glows like a star in the firelight. “Getting ye warm first.”
“You don’t have t—”
“For feck’s sake, Briella,” I sharpen my tone, muscles flexing, but when she stiffens, I heave a sigh. “Stop pushing me away for once. Let me take care of my woman just like ye let all the others. I’m trying goddamn hard here.”
The tension doesn’t leave her shoulders, but she softens against me. I take the inch—and move a mile when I unclasp her bra and let it drop, spilling those gorgeous breasts with their rosy tips. My prick twitches against her arse. She flinches.
I leave her underwear on for the moment. Just keep her here, one arm around her waist, rubbing the soft undersides of her breasts, and my other hand reaching up for her curls.
“Hasn’t faded all this time.” I pull the bun free until her purple-brown hair cascades all around me.
“It won’t.”
I breathe her in. “No bottle and weave.”
She shakes her head.
Fuck, she’s a wonder.
Love how the flames play shadows on her skin.
Love how she fits in my arms. Never thought I’d get this pussy-licked over a woman.
But soon enough, I’m rubbing more warmth into her arms, sinking my fingers into her hair to stroke her scalp.
Then, I slip one finger beneath the lace of her panties, dragging them down.
Black lace on pale pink skin, golden hue in the soft firelight around us. She doesn’t fight me—
—until my knuckles brush the puckered scar, angry and pink.
“Godfuck!” she hisses and swings her arm back. I catch it before it can strike my jaw. But I keep her in the same position.
“Stop.” I bare my teeth in a silent snarl.
Her eyes burn. “You’re not Raphael.”
“Fuck, no. You don’t punish him like ye do me.”
She glares. “I punish you? Fuck you.”
“Ha, there it is.” I stab a finger right at her face. “Stuck up pride. And rage. Hanging onto them so they’re the only things you feel with me. Like wearing a she-demon skin when I know there’s an angel under all that red. Would it kill ye to take it off with me now and then?”
She furrows her brows. “Why should I?”
I cup her jaw, feeling her cheeks heat more and the subtle trembling of her bottom lip. “Be my angel tonight, Briella, and I’ll show ye how a devil worships on his knees.”
I wait one heartbeat, one bloody heartbeat.
She doesn’t flinch. But she swallows hard and…
fuck, a tear rolls down her cheek. So, I take her mouth.
Bloody hell, she tastes like the Winter Solstice—like frost and fire, spice and wild pine, sweet enough to burn straight through a man’s soul. Blood is goddamn roaring to my cock.
Turning my jaw, growing the kiss, I ravish her mouth. At the slightest sign of her neck arching, and the second she whimpers, I take my opening and lay her on the blanket without leaving her mouth.
I don’t hold her down. Christ, I want to. I want to bruise her up, leave my teeth in her skin, bury myself so deep she forgets that burning bridge of a scar. Instead, I stay right here, blanketing her, kissing her like she’s the only thing keeping my lungs working.
Then, she touches me. Devil take me!—those soft fingers brush my chest, getting stuck in the stubble. I slap my palm on the floor above her head, using all my strength, all my willpower to keep from grinding against her. It just beats like a beast on her belly.
Tonight, I own this kiss. I own the bits of softness she gives me, her humanity and mercy. I drink it all down from her angel mouth.
Those fingers trail upward, skirting along the throbbing veins in my neck, tracing my ticking jaw. Fuck, she’s driving me mad.
Need me an edge. But I’ll sure make it the sweetest, nicest edge I can.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she asks when I wind an arm around her waist and drag her just a bit over the blanket until I’m close enough to the little toy trunk next to the couch. I’m not about to let her go. But when I open the lid, Briella bristles.
“Trust me.” I ease her concerns when I take out some warming oil, uncap it, and then turn her over.
“Oh, God!” she cries out when my oil-slicked hands slide down her back.
I knead, stroke, and worship…not as smooth as Jude, but in my own bloody way, working out the knots.
She melts under my touch, every inch of her body surrendering to the pressure. But when she shows even the slightest hint of resistance, I press her neck down gently, urging her to stay beneath me.
“All these scars so fecking exquisite…” I murmur, tracing the silver scars, my name carved into her skin by my whip.
I reshape her, break her down, but not like before. This is a different kind of domination. A stronger, quieter kind.
It’s easy to fuck a woman, to take her and leave. But it takes a true warrior to make her feel like a queen, like a goddess. To teach her to desire me, to need me—like I need her.
She goes boneless beneath me, her body yielding to my touch, but I don’t stop. I keep massaging the warm oil into her, onto the scars I’ve left, marking her as mine again.
I glance down at her face, but it’s fractured, hidden beneath those curls. Fuck, her cheeks are wet with tears. She’s blinking them away, confused, drained.
She knows what I’m doing, knows I’m tearing open the raw wounds between us.
I lower my head and rub my lips along those scars, rasping my beard on her skin—soft and coarse. I leave nothing untouched.