10. RYAN #4
Tate smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. It speaks of all the deviousness he’s planning.
“If I find out he hurt you, Ryan, I’m going to make sure he regrets being born.
I won’t kill him, that would be too easy.
Everything will hurt forever, even his fucking eyelids, till he wants to die, but he’ll only get to die when I find a shred of mercy for him.
But I don’t have any mercy for those who hurt you, so he’s shit out of luck. ”
My heart’s hammering, hot fury and fear warring with each other. Tate’s beautiful, frustrating, and terrifying. Would I want revenge on my father? Sometimes I want him to hurt for what he does to Griffon. Is it fucked up that I don’t want the same retribution for what he does to me?
Probably.
No, definitely.
I believe Tate means what he says, but it’s hard to imagine it actually happening. My father’s untouchable.
Either way, Tate needs to be steered away from this topic. “Are you going to retract your offer?”
“Never. Even before you told me about your father—who’s about to go fucking missing—I was willing to protect you even though I wouldn’t have known what I was protecting you from.”
“Now what?”
“Now, we pray McKinnon and his yahoo friends pull through in fundraising.”
“I’ve heard enough about fucking McKinnon for a lifetime.”
“Oh? Jealous, baby?” He inhales me, still too close, but still not moving that last inch that would bring our lips together. He wants me to come that last inch. I shouldn’t. He’s a cocky weasel, and doesn’t deserve it.
But now I’m irrationally thinking of him and McKinnon, even though I’m pretty sure McKinnon’s shacking up with his brother.
Fuck it.
I surge forward, crashing my lips to his, violence, heat, and fury colliding. Tate lets go of my tie, pushing my suit jacket off, pulling me closer to him, if it’s even possible. We’re already molded against each other, as if it was painful to be apart. As if he needs me.
And I crave another kind of need. Needing to get back at him. Retribution for all he’s done to me and everything he plans on doing. But buried under all my hatred for what he is lurks something terrifying.
Comfort.
Even knowing what he is and how he wants to keep me, my heart says Tate is home. Safety. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. The only explanation is that I’ve finally lost my mind.
I break the kiss to snarl. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re obsessed with me,” Tate breathes. “I caught you swooning at me during the meeting.”
“I was not.” But that’s all the protest I give. I was swooning.
Tate spins us. My back cracks against the shelves, books jolting—one knocks loose, pages fluttering, landing with a heavy thud.
“Turn around,” he growls.
“Make me.” I’m already braced against the bookshelf, between his two mammoth arms. I don’t know how heavy my words are going to land, but I’m not begging him this time.
He rucks up my shirt roughly, yanking it out of my pants, and then he tugs me by my waistband, another spin, and a shove face-first toward the goddamn books. My palms stop me from a face plant. Tate grinds close, his monster cock pressing my ass through his pants.
“This what you wanted?” He pops the button on my pants, zipper down, exposing my ass to the cool air. His hot hands slide down, cupping each globe. “Me using you? My cock in your ass?”
“Mm-hmm,” I moan.
“God, you need it so bad, dollface.”
Two thick fingers push into my mouth. “Get them wet,” he says, teeth biting the back of my neck, sharp, claiming. He drags them down toward my shoulder. Fuck, I hate how much I love this. Being his toy. Letting him humiliate me for pleasure. I arch into him, my bare ass finding his clothed cock.
“You’re just a needy little bitch whore who can’t get enough of my cock. Say it.”
“Y-Yes. Fuck, yes,” I mumble around his fingers. “Just your needy bitch whore.”
His free hand slips between my thighs, palm rough where everything’s still covered—that’s annoying as fuck. I want to feel his skin on mine. I wanna get closer to him.
“This what you’re begging for, dollface?”
Yeah. I vowed I wouldn’t beg, but my body’s betrayed me. It wants him, aches for him all the fucking time. I can’t take it anymore.
I growl low, primal. “Fuck you.”
Tate’s fingers find my hair, sinking down to the root. His palm cracks down, loud. Sharp. Punishing. The fingers in my mouth end up shoved into my ass. They burn. I cry out, but I don’t pull away, wanting the pain, needing to feel him, not just now but after, too.
“That’s it, dollface. You need to be owned, don’t you? Crave to belong to me.” But he’s affected, too, his voice scrapes like gravel over his vocal cords. His fingers leave my ass, palm cracking over it instead, the sting blooming into a throbbing handprint. “You think I don’t know what you need.”
Another smack.
Then another.
The skin over my right ass cheek ripples. A muffled cry is wrung from the depths of me.
“Fucking you isn’t enough. I want you to feel me in your bones. I want you so entangled with me, leaving would feel like death.”
I stick my ass out for him, feeling so hollow, empty. I’ll take anything—his fingers, his handprints, fuck, his teeth sinking into my ass cheek again.
Tate slides his hand forward, and my breath hitches. Is he going to … yes. His palm wraps around my raging, hard cock. My balls tighten, pinching off an orgasm already threatening to spill over. A dark laugh rumbles from behind me. Pleased.
“You hate me,” he murmurs, stroking slowly, deliberately. “Or maybe it’s that you hate what I can do to you.”
“A little of both right now, Tate.”
He grips my hair like I’m a marionette, tilting my head, exposing my neck for him. The room fills with my labored breathing and little suck sounds as he nibbles on all the spots that drive me fucking crazy.
Tate keeps stroking my cock, mean and controlled, holding me in place, always reminding me that he calls all the shots. There’s something nice about that. Tate might be a fucking dick, but I can melt into his collar. Let him hold me up or pin me down.
Then his fingers are gone, I’m empty and free again. “What are you …?”
“Stay.” He smacks my ass. I turn my head, watching him rummage around in whoever’s desk this is. “Aha!”
“Is that hand lotion?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, baby. I’d get you wet with my tongue, but we don’t have a lot of time.”
“I told you not to call me baby.”
He unzips his pants, coating the head of his dick. A floral scent fills the air—gardenias. “My asshole’s gonna smell like a grandma.”
But the head breaches my entrance, sinking in halfway, and fuck, I’m gone. I’ll smell like a whole damn garden for his cock. “Yes. Yes. That’s … right there. I want all of it, Tate.”